don't poke the baby

confidence

2012-02-05T11:40:00.000-06:00

carrying the crucifix, three days before his diagnosis

I want to share a conversation my son and I had a few days ago.

He asked me, "Am I going to be okay?"

"Yeah," I said, perhaps with feigned confidence, "you are going to be okay. But it's going to be hard. You have a heavy cross now. You're helping Jesus carry His cross. Most 12-year-olds don't have such a heavy part to carry; most just have to help balance it, or carry an end. You are walking closer to Jesus, holding the cross where it is the heaviest."

"That's an honor," he answered.

Last Sunday, after having a break from chemo, he felt well enough to serve at Mass. He has missed Mass several Sundays, and on those occasions he did attend, he was weak because of chemo and had to sit through most of the service. Tom and I were reluctant to let him out of our sight to prepare, but he asked so many times, we knew it was important to him. I walked him to the Sacristy myself, and checked to see who was there, and gave them instructions to not touch his hands or face, and not cough in his direction, etc. I made sure no one was sick or had been sick recently. And I let go.

I wish I had a photograph of that bald little man up on the altar. He looked like a monk. He served with the same reverence and attention he always had, and seemed to be infused with even more piety than before.

After Mass, he thanked me several times for allowing him to serve. He told me,
"Being up there- on the altar... I felt that is where I truly belong."
I'm so glad I had the confidence to say yes.

weekending

2012-02-05T00:13:00.000-06:00

The nurse came today and removed the access to D's port-a-catheter. He's still a bit swollen and sore, but he feels more comfortable without the tube dangling from his chest. Because he's taking chemo-therapy daily now, he also needs Zofran daily for the nausea. He's lost his appetite, which might make it difficult for him to gain back the weight he already lost. I made a big dinner though, complete with mashed potatoes and gravy, in hopes of getting his stomach's attention. It seemed to do the trick. (although the potatoes and gravy was ALL his little brother would eat; I admit, I make killer gravy)

Now, I'm hiding in my room, snuggled on the bed, wearing my daddy's sweater and watching a Ginger Rogers and Marilyn Monroe movie. It's a 'feel good' silly movie. After another weepy day, a 'feel good' silly movie is in order. It's no day at the beach, but getting away for a few minutes at a time ought to be good for me. Just having someone else brush the little one's teeth is a mini-vacation. Otherwise, I get overwhelmed by the 'little things'- the things that are mundane, routine, and don't take much time, yet suck moments of life from me and exhaust me when added all together. Unfortunately, there is a lack of motivation and an abundance of distractions in this house and those 'little things' that would take five minutes for me, turn into half an hour or more for someone else. I find myself directing others, taking up more time and energy than if I just did it myself, and you guessed it- I end up doing it myself an hour after it should have been done.

It doesn't help that my fifteen-year-old is on crutches. She fell out of a tree last week, and heard a "pop" in her knee as she went down. We can't tell if the injury is minor, or if her lack discomfort is due to her high pain threshold. (She cut the tip of her finger off two weeks ago with a mandolin slicer, and was more angry than hurt. The finger has re-generated itself. The girl has remarkable healing energy) Anyway, Tom and I insist that she keep her knee wrapped and stay off of it until we can get her seen by a physician. (this is to be done in our spare time) Her lack of mobility makes her practically useless to me as a helper of house work.

I'm becoming useless myself as a I write this. My eyelids are getting heavier and heavier. The movie was interrupted umpteen times, and I'm sure there are still little teeth to be brushed.

new beginnings

2012-02-02T20:05:00.000-06:00

Married for over 23 years does not just happen.
It takes, at least for us, many do-overs.

Tuesday, my husband cried like a baby at work, and was sent home.
I didn't want him home, and I let him know why. For the first time since this all started, he listened. Well, at least he sat quietly while I vented.

Today, he laid D's 'road map' of treatment out in front of me and asked me questions about the next four weeks of chemo. He made a few notes, and stopped me when he was overloaded-- which did not take long-- but this is part of who he is, and I know that.
But he asked, and he tried, and then he went to his band practice.
and I will smile when he gets home.

detox

2012-02-02T17:44:00.000-06:00

I need an emotional detox.

Monday night, I did not sleep well. I was up at 4am to get D to TX Children's for his surgery; he had a porta-catheter implanted. Then another sleepless night to wake at 5:30 to get him back to TCH for a spinal tap and chemo therapy. We were in the infusion room until almost 6:30pm.
I was so exhausted by the time we left, that I didn't notice I left my planner behind until this morning when the home health care nurse asked for D's list of medications and I knew the list is in my planner. That planner is my life-line these days, with a calendar of every step of D's treatment, his blood labs, day to day necessities, business cards of his many doctors and hospital agents, etc. Just looking through it stabilizes me and puts things in order in my mind.
Fortunately, my oldest daughter was able to get the medical center this afternoon and retrieve the planner for me.
This morning, a home health care nurse came to the house to give D an infusion. He showed me how to do it, and I am to give him infusions tomorrow and the next day. Then we get a break of a few days until next week when he returns for another spinal and more chemo.There is more for me to do each day than simply 'mother' him. Now I need to be his nurse a few days a week as well, and that is a little bit scary.

Our nurse practitioner called this morning to give me options for future treatments.
This is the first time anyone has given us 'options'.
She noticed yesterday, after we had been at the center for over nine hours, that I was uneasy. D had been receiving his chemo on Fridays for the first month, and I was breezing through things. That was our day away from the house together, taking care of him. Yesterday, however, was our first Wednesday. The day was exhausting not only because of the lack of sleep and long hours, but because it was Wednesday and Wednesday is also Holy House day. My children were split in three different directions with rides to friends and rides to ballet and all leaving at different times to get them where they needed to be. I knew they were safe, but it still weighed on me and left me feeling out of control. The stress was immeasurable. But I thought I had no other choice; the doctor told me his chemo was being switched to Wednesdays and I said, "okay."
But our wonderful nurse practitioner heard my story and said, "Fixed". Just like that, she said it. She sent me home, told me not to worry, and assured me that she would make it work. This morning she called and gave me options. I have some choices.
Since the diagnosis, the wonderful doctors at TCH told me what they would do to cure my son. They do it everyday, and they know what they are doing. The promised me that would treat him like their own- and they have- and they promised to hold my hand every step of the way- and they have. They tell me what works, where to be and when to be there and I do it.
And I nearly fell apart doing it.
Until the beautiful Jalane came along and "fixed" it.
Now I need to decide on the days my son goes for his chemo. And I feel better.

But I feel like I still need to recover from yesterday.

Last night I was up only once to give meds to D and settle his anxious body back to bed. Then, I slept in this morning.
I thought a good night sleep and "fixing" the days would somehow fix me. Not so. Today I'm edgy and weepy. There is no explaining this feeling and no quick fix. It's a skin-crawly wet-behind-the-eyes feeling that a glass of wine and bubble bath just won't touch.

Well, maybe it will touch it. At least that's an option, and just having options is a step in the right direction.

if you can't say something nice......

2012-01-27T20:37:00.000-06:00

...you know the rest.
When I think of writing about what is going on, I'm too frustrated to write. It's typically when I'm aggravated that I actually sit down to the keyboard to say something, and then I'm sure I'll regret it if I type what comes to mind.

My husband is not keeping up. He is so detached from what is going on in this house that when he does try to tell someone else "how things are" he mixes up the facts until they are unrecognizable.

"That's me in the corner............. oh no, I've said too much."

milk day

2012-01-14T09:10:00.000-06:00

Today is 'milk day', when we go to the farmer to get our milk.
Tom has gone to do that.
I am getting ready to go to a funeral Mass; one of our friends died of a massive heart attack on Christmas day. One of his daughters was a student of mine, and his wife was also my friend. -- Another reminder of how blessed we were to be where we were at Christmas.

Yesterday was chemo-day. It was an easy day, with the regular i.v., blood work, two doctors examining D, and then his chemo-therapy of two different drugs. We at the clinic for less than five hours, which is a record for us. He handled the chemo well, with no anxiety. He's getting used to this.
I can't say the same for the i.v. intrusion; they had to stick twice, and the first stick was painful for a while. This is 'normal'. We have a new 'normal'.
Today, he has some energy. I'm pleasantly surprised, but I know better than to get accustomed to it. Energy is not part of the 'new normal'.
The blood work looked good, relatively speaking. I've been giving him 'green food' drinks to help build blood cells and build an immune system. He tolerates the drink, and I certainly prefer it to another blood transfusion.
He still has his hair, but it's thinning.

I'm going on like some kind of record keeper, rattling off as though I'm giving report on the six o'clock news instead of sharing my life. Any lack of emotion in my words perhaps comes from my 'new normal.' I do what I need to do, and there is much to be done. My number one priority is to get my son well. Sometimes that means scrubbing floors and cleaning bathrooms (much more often than I have ever done before) and sometimes that means curling up on the sofa with him and rubbing his back while I watch him read. It all leaves little room for reflecting on my own words or how I might feel about anything that is going on.

I feel joy, I feel hope, and I feel tired. I bite my tongue when people say and do stupid things to me, and they do. I smile, I laugh, and sometimes I cry. The 'new normal' doesn't sound much different that the old, does it.

it's an adventure!

2012-01-08T12:20:00.002-06:00

"I've never spent Christmas in a hospital before. This will be adventure."

Sometimes we have no choice in what happens to us and we must make the most of it.
I stayed with D from the moment we left home on Wednesday morning to go to the ER until the night of Christmas Eve. It was decided that the little ones needed me home on Christmas Eve and Christmas morning and Tom should stay with D for one night.
I'm still not convinced it was the right thing to do. Not only did I come home to a messy, dirty house, but I missed D and was concerned about him getting what he needed. In fact, I was not home yet when my son called my cell phone from the hospital room telling me of a problem he was having. I reminded him that he had a nurse call button and he should tell her about any problems or questions he had. I still wonder what my husband was doing when D called.
I stayed up for hours cleaning the house. There was no way I was going to wake on Christmas morning to that mess! I finally closed my eyes a little after midnight, only to be awakened from a deep sleep at four-a.m. by a ringing phone. All I could see on the caller i.d. was 'hospital' and immediately thought there was a problem with D. Panicked, I attempted several times to call D's room, only to get a busy signal each time. Finally, still in brain fog from being jarred awake, I reached for my cell phone and found a voice mail.
The call was not from my son. It was from a different hospital, calling me for a NILMDTS shoot- at FOUR A.M.! I returned the call, explained to her why I couldn't be there, refrained from screaming at her for not waiting until 6, and attempted to go back to sleep. It took me more than an hour.
My poor children waited until nine o'clock. for me to wake again.

But I did wake, and five of my children excitedly showed me the contents of their stockings. (well, four excitedly showed me their stockings; one dozed on the sofa behind them. College students don't show much excitement in the morning- not even Christmas morning)
We sang 'Happy Birthday' to Baby Jesus, watched as the youngest placed 'Him' in the manger, and opened a few presents.

There were several hand-made gifts this year, and a few bought at re-sale or antique stores. The children spent the money received from an aunt and uncle on gifts for each other. All were happy and very satisfied.

I was anxious, however, to get to my son in the hospital.


St. Nicholas visits hospitals too.

Our first Christmas in a Hospital. It was an adventure.
and not one we need to repeat.

ending 2011

2012-01-03T17:10:00.000-06:00

I've been holding up very well with the news of my son's diagnosis. But now as I sit here ready to write about the past one and half weeks, a lump forms in my throat and I fight tears.
As long as I am taking care of my son, or cleaning-- somehow keeping busy-- I'm fine. I can smile a real smile and be happy. I find joy in the work that I need to do to keep my son healthy.
When I slow down and try to think, everything changes. I feel the stress that builds while sitting and waiting for chemotherapy and spinal taps and doctors. I feel the exhaustion that creeps in from not getting to bed at a reasonable hour and then waking several times a night to care for a four-year-old who can't find her way back to bed, or a twelve-year-old who wakes from nightmares and shivering from a low body temperature after chemo.

I will continue to write about the joy, and the heartache. Get ready to take a walk with me through my new life as a mom of a child with cancer. I'm changing already, and truly, I'm learning to like myself.

my boy

2011-12-24T18:16:00.001-06:00

I'm putting things into perspective and will write in more detail later.
For now, my week with my boy:

Sunday he was climbing trees.
Monday he awoke with a stomach ache and pain in his legs.
Tuesday he still hurt, so we took him to the doctor.
She drew blood.
Wednesday she called and directed us to go to TX Children's Hospital immediately.
Wednesday night he was diagnosed with Leukemia.
Thursday they withdrew bone marrow from him.
Friday we learned that he has Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia. pre-B cell.
This is the easiest type of Leukemia to treat, and has the best prognoses.
Friday night he received a round of chemo-therapy.
Saturday night, it's Christmas eve, and I am sitting in a hospital room- just me and my boy.
and I am very thankful.
Merry Christmas.

2011-12-24T14:39:00.000-06:00

nun, gimmel, hey, shin

2011-12-20T19:41:00.002-06:00

A great miracle happened there.

thankful

2011-12-08T10:01:00.003-06:00

I'm terribly behind in writing, but that is merely a symptom of how behind in thinking I have become. I am told my hormones are trying to re-align themselves, and it's normal to have lapses in memory, and an inability to think clearly. At times, my speak suddenly stops as I search for the right word. Then I reassure myself that I'm not having a stroke, but typically still can't come up with the word I want until someone helps me. I was trying to describe a song to a friend the other day, and I still can't remember the name of the lead singer of The Police. My husband will laugh at me when he reads this, because I am usually the queen of band names. It seems that the part of the brain that controls these details is in stasis as the rest of my brain goes in recovery mode.

Still, I'm thankful.

For what am I thankful?

I'm thankful that I was able to cook a delicious (if I do say so myself) meal for my husband and my children on Thanksgiving. I'm thankful that I had six children sitting at the table with me.

--- that my husband supported me in wanting to stay home and not be with his siblings on Thanksgiving.

I'm thankful

--- that my four-year-old thanked G-d for her "baby brother who died." (the brother she calls 'Rose')

--- that I was able to see my tiny baby and bury him with the help of my husband. He was so gentle and loving through this process that tears come to my eyes when I think about it.

--- that my children sang lullabies with me as we said "good-bye".

I am thankful that my body recovered so quickly, and my heart survived at all. I am healing and feeling well. I have happiness and I have joy; I didn't think that would be possible, and I am thankful.

cloud sand

2011-11-28T13:53:00.000-06:00

A little more than one cup of baby oil added to 8 cups of plain white flour.

Stir, mix, play for hours.

Because life goes on.
Oh, and it smells wonderful.

just me

2011-11-21T19:16:00.001-06:00

I had peace. I had calm. I was moving through this, moving forward with the support of my family and my friends.

Now I want to scream.
I want to punch something and I want to throw something.

I think it's my turn to have a bad day.
I want permission to be angry, and to yell.
I want the right to slam a door or two, and I want someone else to pick up the pieces when I break something.
I don't want anyone to be angry with me.
I want this anger to by mine, and I don't want to share.

I want someone to pick up my slack- to get my back while I totally lose it- because I know life goes on and the needs of others have to be met.

I will be back; I promise. Just let me go through this today.

I DID give birth!

2011-11-21T18:27:00.000-06:00

Postpartum depression sucks, particularly when there's no baby to hold.

Coming to terms with losing a baby is only part of the healing process after a miscarriage. There is also the physical adjustment to being pregnant then not being pregnant.

I did a quick search this morning for information about postpartum blues, depression, etc. for women who lost their babies during pregnancy. I did this because I feel like crap. I had a nice weekend with Mass, visiting with friends and nice weather. I wept a bit in church, was a bit overwhelmed in the afternoon, but was screaming by the time I went to bed. I awoke this morning with a dark cloud hanging over my head. By early afternoon, I was overwhelmed by the desire to cry and throw things.
My first search on the internet brought me to a discussion about 'postpartum depression following miscarriage.' The overwhelming response to a woman's question about it was, "Postpartum depression follows birth, so it doesn't happen when you miscarry."
What?! That is a serious contradiction. What do these people think happens to the baby? A pregnant woman will give birth one way or another. She may not notice when the baby is born, which is sad, but the baby- even if still an embryo- comes out of the body, and the body responds. The body produces hormones to keep a body pregnant and ceases to produce these hormones soon after birth, and in some cases, before birth. Regardless, the woman has the challenge of adjusting to these changing hormones. Add to this challenge the absence of endorphins that are normally produced when the baby snuggles his nose under his mamma's chin after a bath, or oxytocin when he latches on to nurse, and you have a woman in hormonal hell.

I have struggled with postpartum depression with my last four live births. With my fourth, I was near suicide. I know the difference in sadness and hormonal imbalance. Sadness includes thoughts. I've lost a child, and therefore I grieve, I mourn, I am sad. I am aware of these thoughts.
However, there are also moments when my skin feels likes it's stretched around the wrong body and tears form in my eyes when the only thought in my head is "cry." There is no logical progression of the thoughts and feelings when hormones are raging. It's physiological. It's very real.
I know my children are hurting. I know my husband is hurting. But physically, they are the same now as they were two weeks ago. I am not. I am adjusting to a new body again.

I have no baby to hold, but I did give birth.

the club

2011-11-17T19:15:00.002-06:00

A few weeks ago, I was called to a shoot at the local hospital. I arrived while the mamma was still in surgery recovery, still groggy from the anesthesia of her c-section.

I've had many shoots of babies who were born with hope, and then taken off various forms of life support. I've had several with mammas who, before going to the hospital to deliver, knew they would never feel their baby's breath.
This shoot was different.
This mamma went in with hope, and awoke with none. Her baby did not survive the emergency surgery performed in order to get him out before his heart stopped beating.

I met her with her baby in her arms, a look of shock still on her tear stained face. I introduced myself, and then carried my camera bag to the room where the nurses had prepared for her to stay the night. I checked the light, and prepared the necessary paper-work.
When mamma arrived with her baby, I gently hugged her and then asked if I could unwrap her son from the blanket. I began the shoot, asking permission each time before I moved him or his hands, or his feet. She spoke almost the entire time; she talked to her baby, she talked to her husband about her baby, she told the nurse she just wanted her baby to wake up.

This couple had one healthy child at home. One. Just One. I heard her say to her husband, "We have J. We shouldn't expect to be so lucky as to have another."
Pregnant with my seventh, I had really pushed the envelope. I stood there, fighting the tears that wanted to burst out of me, knowing that I had six healthy children at home, and she felt it only fair for her to have one- lose one.
After the birth of each of my six children I have held them and cried and asked G-d, "What have I done to deserve this?" I have always felt abundantly blessed, and amazed that each one was born perfect.
And now it is my turn.

Accompanying many of the well- wishes and promises of prayers from others is the admission of personal experience: "I've lost one.... two.... three... of my own," my friends tell me. It seems that I have been inducted into a very large circle of women who have had to say good-bye without a kiss. Most say it to express their understanding of the pain. A few appear to be callous to my feelings; after all, this is a normal and common occurrence and there is nothing exceptional about my feelings.
I was never one to think that this could not happen to me. I faced it far too often with others. Eleven years ago, we think I had been pregnant, but that pregnancy failed to implant and ended before a confirmation. Since then, my husband and I accepted that "maybe there was, maybe there wasn't....." and thought of that baby who might have been as our angel. This time, I gave birth. I saw 'him'; we buried him. He was unquestionably real. Still, I know how blessed I am that I have not experienced the loss of a baby after hearing his heart beat, growing large and feeling him squirm and kick. No less a life is lost, but somehow the loss for me is somewhat less, I think.

I've been embraced into that group of mothers who mourn- the women who say, "I have ___ children on earth, and ___ in heaven. Each child as important as the other, and each child counted. I felt guilt that day, standing in the hospital room with the mother who had "one on earth, and one in heaven." Now that I have joined 'the club', I still know that I am blessed beyond what I ever thought I could have or deserved.

And now I wait to be in the circle of mothers who have healed.

miscarriage

2011-11-14T21:30:00.001-06:00

I don't like that word.

It's a euphemism for "my baby died".
Let's not upset anyone, right? If I say, "my baby died," that is remarkably more upsetting for people to hear than "I had a miscarriage."

I have been saying, "We lost our baby." Tonight though, I told someone that I had a miscarriage. It felt inadequate. It felt impersonal and unemotional.
And it felt like I was taking responsibility for my baby's death.
To carry to term was the goal. It was what I was supposed to do. But I MIScarried. The word implies that I carried wrong. Yes, my body just stopped carrying the baby.

It doesn't matter that I never smoked, or that I avoided alcohol, caffeine or coffee of any kind, soda or artificial sweeteners. It doesn't matter that I took my vitamins and exercised. I still MIScarried.

I just don't like that word right now.

who is he?

2011-11-13T12:52:00.001-06:00

I've asked G-d to send me a dream. I don't know if I'm ready for it, but He will know when I am.

I want to know.
What color would his hair have been?
What color are his eyes? Were they brown like ours, or green like D's?
Was going to be athletic and inquisitive like his brothers?

or would she have been bold and brassy like her sisters?

I don't know this person. But I miss him like crazy.

loss

2011-11-10T21:35:00.000-06:00

This morning I was pregnant.

This evening I wasn't anymore.

I'm in true pain. I need time to heal.

LIFE goes on.

2011-11-03T09:46:00.000-05:00

I'm having a rough week, but I know it will get better. I refuse to let that which has gone wrong to cloud what is wonderful.
The 'wrong' started with me getting somewhat emotional about a controversial subject on facebook. (Imagine that- emotional while pregnant?) I honestly had questions and thought I could trust the 'friend' to answer them. He misunderstood everything I said, every intention that I had, took my bluntness as hostility and the next thing I knew, he was admonishing me, instructing me to see a psychotherapist, and telling me that I am never to contact him again without my husband's involvement. I was very hurt, I cried it out rather loudly, but I am now moving on. I have learned from this, and I honestly think I am a better person from it.

Then we took the car to the shop. It's home now, but the ransom was over $1000. We plan to pay if off with prayer.
We don't have much else.

The peace is overwhelming, to the point that some might call me irresponsible. If this bill had come to us three months ago, I think I'd be curled up in the fetal position whimpering. If this had happened during another pregnancy, I'd be bawling. But as it is, I can't permit the fear or the anxiety to creep into my life.
There is a separate yet dependent LIFE inside me. LIFE goes on, regardless of the crap surrounding me. It has taken me a seventh time to really 'get it.' Nothing else matters except that a new person has been created. I have been blessed beyond measure-- I have won a lottery!

growing

2011-10-21T17:10:00.000-05:00

My little one took pictures of the things we planted in the garden.

Yes, we're trying again to grow food around here. We had the soil tested for ph balance and it is perfect. We put down good compost, and sowed our seeds and planted our plants.

The girls thought perhaps the squirrels were getting too greedy and needed to be frightened a bit.

This fellow was their idea, their design, their work. Hopefully the critters won't think him as charming as we do.

Growing isn't only happening in the garden.
I've never had a green thumb as evident on past posts about gardening. And I'm not particularly crafty. However, I have done well at making and growing people.
Remember those vitamins and supplements I've been taking to get 'things' balanced?
They worked.
Better than one could imagine.

Estimated time of arrival: second week of June.

each one different

2011-10-12T23:03:00.002-05:00

each one so very precious.

I am sitting here feeling so empty in the head, but heavy in the heart.
I have had four NILMDTS shoots in the past month, and I have yet to complete the post editing of any of them.

These little people were each so very tiny.

Baby 'G' was 26 weeks gestation. He was still hooked up to wires and tubes when I arrived at the hospital. His young parents had made the decision to withdraw those tubes and wires but wanted photographs first. This was their first child. They gave him the same name that we gave our fourth child before we knew she was a girl. He was beautiful and had beautiful silky hair covering his tiny head. He held onto his mother's finger when she stroked his palm. He wet his diaper and I waited while she changed it.
I captured the baby's image- his face, his hair, his tiny fingers wrapped around his mommy's, his tiny feet with his Daddy's wedding ring looped around it.
I smiled at his mommy and daddy and told them how beautiful their son is-- their son is.

Baby 'L' didn't wait for me to arrive at the hospital. By the time the call from the nurse had reached me, all the tubes and wires had failed her. She had lived on this earth, within her mother, for less than 24 weeks. She was perfect. She was delicate and beautiful. She had older siblings who had not yet been told that her spirit was in heaven. I went through the same motions-- her face, her hands, her toes; I told her parents how beautiful their daughter is.

I received a call about Baby 'D' from another photographer. She received the call from the hospital, but she knew I lived much closer and could more easily get to the shoot. Of course I could and of course I would. I arrived in Labor and Delivery and the nurse there was shocked to see me. She told me that the baby had been born the day before and perhaps it wasn't a good idea for me to take the photographs so late. I took a chance, and told her I would take a look before making my decision. Determined to do what I could for this mother, I decided that if had nothing but images of his perfectly formed feet, I would capture the most beautiful images of feet that she had ever seen.
I spoke with the mommy, and I promised her I would do my best.
This was different from any other shoot I had ever done, as I was able to be alone with the baby with only the nurse there to help me and witness my work. She dressed the tiny person and held his feet for me. She placed a hand- crocheted hat on his head- smaller than a doll's. I talked to him as I moved his hands, almost as if to ask his permission. I captured the images of his face, his fingers, his toes. I told him how beautiful he is.

then I walked to my car and I cried.

Baby 'N' also gave up her struggle before I arrived at the hospital. She too had spent less than 25 weeks growing and developing. Now, fully developed, but not finished growing, she was born too soon with little chance of surviving.
The call went to another photographer while the baby was still living, but she couldn't take the shoot. An email went out to all area photographers, and I answered. I spoke with the counselor at the hospital, hoping the shoot could wait until the evening when I would be in Houston on another errand, but she told me the family needed someone sooner; the baby had passed away. I sent out an email of urgency to all the photographers, hoping I would not have to make the 80 mile round trip twice in a day, but no one else was available.
Her mommy had already grieved heavily before I arrived, and had dressed her angel in a beautiful hand made dress ready for pictures.
I admit I was tired, and for the first time I felt like my time was my own. I did not want to disturb this little one who was so fragile when I tried to move her. Suddenly, I felt self-conscious and was afraid I would agitate her mommy if I tried too much. I did not spend the amount of time I typically do when I shoot for a NILMDTS family. Still, I captured images of her face, her hands, her feet.. and I told her mommy how her beautiful her daughter is......

And now I have these images gathered in my computer waiting for me. Images of babies who should still be in their mothers' wombs, growing. They should be safe and warm and waiting, and no one knows why they aren't.
All I can do is edit here, and crop there, and give broken-hearted mommies and daddies images to keep and remind them of how beautiful their sons and daughters were.

Confirmation

2011-10-10T20:45:00.000-05:00

Our parish altar

Our second oldest was Confirmed Saturday by Daniel Cardinal DiNardo. I felt honored that he visited our parish and bestowed this Sacrament on my child and her 28 classmates.
I can't tell you how proud I was when he pointed to my daughter after she raised her hand to answer two questions about chosen saints and sponsors and said to her, "I'm saving the doctrinal questions for you." He had taken a few minutes before the Mass to get to know the confirmandi, and quickly learned that she was ready for his best shot. When he pointed the question of doctrine at her, she nailed it.

The ceremony was beautiful. I cried. Her father cried. Her older sister cried. She cried. We are so incredibly blessed.

42, 43, 44......

2011-10-06T10:21:00.002-05:00

Yes! I can count.

I remember turning 42, and then 43. But then I forgot that I turned 43, and I began telling people that I was 42. For six months, I was convinced I was 42. I told people I was 42. I wrote on forms that I was 42.

About a month before my birthday this year, I caught a scene on a show my children were watching; the woman on the show was forty and having a baby. I kissed the top of my 4-year-old's head and said, "I know someone who turned 40 the year her baby was born." And it hit me: "You're four... I turned 40 that year.....Holy Cow! I'm about to turn 44!"

and so I did.. without a hitch. The day came and went with no thunder and lightening, no earth tremors. I did, however, receive countless hugs and kisses from my blessings who were well aware of their mother entering her 'mid-forties' kicking and screaming.

I also received gifts from children who know their mother well.

My oldest daughter baked a carrot cake, and second oldest decorated it. They did it after I was in bed, so I offered absolutely no help or advice.

I was told it was swirled with butter knives and chopsticks.

I didn't want to cut the cake! I took at least five photographs of that cake, and they all look alike.

I told my daughter I wanted this in acrylics next year.

taking care of business

2011-09-29T20:17:00.000-05:00

I did some reading and some more reading, and decided that supplements is an easy way to get my body to cooperate with my mind. Getting older doesn't mean I need to allow my body to tire or shrivel up.
I had a difficult time remembering what to take every day, and at what time, so I decided to use one of those medicine keepers that my mother used.
None of the ones I had were big enough.

lyrical ballet

2011-09-22T09:30:00.001-05:00

I danced last night. I danced to this song.

I had not danced in a long time- too long.
I danced where my husband could see me. He watched, and he smiled.
He didn't know I could dance "like that."
He knew I danced when I was a young girl. but....

How could 24 years go by without my husband knowing I dance?
Perhaps because I haven't danced in such a long time.

I'm dancing again.

I was compelled to open it at the mailbox......

2011-09-19T13:25:00.000-05:00

I received an anonymous and generous gift in the mail today.
I have a feeling it is one of my readers- someone I know.
I am humbled.
I am thankful- oh, so very thankful.
I feel loved, and I feel appreciated.
And I thank you.

blessed....... and broken?

2011-09-17T10:23:00.001-05:00

I never thought I would feel the way I do.

I thought, because getting pregnant was so easy for us, that I would remain fertile until I was no longer attracted to the idea of pregnancy. I assumed that my body would remain a breeding ground until I was tired of breeding.

7 1/5 months pregnant with my fifth, age 35.

I stopped my son in mid-sentence as he said, "When the next baby comes...."
I asked him, "How do you know there will be a next baby?"
"Won't there always?" he asked, naively. I had to explain to him that a woman's body gets to a point when she can no longer have children.

I knew that the day would come that my body would switch gears and slow down. I assumed, however, that it would down-shift gradually; I had no idea that it would slam on the brakes.

So, here I am at forty-four, not pregnant. And my chances of getting pregnant are nearly nil, though each month I have symptoms of pregnancy. Apparently, pregnancy symptoms and the normal ebb and flow of hormones in a woman 40+ mimic each other. It must have been a funny sight to see my gray bearded husband and me standing in the health and beauty aisle attempting to read the package of a pregnancy test without our reading glasses- our arms stretched out in front of us to read the tiny print, laughing at each other and the irony of the situation. Anyone who saw us must have thought we were suffering from Alzheimers.

I know I have been blessed to have six children. Perhaps I should feel blessed that I won't be suffering from hyperemisis gravidarum. I should be glad that I don't have the added expense of a midwife, considering we are already living from pay-check to pay-check. I should be thankful that my mental state won't be challenged again by postpartum depression. (I'll be limited to the regular state of depression instead.) I should be rejoicing at the free time I will have without diapers, and nursing, and baby toting; my husband and I can go places without child in tow, and begin the 'next phase of life.'

I do, and I don't.

I'm not truly ready to let go. I have been caring for babies for most of my marriage, and it has been the natural state of things for half my life. I honestly don't know what to do with myself. I don't know what 'the next phase of life' means.
I feel broken. I feel like the one thing I did truly well- the thing that gave me a feeling of value-- no longer works. And I'm having trouble moving on. I'm greedy and I'm selfish, and yes, I'm ashamed of being greedy and selfish.

I suppose it's time for me to get off my rear and move. It's time for me to create something for myself- something besides another human being. It's time to focus more and the minds and hearts already dancing around me.
Just handed to me was this note:

I am told, by the 4-yr-old giver of the note, that it reads:

"I love you, you're in my heart, and all the other things
that are good to tell your mamma."

Clearly, I am blessed and lack nothing.

like beans? good.

2011-09-03T10:10:00.000-05:00

Thursday night, five of the children, Tom, and I dressed for a the back-to-school Mass and pot-luck with our home-school group and loaded up into the Suburban with our large side dish to share. Our oldest daughter planned to meet us there; the festivities were taking place on her campus. We stopped for fuel (30 gallon tank at $3.35/gallon- you do the math) and attempted to head downtown. We had about two miles behind us when the truck stalled.
We managed to steer off the highway, onto the feeder, and off to the side.
We had no phone, because my daughter's cell phone had stopped working and I gave mine to her. Tom flagged someone down, and it happened to be a mechanic. While he looked under the hood, Tom called AAA with a borrowed phone. I then used the phone to call the oldest daughter and let her know we weren't coming ("catch a bus") and to call a friend with a large enough vehicle to take the children and me home. Tom waited for the tow truck; the mechanic could not fix the problem. He recommended a local shop other than his own, since his expertise was in fixing old Mustangs. I wish it were his services I needed.

The truck was towed to the recommended shop.
Friday morning, I awoke at 0'darkthirty to take Tom to work, and M to the bus stop so I could have his car for my new teaching job. My job is once a week for three and a half hours teaching photography to elementary and middle school home schooled children.
After the first two classes, I borrowed a phone and called the shop where my car was being held. The quote to fix the Suburban was nearly $1000. I held back tears.
I used a phone book and looked through the yellow pages. There had to be something better. The page opened to an advertisement for a shop that I had used once- after my accident-- to have my fender pulled off my tire. They did it for free. Why didn't I think of them first when I as standing on the side of the road with five children?
After work, I drove to that shop and got a new quote. It was $200 less than the other shop! I drove back to the shop who had the truck, told them I was having it towed somewhere else and paid for the diagnostic fee. (this, of course, brought the difference down to just $150, but still a savings)

Thanks to AAA, my truck was brought to the new shop- Sullivan's- within the the hour. The people at Sullivan's were more friendly too. I found myself apologizing for not taking the truck to them in the first place.

After all was settled, I drove home, took a shower, and collapsed. After a nap, I drove back into town to get my daughter from the bus stop and my husband from work.
Half way between the two stops, the car overheated.
I pulled over into the parking lot of the Home Depot.
The coolant reservoir was empty. A man from the garden center filled it for me from the garden hose, and from a hands and knees position, I could see a little drip from the bottom of the car. Beautiful; just what I needed on the Friday evening on the Labor day weekend.
I made it to Tom's school, and drove home with the windows down, and several inches of water having dripped on the highway from our car. We'll be taking that car to Sullivan's on Tuesday morning.
For dinner, we had beans and linguini. I'm glad the children like beans. They're going to be eating them often in the next few months.

I received my first pay-check yesterday for teaching the photography class. I accepted this job so that I could have some spending money for my flash unit, things that need to be done around the house, and to buy Christmas gifts, etc. I sat last night trying to not think about all the things I had planned to do with the money I earn; my camera flash has been in the shop for over a month waiting for me to pay it's bail. I'm anxious to get back on the NILMDTS calendar, but can't do that until I have my flash back. We have three broken door knobs in our house and a door that needs to be replaced.
This first check was just enough to pay for the diagnostic fee to the auto-shop.

This morning, my 10-yr-old daughter brings her completed hand writing assignment to me. She moves independently through her book, and many times I don't read what the next assignment is until she has completed it. This was her latest page:

"The Lord gave and the Lord hath taken away; Blessed is the name of the Lord." Job 1:21

She was oblivious to the significance of this to our family at this time. All she knows is is we'll be having beans again tomorrow night, and she likes beans.

thankful

2011-09-01T16:24:00.001-05:00

The St Cecilla's Catholic Home School has begun a new year in the dining room of our home. Our dining room is designed to be the living room, but this past spring, tired of cramming the eight of us into our small dining room, I moved the dining table into the larger room. Dinner time is the only time the entire family is together in one room, so it made sense to me to turn the larger living room into the dining room.
The bookshelf is new to us. A friend gave it to us. It's solid, and heavy, and oh so beautiful and useful. Thank you, friend.

As the children work on school work, I can sew. This keeps me available without twiddling my thumbs. The quilt at the machine was also from a friend. She was selling it at a garage sale, and offered to give it to me but I insisted that I pay. She knows times are tight for us. She sold it to me for a dollar. It had only a few holes to be mended. Thank you, friend.

Our dining room is now a breakfast nook with a loveseat and table. It's a lovely place for sitting and visiting while someone is cooking. The table is a free-cycle gift. Thank you, stranger.

That's my son on his head. He does that quite often. I'm not sure who to thank for that.

forget the rules

2011-08-25T15:24:00.000-05:00

"Forget the rules and play by your heart," - that's what my Dove promise chocolate wrapper read this morning. (yes, I have chocolate with breakfast; doesn't everyone?)

There was a time that I kept these wrappers. I had drawer space set aside for them. Now, I typically roll my eyes and look for the nearest trash can.
This is a pretty good one though. It's not even noon, and I'm on the computer writing while the children are playing outside. We've had triple digit temperatures without rain for weeks, but last night it rained a bit and cooled things down. With the shade of our trees, it's relatively cool- in the nineties- so I sent the children outside for air. It's what my heart told me to do, disregarding "rules."

As a child, I had a strong sense of justice, and noticed when something was not right or fair. Fear of getting into trouble kept me in-line. It kept me from skipping class with friends. I tried to obey my teachers, and had a reputation in high school as the 'goodie-two-shoes'; however, at home I asked "why" so much that my parents began to treat it as a curse word. I wanted to obey; I just needed to understand their reasoning and have the chance to express my own. I couldn't make them understand that it was the course of action I was questioning, not their authority. To my parents, I was more than cheeky; I was "back-talking."
I just didn't get it.
I never thought I'd be the parent saying, "because I'm your mother!" but, here I am. Thankfully, I am not the parent slapping the mouth of a child who questions me; I learned that does not help anyone and is detrimental to the cause and the psyche of all involved.

When I moved out to attend college three hours from my home, I rebelled, a little. I wanted to be a free thinker-- 'bohemian' if you will.
I met new people- the people my mother warned me about- and I made odd friendships. Still, I maintained the reputation of being the "good girl". No matter how opened minded I tried to be, or how much I kept my mouth shut, people continued to be cautious around me. Somehow they knew, I followed the rules.

Then I met him- the older man who had broken all the rules. And he liked me. He was fascinating and interesting and exciting. I took a walk on the wild side and dated him. I knew it would take me my entire life to learn everything there was to know about him, so I married him.
Now he's one of the most legalistic people I know. He follows rules and laws because they are rules and laws, and he rarely questions. Further, he notices when others are breaking the rules and calls them on it. As I grow and adopt a more 'live and let live' personality, sometimes keeping the spirit of the rule more than the letter of the rule, he tries to tighten the reigns on those around him, leaving me to be the hippie-mom. Sometimes I feel smothered, and I'm sure sometimes he feels very frustrated.
Sometimes I feel like I need to let the children have ice-cream for breakfast.

Sometimes I just need to let them be children, without school rules.
Today was one of those days.
They cleaned their fort. They read the Star Wars encyclopedia to each other in the newly organized space.

They played, they shared, they learned. There was no fighting, as they followed the basic 'rules' of sharing, work, and consideration. Today that is enough. Today that is HUGE. I'm pretty sure my rule following husband will be fine with that.
Now it's time for hippie-mamma to get the kitchen cleaned and ready for dinner. I KNOW he'll be fine with that.

have sense, will blog

2011-08-18T12:32:00.001-05:00

My brothers are intelligent, but my father once said I was the only one with "walking around sense." (sorry,boys) Lately, however, I feel as though I have lost the ability to speak with cohesive thought in an adult conversation. I'm trying to make sense of many things, and here in my 40's, trying to 'find myself,' including my sense of style.

I admire people with a sense of style. I know what I like, but putting it together when I am going to be seen in public is a challenge. My wardrobe is compiled of hand-me-overs and bits and pieces from a the resale consignment and thrift shops.

I have found some great things at resale shops, let me tell you. Last week I found five high neck tank tops to wear under blouses for modesty and paid $1 for each- four were designer. Being given hand-me-overs is how I get my best looks; when left to my own devises to buy new, I typically fail miserably. With an EXTREMELY tight budget (Let's face it; right now I have NO budget for clothes) it's difficult to wear what I want. My mother said that I have champagne taste on a beer salary, but I try to make it work.

I've always liked lace. I like to feel like a girl. I found a consignment store near me where I can usually find lacy, vintage tops. Typically, the tops have been reduced to clearance, because, apparently I am one of the few ladies in this area who likes lacy vintage. No complaints here, except.... does that mean I'm out of touch with what's 'in style'? Like I care.


from my photo archives-- and I'm still wearing these clothes

The climate in TX is killing my sense of style. Boots and big bags:

and sweaters......


Novica alpaca sweater 'pinned' and put on wish list!

I *love* sweaters.


also from Novica alpaca 'pinned' and put on wish list

Do you know how long I have to wait until I can wear boots? Sweaters? We have had triple digit temperatures for weeks. I can't be sure, but maybe that has something to do with my lack of "walking around sense."
Come hell or high water though, I'm going to wear cowls if only for the one month of cool we have here. I made this last week:


no, I won't wear this cowl with this dress; it just happens to be what I was wearing when I finished the cowl.

I prefer brown,
and I'm going for that next, but I had this colorful yarn (bought on clearance at Tuesday Morning last year) so I wanted to use it.

Now I have this pattern:

and the brown yarn (alpaca, camel, wool blend-- how lushy is that? Thank you Tuesday Morning!) so it's next .

Until this year, I had not worn jeans since my early thirties. Even then, it was rare. Last December, a sister-in-law saw me in a pair of pants and commented that she didn't know I owned any. I have a source for jeans at $1.50. I just have to check often for my size. I found a pair last week:


the Colombian leather bag was a hand-me-over from a neighbor. I don't know if it's 'stylish', but I'm a sucker for quality leather

So I'm wearing jeans again. I'm 43 and feel every year of it. And I don't want to feel it. Jeans make me feel younger, so on 'date night' I wore them.
I put on my thrift store jeans, my hand-me-over t-shirt and top, grabbed my second hand leather bag and headed out the door with hubby for date night. We arrived at the coffee shop just in time to watch the owner lock the front door.

We ended up at Cracker Barrel because it was open. The important thing was we were out of the house, just Tom and me. Alone.

Then it was home for a movie.

I'm working on being content. I'm working on loving life on a beer salary, while occasionally enjoying some champagne.
I'm trying to find my own style, and be okay with not being able to wear it, or do it. The guy in the photos is my style-- most of the time. So, I may be wearing the same clothes from two years ago, or from another girl's closet, but I have something most super models don't have- the same guy from last season. I'm pretty blessed, even if not 'in style'.

inspiration

2011-08-12T19:42:00.000-05:00

I'm thinking about the children's bathroom. The antique tub is in need of repair and has been out of commission for months (years?). There is the added problem of poor design from the get-go; when one opens the door, one hits another one on the rump if the other is standing at the sink.
So, the plan is to move sink over a bit, and making the vanity smaller.
Also, the [ugly] cultured marble surrounding the tub area needs to go.

I am trying to decide how much of the vanity needs to go. I want to go vintage to match the antique tub, but I'll need storage. To this I could add a metal shelf unit for storage perhaps? and/or wire rack for towels?

pinned!

Maybe I should skirt it?

THIS one I *LOVE*, especially the color, but whoa.... I'd have to search high and low to get the right size or I'm right back where I started with the site-built vanity with the rump-bumping.


pinned!

Cultured marble out, bead-board in.

This is where the washed blue comes in, IF I don't use the antique vanity and paint it with the shabby chic blue above. I could use the blue-wash treatment on the walls instead. But oh, I do *love* the white.

Completely inspired, time to start looking.

wilting

2011-08-10T13:23:00.000-05:00

I'm stuck. I just feel stuck. I haven't written in while, because I'm not inspired with anything profound to write. Most of the things that are going around in my head would be too embarrassing to write for posterity.

We're living through the second worst drought in recorded history for the state of Texas. The last drought was 116 years ago. There are bigger problems across the state than the condition of my sorry flower garden.

I have been quite depressed lately, and the heat does not help. One of the things that boosts my mood when I am in a funk is to work in the flower garden. Sadly, however, there are few flowers in my garden because of the drought, and there isn't much I can do about it because of the water conservation measures put in place and the heat is enough to keep me inside anyway. So I stare out the window at my brown, dying garden.
heavy sigh...

We almost put the house on the market. We started cleaning, and sorting and purging and painting- trying to make the house presentable, so that we could sell it and in turn make an offer on another house. The idea was to be closer to our church and activities, get a larger house (though we do not feel the need to have a bigger house) and have the freedom to own chickens. We found a house that satisfied these desires, and were pretty excited. However, our property taxes would be more than doubled and that is out of the question.
So, we're back to square one. At least we got some cleaning, purging and painting done.
Have I ever mentioned how much I *hate* living near the big city? I feel like I'm wilting in a garden. I live near a heavily populated area, and it seems to me, the more people around me, the lonelier I feel. More people = more aggression, more anxiety, more rejection, and more loneliness. I think it's funny that I didn't feel that way in the ocean of Italians when in Rome.
But it's hard to complain about the heat and drought when the state is dying from it. It's hard to complain about not living where I want to live when I have a roof over my head.
I must sound crazy when I talk of loneliness when I have this:

(My hair! Why didn't someone tell me it was falling?!)

But I feel stuck, and I feel sad much of the time. I think I'm on the upswing; at least I feel a bit of hope that I didn't have two weeks ago. I don't know where it's coming from and I don't know where it will take me, but I'm hoping it keeps going up, at least until it rains.

vacation from vacation

2011-08-01T15:33:00.001-05:00

We took five of the children (and the dog) to the beach to camp. When we arrived at the site, Tom and D set up tents, while the rest of us hit the beach and watched the sun go down.

I felt terribly guilty enjoying the breeze and the golden light without my older son. We returned to the campsite to retrieve him so he could enjoy the beach before dark.

Those little dots are mollusks.... all alive and digging into the sand. They were yellow, blue, pink... beautiful.

The description of the campsite from the representative over the phone did not quite match my description upon arrival.
She did not mention the parking-lot type camp sites:

She did say there was shelter at each site:

And you can see the sun peeking through the slats of the narrow pergola she called "shelter". sigh.....

I assure you, this was not enough 'shelter' for seven people and a dog at high noon, especially after a morning on the beach with slightly 'pink' skin.

Parked next to us was a small bus with a large family made up of adopted and foster children. Good for all, we packed a soccer ball.

After one night in a tent, and part of a day at the site after one morning on the beach, I called it a day and stayed the next night with the children at a friend's house. Tom stayed at the campsite and fished and had a night to himself. Although we had the site reserved for three nights (what was I thinking?!) we kept it for only two, and drove home a day early.

We took a detour so we could go to the farm to buy our milk. Buying it at the farm instead of our city pick-up spot saves a few dollars per gallon.

It was a long ride home. A l-ooooo--ng ride home.
I need a vacation from the vacation.

Seriously.
I'm afraid to say what I truly feel, for fear that I will sound like an ungrateful, terrible mom. But let me just say that before I jump into a school year with one going into 1st grade, one in high school, one in middle and one in pre-k- and I won't say how many are 'high maintenance'- I need a bit of a breather.

I am not going to whine, (ooh.... wine, that sounds good....) but should I be fired as chief cook and bottle washer because I request a bit of space and sanity? At this point, being fired doesn't sound like a bad thing.....

birthday #10

2011-07-30T21:14:00.000-05:00

I was so very pleased to have the quilt almost finished in time for the birthday.

The edges were turned over and pinned, ready for machine finishing. The top edge of ivory cotton stared at me like a blank canvas, however, and I pushed the envelope. I had not embroidered in over twenty years, (have I ever? not truly sure..) but had to give it a try. I mentioned the idea to the birthday girl who was head-over-hills excited about the idea, and requested her name. I agreed, but first had to stitch a little something for my July girl:

.... more precious than rubies; that she is.

Somehow, the image of her wrapped up in the quilt was deleted from the camera before uploading to my computer. I assure you though, she was very pleased too.

schiacciata ai fichi

2011-07-18T08:44:00.000-05:00

It's flat bread with figs, but sounds more delicious in Italian.

I think everything does.
Sometimes I think I could pick up and move to Italy.

THIS is a big reason I don't want to move:

We brought this tree - when it was no more than a few twigs-- from my mother's yard when we moved her here to live with us.

We've thought about moving. We've thought about starting over, and over, and over....

but there is always something stopping us. Keeping us in TX is the retirement system. At 51, it's late for Tom to start over in a new system; he has less than nine years until he can retire with full benefits. Keeping us in this area is his job; not many districts are hiring new teachers in this economy. Keeping us in this house- well, there are many reasons. We built this house, had babies in this house, my mother died in this house.... Also, to find another house with property like we have is out of our financial reach. In fact, we could not afford our own house if we had to buy it today.

Still, I have wanderlust- a congenital condition I inherited from my father. I remember watching him sitting with his coffee and the local ad paper, as he circled descriptions, addresses, phone numbers, etc. He'd gather his new findings and I'd climb in the back seat of the Dodge to go for a ride. Mom somehow knew he would never make an offer any of the property, but she humored him without argument, sitting beside him on the long trips.
Most of the houses we viewed were not immediately livable. Some were missing parts of the roof, and most needed air conditioning and a whole lot of paint. I remember few actual houses; we often looked at land, with a dream of a future house. Dad wanted to 'get out and away' from it all. This was a funny sentiment, considering the town in which we lived had a population of less than 20,000 and the nearest interstate highway was a two hour drive away. Still, Dad wanted less. I remember driving to see acreage in another state. We parked the car near a hill off an un-paved path, and walked. We came to a cliff, and dad pointed across a valley of unapproachable vegetation. The land that we came to see was only accessible by helicopter. We laughed then, but I think my father would have liked to make that property work somehow.
What he said stopped him from moving to any of those 'faraway' places was the schools and our friends. If he lived alone, he might have pitched a tent on any of those properties we saw.
What I think stopped him though, was fear. Dad had moved many times during his lifetime, but most of those moves were by command of the Army. They told him where to go, when to get there, and made sure his belongings were packed and sent. His job was always waiting for him when he arrived. He didn't need to make many decisions about it, and those that he did need to make were backed by the security and pay check of the United States Army. Once he retired- choosing a place with good schools and a Catholic church- he was safely settled. Unfortunately, the part of him that needed to feel "safely settled" constantly wrestled with the part of him that longed to try something new. The safe side won every time, using fear of failure as it's greatest weapon. If he stayed put, so he thought, he would have lost nothing because he had a home and a family. He was afraid to lose his house, his children, and his pride.
I think my father died a happy man. It wasn't because he had found the perfect home though. He had a wife who adored him, children who loved them, and he had security in a Savior, which are no small feats in this world. But he left a piece of himself with me- the part that longs for something else, a change.

My mother was the opposite. She was happy in her small house they had built together. In fact, I had to practically drag her out of it when we decided she could no longer safely live alone. Her house had become an extension of herself, with memories too thick to sort through. It was difficult for her to detach the memories from the house and take one with her and not the other.
I don't want to be like that. As sad as it is to not be completely happy where I am, I think it would be equally sad to become so attached to my surroundings that I can't leave.

The fig tree has more than tripled it's size since we planted it six years ago. This year, it has given us the best crop ever; besides daily snacks, I've been able to harvest enough for two special meals. That's not why I want to always keep the tree though; I want it, of course, because it once grew in my parents' yard. It's a part of the home where I lived as a child- a home filled with memories, but where another family now sleeps. It will continue to grow here in the same spot, while I continue to wonder if there is another place out there for me to lay my head and start over. The tree is now too big to dig up and move to another house. That won't stop me from cutting off small pieces, rooting them, and planting them in the ground of another home someday. I hope to always have a little piece of my home- of my parents' home, and keep their memories with me- without being too attached to one place.
But it probably won't be Italy.

linger a while

2011-07-02T11:09:00.000-05:00

I'll try to linger here long enough to write something. It seems there is always a distraction to sitting and being productive. Add 'writer's block' to that, and you have me with nothing to say and no time to say it. I've been fighting depression the last few weeks, and that fact that you have something to read here is evidence that I won another battle.

I have a cappuccino here with me, which forces me to sit and relax, but the truth is, I'd rather be sitting on the patio enjoying it. With no patio furniture and 100 degree temps, however, that's not very inviting. So, I sit at the computer trying to catch up.

I was invited to a baby shower for next weekend, which means I have one week to crochet a baby blanket.
I have one NILMDTS shoot in the queue.
It has rained once in over 100 days; my gardens are dying. I have figs though, and plan to prepare them using a recipe from The New Regional Italian Cuisine Cookbook. I first found this book at the library, and, falling in love with it, searched for it on Amazon, found it, and snatched it for only $6 new and no shipping. Tonight we will have a composta de fichi (stewed figs- yes, with wine) with desert. This book makes me so happy! For a moment, it satisfies my yearning to be in Italy, and the next moment, makes me miss the country even more.
As I finish my cappuccino--
I'm reminded that I was without an espresso machine for quite some time. I sent the machine back to the company when it stopped working. It just stopped. After a few weeks, I received a call from 'David' at DeLonghi, who reported that he had made three perfect cups of espresso with my machine. It needed to be cleaned. sigh. I paid over $16 in shipping to get my machine cleaned, and to be told that I just wasn't doing it right. The good news is I now know how to work it so that it works. The bad news is UPS cracked the body of the machine. They offered to replace it, but honestly, it's not truly noticeable, so I don't feel good about letting them pay for it. I'll give it more thought.

We learned that our daughter will not receive the grant that she was counting on to finish another year at the University. She is working a few jobs this summer though, including one at the University. She's determined to not accumulate more debt, so she will work and get as much done as she can with what she earns. Considering the school board just voted to cut teachers' salary in Tom's district, we all need to re-visit the 'live within your means' lesson.

I've never had a pedicure, but last night managed to paint my own toenails. They're light pink now, and very pretty if I do say so myself.

We almost made an offer on a house last week and put ours on the market. We found the 'near perfect' house closer to the city and all that we do there. The price is right, the location is right, but the taxes will kill us. So, we move on with our thoughts. Meanwhile, we continue cleaning, purging, and 'fixing up' around here so that if the 'perfect' house comes on the market, we can be ready.

More on most everything later. (except the pedicure-- there's not much to be said about that.)

she'll never have enough

2011-06-06T15:30:00.001-05:00

For baby gifts, I like to offer newborn photo sessions. Newborn babies, with their squishy faces and nimble bodies that can be curled up while they sleep make the best subjects. Who doesn't sigh at the image of a nakey-baby in curled up in a basket?
I recently captured the image of a wee one less than two weeks old. We digital photographers always 'over shoot' capturing many, MANY, more images than we intend to use. Adjusting perspective, light, and depth of field, we might shoot the exact same pose five times to turn out one good image.
A few weeks after this shoot, I gave the disc of images to the mama. She loved them, but asked if there any more. She was there when the camera clicked away several frames each minute, and knew there must be more than what I presented to her. I gave her the cold hard truth- her baby didn't do much, so many of the images looked almost exactly alike.
Her truth is, her baby had already changed in the last few weeks, and each photograph freezes a moment in time in her infant's life. The more images of those moments, the better, and she would never have too many.

A few weeks ago, I was called by the local hospital for a NILMDTS shoot. I have not been on-call at the medical center in a while, because there has been so much going on here, and my editing skills are not fast enough to handle a hospital shoot on top of the senior sessions I've had. Also, a trip into the city medical center is costly for me when I add parking on top of the fuel costs. However, the local hospital has my number at the nurses session, and I consider myself always on call for them. The nurse informed me that a mama's baby had passed away in-utero at 33 weeks gestation. The words she used were, "Thirty-three week fetal demise."
They were inducing labor, and were calling to make sure I would be available for a session when the baby was born. This gave me time to charge batteries, print forms and prepare my family for me to be gone for a shoot that would probably be the next morning.
The mama labored all night, and delivered early in the morning. The nurse immediately called me and I gathered my gear to get to the hospital.
I knocked, entered the room and introduced myself. Again, I was blessed with a family ready to receive me. The parents greeted me as someone they already knew, even though I am a stranger intruding on one of the most intimate times of their lives. I set down my equipment and read the forms to the parents. More forms- they have seen and signed their share of forms! Still, they have no complaint. They want what I am offering.
I ask the mama if there is anything special image she wants me to be sure to get. "Just take lots," she says.
I won't take enough. She will not have enough.
I make sure I get images of mama holding her baby, daddy holding his son, both parents holding their baby, fingers wrapped with fingers, feet in hands, grandmother with mama and baby. His feet will look the same in every shot; his hands and fingers will look the same. His expression never changes. Still, after I begin to put my camera away, I turn back to the family and said, "Let me take one more of his sweet face."
I am working on the images, and still haven't finished. I won't edit all of them; some of them look like duplicates of others. I'll deliver this disc of images to his mama and she will want more. These photographs are all she will ever have. Every image of her son will be different to her, because each was taken during a different minute. When a woman has less than a day to gaze at her child's face, every minute counts and every image captured freezes a minute of that day.
That day is not a day she will want to remember, but those individual moments are indescribably precious. She will never have enough.

can you spare a few pennies?

2011-06-06T11:30:00.000-05:00

Out my back door:

A Bohemian selling silks.

What's your view like?

Mindy's quilt

2011-06-03T09:21:00.003-05:00

Oh, I'm so selfish! I actually hesitated sharing this link with you because I want to win this quilt. My conscience was loud in my head though, and I am compelled to share. So now you have a chance to win too, (and my chances just decreased.) But that's okay! because.......
My friend Mindy and her family are beginning the process of adopting a baby. They're not opening their home to just any baby, (though I'm sure Mindy would not turn any baby away!) but they are seeking out a baby with Down's Syndrome. She knows exactly what she is doing; she and her husband were blessed with a son with Down's Syndrome the 'old fashioned way' four years ago.
Adoption costs money. Her home study is MONDAY. They need money NOW!
So go to her blog and donate. You will get a receipt, so maybe that money you were planning to give to another cause could go to the Churchill family this month? You will get a chance at a gorgeous quilt. (and if you win the quilt, and can't use it, you can give it to me for my birthday.)
This is another way for us to walk the walk. For those of us who claim to be pro-life, this is our answer to that person who asks, "What about the children with this problem or that issue..." Those of us who are active in the pro-life movement have been accused on more than one occasion of not taking responsibility for those babies who are born. This is our chance to be a part in giving a baby life.

front of fabulous Mindy quilt


and the back!

the Bible is a very big book

2011-05-24T00:40:00.038-05:00

The third chapter of Colossians reminds me to love. It reminds me to be kind, forgiving, meek and humble. It's a tall order, but when I am in conflict, or when I am criticized or feel like criticizing, or when other scripture is quoted to me, I try to remember that all I need to know is summed up in verses 12-17. "Over all these virtues, put on love, which binds the rest together and makes them perfect.... since as members of the one body you have been called to peace."

When our fourth child was born, my husband designed a birth announcement with a quiver of arrows; each arrow bore the name of one of our children. On the announcement were the 3rd-5th verses of the 127th psalm:
"Children are gift from the Lord; the fruit of the womb is a reward. Like arrows in the hand of a warrior are the sons of one's youth. Happy the man whose quiver is filled with them..." It's relative; four children would not qualify as a 'quiver full' for many people, but for others, it might be overflowing.

During my past few pregnancies, I grew accustomed to comments such as,
"Are you going to have any more?" or the variation, "Are you done?"
Then there's my favorite, "You do know what causes this, don't you?"
I have my stock answers, my practiced smile, and at times I have followed up with lectures and other times just ignored the comments.
The crux of it all is that apparently I have "too many children."
I have been fortunate though, because most of the time when I go out with my brood, I get complimented, and unless I am pregnant, the worst anyone says is, "Are they all yours?" or "You certainly have your hands full."
Yep, I'm very blessed," is my typical answer.

Apparently not blessed enough for some. People of the group A Quiver Full might criticize me for not having 'enough.' You see, my husband and I practice Natural Family Planning. This means that in the early years of our marriage, when we were broke, uninsured and would have been dependent on Medicaid for obstetrical care, and when my husband was gone to school then work from seven in the morning until midnight six days a week, we chose, in our spiritual ignorance, to abstain from 'marital relations' a few days each month in order to not get pregnant. A few years ago, a follower of the 'Quiver group' - a mother of 14 (or was it 15?)- pointed out my lack of understanding of scripture when I admitted this to her. Recently, a conversation about my "small family size" reminded me of the judgments she and others in her circle have held and shared with me.

Pope Paul VI, in 1968, in the encyclical, 'Humanae Vitae; wrote:
Responsible Parenthood
10. Hence conjugal love requires in husband and wife an awareness of their mission of "responsible parenthood," which today is rightly much insisted upon, and which also must be exactly understood. Consequently it is to be considered under different aspects which are legitimate and connect with one another.
In relation to the biological processes, responsible parenthood means the knowledge and respect of their functions; human intellect discovers in the power of giving life biological laws which are part of the human person [9].
In relation to the tendencies of instinct and passion, responsible parenthood means that necessary dominion which reason and will must exercise over them.
In relation to physical, economic, psychological and social conditions, responsible parenthood is exercised, either by the deliberate and generous decision to raise a numerous family, or by the decision, made for grave motives and with due respect for the moral law, to avoid for the time being, or even for an indeterminate period, a new birth.
Responsible parenthood also and above all implies a more profound relationship to the objective moral order established by God, of which a right conscience is the faithful interpreter. The responsible exercise of parenthood implies, therefore, that husband and wife recognize fully their own duties towards God, towards themselves, towards the family and towards society, in a correct hierarchy of values.
In the task of transmitting life, therefore, they are not free to proceed completely at will, as if they could determine in a wholly autonomous way the honest path to follow; but they must conform their activity to the creative intention of God, expressed in the very nature of marriage and of its acts, and manifested by the constant teaching of the Church

What I see as beautiful- the knowledge and respect of and for the function of the human body and a full awareness of fertility and the relationship that requires consent and will to CO-CREATE a human life- others see as just plain wrong.

Our four middle children were spaced by ecologically breastfeeding. In other words, when my baby was hungry, I nursed her. When she was cranky, I nursed her. When she was tired, I was a human pacifier. My children grew strong both physically and emotionally, as I recovered from each childbirth slowly and surely. A side effect of 'Ecologically breastfeeding' is suppressed ovulation. How amazing is that?! It's no accident that I was able to make milk for two years to feed my baby while not getting pregnant with another. It's no accident that I could focus on each infant into toddler-hood and not be plagued with hyperemesis; my body had time to recover after each birth, return to it's pre-pregnancy weight for the good of my heart and health, and yes, get ready to carry another one. Each time, after about a year and a half, my cycles returned and 'voila'!- within a month or two I was pregnant again. The last baby would wean during the pregnancy of the next. I think the Creator knew what He was doing when he made me.
I am aware that breastfeeding-- even ecological breastfeeding-- does not suppress ovulation in every woman, at least not for the same length of time, but the fact that it did for me tells me that I was doing something very good, right, and natural.
Folks from the 'Quiver' believe it good and right to wean a baby at a year or younger for the sole purpose of making oneself available for pregnancy again.
While I often wonder if there 'ought to be' a child or two somewhere in the six years between my first two, I, not for once, wish I had denied the nourishment or affection I gave my others with nursing on demand. I am so very thankful for that gift.

I am also thankful for my very life. I am aware of what pregnancy does to my body. My family witnessed the hyperemesis. They lived through the post-partum depression, and the post-partum low blood pressure. As much as I love being pregnant, I think back-to-back pregnancies would have made me less of a mother for my children.
Today I learned of a woman who, anemic and malnourished as a consequence of back-to-back pregnancies, and who purposefully weans each child early in order to regain her fertility, is trying and praying to conceive again. I'd sincerely like to know how a mother, claiming to be living in obedience to the will of God, deliberately chooses to not do that which is natural and healthy for her living child for the sole purpose of creating another child? Is this truly CO-creating?
I am being critical, and I apologize, for the reason I began writing was to point out that one person should not decide the family size of another. However, when the motives of one group of people seem to supersede those of others and accusations are flung and judgments made, I think these are sincere and important questions, but I don't require an answer.
I speak for myself; I know women with ten or more children who are ten times the mother I am, figuratively as well as literally. For the woman who ovulates and becomes pregnant within months of her last birth and remains in good health in both body and mind, cheers and kudos to you. You have both my admiration and respect. For the mother who, for one reason or another cannot breastfeed and becomes pregnant soon after birth, you are blessed in other ways.

I do not demand and explanation for your family size, whether it be large or small. I would hope, however, that you are answering to your own belief system, while respecting human life at every level. This includes respecting my life; when you see me in the grocery store with my small family of eight, or my large family of eight, you can smile, you can nod, you can shake your head or you can ignore me. I would, however, appreciate it if you would not judge me based on the size of my quiver.

mushy stuff

2011-05-20T12:01:00.000-05:00

The other day, my husband showed me a little p.d.a. and my oldest daughter told us, "Get a room."
I asked her, "Do you know how lucky you are to be able to say that?"
"Yes," she said.
She does know.
She knows it hasn't always been like that. She has been there since year two, and has witnessed first hand our ups and downs. And 'luck' has nothing to do with it.
We have no problem with public displays of affection. We have had years with public displays of anger, aggression, resentment-- you name it. It's our turn to be happy and to show it. After almost twenty three years of marriage, we feel....
I was about to say, "we feel like newlyweds", but that would be very uncomfortable for me. I was not a happy newlywed; we fought on our honeymoon. I already wrote about it, and I'm not going into that again.
Now, I can honestly say, I'm in love. But not like a newly wed.

A friend was telling me about her daughter ending a relationship. She related to me how she told her daughter that "all those things that annoy you while your dating don't go away after you are married." We laughed, as we both could relate, as young brides, thinking that marriage would somehow 'fix' the quirks, bad habits and even vices of a bachelor. We both learned the hard way that marriage is like a magnifying glass held over a man, and all those little things that young couples fight about seem even bigger after the rings are fitted snugly past the knuckle.

So, before the wedding, a girl might think, as I did, "I know he has this problem or that problem, but once we're married, he'll be better..."
or, "It's stress. Once the dust settles from the wedding, he'll be more relaxed and we'll get along better." (right... after the wedding, with a wife, a house, children... no more stress. uh, yeah.)

The 'normal' cycle:
1. I think he's wonderful. What? He has faults? I don't see them.
2. Sure, he has 'ticks' but I can fix that.
3. Good grief, what I have done, he's a pig. (no, honey, he's a man, yet this is where divorce happens far too often)
4.Yes, he has ticks, yes he has faults, I see them right in front of my face, (sometimes they whack me in the face like a brick) but he's mine and I love him.
I'm incredibly blessed to have reached that fourth step. Every once in while, I slip back to step three, but it's temporary.

I don't know if it's chemical and hormonal, or if it's a miracle that was prayed into our house with the 16 x 20 image of Christ over our bed with the words "Jesus I trust in You," or if I just finally grew up, but I think a fifth step is developing in this house which is reminiscent to step one.
It can be entertaining, I'm sure, because others can see these glaring faults in my husband and I just smile my way through as I do my best to ignore them. I'm thankful, because I totally missed this first step in my relationship.
"People usually serve the choice wine first; then when the guests have been drinking wine for a while, a lesser vintage. What you have done is keep the choice wine until now." (John 2:10 NA)
And I think the best is yet to come.

more critters- don't read over breakfast

2011-05-19T08:18:00.002-05:00

My daughter received a long awaited package in the mail.
She has been so excited,
anticipating....
planning....

She did her research with books from the library, but mostly from the internet.

She spent her own money, and measured everything to make sure they would like their new home.

Yes, they are what you think they are.

WORMS.
There is hope for our garden-- next year.

forward

2011-05-18T09:37:00.001-05:00

The day before a hard freeze, the children found several tiny black tadpoles in a puddle in the back yard. My children 'saved' the tadpoles from their impending doom.
I did not get photographs of the tiny black tadpoles.
Nor do I have photographs of the glass bowl that sat on my living room table for months. I don't have the image of the $10 fish tank and filter that I bought to save the little critters from dioxide poisoning either. What I do have is an image of the glass jar that we put them in to carry them to the park to release them in the wild after we watched them grow into 'almost frogs'

And the first batch was released, while leaving a few at home to grow a bit more.

Sadly, I wasn't able to see the little critters through the lens as they rushed into the wild.

These little critters, however, were easier to catch as they rushed into the wild.

aaacckkkkk!!!!

2011-05-17T20:38:00.000-05:00

Honestly, I'm not sure how that should be spelled, but you get the idea.
When I am finished with this glass of mead, I might feel human again. If I finish a second glass, which I plan to do, I might feel better than that.

I'm not sure I need a vacation or just a few minutes of primal scream therapy, but if I don't get one or the other...

oh, nevermind; I'll just finish this mead.

My house is still upside-down as we wait for the paint fairies to ready the baseboards in "Grandma's room" to be painted so that we can turn it into a classroom/playroom. My house is chaotic- no we do not always keep a drum set in the dining room- and I internalize the chaos. I'm ready to wig out, and if you ask my oldest daughters, they would say I already have.

More later- on everything. But for now, I finish the mead, I take a bath, and I go to bed.
Oh, ^*@%; I promised to read a chapter of Peter Pan to the children first.

More mead.

monday

2011-05-16T18:41:00.000-05:00

I'm sleeping better these days. The four-year-old is out of our bed, and sleeping with her sister. During the first few nights, she found her way back to our bed, but for the past week, she has stayed in her space.
I'm still rocking her every night. It's the one routine she can count on in an otherwise chaotic and unpredictable life. The other children are pretty much left to the chaos and unpredictability. I can't rock everyone.

Sniffing and sneezing from allergies, I'm on my third cup of tea, and waking from a one hour nap. I spent part of the morning dusting and sweeping my room, and have confined myself to the one relatively dust free room in the house. Needless to say, there has been no school today with Mama. The most I've been able to do is work on a photo shoot I had this weekend.

This morning, I spent some time viewing tutorials for tying head scarves on youtube. I want to cover my head with a scarf without looking like I'm wearing a hijaab. My favorite was this one, because it was the easiest, but I found a few others that I liked too. I want that 'Bohemian, gypsy look' and I did find another one that created it, but my daughter has to tie it for me; I'm just not that coordinated. The one I'm wearing now has a gypsy/African/Jewish look and I like it. This is my 'bad hair day, don't want to wash my hair, have some sense of style though I know it's not everybody's sense of style' thing. My hair has grown long this spring-- half way down my back-- and I can't stand to feel it on my neck and back most of the day, so I pull it up anyway. It's odd, but it also feels 'right' to have my head and hair covered, just as it feels right to wear a veil in church.
To carry it off, I need the eye make-up and dangling earrings. Otherwise, I look like an old lady on chemo. My daughter says it still makes me look older because my bangs aren't showing. Oh well-- I AM old!

My husband just walked in the door, took one look at me and said, "Is it pirate day?"
I think I cooked enough supper for seven people. He must not be very hungry.....

it IS still Easter...

2011-05-11T10:22:00.001-05:00

Easter Sunday came and went, and I neglected to write about it or post images.
I've been busy with senior shoots, and even more busy trying to keep up with laundry, and have neglected to even look at our Easter pictures until this morning.
Each day around here is much like the last: I still wake at least once through the night, and sometimes stay awake for an hour. I still get up in the morning, say a prayer, make my bed, look in the mirror, say something like, "Blecchh", drop for twenty push-ups, look in the mirror and say "blecchh" again.
I still eat a bit of chocolate with my tea and toast. I still throw a load of laundry in the washing machine before putting on water for tea.
Not much changes.
So, today is as good as two weeks ago to talk about Easter.
This year, we switched things up a bit.
We typically attend the morning Mass at our parish on Easter morning. We rush through breakfast, finding Easter baskets, etc and out the door an hour and half before Mass starts in order to get a seat. Then the church fills with people, many of whom are visitors. I get through Mass trying to not be distracted by the girls in fancy clothes who have no idea of how to behave in a Catholic church; they're visiting Grandma and haven't been in a Catholic church since last Easter. I try to not notice the young men who fidget and look around, not knowing when to kneel or when to stand. I'm glad they are there, but in my shameful selfishness, wish they weren't.
So this year, we celebrated differently. D volunteered to serve at the two-plus hour Vigil Mass, and did a wonderful job. Our parish welcomed two men into full Communion of the Church, with the baptism of one of them. It was a beautiful service, and the length was not as difficult to tolerate as the crowds at a morning Mass. There was actually room in the pews. After Mass, we joined our fellow parishioners in the hall for cake and punch to personally welcome our new members.
We returned home, and put children to bed. The down side was, with naps in the car, they did not go straight to sleep, and I was up until well after 2am.

Sunday morning? We slept in! We took our time! We had breakfast together and relaxed in the glory of a risen Christ without the stress or hurry of getting out the door.
We cracked eggs, and jelly bean necklaces were made.


jelly bean necklaces

(the chocolate bunny showed no compassion for those who were up past 2am)

end of the season

2011-05-10T08:51:00.001-05:00

The spring is getting away from me. We have been busy, coming and going, but I don't take the time to write. Half of the jam I made with these berries has been eaten. I have several quarts of berries in the freezer. If it weren't for freezers, glass jars and photographs, I might have forgotten our trip to the strawberry farm.

And so I'm thankful for freezers, glass jars and photographs.

Although, we might still have a few other 'mementos' of our trip to the strawberry farm.

For Me and My Gal - Gene Kelly, Judy Garland

2011-04-26T11:55:00.017-05:00

My mother tucked me in at night until I was almost ten years old. When she sang to me, this was my lullaby:

I don't remember her ever singing the traditional lullabies such as "Hush Little Baby," or Brahm's Lullaby. No, I went to sleep to Judy Garland and Gene Kelly by way of Mama's voice. It was, of course, my favorite song as a child.

I rock the four-year-old to sleep, or near sleep, every night. Lately, the only thing she wants to hear is "Bells are Ringing," as she calls it. She hums loudly while I sing.

"How old am I?"
She has asked numerous times since her birthday two weeks ago.
"Four," I say.
"How old was I?"
"Three."
We're hoping she catches on before Christmas.

Her birthday was in Lent, and even though we typically just move the Lenten birthdays to the nearest Sunday and bake a cake, this year, in such a sorry Lent with little sacrifice, I bought a Napoleon at the Market and let her have her own treat. We had a little something, but I don't even remember what it was. She thought it was wonderful, and that's truly all that matters. (well, that, and the fact that she shared with me.)
Every now and then, one of the girls break out in song; the rest of us join in, and I have a memory of rocking each of my 'gals' and singing to them. Then of course, my thoughts go back to being a little girl and being tucked in by my own mother.
Hopefully, all the little things I do will add up to memories of a good childhood for my children. With all the mistakes I make-- just as my own mother made-- I'm hoping the good will outweigh the bad, just as it did for me.

a long read; grab a cup of coffee (or glass of wine... shot of whiskey...)

2011-04-23T14:30:00.000-05:00

I sent my oldest daughter out of the room so I could concentrate on writing. She was quietly working on a net book, not bothering me, but I felt distracted with her here. Being a mom for more than twenty years means that if any offspring are in the room, no matter how quiet and occupied, my radar is out and active. Though not conscience of it, a little part of me is attentive to that other person-- a potential need is there-- and I can't fully focus on what I'm doing. I don't know if that will ever go away.
I wonder if it ever went away for my mother.

Yesterday marked the fourth anniversary of her death.
I miss her now more than I did the day she died, or the next year. That feeling of gladness when I think of her not being in pain anymore is quickly chased away by thoughts of calling her for a recipe, or wanting to tell her how well the children are doing in school.
I cannot remember if I have written much about her death. I know I have written about her life, and about my life after she was gone. But that window in time- that part of my life when I witnessed her leaving- has been something I didn't want to put on paper until I had the right words. I don't know if I'll ever have the 'right words' to describe how I felt when my mother died. I kept thinking that when the day came that I could think about it without weeping, and I could talk about it without feeling the slightest spark of regret, then I would put the words down for others to see. Now I know that day will probably never come, and so I will write just for myself- through tears, through regret, through whatever feelings are aroused.

It is not possible for me to talk about my mother's dying without talking about the birth of my sixth child, because they happened almost simultaneously.
My husband and I had tried for more than a year to convince my mother to move in with us. We added on to our house to make a space for her complete with her own bathroom and access to the kitchen. We painted it her favorite color. I called her every day to check on her from 600 miles away, and I also called her to ask her advice for everything from "how long to I cook this or that" to "what should I do with this child who____." I honestly couldn't tell you who needed whom more, but it was exhausting and frightening when she did not answer her phone. I needed to know she was safe and well, and when her doctor told her she needed surgery again, Tom and I would not take "no" for an answer; we insisted that she move here and have the surgery at one of the top medical centers in the world.

She was with us for a few months before the surgery, and before we moved her belongings. We showed her the city. Mama loved to go shopping and eat out, and we did both often. We went to the theater.

After her surgery, her recovery was slow. Tom learned a few nursing skills; I was a bit squeamish to handle the task of changing her bandages twice daily. Her surgical wound would not close, and he was trained to take care of it. He did this for a few months until it healed.
The surgery, while repairing one of Mama's conditions, exacerbated another. She had already been diagnosed with liver cirrhosis, brought on by years of acetaminophen use. After the surgery, she struggled with the ascites until she died. She also suffered from liver failure, which caused ammonia to build up in her brain from time to time. The ammonia buildup caused dementia-like symptoms. As long as her medicine was working, she was reasonably clear- headed, but when it was not, she was like a small helpless child until she slipped into semi-consciousness and would need to be hospitalized for a few days. She and I would laugh when I told her the things she said or did that initiated each trip to the hospital. She had a wonderful sense of humor about herself and her illness, and being able to talk and laugh about her 'silliness' kept us sane through the most difficult times.

Eight months before her death, I had a positive pregnancy test. I was shocked. With Natural Family Planning, Tom and I were able to maintain control of our family size by being aware of my fertility for twenty years. Now, here we were during an extremely stressful time in our lives, with a surprise pregnancy. The chart of that month is still a mystery to me.
One week after the positive test, I started vomitting and could not stop. I wept, I cried, I yelled, "What was God thinking?!"

I collapsed, and Tom took me to an E.R. where I was ignored while I visibly trembled in a wheelchair. Other waiting patients, concerned for me, tried to get the nurse's attention on my behalf. "She's pregnant," was her reply. "No one ever died from throwing up because of pregnancy."
My husband scooped me up and took me to another E.R.
At the next hospital, I was treated with an I.V. bag and sent home. I knew I needed doctor's attention; I could not live from E.R. visit to E.R. visit. I was going to need maintenance. As I lay on my bed thumbing through the yellow pages and calling doctors, I could hear my mother's slow shuffle down the hall toward my bedroom. She stood in my doorway, and I waited for her to ask me a question about the doctors, or offer some condolences for the way I felt.
"When Tom calls," she offered slowly and quietly, "could you tell him I need a loaf of bread?"
It was then I realized that I was the caregiver, no matter how sick I was. I did not take the news well though. I never wanted to accept the adage that 'the parent becomes the child.' I was the child, and I resented my mother not being there to take care of me when I was sick, but instead needing me. I am not proud of these feelings. I remember her standing over me the next day, in her weak and tired state, looking at me pitifully, telling me she wished she could help me.
I know she still wanted to mother me.

I found a doctor who would treat my hyperemesis gravidarum without insisting I sign a contract for labor and delivery. She admitted me to the hospital, balanced my fluids and electrolytes, and inserted a pic line into my chest cavity for a home i.v. Again, my husband practiced his nursing skills by changing the bag of fluids twice daily, and injecting anti-nausea drugs into the line. This kept my baby and me alive for the next eight weeks. I saw little of my mother during that time. Again, I'm ashamed that I avoided her so much. I was sick, and she was sick. I felt helpless, and kept to myself, while I left her alone in her room. She liked the room hot, I liked it cool, so neither of us was comfortable in the company of the other. The children split their time and attention between the two home bound parents.

After a few months, I felt human again. I returned to the everyday tasks of school, house cleaning, cooking, and caring for my mother. She had good weeks when she could attend Mass, get her hair done and go to the grocery store. I would sometimes become irritated if she announced that she wanted to go out to lunch on the way home from the hairdresser. "Why didn't you tell me that before we left the house so I could let the children know we'd be gone longer?" I would tell her. I am not a patient person when I am pregnant. (It's me we're talking about, so I can say it- I'm bitchy.) I wince to remember how impatient I was with her. Now, I realize that she, from one hour to the next, didn't know how she would feel or how much energy she would have. In my mind, I had to spend these few months making up time lost with my children and their schooling. My oldest daughter lost an entire year of high school. Now, I realize that my children had time ahead of them. My mother's time was limited.
One day she asked me, "Are you going to miss me when I'm gone?" "I already do," I answered.

We continued to have fun though. I spent time sitting with her in her room watching her television programs. I would use her computer at times, in order to be near her while she watched TV or rested. She helped me plan things for the baby, though she was too weak to ride across town to a shower held for me. While sitting with her watching a show, the baby went on a frenzy of activity. Mama felt her kick; this was the first time she had felt one of her grandchildren moving in utero. That moment is precious in my memory.

At the beginning of March, when I was almost eight months pregnant, Mama told her doctor she was ready for Hospice care. She no longer wanted to try anything new, or seek treatment. He set up the Hospice, and transferred her care to another doctor. The new doctor visited us at home, and evaluated her, explaining that hospice care did not mean that death was imminent, necessarily, but that only palliative care would be given, not treatment for recovery from disease. She and the nurse explained the dying process, and gave us things to watch for. Though no one knows how long any person has to live, there are standard time lines of progress that can be expected. We thought we were prepared.
I've learned that being prepared for someone to die does not prepare you to be without that someone, especially when that someone is your best friend.
April 7th, Holy Saturday, was my due date. Contractions started on Friday night- right on time. My mother called me to her room, I went to her side, gave her what she needed, and my contractions stopped for the night.
Saturday morning I awoke to contractions. Mama called my name, I tended to her, and my contractions stopped.
Sunday morning, it was Easter. I attended Mass with my husband and children without any signs of labor. After, the children gathered around Grandma's bed and tried to convince it was Easter. They showed her the baskets, their pretty clothes, while she argued that it couldn't be Easter.

Monday, I found Mama in the bathroom, falling, and I had to lift her with my very pregnant body. I was afraid for the three of us, and requested a hospital bed with railings to keep her safe.
I cried out again that G-d's timing was terrible and felt so abandoned.
The doctor visited again, and told us if Mom lived more than three days, it would be a miracle. We stopped giving her the horrible tasting medicine that kept her brain cleared of ammonia. She could barely swallow water; how could force her to drink several ounces of stuff that she detested? It might have extended her life, but would that have been the right thing to do? I carry the guilt.
Wednesday, I couldn't wake Mama from her sleep. In tears, I called my parish and requested a priest. Less than two hours later, the elderly Fr. M showed up at my door, having driven the 38 miles by himself to be at my mother's side. I am forever grateful to his soul. He prayed, he anointed her, and in the middle of his words, she lifted her head, looked him straight in the eye, and asked, "Father, are you giving me last rites?" My jaw dropped, and I answered "yes" for him. She received Viaticum, and put her head back on the pillow without saying another word. My labor began again as the priest was saying the final prayers. It was for real this time. I stopped questioning G-d's timing.

Seven hours later, I delivered our sixth child.
I could write another chapter about those seven hours, but it should suffice to include the words I wrote in my journal a few days after her birth:

~Now, days later, R is so beautiful. She relies on me, totally. More than the others. No one can calm her like I can. She knows my heart, my breathing, my touch. She completes me. My pregnancy drained me so, and at times felt like the life was being sucked from me. Now I feel the cycle of life completing around me. With the physical strain of the pregnancy, tied to the stress of my mother’s illness and her impending death, I am now being satisfied with this new life in my arms. I can cope with God’s will. Pitiful me- I needed proof though. I questioned Him all the way. From the moment I first felt sick at the beginning of the pregnancy, until close to the end, I wondered, “what was God thinking?” with this little improvisation of His. Isn’t it clear now?

Don't ’we all see how important it is for me to have this joy?~

My mother lived eleven more days- seven more days than the doctor had given her. The doctor had no explanation, and the nurses were shocked with every day my mother held on. She was in and out of consciousness most of that time. She could barely swallow water, and she did not eat. I wish I could say that I stayed by her side praying and talking to her, but I mostly kept to myself and my baby, recovering from childbirth. I visited her briefly, holding her hand to stroke the baby's head. I'll never know if she knew who I was during those visits or if she understood that she was touching her grandchild. I only wondered why she couldn't let go- why was she hanging on? I hated those feelings and tried to push them away, but it was too difficult and I was too weak to watch her. Was she aware of me?
Was she distracted by my presence, even as she died? She had spoken so many times about leaving here and being with her husband; at times it was all she could think about. It seems terribly childish, but I thought that perhaps if I left her alone, she could rest enough to let go and do what she needed to do.

Sometimes, my children get in my way. Sometimes, I can't get my work done because they are present. When they're not around though, I miss them. I want them near me. Sometimes, they have no way of knowing when they should stay or go, unless I tell them.
I try to give myself consolation- I gave Mama the attention that I thought I could, and I tried to stay out of her way when I thought she needed me to, and yet I felt very wrong for abandoning her and for not giving her more comfort myself. Like any child, I didn't know when I should stay or when I should go. As I held my own baby, I felt like her baby- out of place, out of control. I found myself without the strength to be with her.

Even after her death, I am the child, doing the best that I can with the memories left with me.

to the zoo!

2011-04-21T09:42:00.001-05:00

We took our children to the zoo about 12 years ago. Soon after that, the price went from .50 for a each child to $9 each child and $12 for adults. A twelve-year-old child is considered an adult. So, we haven't been in a while.
However, a friend offered us two passes, and we learned that a local grocery chain offers discount tickets.
I took the five youngest to the zoo!

We spent several hours following our friends, since they were frequent visitors. It was like having a our own personal tour guides.

I had forgotten how many indoor exhibits the Houston Zoo had.

They've added some interactive exhibits since we were there the last time.

Most were not interactive. (whew!)

"I am ever so much more than twenty," as Wendy put it in 'Hook'. I felt it after spending six hours on my feet chasing a four year old. The stroller is mostly used for holding the hats, the water bottles and cooler. Occasionally she would actually sit in it, but for the most part, it just gave me something to push while following the crowd.

Everyone had their favorites, and I think the animals had favorites too.

When we were tired and ready to go home, we said 'good-bye' to our friends and walked to the car. We buckled in, and pulled out of our parking space.

Then came the yelling from the back seat, "I didn't get to see the fardfark!!" (aardvark)
The four-year-old was kicking her seat and crying.
Then, quietly, the fourteen-year-old added sadly, "or the maned wolf."

Remember, these are children who had never been to the zoo, (at least not in memory) and weren't sure they would ever get another chance.
I made a deal with them. I would re-park the car, we'd go back in, but I would not have to do any chores when I got home; they would do everything on their own.
A deal was struck, and we went to the zoo. Again.

I had another chance to see the elephants, which made me very happy.

We saw the maned wolf, which, we learned, was very horribly smelly.
We also learned how easily it is to convince a four-year-old that an anteater is an aardvark (fard-fark).

Then we found it- the African exhibit. How could we have missed it the first time around?!

..and we had missed the chimps. How could we miss the chimpanzees?

..and giraffes... what's a trip to the zoo without seeing giraffes?!

The African Forest is a new exhibit in the Houston Zoo. The children have the opportunity to walk a path designed to show them the path that 'Tommy' traveled. He was a man who, at one time, traded animals to collectors until his plane crashed and he was rescued by Pygmies. He changed his ways, and made it his work to protect the animals of Africa.

The African Exhibit, new to the Houston Zoo, was a trip itself. Spending those two hours with my own children was priceless; turning the car around was the smartest thing I've done this week.

I allowed the children to take a few photos. I debated with myself before posting this one of myself. It shows all the wear and tear on my face that I typically try to hide by making just the 'right expression'-- the parenthesis around my smile, the lines scratching the edge of my eyes-- the evidence of age and stress. I decided to post the image because when I look at it, I see my father's eyes and hair and my mother's everything else. Those her hands, not mine. That's her mouth, not mine. And so I show it, so I can see it, and see them.

Exhausted, we left. I had dinner to think about, so we went to the market and bought a few things, eating part of it in the car on the way home. My husband called, and asked if he could clean the kitchen.
That's why I'm still married.

Later, when the children were in bed, he insisted I soak in the tub.
Life is good.

ramblin' Wednesday

2011-04-20T20:09:00.003-05:00

I just decided to sit down with a cup of decaf and write, though I have no particular topic on my mind. I couldn't find the sugar, but I found a little packet from a plastic fork and knife packet from some take-out oh-so-long-ago. I opened it, stirred it into my strong cup and sat down at the computer.
Jon Anderson is playing on Pandora.

It's been one of those ~~weeks~~ months when I feel like 'nothing' is getting done. Even as I scratch chores off my list, I see the list growing and still feel unsuccessful. Getting things done is like earning money; as you accomplish things, more things need to be accomplished.
I thought it would be nice to get a pair of shoes for myself. Because of feet/leg/knee/back issues I don't wear cheap shoes. I wish I could wear the oh-so-cute heels and sandals I see everywhere, but I'd pay more ways than one if I did.

My knees hurt when I look at them.

Anyway... I found some very cute [hand painted!] clogs at the Euro Walking store. They specialize in shoes for people who spend all day on their feet, or dweebs like me who need 'special shoes'. They were on sale, but still pricey.
I decided a few days later I'd bite the bullet and buy the shoes.
Then my washing machine gave up the fight. It had been fighting to agitate since our guests moved out. (they had a habit of overloading the machine)
Coincidentally, the cost of the new gear was only a few dollars more than the new shoes would have been and everyone (except the current administration) knows you can't spend the same $75 twice.

My coffee is getting cold. Have I mentioned yet that my espresso machine stopped working? I haven't had a truly good cup of cafe' in a while.

I finished up some school portraits I took last week. Find them here.
They were, of course, for friends. Meaning, I will get satisfaction from knowing I did something for someone and learned more about photography. Meaning, very little money involved.

The orthodontist gave me good news last week: my son will be out of braces in October-right on time.
The orthodontist gave me not so good news last week: my daughter will need braces in October.

Sunday, as I stood next to my husband, the seven-year-old wrapped his arms around my waist and said, "Mommy, I think you're getting pregnant."
The husband took two steps away from me.

I lost the traffic ticket I received over a month ago. It's time to pay it, and I panicked, not being able to find it. I spent three hours cleaning my desk, my floor, and under the furniture. I could not find it. With three clicks of the mouse, however, I was able to find the ticket on-line and pay it.
My space is now immaculate. I'd say that was two successes.
My goal for Holy Week, as if to make up for a Lent of nothingness, is to get the rest of the house looking as good as this area around my desk.

My goal for tonight is to paint my finger nails. It's been about a year since I've done that.

My goal for the evening is to get a chapter of Peter Pan read to the four youngest. If I accomplish that, I will feel quite complete indeed.

free food

2011-04-13T15:12:00.000-05:00

Walking down by the bayou.

Finding the perfect spot.

Blackberry pancakes, blackberry muffins and some for the freezer.
Next week?
Jam.
We'll see.

single issue

2011-04-10T17:55:00.002-05:00

Name one thing in your life that is more important than life itself.
Name one thing that you would have or care about if you weren't alive in the first place.

I've been busy this year, though not busy enough, trying to de-fund Planned Parenthood, beginning with the March for Life in Washington D.C. on the anniversary weekend of Roe-v-Wade. It's difficult to believe that my presence- one person- in an ocean of people could make any difference, but maybe it did.

At the end of the walk, a professionally dressed man and woman walked past us. Their suits cost more than my airline ticket.
"This is not my cup of tea," one said as he nodded toward our group.
"Single issue voters," said the other.
I don't think they were expecting my [rude] participation in their conversation:
"If you think about it, most everyone has one issue that means more to him than anything else."
They both looked at me and then at each other.
"And I can think of no other issue that matters if you're not alive-- if you're not permitted to be born. Yes, I think life is the most important issue."
"Let's cross over here," said one, and they crossed to other side of the street.

These past few weeks, I've been participating in the 40 days for Life.

The COOL group organized a March of the Surviving Youth during the

40 Days for Life

I typically don't have more than an hour to stand and pray, or to hand out pamphlets of information to women, girls, and couples entering the Planned Parenthood parking lot, but I give the time that I can. Some days, there are only a few of us out there. Other days, there are churches or other groups standing together in prayer.
This is my first year giving out the pamphlets, and I was surprised to learn how easy it is. I am not as intimidated by it as I thought I would be. The drivers either stop and roll down their windows and take the pamphlets, or they don't. We invite them to the big blue bus parked on the street in front of the building, where the Houston Coalition for Life offers free pregnancy tests, sonograms and counseling, as well as referrals for help with having a baby or adoptions.

Well, it's not always that easy.....

Last week, Neil, one of the volunteer 'escorts' for Planned Parenthood, was determined to keep me from offering another "choice" to couples driving onto the lot.
As I approached a car that had stopped to receive my information, he pushed me hard into one of my friends. Had my friend not been there, I might have been hurt- I probably would have been pushed to the ground.
Neil denied pushing me, though there were several witnesses. He tried to intimidate me, by putting his face close to mine and telling me that I pushed him. It didn't work; I stayed calm, and almost in a whisper, told him that he knew he pushed me. He must have heard that the police were called, because he went straight to his car and sped away.
The police never came. I filled out an assault charge several days later at the insistence of others who had been pushed by Neil in the past. He, like most of the people at Planned Parenthood, supports only one 'choice'.

Last week, the same friend who prevented me from hitting the ground when I was pushed, was hit by a car. The car was driven by another Planned Parenthood escort on his way to 'work.' Police arrived after being called, but were obviously irritated that they were being bothered. They, without hearing the story, told those involved that "nothing was going to come of this."

my friend Dave, at The March of Surviving Youth.

It wasn't until after the officer viewed the video from the surveillance camera of Planned Parenthood that he decided to take the case seriously. It wasn't until after he viewed the video that he even asked our friend if he had been injured, and then saw the blood on his arm from hitting the pavement. The video showed that the driver did in fact veer out of his path to strike Dave, throwing him to the ground. However, no arrests were made.

None of us were surprised when these incidents happened. We all understand that those who want to take the right to live away from innocent, defenseless people have little or no respect for the lives of others. We do not expect compassion or kindness from people who volunteer to help others kill unborn babies, nor do we expect them to allow us our liberty of free speech without a fight. The pursuit of happiness is reserved for those who agree with them.
So, though I don't consider myself a "single issue voter," I will say there is a primary issue for me. 'Life' is basic. Life is a precursor to liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. Our fore-fathers knew what they were talking about when they listed it first. I'm sure, however, they had no idea how easily it would be taken from so many.

because.....

2011-03-29T19:34:00.003-05:00

.... and I love him.....

how big is the circle?

2011-03-24T15:05:00.005-05:00

I think everyone goes through life learning the hard way that some of those whom they thought were good friends were merely acquaintances, or worse, people who never put forth the effort to acquaint themselves with us at all; we were simply by-standers on their own walk through life.
Sometimes, people treat us as though we are placed here as a pawn in their own game, or a player on the stage performing just for them.

Some people "have it all together" in their relationship or in their faith journey, and so they believe, surely, they can help-- unsolicited. They mean well, I think. There is nothing like getting advice from someone who doesn't know your heart. "I'll pray for you" becomes a meaningless platitude. It is one thing to say, "If there is anything I can do, let me know." it is another to say, "I'll be there tonight with dinner."

Every chance to speak is a chance to listen. Every opportunity we have to share our wisdom with someone is an opportunity to step into quiet and learn something from another. And yet some will jump in with 'advice' that can put others right over the edge.

We keep reaching up though. We keep reaching out. We keep hoping, until we are certain that no one notices. We keep putting ourselves out there until it becomes overwhelming to read a script someone else wrote.

truth is stanger than fiction

2011-03-23T23:26:00.000-05:00

Children say memorable things all the time, yet I can rarely remember. I need to get in the habit of writing them down, better yet, blogging about it they can be embarrassed out in cyberspace.

Just a few from this week:
We went to the library for story time and crafts for the 3-year-old. The six-year-old joined the group after searching for books to take home. One of the crafts was a giant to badge to wear after adorning it with glue and glitter. The pre-written words on each one was, "I like me." I asked P if he wanted to make one and he said, "No. It has bad grammar."
.... and he can't even read.

We have tadpoles growing in a bowl in our living room. (something else I have neglected in my writing) My fourteen-year-old enjoys stories about mermaids, faeries and fairy tales, particularly from Ireland and the myths of ladies coming from the ocean. I thought she'd appreciate a story about herself, so I tried to make one up on the spot as she was looking at the tadpoles. I rattled off a few lines about finding her in a puddle of water when she was only as big as a tadpole and not yet breathing air.
"Mom, stop," she said. "The truth is gross enough."

While I was rocking my three-year-old last night, she told me she wanted me to buy a new baby brother. I informed her that one does not "buy a baby brother." She attempted to correct me. "Yes you do. You go to the hospital and buy one. Remember that movie? Tammy... Tammy... Tammy's in love?" singing the melody perfectly. "She was in a hospital with all those babies."
This from a child who was born at home.

first day of spring

2011-03-21T20:06:00.001-05:00

It was family day at Bayou Bend.
'Family day' means it was not only free to get in, but there was a petting zoo and crafts for the children. I don't know what the Hogg family was thinking when they named their only daughter 'Ima', but they sure had a pretty house and gardens.

We started with a picnic on the outside of the park, because we were not permitted to take food onto the grounds. 'Bayou Bunny' paid us a visit. That's RB running in fear of the eight foot tall rabbit.

This morning she announced that she wanted Bayou Bunny to come for her birthday. That's all we need around here.

Although I could have spent all day strolling through the gardens, the children's favorite part of the day was the petting zoo. They want to have animals of their own so badly.

She was so proud when "her baby" went to sleep in her arms.

She didn't need to go to 4-H to know that when a kid does this for four minutes he wants a bottle.

The joy in watching children though, is not so much in seeing what they see, but watching them see it.

feasts and sawdust

2011-03-20T23:54:00.002-05:00

Growing up Catholic, I was taken to Mass every Sunday and Holy Day of Obligation. Mama attended a prayer meeting once a week, and I sometimes went with her, either to pray with the group and sing, or babysit the younger children in the room next door. We prayed together at dinner time (actually, Mom said the blessing out loud, but solo) and until I was about ten, I recited my prayers at bedtime with Mom listening then tucking me into my bed. I was familiar with the saints and their stories. Rosaries hung from the headboard of my bed, and I knew how to use them, but it wasn't my habit. I remember taking them down when I couldn't sleep; counting 'Hail Mary's' was the remedy instead of counting sheep. I would say ours was a typical Catholic family in the seventies and eighties.
I had no idea how much we did NOT do until I had six children of my own.
Now, I'm learning about Catholic traditions I didn't know existed. I am a slow learner. What usually happens with me, is that I hear about a tradition and nod my head a bit, but I don't internalize it. The next year, I hear about it again, and ponder it enough to say, "we should do something like that." The day quickly passes and I shrug, snap, and say, "next year."
If all goes well, the following year I actually make a plan. That doesn't mean I'm going to fulfill the plan, but I do put a step forward.

March 19th is a Feast of St Joseph, and for many, a time for setting up a
St. Joseph altar. The story of the famine and answered prayers in Sicily is inspiring:
"The people of Sicily prayed. For too long there had been no rain to nourish the crops that sustained life for most of the island.
The dried out wheat stalks cracked beneath the feet of the poor farmers as they walked through their barren fields. Only a sea of dust and withered vines remained from what had once been row upon row of brightly colored fruits and vegetables.
And so the people prayed.
They pleaded to St. Joseph, their patron, for relief from the famine that gripped the island. At last the skies opened, sending down the life-giving water. The people rejoiced. Some time later, to show their gratitude, they prepared a table with a special assortment of foods they had harvested. After paying honor to St. Joseph, they distributed the food to the less fortunate." - CatholicCulture.org

In some churches, and even in some homes, they are huge, and in others, quite modest. The basic frame work is to set up a three tiered table with a statue of St Joseph at the top, surrounded my baked goodies. I decided this year would be our first to build a St Joseph table. Learning the tradition began in Italy was enough to peak my interest. I collected a few recipes, read a few sites and testimonies, and laid out my plan: I would cook up some Sicilian foods, make fig cookies, cream puffs, and other traditional baked breads, allowing the children to braid the dough into shapes. We would bring in our large St Joseph statue and set him in a place of prominence, putting the breads and sweets on the table with him. What I ended up with, after a very stressful Friday and Saturday, was an Italian meal and the only thing I baked was foccacia. We did pull out a small wooden St Joseph statue from a child's nativity set and put it on the dining table next to the food.

At least I sprinkled bread crumbs on the pasta to represent sawdust of the carpenter.

My children, at least, knew that it was the feast of St Joseph, which is more than I could have said for myself as a child. I think it's still one step forward, and there's always next year.

trying to find my breathe so I can catch it

2011-03-19T11:20:00.001-05:00

Writing keeps getting away from me, as does everything else, it seems. I've never considered the possibility that I could have ADD, but I am gaining sympathy for those who do; I am having a difficult time staying on task and getting things done. As I write, I am fighting the urge to get up and do do 'one little thing'.
Today is the last day of spring break. I don't like to take spring break from school work, but with Dad home and big sister home, it's almost impossible to stay on schedule (schedule? what schedule?) and get school done. So, I tried to use the time to get other things done. Looking back, I was marginally successful.

I didn't get the hair trim I desperately need, but, I did give Tom a haircut.
I did clean out my closet-- huge.
I did get the roof eves cleaned out. (okay, the two oldest girls did it, but I got them to do it, so it was still partly my accomplishment)
I took the bedroom window scarfs down, washed them, and put them back up, and also swept in all the cracks and crannies of the same room-- also huge.
Drove to San Antonio and had the last metal filling in my mouth removed and replaced, and subsequently began a chelating treatment. (the more I write, the more I realize I actually did have a productive week!)
Chose and actually bought the paint for the large music/guest/play/sewing/future classroom. (more on that later)
Bought tomato plants and began to prepare the bed. (yes, I planted seeds again this year, but as usual, my purple thumb prevented them from growing.)
I worked on the quilt.
FINALLY finished up the last NILMDTS disc and put in a stack for mailing.

Okay, there were many things I actually accomplished this week. Sadly, these are normal weekly activities that I should be able to get done during a week of school, because they are always there. I'm almost out of spring break time, and my list of things to do still has more not done than done.
Why do I feel like I'm running out of time? I hate this feeling. I want so much to get up in the morning, work hard, be satisfied, and go to bed. Am I simply choosing to not be satisfied? Am I still comparing myself to others? Do I have a need to get away from the rat race in order to avoid it in my head?
I have a few more things on my list of things to do TODAY. Maybe if I stick with that-- one day at a time-- I can feel a bit more satisfied. Meanwhile, I'm going to landscape my entire back yard. (Just kidding.)

another lenten post

2011-03-18T13:08:00.002-05:00

Last week, we started Lent. The Tuesday before Ash Wednesday, we held our annual pancake supper here at the house. I flip pancakes for 50+ people while Tom works on the bon fire. He burned the Christmas tree, and the children make s'mores. One of our guests brought her Christmas tree as well, so the fire was amazing.

Ash Wednesday, the children and I drove into the city to attend Mass. I left the two youngest in the pew when I walked to the rail to receive the ashes. I didn't notice that they had followed me and were kneeling next to me. After our elderly priest placed the ashes on my forehead, he stood in front of my three-year-old and smiled. How can you tell a three-year-old to "remember that you are dust?" He shook his head, made an ashy cross on her forehead, and said, "remember Jesus loves you." She was very pleased.

We then drove to the University to retrieve the oldest sibling and took her with us to stand with the COOL group to pray in front of Planned Parenthood. I had to leave for a few minutes to drive the children to a rest room at the nearest Catholic Church, and then drove straight back. From there, I drove the oldest back to the University for afternoon classes. As a slowed to park, one of the children noticed something drawn in the pollen on the back window.
It was a pentagram. This is not a good way to start Lent. Or is it?

not quite spring, but......

2011-03-10T16:16:00.000-06:00

It feels like Spring. It looks like Spring.

The children are spending more time outside playing and creating-- ready for faeries to move in.

More time outside working--

But at the moment it's 40 degrees in Appalachia, VA. Tonight they might get an inch of snow. That's not much, but toes still get cold in 30 degree weather.
Blankets (and sweaters) on their way to the Mountain Baby Blanket project :

Thank you, Kate, for adding to the package!

WIP

2011-03-09T18:17:00.003-06:00

I'm so excited to actually be quilting MRG's quilt. My friend drove to my house to show me how to baste it with thread instead of pins. I admit- this makes it SO much easier to keep the batting and backing attached and straight while I quilt.
So, stitch by stitch, I will get this done. Maybe by her 10th birthday in July, maybe not. She pretends to not see me while I work on it.

he's twelve... sigh......

2011-03-08T15:11:00.001-06:00

I made the cakes, he and his sister decorated them.

This child is growing. One more year of not being a teenager yet. I'm glad he still likes to play.

He is a gift. He is a gentleman.

He talks of being a priest. He talks of being a Marine.

I can count on him for anything. He has high expectations for himself.

He treats my heart like a fragile vase of glass.

He is such a gift.

lighten up

2011-03-05T16:18:00.005-06:00

I'm a girl. Yep, that's right.
Sure, I am wife, a mom, a sister, friend....etc...
but I am a girl.
Why am I making such a statement? Because now and then I need to remind myself to not take life so seriously; slow down, go shopping! --girls can be girls and like girlie things. I was relieved when one of my best friends told me last week, "I like nice things." Yeah! Me too!

Found this boot. Learned that this boot was more than $100. It's another $100 for the other one, and of course I need two.
I'm not going to pay $200 for a pair of boots. Not at this time, anyway. Even if they are gorgeous, and comfortable.....

It's BIG! (but I want the dark leather)

Now for THIS, I'd pay $200, if I had $200. This is the weekend Safari bag by Outofafrica on Etsy.
It's huge- large enough for an overnight trip, and yeah, I want it. Why the difference? Because this is real leather, hand made by another real girl, right here in the good ol' USofA. I'd like something pretty as well as functional when I travel. My canvas 'Relay for Life' duffle bag is functional, but let's face it- not so pretty.
I want it with a zipper, and the creator says I can have it with a zipper. How cool is that?

However! I DID manage to keep my legs warm this winter when the temperature stayed below freezing those few weeks in January. The warmest shoes this southern girl had before this winter was a pair of clogs. Through the [almost] magic of the local consignment store, I found these:

Italian leather. Made in Italy. NO signs of wear.My size. Under $40.

Oh yeah. That I can do.

I spent hours on the computer this week finishing up the last NILMDTS shoot, and then ray away in my mind to Etsy. I don't buy anything, I just look, adding items to my list of favorites (like the weekend Safari bag above) I don't know how many things I can add to my favorites before my account explodes. What's pathetic is most of my favorite items are baby things, like wool diaper covers.

What are the odds I will ever need diapers again? Who knows.

I'm a bit afraid to write that my VERY favorite Etsy item (besides the delicious leather bag) is the little girls' quilt made by my friend Rachel-- yeah, the same one getting married. I'm afraid to put that here, because I want it for my daughter, and if you see it, fall in love with it and buy it, then I won't be able to dream about it anymore.

I like the fact that what I find on Etsy is made by the hand of someone who is more than likely just trying to connect one end to the other like I am. No slaves, no unions.

As for nice things, I am still trying to find balance. I want simplicity, and need detachment. I take at least one paper bag of clothes or things every week to Goodwill, yet still feel crowded by 'stuff'. Clearly, I have too much 'stuff'. Lent is approaching again, and again I will attempt to purge the house. I have already gotten a head start by cleaning out my kitchen cabinets and preparing to sell four paper bags full of Tupperware. Next to tackle is the attic. I'll keep you posted.

*I am sad to say that link to the quilt no longer works. Rachel does still have the quilt, she just doesn't have it up on her page anymore. Maybe if some good money karma comes my way......