in the wash today...

headphones to a mp3 player
someone's favorite matchbox car (Dale Earnhardt Jr.)

who your friends are

There's a country song about finding out who your real friends are in times when you really need them. Tracy Lawrence's voice is smooth, deep and comforting as he sings a truth that I have relearned the past couple days. (Parts of the lyrics are below).

FIND OUT WHO YOUR FRIENDS ARE
Run your car off the side of the road
Get stuck in a ditch way out in the middle of nowhere
Or get yourself in a bind lose the shirt off your back
Need a floor, need a couch, need a bus fare

This is where the rubber meets the road
This is where the cream is gonna rise
This is what you really didn't know
This is where the truth don't lie

You find out who your friends are
Somebody's gonna drop everything
Run out and crank up their car
Hit the gas, get there fast
Never stop to think 'what's in it for me?' or 'it's way too far'
They just show on up with their big old heart
You find out who your friends are
----
When the water's high
When the weather's not so fair
When the well runs dry
Who's gonna be there?

You find out who your friends are
Somebody's gonna drop everything
Run out and crank up their car
Hit the gas, get there fast
Never stop to think 'what's in it for me?' or 'it's way too far'
They just show on up with their big old heart
You find out who your friends are

It's interesting to see who responds. I've had some major surprises - friends and relatives whom I thought would offer words of comfort through email or phone calls haven't even so much as picked up the phone or made an Internet connection. Friends who I don't consider all that close have reached out, offered meals, to watch the kids, you name it. Some of it one can probably chalk to not being equipped to deal with pain, but most I think is just plain sad. There are those people whom it really would have meant a lot to hear from, those people who I expected to hear from (after all - they're family) and those people who really had no obligation to comfort me, but did anyway - and many did in a BIG way.

I don't expect anyone who hasn't been through a miscarriage to truly understand this, but it should be obvious to most anyone that this is still a tragedy and that I still need God with skin on - human beings who only need to offer a few words of encouragement or to say they're praying or sorry or just say something.

screaming at God

I am sick to death of crying. My eyes burn. My head aches. My kids are wondering why my eyebrows are red. (I'm one of those criers whose face turns blotchy, beet red from the nose up - it's very attractive. Not that I really care how I look right now.)

My friend asked me today if I was more angry or more sad at losing a baby. I didn't quite know what to say, then decided to be honest. I'm more angry. I'm angry that I've now lost a third child. I'm angry that I have conceived seven children, but only know four. I'm angry that I just ran a marathon for the past three months with morning sickness and fatigue, all for nothing. I'm angry that God allowed a miracle to happen (conceiving in spite of condoms) and then allowed it to fade. I'm angry at the irony of it all - that I wasn't exactly thrilled to be pregnant again, but when I finally had come to peace with it and was getting excited about it - then it was taken away. I am just plain pissed and angry. I'm angry that I got used to the idea of having five children, and now don't quite know what to do about that.

Someone once told me that God is big enough to handle my anger, even if it's directed at him. I know the Bible tells us that it's okay to be angry, but that we shouldn't sin as a result of our anger. I'm not sure what the step from anger to sin would be in this case - maybe bitterness, loss of faith, checking out altogether - time will tell on that one. I'm too raw to even think beyond Tuesday.

There are no words that anyone can say to truly comfort a person like me during something like this. People have said anything from "My heart is breaking for you" to "I'm so sorry for your loss" to even admitting they have no idea what to say (that kind of honesty is somewhat refreshing.) The only response I got that even came close to letting me know that the person really understood was when someone told me that I'm walking through fire and it will hurt.

I have little tears left in me anymore - instead my tears are of the silent, screaming kind, bursting out in waves in my head: Why? Why again? I don't get it! This doesn't make any sense? Why do you give things only to take them away? Why did I get pregnant in the first place? Isn't one miscarriage enough? Why won't you answer my questions?

I scream at God as I still feel pregnant and still feel nauseous. I scream at God when my belly still looks swollen and pregnant. I scream because there's a dead baby inside me and I want it out now. I even scream that life sucks and there aren't enough swear words to truly describe how horrible this situation is and how miserable I am.

I hope he can hear me.

losing number three

Yesterday I went in for my first ob appointment and left with a delivery date for my dead baby. At 14 weeks, there was no heartbeat and the baby wasn't moving. I remember looking at the baby during the ultrasound, knowing something was wrong, but not allowing myself to admit it, until it was obvious there was no heartbeat when a flat, green line raced across the screen. The doctor said that most likely the baby had just died because it was measuring exactly the size that it should have been for this far along.

So, my husband and I face the pleasant task of showing up at the hospital next Tuesday morning for an induction procedure that will start labor se we can deliver our fifth child. I don’t anticipate it to be pleasant for anyone involved, including the hospital staff. I also am not looking forward to waiting six days with a dead child inside me. It's morbid even on paper.

I don’t imagine, if you’re a doctor, that it gets any easier to tell a patient that you can’t find a heartbeat than it is for me to face my third miscarriage. You’d think because you know what to expect that the reality would be that much more real. Or that the whole process would be somehow less emotional.

It’s not. In fact, in some ways it’s a bit worse because you tend to look at the injustice a bit more closely and question why this could be happening again. Along with the pain of loss (that is severe and overwhelming itself), you also feel even more punished than you did with the first or second even.

You tend to think, “How many more times can this happen to me?” It’s not just a matter of losing a baby, but now of losing three babies. And, losing two of those babies under situations where miscarriage is so rare that you have to be making some sort of record that of course no one wants to make. Miscarriage occurs very rarely after 12 weeks – after that milestone there’s only a five percent chance of losing the baby.

None of this is comforting because ultimately there are no answers. There is no lesson. There is only a cold, hard fact with no explanation behind it - we lost our third baby - simply, tragic and true.

whole lot of screaming

Every year in February i go a little nuts. Mainly because my kids are going nuts. Three out of four have been crying about something this morning - and it's not even 9:30 a.m.!

Number Three got beat up by Number Two so he's crying and now has a nice red slap mark on his cheek. He's also upset because he put good clothes on this morning and now has to change into play clothes, which of course is the end of the world at 4. (In our house, we HAVE to have play clothes, or the boys would destroy every shred of socks, jeans and tshirts in their closet and I'd have to drag them to activities, Walmart or anywhere else public in rags. I'm too proud to allow them in public looking like the ragamuffins they really are.)

Number Two can't believe that "ocean" sounds like "oshun" and not "o-keen." So, he's crying that words are stupid. He's supposed to be learning about whales and can't pronounce spout either. So, a little exercise on adding the right word to a sentence has been very successful this morning.

Number Four is upset because I won't let him open the tub of "baby" toys. They are only in the house for when we get company with babies (or at least younger than 2), which honestly has yet to happen once since I bought the rubbermaid container to pack away chew toys, rattles and blocks.

The oldest is the only happy one in the bunch and that's just because he found out he doesn't have to go to the nursing home this afternoon to recite his poem. They were supposed to go with friends, but their mom called this morning with 102-degree fever. We passed on the outing.

This is the time of year that I always question homeschooling and wonder why we live in such a dreadful climate. The boys haven't been outside for weeks and I think they're going crazy from either the lack of fresh air or exercise. or maybe from being in close quarters with too much male testosterone present.

My only salvation is that I was smart enough not to let them open all their christmas presents. This afternoon (after they get the lunch put away and all their junk picked up in the living room), I get to be the cool mom again when I let them open a "new" toy. We'll see if that won't dry some tears and keep some fights from happening. I call it my snowy-day, freezing-weather, sanity-saving container.

That way, it won't be my voice added to all the screaming around here.

long john blues

I'm getting tired of wearing long underwear. They bunch up. They twist around. They make your pants tight. And they're not very sexy.

I'm also getting tired of having to wear long underwear. I am not one of those heat box types - I freeze in Minnesota from September to March. Constantly have cold finger and cold toes. These below zero weather is getting very tiresome. I think hubby's getting tired of me coming to bed dressed in - you guessed it - long underwear and a sweatshirt. Poor guy.

I tried to convince him to move to South Carolina, but he just said he couldn't handle the heat. I figure if us Minnesotans can acclimate to temperatures that would make a polar bear hibernate, it shouldn't be too hard to adjust to heat and humidity five months out of the year. He's maybe get to see some skin now and again.

Maybe I'd start shaving my legs again. But, that's a whole 'nother story and is not a pretty sight. Maybe we'll get an early thaw this year. One can always hope.

in the wash today...

a black and white rock
half an army guy (the gun was missing)
a sucker stick

bedtime battles

Tonight, after I got Number Four's diaper changed and jammies on, he looked up at me and said, "My bed time!"

I just about danced a jig, or would have, had I known how. Getting him to recognize bedtime is certainly a good step. He has been our most impossible going-to-bed, staying-in-bed, not-turning-lights-on child. It doesn't help that he figured out how to climb out of his crib at 18 months, or that Dad decided to do away with the crib to make a pint-sized bunk bed for him and his next-oldest brother.

Now, he can simply slip right off his mattress, where before he at least had to climb up a rail and slide down the other side to escape. It probably doesn't help that we have four boys in one bedroom either. Number two and three are usually tired enough that they would fall asleep quickly if baby brother would turn the lights on, dig through Legos and move the kid-sized chairs around. By the time oldest brother's bedtime approaches at 9 p.m., all three are still awake, giggling or yelling at the baby (sometimes both simultaneously).

So much for 8 o'clock bedtime being enforced. I've been so tired lately from painting that I don't have energy to remedy the situation. I can barely suck in enough air to yell "GET TO BED!" There's a mad scramble, jumping into beds and then six minutes later I hear feet moving, toys being chucked around and more giggling.

Apparently it does not matter that the baby recognizes that it's his bedtime. That only means more time to play and dig in his brother's things.

Maybe tomorrow night I'll actually get up from the TV to do something about it. Will keep you posted.

are you lonely tonight?

We Americans are lonely. Or lonesome. Or both. Smart as I usually think I am, I had to pause a minute to figure out the different between the two, then check my dictionary to make sure I was right. (I wasn’t. Not quite.)

Lonely is being alone. Lonesome is a feeling of being lonely. I always equated lonesome with missing someone, but, apparently the two words can be used interchangeably.

What’s my point? Well, other than the English lesson, I recently read an editorial online about how more and more Americans are starving for significant relationships. (Friendship, not romance.)

It almost seems improbable, given that most people have work relationships and plenty of social contacts. However, according to statistics, the average American has just two close friends, down from three 20 years ago. The statistics come from the American Sociological Review, which published a study on social isolation in America. The researchers reported a “remarkable drop” in our confidants - the people with whom we can talk about important matters. Nearly 25 percent of us have no confidants at all and only 15 percent of us have a healthy circle of four or five friends.

So, apparently we’re lonely.

I’ve been there. Now before you question how I can be lonely in a full house...let me just tell you that it is possible. Mainly because little boys are not friends to mothers who desire clean, germ-free, dirt-free homes at least one day out of the year. Little boys bring lots of noise and activity, but not the social interaction craved by this mom.

But seriously...feeling isolated and alone can be a problem, putting us at higher risk for many ailments - physical, social and psychological. It’s no wonder I start to get paranoid if I haven’t heard from my friends via the telephone for some time. Or that I get cranky if I haven’t got out of the house to do more than buy milk and cereal.

I don’t always feel lonely, but it does happen. I sometimes play the victim role, replaying scenarios in my head and feeling like I’m the only one who’s reaching out to my friends. Most of it is hogwash, of course, but it does happen. I can get dependant on feeling needed or wanted by someone (other than my children.)

What’s causing this loneliness and lack of friendships? Part of it could be our inability or unwillingness to commit to relationships. They are after all, work. We need friendships that require something of us - sacrifice, accountability...perhaps even forgiveness now and then. But sometimes we don’t want to give that much. We want the other
person to give and we’ll receive.

Unfortunately, true friendships don’t work that way. It has to be a two-way street. My cousin often tells me, “You have to be a friend to have a friend.” In other words, give before you’ll receive.

Sometimes, we’re afraid to reach out to find a new friend. We might get rejected. There is no real cure for that, other than to rely on God as your ultimate friend, and trust that he can provide you with the human being friends that you need - a Jesus with skin on, so to speak.

Sometimes, we just think of ourselves more than all the other lonely people.

"One wonders what it would take for the church, the new community, the friends of Jesus (John 15), to hold equal fascination for our lonely culture. To draw our culture to Christ, evangelical churches spend enormous amounts of money on slick marketing materials, enormous amounts of creative energy crafting “authentic” worship, and enormous amounts of intellectual capital on postmodernizing the faith. We’re not convinced these strategies get to the heart of our cultural malaise.
Perhaps another “strategy” is in order. What if church leaders mounted a campaign to encourage each of their members to become friends, good friends, with one unchurched person this year?
Oh, but that would require so much commitment, sacrifice and humility!
Exactly."

Sounds like a good challenge to me. I’m pretty sure we all know at least one person who doesn’t attend church whom we can befriend.

It might end up being just the friendship your (or my) lonely heart desires.


–Excerpt from a November 14, 2006 Christianity Today Daily Newsletter Editorial, “Look at All the Lonely People.” Used by permission of Christianity Today International, Carol Stream, IL 60188.”

in the wash today...

KLEENEX!! grr.
need I say more?

knocking knock-knocks

The boys are into knock-knock jokes and it’s driving me crazy. Especially when they finally memorize one and everyone has to tell it to me, five times a day. They’ve even got the two-year-old yelling out the punchline.

It goes like this:
Knock, knock.
Who’s there?
Interrupting cow.
Inter––
Moo!!!!

Some days I get the baby putting his chubby face two inches from mine so he knows I can hear him holler: “Cow. Moo!”

I have no idea where they learned it from, nor do I care. I guess I should be grateful that they’re trying to develop their senses of humor, because most days the laughter flows following bodily functions, especially those committed at the table. Often, they try to make up their own jokes, which are none-too-funny, but that somehow doesn’t discourage them.

“Mom, why did the pig cross the road?” (At this point I have to turn my head so they don’t see me roll my eyes). “Because he wasn’t a chicken? Get it?” I’m trying to figure out if they’re future comedians or somehow crying out for attention. Can’t be
the first.

Knock, knock.
Who’s there?
Boo.
Boo who?
What are you crying about?

It only goes downhill from there. I guess my sense of humor tends to lean more toward sarcasm, so the silly little jokes don’t do much for me. They do however, delight other little boys and they feed off each other as they try to remember any joke they’ve ever heard in their short life so far. Somehow, though they keep coming back to the knock-knock jokes. Maybe because they’re easier to remember or maybe because they’re easier to make up.

I need to join in before I lose the battle altogether.

So tonight, it’ll be:
Knock, knock.
Who’s there?
Go.
Go who?
GO TO BED!

or
Knock, knock.
Who’s there?
Quitcher.
Quitcher who?
Quit yer messing around and get to bed!

Think it’ll work? I’m not counting on it. I think it’ll drive at least two boys crazy with laughter, rile them up even more and then for sure they won’t go to sleep.

A merry heart is supposed to be good medicine. It’s just a tough pill for me to swallow right now.

in the wash today...

a super ball
a pocket knife
two candy wrappers (someone's been sneaking!)