#Nuggets from my children

It would be incorrect to say that Lailah doesn't talk as much as Eowyn.  She does talk just as much, she uses far more made up words, and the real words she does use are sometimes hard to decipher- but she does talk/verbalize easily as much.

Sometimes while we are watching TV she's just sitting on the sofa humming.  Not humming tune, really just buzzing.  Making noise- sometimes robot noises "beep-bloop-bloop-beep."  Sometimes she will come up with an urgent story which must needs be told- about a purple dragon.

If you ask her who ate the last cookie, or how her toy got broken, she's say, "Maybe it was a monster."

She decided just after her third birthday that she would be potty trained, but before that she flat out refused to participate in the training exercises which I wanted her to perform.  I tried to transition her to pull-ups by telling her that diapers were for babies.  "Do you want to be a baby."
Lailah, "yes!"
Me, "No! You want to be a big girl!"
Lailah, "No, me baby!"
Me, "Well, no more diapers. You are going to wear these pull-ups now!"
Lailah, "That diaper!"
Me, "No it's not!  It's like panties see!" (Showing her how pull-ups are connected at the sides and diapers are not connected."
Lailah, "Do this," (pulls the pull-up sides apart at the velcro seams) "now it diaper!"
Me, "Give me that!  This is a pull-up!"

Jacket

I found a dog.  She was running around on the road- she looked hungry and it was cold outside, so I picked her up.  She came right to me.  I put up some posters, I took her to the vet to see if she had a chip.  (No.) I even posted her picture on craigslist. I got several calls "That's not my dog, but if you don't find her people, I'd like to take her."
My children pretty much immediately said the same thing.
Eowyn said,  "Mama, can I name her?"
I said, "Well, she's not really our dog, so when we find her family we will give her back."
Eowyn: I know, but she needs a name now.
Me: Okay, what do you want to name her?
Eowyn: How about Red.
Me: But she's white and brown, why would you name her Red?
Eowyn: Okay, then let's name her Jacket.
Me: Jacket?
Eowyn: Yeah!
Me: Okay?

 Now we have Jacket, who is super cute, but NOT HOUSE TRAINED at all. Pooping on the floor makes her so less cute.

I have a hard time remembering Jacket's name.  Our friend has a similar looking dog named Patches. Sometimes she is Patches-
Biscuit, Jumper, Pocket, Brisket, Cookie, Locket, Packet! What is that dog's name again?
Jacket.
Welcome Jacket.  I think she's a Papillion or Papillion mix.

animal heads

Despite the fact that heads, indeed any body parts without the remainder of the body, freak me out, I bought this book.  It was the zebra.  The zebra calls to me.  I must have a crocheted zebra head mounted on a wall.  Then, possibly I must have a unicorn head mounted on another wall.

I am one week into my winter break, and I have accomplished (satisfactorily) very little.

I'm supposed to be packing, sorting, cleaning ... instead I have finished a baby blanket, two doll sized sweaters, and the head, arms, and legs of a smallish gold monster.  I would have done his body, but I've packed my stuffing.  I must stuff the head before I go on with the body.

I have ordered and received several books instructing me on how  to create incredibly useless items (see left.)  I need to continue to remind myself that I should certainly have less, but I keep buying more.
Then I end up with a crochet zebra head on my wall. Life is weird.

not the dishes

Today I did not do the dishes as I had planned. (as I have put it off far too long) Instead, I spent way too long cruising the internet for information about my maternal grandmother's family. What I've learned- most of what I thought I knew was wrong.  Wrong-wrong-wrong.  Not that I knew much.

My grandmother's name was Barbara Ellen (Beebe) Hindle.  She was born in 1925.

Her father's name was Schuyler (Dutch name pronounced Skyler) Porter Beebe (1905) He was born in PA.

Her mother's name was Hazel (Roberts) Beebe (1904)

My grandmother had one brother Schuler Lyle Beebe (1929) and one sister- Diana (Beebe)Williams I (I don't remember if that is the correct or only married name for her.(1938)

Schuyler Porter's father's name was Porter J. Beebe. He was born n NY in 1830.
He had two wives and five children listed in the census reports between 1870-1870.

 I believe three of the children died young- and I'm not sure about the fifth as she had a different last name.  Maybe she was the child of his second wife from a first marriage.

His first wife's name was Cynthia, or Cyntha or Syntha depending on where you look. Her children were Jennie, Charles, and Syntha.

His second wife's name was Julia, or Julie Anne, or Julieanna, or Anna depending on where you looked. Schuyler (my great grandfather) and Pearl H. Morey were listed as her children in the 1910 census, but only Schuyler was listed in the 1920 census.

I believe Julieanna was Dutch, spoke German, and taught her son Schuyler to speak and/or understand German. Julieanna was about 30 years younger than Porter J. Beebe.

Porter J. Beebe seemed to be quite a character.  I'm interested in learning more about him.

His father's name was William Beebe. He was a blacksmith. He was born in VT.
His mother's name was Cyrena (Maxon) Beebe. She was from NY-but was of Scottish heritage.

William's father's name was Ebenezer Beebe.  That is where I lost the trail.

Beebe is an English name which means "beekeeper."

Among the fist Beebes listed in the USA was John Beebe in New England in 1668.

I bought a DNA test kit to spit in and find out what kind of mutt I am.  I'm hoping it's not going to come back with 'you're white dummy!'  As far as I know I am all European (East) and Brittish Isles.  I think it would be great if I had some unexpected African, Native American or anything other than European.

I've always felt pretty white though.

Sermon Notes

As we were singing Eowyn kept saying, "Washed in blood?! Why would you do that? Why would yo do that Mama? I don't think that's a good idea."

I tried

I gave it a shot, but I gave up 1/4 of the way through the story which seems to intentionally be made up of every grammatical structure except a sentence.

I shold have known that I wouldn't be able to finish when I read this: "Gray rivers of the industry rolling down plated skin, cascading over rivited joints, collecting in a murky pool around ten digits, sucking into a maelstrom, filtering through bits and dross at the drain into the winding unknown." on the first page of the first story.

I know ... it's artistic expression, but the grammar teacher in me can't take it anymore.

Pitching Ice Cubes at the Sun: a Book of the Dead by Todd Sherman.

I'm done.

lists

I've always been a list maker. I've found that making lists can relieve some anxiety. I can see what I have or want to do.  It helps me remember what I have or want to do.  I feel more productive on days when I have accomplished things on my list.

I've been making these lists- but my expectations are too high.  I can't accomplish all  the things on my lists, not even most of the things, sometimes none of the things.  It's disappointing.  It's frustrating.  I think, is this a time in my life that will pass? Why do I always feel like nothing is finished?   Or is there something wrong with my expectations?

There are goals on my list- simple goals like drink 8 cups of water and take my vitamins each day. There are perpetual goals which I know are never really finished, like laundry and dishes and general cleaning and housework.  There are goals even for alone time and relaxation, because I need time for myself. I have 30+ minutes of reading (for fun), TV, crafting, blogging, or playing with a girl or two on my to do list.  I also include my work list.  Since I'm not required to be in my office any amount of time outside of class-  I can take my work home (although I rarely do these days.)

My time is fleeting.  I feel like I should be taking account of my time.  What's happening? Maybe it's a sign of the times. A plague of my stage in life.  We never have enough time. It is wearing us out.

Questions

Mama, what's that sign say?
It says STOP.
Why does it say stop?
So people will stop here.
Why do people want to stop here?
So they don't have an accident.
Why will they have an accident?
Because they didn't stop.
Why didn't they stop?
Because they didn't obey the sign.
Will the police come?
Yes.
Why?
Because someone who doesn't obey the sign can cause an accident.
What's an accident?
Please stop asking questions now.
Why?
Eowyn!
Okay -okay.

30 seconds later.

Mama?
Yes.
What's a question?
Stop talking.

Isaiah 43:2

Heart breaks

That balloon is gone forever. We can't get it back.

Thanks Pantego FD

So- I locked my children in the car today.  We were at the park and we were loading up.  I remote started the car. I unlocked the doors. I put the girls in their seats.  I threw my phone and keys in the front passenger seat while I buckled them in.  I closed the back door, walked around the car to open the driver’s door- and it was locked. 

All the doors were locked.  I didn’t even know that was a thing! I knew that sometimes the car would lock it’s self if I unlocked it, but didn’t open a door within a certain amount of time.  I never expected that it would lock its self with the key in range.  It’s a keyless open/start. I thought if I unlocked it and the key was in range it would stay unlocked. Actually, I never thought about it at all.  WHY would the car LOCK itself at all?  The car was running on remote start (so I had about 10 minutes before it turned off and started getting hot in there.) Ok- so locked car, no keys (not even an extra key- anywhere) no phone. Crap.

I knocked on the window of the car parked next to me. I told him I had just locked my kids, my keys and my phone in the car, and asked to borrow his phone.  I called D- he said either call 911 or a locksmith. 

My 911 call.

Arlington 911

Hi- I’m at Dottie Lynn Park and I’ve locked my keys and my kids in the car.

Dottie Lynn Park? Is that in Ft. Worth?

No- it’s in Arlington, it’s an Arlington City park.

Do you have the address?

No- it’s on Norwood near Parkrow.

Is there a sign with the address?

No- It’s behind Duff Elementary School- It’s next to a church that faces Parkrow. If you turn onto Norwood from Parkrow- it is just after the church. It’s a big park, with a pool and a recreation center, and a playground.

Hmmm- let me see if I can find it. Yeah-Ok. I got it.  So- your kids are locked in the car. Are all the doors locked?

Yes.

Do you have OnStar?

No.

Can you kids reach the keys or unlock the doors?

No.

Are the windows open?

(I’m trying to remain calm. I’m trying to remind myself he has been trained to ask these inane questions. He apparently deals with more dummies than I have imagined.)

 I said, “No,” ---but I was thinking, “God help us both, if you ask me one more idiotic question I will reach through this stranger’s cell phone and strangle you! If I had OnStar, or one of the doors was unlocked, or the kids could reach the keys or a window was down I wouldn’t have to call 911!”

What is your phone number?

I won’t be able to answer my phone. It is locked in the car with the keys and the kids. I’m using someone else’s phone.

So- the number you care calling from is 817-------

I don’t  kno. . .  ok, yes, that is the number. (I just agreed without checking. What did it matter, dude’s got things to do, he’s not waiting around.)

The fire station is just a few blocks away-I heard the sirens within a minute of hanging up.

When the firefighters got there, the first thing they did was check to see if any doors were unlocked.

Really?  How often does this happen? Wouldn’t I feel foolish if one of the doors was unlocked?

They slimjimmed the lock in just a few minutes.  So much for the safety of locking my doors.

The girls were just sitting in the back, looking around-not worried at all.

They got some badge stickers and little plastic helmets.  They were shy with the firefighters, but pretty pleased with their loot.

So- I can cross  that off my parental ‘to do’ list – called 911 to rescue my children- check!

technology in the hands of babies

I know some people strongly disapprove of giving little children "screen time," but my girls (2.5 and 4 years old) LOVE playing with the ipad and the kindle they have  in their chubby little fingers.  I know that for adults screen time is "I'm ignoring you to focus on my electronics" time, but for my girls, they want to interact with me and each other while they play.

It makes me smile to hear my two year old singing "The Wheels on the Bus" over and over again, as much as she wants to.  Now she's moved on "Where is Thumbkin?"  She almost always refuses to sing with me or her sister- but she's having a great time singing by herself.  I know if I went over there she'd stop singing immediately.

My four year old is sitting on the floor next to me feeding and helping virtual pets.  There is value and detriment in most of our activities- depending on how much or little we do it or allow it to happen.

Precious people:

http://www.petition2congress.com/3937/go/

Parental Bereavement Leave (The Farley-Kluger Initiative to Amend the FMLA)

Help support the need for a Parental Bereavement Leave Act as a way of extending coverage and existing benefits allowed by FMLA to employees that have experienced the death of a child.

You can sign the petition and say that you support Kelly Farley and Barry Kluger in their efforts to make these necessary changes and allow the time needed to begin the healing process.

And then share with others to further spread awareness of the need

Hard to write, hard to read, hard to see

I woke up early on Friday morning.  Something seemed wrong.  I thought my water might have broken.  I was wet and that had never happened before.  I called the doctor.  The nurse told me he wasn’t in, and to go to the hospital for a check.  At the hospital, the nurse put the monitor on my belly, found the heartbeat and said, she thought everything was fine, but I needed to stay to be monitored for an hour.  He moved and kicked and I heard his heartbeat for an hour.  Before I left the nurse said, “he’s really happy in there.”  She thought he was pressing on my bladder and that’s why I was wet.

Thinking back, that’s not just the last time I heard his heart beating, that was the last time I remember feeling him move like that.  I went to work, I came home, I ate dinner and I went to bed.  He didn’t move all the time, I didn’t worry about it. 

On Saturday we went to my aunt’s house.  We played outside and chatted and had lunch.  When we got home I realized I hadn’t felt him move- but sometimes when you aren’t thinking about it you don’t notice or remember.  I drank some cold water; I laid down.  I was having contractions- painful ones, but not consistent.  I thought maybe he wasn’t moving because of the contractions. 

On Sunday we watched to Super Bowl.  I thought I felt him move, just a little bit. I was still having contractions.

Early Monday morning, about 3:00 I was wet again.  I thought it was the same thing.  I tried not to worry about it.  At 4:30 it happened again, and I got dressed and told my husband I needed to go to the hospital to get checked. I told him it was probably nothing, but I wanted to be sure.

I went to the same room I had been in just a few days before.  The nurse put the same kind of monitor on my belly.  She couldn’t find the heartbeat.  She tried several different ways. She called in another nurse to try.  She couldn’t find it either.  They called in a third nurse.

My doctor came in and said, “I won’t say good morning until we are sure it is a good morning.”

They took me to get a sonogram.  Although I couldn’t see the picture on the screen I knew as soon as they saw it.  Their faces fell. 

I couldn’t do anything. I felt the tears, but I didn’t make a sound. I didn’t cry out, I didn’t scream, I didn’t move- I could hardly breath. My only thought was “Why?!” I couldn’t even ask.

The doctor said, “I’m so sorry, it is not a good morning.” He said, “I know the only thing you want to know right now is why, but I don’t have any answers for you. I may be able to tell you when I take him out, but even then may never know why.”

We will never know why my perfect baby’s heart stopped beating.

I needed a cesarean section.  He was 37 weeks. He was full term.

My husband was finally able to cme. I had told him on the phone that our baby was gone.

We cried and stared blankly.  It couldn’t be real.

The doctor said he would try to get us in as soon as he could, but there were already surgeries scheduled.

The nurse gave us information to help us make decisions.  We had to contact the funeral home, did we want a photographer?  Should she call the chaplain? She had already called social services.  She handed us paper work and a gift basket from another grieving mother.

I stared at the paper work and basket for a while hoping they would just go away. 

My husband had to contact our families and tell them.

They started showing up within the hour. I wanted them to have a chance to see and hold him, Michael Eugene- my beautiful lost baby boy, my first son, my heart.

The anesthesiologist came in to talk to me.  He told me what would happen, and he asked if I wanted something to ‘help me forget.’ He said, “We can’t offer this in a normal delivery, but in this case I can give you something so that it won’t be so vivid.”

I said, “Yes.”

What did I forget- I don’t know.  I remember most how quiet it was.  

When my girls were born I remember the doctors and nurses chattering, I remember country music on the radio.  With Michael is was quiet. No music, not chatting, no baby crying.

I was shaking uncontrollably. I was so cold. Did I cry the whole time? I think so- I suppose I did forget something.

The nurses cleaned him and handed him to my husband while they finished with my incision. 

When I held him for the first time he was still warm from my body. He was pale, but still looked like a sleeping newborn, so still, so quiet, so amazing.  He looked like my second daughter.  He was tiny, only 4 pounds 5 ounces.  I loved him with all of me.  I needed him.

Our family came in and everyone held him for a while and cried.  

Before our daughters came in the room my husband had to explain to a four year old and a two and a half year old that their much-anticipated baby brother was dead.

“Why did he died?”

“I don’t know why baby, he just did, and we are all really sad about it.”

“Do you want to see him? Do you want to hold him? Do you want to give him a kiss?”

“After today we won’t see baby Michael anymore.”

“Where will he go?”

“He’ll go to heaven with God and the angels.”

“How will he go there?”

“They angels will take him.”

“I don’t want him to go.”

“I don’t either, baby.”

We held him for twelve short hours, and we said goodbye to our tiny son, brother, grandson, nephew, cousin. We said goodbye to our expectations, our hopes, and our dreams for that little boy.

After he was gone I felt empty, my belly was empty, my arms were empty, but I can’t say my heart was empty. My heart was full of love and sorrow. You don’t stop loving someone just because he is gone. My heart will always be full of love and sorrow for my baby Michael.

I wondered when I had my first child how I could make room in my heart for a second child, it felt so full. When I had my second child everything just multiplied, it was magic. When I had my third baby- when I lost my third baby I gained perspective. He taught me things I never wanted to know.

He taught me I’m stronger than I ever thought I was.  I’m not angry at God.  I’m not bitter or depressed. I don’t feel guilty or jealous. (As some books indicate that I might feel.)  I feel sad.  I feel sorrow. I feel loss. I feel sorry for myself sometimes, and I feel it’s okay to have all those feelings.

He taught me how much you can love someone you never met.

He reminded me in the biggest way that we don’t get everything we expect to get, no matter how much we want it.

He showed us how much our friends and family love and support us.

He reminded me how important it is to how my girls how much I love them as often as I can.

It’s been just over a month and my girls still ask about him almost every day.

We did have a photographer come in, and I look in the mail box everyday for pictures of that little prince.

I’m usually okay, but it strikes me at random times. “I should have a baby right now.” “How would this be different if I had Michael right now?” I wonder how long this grief will keep me on the verge of tears.  I’m worried it won’t go away, I’m worried it will. I wonder if I will ever be able to smile when I think of him.

I loved him. I love him. I will always love him.

I wish all babies were loved as much as he is.

Paris 2006

If I remember correctly I got this drawing for a kiss- or maybe I got a discount for a kiss?   Kissing was involved in the acquisition of this drawing- that's all I know.

beatitude

"Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted."

Matthew 5:4

country music to the rescue

 "It Only Hurts Me When I Cry"

The only time I feel the pain
Is in the sunshine or the rain
And I don't feel no hurt at all
Unless you count when teardrops fall
I tell the truth 'cept when I lie
It only hurts me when I cry

You couldn't tell it by the smile
That my recovery took awhile
I worked for days and nights on end
Just to walk and talk again
You can't believe the time it takes
To heal a heart once it breaks

Oh maybe every now and then
I have a small heartache again
You wouldn't know when you look at me
There's tiny scars that you can't see
It was a struggle to survive
I'm probably lucky I'm alive

The only time I feel the pain
Is in the sunshine or the rain
And I don't feel no hurt at all
Unless you count when teardrops fall
I tell the truth 'cept when I lie
And it only hurts me when I cry

I tell the truth 'cept when I lie
And it only hurts me when I cry

Dwight Yoakam

still learning

I'm sure everyone in my position has thought, "Why did my baby die?"  I then think am I asking why my baby- as opposed to someone else's baby?  I certainly wouldn't wish this on another person.  Am I asking why my baby- as opposed to my toddler, preschooler, or school age child? Would it have been better if he had come home with me and died later of SIDS?  Losing a child at any point is losing part of your heart-- a part of yourself.

Someone asked how I was, and I explained I literally couldn't think of anything worse.  Not that aren't worse things, but at this time I cannot make myself conjure an image of a worse thing.  This thing feels so terrible, even imagining something worse could break me.

What you can do is say; “Yes, this sucks. But what’s the lesson? What can I take away from this to make me a better person? How can I take strength from this and use it to bring me closer to happiness in my next moment?”

The Science of Happiness: Why complaining is literally killing you.
By Steven Parton, From CuriousApes.com
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Statistics didn't help this time. 1% of American babies are still born. 1.6% of cesarian section wounds come open after surgery. The doctor informed me I had a certain infection which could have (very small chance) affected Michael (although the infection was not found in his placenta) and the chances of me getting this infection are so small there aren't even statistics concerning the possibilities.
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I asked the doctor yesterday what he had put on my FMLA paperwork about going back to work. He said I was cleared to do whatever I wanted as of that day. However, he had signed the paperwork that I was also free to choose to NOT go back to work for 6 weeks after the c-section.

I asked the nurse about it as well and she said, "Yeah sure, do what you want to do- but if you are at the gym doing a really hard workout or something, and it starts to hurt real bad- you should probably stop."

It's kind of like they haven't noticed the gaping, seeping wound in my abdomen.

First of all I don't go to the gym and "work out real hard" EVER- and I'm certainly not going to do it now that I can only walk at a turtle pace- and I only bend at the hips in straight up emergencies.

As for going back to work- sounds a little iffy when I have a doctor's or nurse's appointment 4 of the 5 work days a week.
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I had a new home healthcare nurse yesterday and she decided to "explore the wound." She stuck a cotton swab in the wound and it felt like lava was running all the way across the wound and out the other side! So ... I yelled- some. And she said, "You have a lot of undermining. Did they tell you you had undermining?" Then she mumbled about "undermining" for a while. While I prayed "Please God, whatever she just did, don't let her do it again!"

Then she took my blood pressure and said, "Your blood pressure is good, even after all that yelling. I wish all my patients had blood pressure this good, before I make them yell like that."

Well, that's one good thing- I've always had good blood pressure.

All these things

Of all the things laying around the house, this- what I had written on the calendar, was the thing that upset me the most.  I have baby clothes, diapers, formula, toys, little blue blankets, crib, bassinet- all these things and this little note of expectation is what was upsetting me the most yesterday.

And of all the things I've bought and made in the last 9 months for my baby boy- this knitted feather is the thing that I've latched on to for comfort.  It is something to hold on to when I'm thinking about him.

Today wasn't terrible- I had feared it would be worse- but the anticipation of what I thought it would be turned out to be the hardest part. I had wanted to go to the funeral home and pay and get the cremation process started, but the home health nurse came for the first time today, so we didn't have enough time. The nurse changed the dressing and good news, it didn't hurt too much when she redressed it.

Last night the power steering when out on the car- yes of course it did.

Daniel's boss came by today to visit and drop off some cards co-workers had signed.  They had taken a collection for us and it turned out to be exactly the amount we owe the funeral home.

God Provides.

We don't plan to have an open service or memorial for Michael.  It would certainly be upsetting to me, and most likely upsetting to the girls.  I know that many people would like to come support us; I appreciate that.  It simply isn't the type of support I want/need or even know how to deal with.  I want to know people are still praying for us- I want to know you put us on a long term prayer list.

I'm a private person- this is a matter of the heart- which cannot be hidden. We don't want to hide it. We rejoiced and everyone rejoiced  when we announced a coming boy.  We cannot pretend that he wasn't and that he won't always be a part of us- I can't pretend I'm not sad and I can't keep my eyes dry to make anyone comfortable.  I physically, emotionally, spiritually can't do anything except what I've been doing.

Everyday Eowyn repeats back to me something we've told her in the past weeks.  Tonight she said, "It's okay to cry and be sad."  I said, "That's right, and it's okay to play and have fun too."

We just keep reminding ourselves- it's okay- it's going to be okay.

A letter for my baby boy

2.22.16

“I have gotten a man with the help of the LORD.” Gen 4:1

My Dearest Sweet Baby Michael,

I never thought I’d love a red-headed boy, but you changed me forever in more than one way.

It took over a year to conceive you.  I was just ready to give up. I’m 41, the chances of you coming along were getting slimmer every missed month.  But there you were on Father’s Day- “the best Father’s Day gift ever”- the promise of a child.  I wanted you to be a boy- I wanted to make a man.  I had dreams for you before you ever were.

I wanted you to be tall and smart and handsome like your daddy, and talented like your namesake uncle, and loving and sensitive like your big sisters.  I wanted you to have dark hair and blue eyes like me- because I’ve always wanted a dark haired baby. I wanted to see you with grey hair holding my hand at the end of our days together.

You won’t become all the things I wanted- and that is true for every parent- but you will always be my perfect baby I held in my womb for nine months and in my arms for only a few hours. 

You didn’t open your eyes, but you opened my heart.  You will always be in my heart, but also inexplicably-  you will always be my missing piece.

I made a feather for you. It didn’t really mean anything at the time, just a trinket- a little thing to match the tiny hat.  Now that little trinket- that feather is an anchor.  Just a little feather that I worry though my fingers to remind me that you were real- you were mine- you are mine- you will always be mine. Although you won’t be in my arms again on this earth, I know you are in the arms of the angels until I see you again.

I want to stop crying for you.  I want to smile when I think of you- I realize I’m not crying for you- I’m crying for me.  I see a red headed boy and I cry and I think ‘would he have stayed strawberry blond?  Would he be blonde like his sisters?  Would he have been auburn or turned dark?  Would he be fair?’  I thought you looked very much like your sister Lailah.  Lailah is beautiful, I imagine you two would have been very much alike.

I believe I will always see you- in your sisters and in a thousand little boys. 

On Monday February 22, 2016 we planned to celebrate your birthday; instead you will return to dust, from which we all come. 

It has been my great joy to have brought forth a man.  It has been my great sorrow to lose a son.

I will celebrate your life.  I will cry (a lot) and I hope one day I will smile for you, my love.

I wish I could write something more beautifully phrased.  Even these few lines took such effort.  I would say I am broken, but that’s not true.  I’m not broken- but I am bent to the ground and Satan is biting at my heel. My comfort is knowing he is crushed beneath our feet and you are safe forever.

I love you forever and always, more than I can say, more than I can show-

Mama

I'm home 2.19.16

Reset
I'm home
The morphine is gone, but the headache remains
It feels good to bend my elbow without setting off an alarm.
We went to the ER at 12:30 Wednesday morning.  According to my thermometer (which I now think is a liar) my temp was 102 or maybe 101.9- either way I had told my husband that I would call the doctor if my temp got that high.  (Even though the doctor told me to call if it got above 100.4, that just sounded like a silly number to me.)

I called the on-call doctor, and it turned out my doctor was on-call.  Just when he was about to tell me to Not come in, he  asked about the antibiotics I was supposed to be taking.  I told him the pharmacy had told me twice that they had never been called in.  Twice after office hours of course- so I hadn't started them yet.

Then he sort of freaked.  He told me I needed to go in immediately.  He said he was calling the ER doctor to give him instructions for when I got there.  He said, "They are going to admit you."

So we began gathering the stuff- looking through the bags of stuff we hadn't unpacked from the last trip to the hospital. This pillow- that robe, don't forget the headphones and the phone charger, yes I need my slippers and I should take a book.

In the waiting room Eowyn wanted to know why that girl was crying and kept asking if I was okay.  I told her I was okay and she struggled to keep her eyes open.  She didn't want to miss anything.  When my name was called I shuffled along behind the tech. Daniel and the girls shuffled along behind me.  In the exam room a beautiful blonde nurse and a handsome young doctor introduced themselves and told me what they were going to do- then they both disappeared for over an hour.

The nurse came back to draw blood and put in an IV.  She was pretty, but didn't seem to have much practice with "rolling" veins.  Although the floor nurses had not had any trouble finding a vein, ER nurse was having no such luck.  The girls thought the whole procedure was amazing.  Eowyn was basically up under the nurse's arm trying to see what would happen next- and she kept giving me advice- "Okay mama, close your eyes!  It's only gonna hurt a little bit!" Then to the nurse, "What's that? What are you doing? Why are you doing that? Can I have that?  I can hold that for you."

Eventually she had the IV in and two blood samples for cultures and one for the immediate lab use.  That's when I said, "The doctor mentioned something about pain medication?"  She said, "Oh! I'll get that for you and your fluids, and your antibiotic."

When she came back an hour later and hooked me up I asked when I would be moved to a room.  By that time it was nearly 6:00AM and we were all starting to lose it.  She said, "Oh, I'll have to check- but maybe not until 8:00 or 9:00- we have a lot of people in holding because there aren't enough empty beds upstairs.

Surprisingly she came back less than an hour later to tell us I had a room and they were ready to take me to it.

In the room the girls got weepy because they were so tired and stressed, but they had really been so good all night in that cramped little exam room. They left their most prized possession with me, Eowyn's favorite Teddy Bear and Lailah's favorite toy 'Broccoli.' What sweet girls I have.

Emptiness

I've been dreaming of empty buildings and empty rooms.

Emptiness 
To dream of emptiness suggests that there is something missing or lacking in your life. It symbolizes fruitless labor, an emotional void, or loneliness. There is nothing to show for all the effort that you have dedicated to a project or relationship. In particular, to dream that a container is empty represents optimism.

http://dreammoods.com/cgibin/dreamdictionarysearch.pl?method=exact&header=dreamsymbol&search=empty

the hippo story and my yard

While all the neighbors have cleaned up their leaves in our "Woodland West" neighborhood, ours are still lying conspicuously on the ground.  Not just laying there, but also blowing into the neighbor's yards.  No doubt they love us.

No less than 5 people have knocked on our door in the past weeks asking if we wanted them to clean up our yard for a price.  Each time I said, "No thanks."

This is because last year a guy came to clean up and he was tricksy- over charged us and left me feeling unwilling to try again.

On a side note, the year before when the Mormans did it, it was wonderful.  Too bad the Mormans won't come back.

I had a professional lawn guy, a student,  and a church group they are the runner-up for my favorite- it was a guy wearing nice clothes, driving a molester van (no windows, painted black- real shading looking).  He had a glossy card about his recovery church- and  a speech about how they were raising money for more work.  I mean- maybe I should have had him do it- but really I was a little scared about the van.  He kept saying "we" but I didn't see anyone else in the van.

My favorite was the last one- it was Sunday after church, and he appeared to be wearing his church clothes.  He told me (with a bit of an African accent) that he had noticed my lawn needed cleaned, and told me he was trying to get some money to send back to his family.  I said, "No, thanks." But he went on to tell me that his cousin had been in an accident and he wanted to help him.  I sympathized, "I'm sorry about that, but no thanks."  "You see," he said, "They were fishing and a hippo knocked the boat over."  "Oh! Well, that is terrible, but I think we will do it ourselves."

Yeah- the hippo part surprised me.  Not that it couldn't happen, but seriously I've never been within 100 yards of a hippo and I know they are one of Africa's most dangerous animals!  Stay away from the flippin' hippos!

I couldn't decide if that was a made up story or a real one.  I suppose those are the best kinds.

Long lost friend...

Well- I could be talking about this blog- my long lost friend- but actually I was thinking of something far simpler- older-
a pen
When I was in high school I had a thing about fountain pens.  I'm not sure why, or how it got started, but I has a small collection of (cheap) fountain pens. I loved them and I had all different colors of ink.
Fast forward 20+ years.  I have a new collection of some cheap (Chinese) fountain pens and some rather expensive ones as well. I also love them.

However, up on a shelf, in a box was a little green, plastic fountain pen.  It has yellow daisies on it, and the ink inside has long since dried up.  It was one of my high school pens.  I've been dragging it around all these years.  I have some cartridges too, unopened, but half dried up anyway.

Sometime ago I bought some syringes to flush out some of my pens, and maybe refill some cartridges.   And so- while I should be working I have revived my little green flowered pen!  She's alive!  She's perfect!

Knowing I have enough pens and ink to last for generations does not stop me from wanting more!
Vive le stylo plume!