tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35436956058526041262024-03-13T08:55:35.702-04:00Sing to LifeMaeganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11543408131843121754noreply@blogger.comBlogger561125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3543695605852604126.post-47221135541497531652022-01-07T07:56:00.002-05:002022-01-07T08:21:07.041-05:00Chapters, opened and closing<p> Dear William, Barrett, Neva, and Mac,</p><p>I never wanted to abandon this blog, but contrary to what I expected (when you all were small and demanding), life has gotten busier as you've grown older. I feel like an old person who has lived a hundred years. Time is speeding along so quickly that there are days when I almost feel panic! I wish I could document it all.</p><p>We sit on the cusp of a closing chapter. Our sweet boy Bo has declined to the point that his passing will be our final good deed for him. Brian and I have wrestled with this decision, but each day brings some small sign that it will be the right thing to do. Last night, the two of us reminisced at length about Bo's life. The memories just poured out of us. Remember when he would meet that black and white cat in Lake Anne? Remember when he lept down that single step and made us laugh? Remember when his tail would curl up so tightly on itself? Remember when he'd be gone for days at a time? Remember when I slept outside waiting for him to come home? Remember when he made us so frustrated? What a good boy he was, though. Never so much as growled at any one of our precious babies... a fierce-looking home defender, but sweet as could be to anyone who walked in the door. But that's a different post.</p><p>We have seen many sad times this fall. Our friend Joe finally succumbed to his brain cancer. We have prayed for him for years. You all were so perplexed by why God would say no, this time. I have tried my best to explain how well Joe lived, how there is more to life than just eking out the maximum number of days that you can - how that in his almost-forty years, our friend lived more than most do in twice that time. He was such a wonderful father, man, and friend. I still can't believe that we'll never hear him sing again from the front of our church. He had the best singing voice I have ever heard. He'll never be famous for it, but he sure could've been. His family is grieving and alone after a very difficult two years of treatments and decline. Why must he have suffered that way? We all wonder. No one but God has the answers.</p><p>Then, after Thanksgiving, our little town was flooded with sorrow after a high school shooting. Right <i>here</i>. How could it have happened <i>here</i>? In our precious little community? I'll never forget exiting the grocery store with my full cart to see scores of teenagers flooding the Meijer parking lot with tear-stained faces. In bewilderment I left the parking lot and headed south, noticing cars whipping into the lot to park at the edges - parents, I now realize, in a frantic search to reunite with their children. Emergency vehicles by the dozens streamed northward toward the school as I texted everyone I could think of to find out what was going on. "School shooting," one mom simply replied, and I felt a dread so palpable that I sat and held it for hours, feeling it grow heavier with each passing siren. Not a day goes by that I don't think of those victims or their families. Madisyn Baldwin, Hana St. Juliana, Tate Myers, and Justin Shilling. The world took on a different tint that day.</p><p>Other sad events have unfolded - the loss of acquaintances to COVID, the news of jobs lost due to mandates, family dysfunction making holidays up north impossible this year. </p><p>There are always, <i>always</i> good things, too. They are in all the cracks, and you can find them the moment you start looking. Making candy houses with our friends at the church Christmas lock-in. Chatting as a family while we drove through town to look at Christmas lights (Neva: "I wouldn't have wanted to miss THIS!") Singing Christmas hymns together at church with our arms around each other. For me - glorying in your sweet faces on Christmas morning, when you thought you would only get ONE present, and had nothing but pure gratitude and genuine joy at having FIVE things to open instead. I bragged on you to everyone. There were no nasty attitudes from you all Christmas season. If having kids were always like this, everyone would want to be a parent. I suspect. :) (William, before Christmas: "We're only going to get one gift, so I had to choose wisely. I chose a Pokemon binder to sort all my cards.")</p><p>My precious kids! I'm writing this post from our "new" house. We began closing another chapter in late July 2020, when one Saturday I was holding the ladder for your dad as he caulked the cedar siding on the dormers above the garage. "If you'd let me build my brick house," he said, "I wouldn't have to do this crap anymore." And although he'd been at me to sell my dream house for a few years, in that moment it suddenly made sense. "Okay, let's do it," I agreed. A fresh start seemed exactly what we needed. When he was done caulking and climbed back down, I ran into the house and began cleaning out closets. We had already redone our master bathroom during the first COVID lockdown, so I repainted our master suite over the next few weeks. It had never looked better. I was very proud of myself. That was the first time I'd tackled something like that and I have to say I did a darn good job. We had a whirlwind fall - went live with our FSBO listing the weekend after we returned from Montana and sold the house in a day. (I have no clue how I continued schooling all of you through that, but somehow we made it.) The buyers were particularly accommodating to us, as they had needs of their own, and we were able to live in the house for another FOUR months at least, celebrating our last Christmas there (and allowing me to take my sweet time to pack).</p><p>We moved into this rental at the beginning of March 2021. You kids were absolute champions at saying goodbye to our wonderful home in the country. All you had were our vague certainties that we'd eventually find another lot and build "a better house... someday, when the market's right." William, you said goodbye to the ducks with such a brave heart. You'd gotten really attached to them, and although you said you were happy that they could stay with the new owners, you took a hundred pictures of them on every device. You sometimes seem more fond of animals than of people. I think you, more than the other kids, particularly miss our home on Hickory Creek.</p><p>It hasn't been a bad move, though, by any means. In this new house, we've adjusted to a smaller space and a subdivision lifestyle. You all fly around the neighborhood on your bikes, now - something you never did on our high-traffic rural dirt road. You have neighborhood friends to play with - good kids whose company we all enjoy. You are all growing up so quickly.</p><p>I've started so many posts here to detail each of your incredible little personalities, but I get cut off and interrupted before I can finish a paragraph, much less hit "publish." Suffice it to say now that you four are at that magical middle age everyone talks about - post- diapers and pre- teen years. Yesterday, the four of you played together for hours, devising your own games with homemade paper masks and a single homemade cardboard knife. It was supposed to be a full school day, but we've all been sick, so we did the barest minimum and I called lots of in-home vet euthanasia services to determine the best plan and time for Bo to pass. You all left me alone to make my sad calls, and the sounds of you four playing the other room brought more joy to my heart than you could imagine. I so dearly love being your mom, and I love the privilege to stay home with you all, and to teach you, and to learn alongside you. I am well aware that these are the golden years. I wake up almost every morning with the determination to thoroughly enjoy you all. I love you kids more than you can imagine. You bring me life and fulfillment. You won't know until Heaven how you have blessed your momma.</p><p>Talk to you soon,</p><p>Maeg</p>Maeganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11543408131843121754noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3543695605852604126.post-67967134013216770152020-06-29T07:18:00.002-04:002020-06-29T07:22:06.197-04:00Almost threeDear Mac,<br />
<br />
Oh, my little Mac. You are everything a little baby-of-the-family boy should be.<br />
<br />
You are so much, packed into a strong, tough little body. You are resistant, defiant, insistent, persistent.<br />
<br />
At a graduation party on Saturday, I took you to the bathroom (by force, of course). You couldn't <i>wait </i>to get back outside to jump on the "tramp-o-leen, the tramp-o-leen, the tramp-o-leen!" When we got back outside, there were six bog boys William's size bouncing around with a soccer ball on a trampoline with no net. "Oh, buddy, the big boys are on there now," I told you. "You'll have to wait a bit."<br />
<br />
You turned to me. "I'm BIG."<br />
<br />
"I know you're big, but you need to wait."<br />
<br />
"MOM. I'm big!"<br />
<br />
I picked you up. Maybe some TLC would help. "Mackey, you ARE big. But you need to wait a few minutes."<br />
<br />
You hollered at the top of your lungs, "MOM! I'm BIG!!!"<br />
<br />
Firm resolve is often required with you. "Well, the answer is no."<br />
<br />
You stood obediently (but not happily) on the ladder and waited for your opportunity. As soon as one or two of the boys hopped off, you climbed on. You were bounced and jostled and dirty and sweaty, yet completely undeterred. You were one of the big boys and there was no one who could tell you otherwise.<br />
<br />
A few weeks ago, we hosted Kole (William and Barrett's friend). The big kids woke up so early, excited to play. You rolled right out of bed too, and it was immediately apparent that you needed a LOT more sleep. You were sobbing at every provocation. I gave you a few chances to pull it together, but you just couldn't. "You've got to go back to sleep, Mac."<br />
<br />
You lost it completely. I carried you to your bed, tucked you in, and said, "You're not being a bad boy. You just need more sleep. Mommy's not mad at you."<br />
<br />
Your eyes were already closing as you wailed, "I'm mad at you!" You popped your thumb into your mouth and were sleeping in moments. I couldn't help but laugh.<br />
<br />
Last night, we sang happy birthday to you. This was YOUR MOMENT. You'd been waiting for this endlessly, patiently witnessing everyone else blow out <i>their</i> candles on <i>their</i> birthdays. You sang the song with everyone: "Happy birthday to me." After you blew out the candles, you dramatically pulled each one out and licked the frosting off, savoring each second of the spotlight.<br />
<br />
Mackey, you go for what you want. You're the only kid who will randomly approach me to ask for candy. When have I ever given you the impression that I'll just hand you candy? But you ask, and you ask often, and you're always genuinely upset when I say no (as I always do).<br />
<br />
You run with the big kids, jump with the big kids, laugh at their jokes, watch their movies. You've stopped asking to watch "baby songs," because I think you've realized that the big boys don't find them cool. This makes me sad, but I know you're still my baby. I know it when you wrap your arms around my neck in a strong, perfect little hug. I know it when I lay next to you and you snuggle into my arm and suck your thumb and your eyelids instantly grow heavy. I know it when you scream with delight at a firefly or a new-to-you, hand-me-down pair of shark pajamas. I know it when you mispronounce your <i>D</i>'s as <i>N</i>'s. ("Danny" for Daddy, "bi-ner" for spider, "burn" for bird.)<br />
<br />
I am trying to be careful to not let you become a perfect storm - the tenacious little baby boy whose mother indulged him. I hold the line with you, but I've also probably drawn it farther back than I ever did with William. How can I not? You are somehow always the infant I cuddled on those hot summer days three years ago, and you always will be.<br />
<br />
"I'm NOT a baby!"<br />
<br />
You are perfect.Maeganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11543408131843121754noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3543695605852604126.post-54769456357899607412020-06-22T07:17:00.001-04:002020-06-22T09:06:43.501-04:00Tiny girl at four-and-a-halfDear Neva,<br />
<br />
Last night, as I held an overtired, crying Mac, you sat beside me, looked at me very seriously and asked, "I'm a big girl, right?"<br />
<br />
"OH, yes. You are a big girl."<br />
<br />
"When I was a baby, I wasn't a big girl, right?"<br />
<br />
"No. You cried a LOT."<br />
<br />
You were very pleased with this, and you continued eating your peach happily. Peaches are your latest favorite fruit. FAVORITE. Soft, crunchy - it doesn't matter. "More peaches, please?!" Peaches are to you what apples are to Barrett.<br />
<br />
You give very violent little hugs. You latch on tightly, digging your chin in with all your might. You hug with everything in you. You take tiny bites of food with your tiny face. When you're excited, and you want to get somewhere very fast, you take tiny, quick steps in a faux run that doesn't get you there any faster but makes you feel like you're really hustling.<br />
<br />
You keep your closet very clean, making sure that everything is hung up right away. For a while, you loved changing clothes several times a day, making large piles of castoffs, until I'd have you hang them all back up in one tedious session. Somewhere along the line, you decided on your own that it would be smarter to hang something up immediately, and months later, it dawned on me that I hadn't had to ask you to clean up the clothes in your closet for a long time. I am so proud of you!<br />
<br />
We've had several play dates this month, now that school is done, and I've made an effort to invite little girls your age. You do a good job playing with them - don't get me wrong - but now I see that you're more of an independent agent than I had thought before. Time and time again I notice the little girls playing with your toys on their own while you wander off by yourself to the sandbox or the basement. I don't feel guilty, really, anymore, that you won't have a sister. You are happy to be your own playmate, and after that, you have Barrett. The two of you are inseparable.<br />
<br />
You and Barrett LOVE to draw and color. You'll both sit and crank out a dozen pictures of monsters, ninjas, and superheroes. You make the cutest little monsters with big eyes and detailed horns. And your inspiration, these days, is not Elsa or Anna or even Merida but Sarah from Virtua Fighter. "Can you make my hair like Sarah?" You want to be tough and strong.<br />
<br />
You inspire me. You inspire me to clean up my own internal messes. I never want you to see me restricting food, or picking apart about my body, or complaining about life or people or... anything. I don't want you to witness irrational tears or expressions of discontentment. I want you to fully believe that there is as much dignity and self-respect to be found as a homemaker and full-time parent as there is in any other occupation. I want you to witness an adult woman bearing confidence so that you will keep growing your own.<br />
<br />
Neva, you can do anything. I believe that with my entire heart. And <i>that</i> encourages me I can do anything, too- including fully settling into this role without doubt, misgivings, or apathy.<br />
<br />
"Mom, when I grow up, will we be sisters?" We will be best friends.<br />
<br />
I love you, baby girl. You are perfect.<br />
<br />
Love, Mama<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Maeganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11543408131843121754noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3543695605852604126.post-77179413400413259292020-06-03T16:49:00.000-04:002020-06-22T09:15:00.295-04:00My eight-year-oldDear William,<br />
<br />
Today you approached me very seriously and said, "Mom, do you know why I love you and Daddy more than video games?"<br />
<br />
"Why?"<br />
<br />
"Because you guys are more important than all of that."<br />
<br />
Then you paused.<br />
<br />
"Mom, are dragons real?"<br />
<br />
You are perfect.<br />
<br />
You have such a cute way of waving your hands when you talk. It's hard to describe, but only <i>you </i>do it. "God could blow up this house like <i>nothin',</i>" and you spread your hands to depict the destruction.<br />
<br />
Yesterday, on the way home from church, I asked Daddy if he'd heard the sermon, which was about the role of a father. He had been ushering, and he'd missed it. "Bummer," I said. "I wish you'd heard it. It would have been an encouragement for you to hear what a good job you're doing."<br />
<br />
"Luckily," you interrupted from your spot between us in the front bench of the pickup, pulling out your little notebook with a tremendous flourish, "I wrote it all down." Grandma had helped you take notes, and you read to Daddy the six jobs of a father. "Do you think your dad is a good dad?" I asked you after you'd finished. "He's an awesome dad," you replied.<br />
<br />
You gripe and groan at schoolwork, you love to read (especially your new <i>Dog Man </i>books), you sometimes abuse your oldest-sibling power, you prefer hanging out with me and Daddy to playing with your siblings, you take life at a relaxed pace, and you mess around a LOT.<br />
<br />
You are perfect.Maeganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11543408131843121754noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3543695605852604126.post-72435924718217839482020-05-13T23:13:00.002-04:002020-05-13T23:13:49.898-04:00Take a breathI'm doing better today. Life always looks brighter after a workout and a decent-ish night's sleep. This month's program is The Work on Beachbody, and I'm enjoying it. I also made a batch of my favorite lockdown cookies (no flour required) and ate no fewer than five. I need to figure out where I'm headed with this summer look. <div><br /></div><div>(Fitness goals is always a lengthy subject better left for its own post.)</div><div><br /></div><div>As always, I underestimated my awesome kids by insinuating that they wouldn't take care of our new livestock. Case in point, this morning. </div><div><br /></div><div>We got the ducklings almost two weeks ago. For the first twelve days, they stayed in a kiddie pool in the basement, under a heat lamp, since it was too chilly outside (snow every day). Each day I changed their bedding and rinsed them off in the bathtub. This was about as cute as you can imagine. After a week, they had doubled in size and were making twice the mess in their kiddie pool, so I was bathing them twice a day and changing their bedding twice. Worst of all, they'd eat all their food during the night and start frantically jumping out of the pool in the early morning, going to the bathroom on the basement floor and peeping so loudly that it woke me up. I'd run downstairs, chase them around, clean up the mess on the floor, haul them upstairs to the bathtub and spend the next hour changing everything out while they swam around in the tub and the family slept peacefully.</div><div><br /></div><div>On Tuesday morning, Brian and I decided that it would be passably warm to move them out into the sun. They could not stay here another night. They had grown too big and I was completely exhausted by their early morning needs. I was really looking forward to sleeping until a decent hour on Wednesday morning.</div><div><br /></div><div>On Tuesday I moved everything out to the barn. The ducks spent the day in their enclosure outside in the sunshine, and in the evening I had Will and Barrett help me transfer them to their new coop inside the barn. "Eventually," I commented, "you guys will wake up in the morning and come out here to let the ducks out."</div><div><br /></div><div>"What if it's cold?" Will asked. </div><div><br /></div><div>"You'll put your coat and boots on," I shrugged. I figured that by the end of the summer, the ducks would be feathered out enough to free-range in the yard and pond, and all the boys would have to do would be open the barn door and let them out, fill up their food and water, and pen them back in at night. Until then, I need to actually carry them out into their fenced pen with a bin, since they can't swim in the pond until they've feathered out or their down will get water-logged and they'll drown. (I guess.) </div><div><br /></div><div>But apparently, William took that to mean, "From here on out, you guys will take care of the ducks." I didn't realize this until this morning (Wednesday morning), when I was having one of the most lovely dreams I've had in a really long time. I was dreaming that I was able to Marco Polo people I love who have died. Sister Sharon, Anna, Jonathan - I was talking with them - I could see their faces. Suddenly my bedroom door burst open. "The ducks are not okay!" yelled Barrett, who was suited up in winter coat and boots. "Their water is almost gone and their food bowl is tipped over!"</div><div><br /></div><div>I stumbled out of the bedroom, bleary-eyed. It was about 6 AM. "Barrett, why are you guys out there with the ducks?"</div><div><br /></div><div>"William said it's our job to take care of them now! He's down in the barn with them."</div><div><br /></div><div>I sat on the couch. "You can give them some food if you want, honey, but I'm going to go down and take care of them after I've had my coffee. Just tell Will not to worry about it."</div><div><br /></div><div>Barrett left the house. A couple minutes later, Will came in. He was crying. "I don't know what to do with the ducks." (He's very uncomfortable handling them.) "Am I supposed to carry them into their pen in the bin?"</div><div><br /></div><div>"Oh, honey," I said, "I didn't expect you to do anything with them this morning. We were all supposed to be sleeping right now."</div><div><br /></div><div>"But what about the <i>ducks?</i>" </div><div><br /></div><div>It took another minute to convince him that he wasn't responsible to do anything for the ducks yet. "Go and get your brother," I told him, sucking down my coffee, "and tell him to leave the ducks and come back to the house. I will take care of them. I'll train you guys to do it when it's the right time, okay?"</div><div><br /></div><div>We had a good day. We planted the garden and no one fought. Brian ran out of grout for the shower tile too soon, but doesn't seem too devastated. He's still on cloud nine since finding out he's likely got the new director position at the university. He's the right person for the job, no doubt. I'm excited to see him in his new role. </div><div><br /></div><div>There is much to be thankful for. </div><div><br /></div>Maeganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11543408131843121754noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3543695605852604126.post-51182304687107556482020-05-12T10:58:00.002-04:002020-05-13T23:17:32.844-04:00FalterIt's so discouraging to be <i>you</i>. To try, and try, and fail, and try again, and then turn around - and there you are. Fundamentally, it seems, flawed.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
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I feel destined to spend my life desperately seeking existential validation from other humans. It is crippling when someone is displeased with me; I am basically useless until I can bend over backward, eliminating every dignity, to set things right. No matter how old I get, I am always a child terrified of displeasing others. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<i>Are we okay? Am I okay?</i></div>
<div>
<i>I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.</i></div>
<div>
<i>I'm just a mess. I'm sorry.</i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
Conventional Christian wisdom tells me to find my worth and confidence in Christ, and on good days, I can. On bad days, my time in Scripture further convinces me that I will never, ever measure up. And on those bad days, it's hard not to believe that the good days were just a result of a successful internal pep talk. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
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Because there's the rub: I naturally, subconsciously have determined that it's also up to me to validate the existence of everyone else, to meet every other need that I encounter since of course I expect that for myself, from the rest of the world. This is, of course, completely crazy, yet I keep coming back to Paul's desire to be "poured out like a drink offering" - a sentiment with which I completely identify. But I don't do it <i>right</i>. I feel I have to meet all these needs and then <i>of course</i> I let them all down.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
We received sixteen ducklings in the mail, but three of them didn't survive the trip. Their little bodies were crumpled in the corners. I keep dreaming about them, keep dreaming that I will kill these ducks like I killed my sweet gray cockatiel in high school. I took too much on, too many responsibilities, and even though I took care of her needs, I stopped engaging with her - I couldn't tell anything was wrong until she was splayed at the bottom of her cage. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So am I destined to run around like a frantic hen, insufficiently trying to meet every need and meeting none? And using that as an indicator of my lack of worth?<br />
<br />
Is life supposed to be a cycle of guilt and failure?<br />
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
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Oh Maegan, get out of your head. You have a good life. Every day is a new opportunity to walk carefully and do the best you can. Go bake, go drink a cup of coffee, go sit in the sunshine, go for a run. You'll feel better in the morning.</div>
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<br /></div>
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(As a sidenote, it is reassuring to see my suspicions about kids and pets confirmed. Kids and pets do not mix. Kids get bored with animals incredibly quickly. I have felt so guilty about saying <i>no </i>to fish, reptiles, birds... and these adorable ducklings have been a confirmation that I was right. No more guilt. I'd rather say no a hundred times than have yet another animal die at my hands, or tenderly care for a green iguana that no one looks at anymore. Thankfully, Brian wanted these ducks - we didn't just get them for the kids. It was the intention that the boys would take care of them, and that's still the plan - when the ducks feather out and require less maintenance, I guess.)</div>
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Maeganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11543408131843121754noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3543695605852604126.post-69013107042038574312020-05-03T07:51:00.002-04:002020-05-06T10:01:12.443-04:00COVID-19 SceneQuarantine ends, to some degree, today, on day 50.<br />
<br />
My parents are coming over! We haven't seen them at all, except for the evening before Easter when they stood on our porch with bags for the kids and said hello through the window. Today I'm taking Neva for a mommy-date, and then we're doing a little switch-around, and she'll go home with my mom while my dad and I have <i>my </i>father-daughter<i> </i>birthday date. My birthday's in September, but our tradition is to wait until March. I suppose May will do! All I had wanted this year was to pick up Taco Bell and watch <i>The Godfather </i>with him at his house. And what do you know! Now that's all we could do anyway. Finally, we'll head back to my house and be a big happy family again.<br />
<br />
Of course, I've been out of the house a few times. I've gone for groceries, I picked up the ducklings from the post office on Thursday, and I ran into Tractor Supply for their feed. I wonder how long it will be normal to strap on a mask before running into the store, or to call for revised store hours before heading out, or to wonder if what I need at the store will be there (if it's dishwasher detergent or flour, probably not). How long will it be before church reopens? Before we travel up north again? For heaven's sake - will I see all my grandparents alive again? I'm petrified to get them ill, and I'm sure they're worried about getting sick, too. Brian's grandma is 98, still living at home, glued to Fox News, and every week when I call her she regales me with the latest doom. <i>Dogs are getting it now! It's just awful. All the kids are failing their grades; no one's passing. China's working on a new virus for this fall. Those people eat their pets!</i><br />
<br />
I woke up this morning to a loud peeping of a duckling in the basement that had escaped her friends in the kiddie pool. After some half-asleep effort, I caught her, and let a frantic Bo outside while I refilled their dry water bowls. Mac and Neva came down soon afterward, all needs and questions, and the sun was streaming in through the windows and screens that took me all day to wash and install yesterday. I'm sitting here as they eat their breakfast, marveling about how nice it feels to have people and animals and a place to care for. I'd have assumed that after fifty days, I'd be anxious to get out of here, but I'm not.<br />
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I feel so strange admitting that, while the world has been falling apart, I've been having quite possibly the best time of my life. Not that my enjoyment hasn't been laced with anxiety about the events unfolding outside my door, or with discouragement over my own halted progress. I spent the first week after our return from the Grand Canyon feeling lower than low. Pajama-bound, exhausted, chocolate-eating, apathetic, and of course, terribly down on myself. <i>What is WRONG with you??? </i>One evening, all chilly, I took my temperature and discovered I was in fact sick. I expected to get worse, but the malaise continued at its moderate level for a few weeks, and it was <i>so freaking nice </i>to sleep in and not have anywhere to be. I hope I had COVID. But what this isolation has done is remove all the "community expectations" that I have internalized. I clean the house for <i>us</i> now, not because people are coming over. And guess what? I keep it clean, after all. I didn't need the pressure of hosting to make me a "better," cleaner person. I am working out regularly - for me - and eating what and when I want, because I am not worried about fitting into my Sunday dress or being beach-ready for Memorial Day. And surprisingly, as a result, I haven't been binge-eating or starving myself, and my weight is at a healthy place, and I'm really happy with myself. The kids are making great progress at home with their studies, and it's easier when I'm not carting them to LEGO class or swimming - gatherings that they didn't miss and were actually happy to avoid. And it's made me introspective about what I dread about going back to "real life" and what changes I need to make. And if I'm being honest, the changes I need to make are mostly in my mind, and what I assume people are expecting of me. I suppose I have discovered that, after all, I am okay. <br />
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I have loved being home. I have loved having Brian working from home. We've been a happy family, doing projects on the house and playing board games. Yesterday, Barrett and Neva got along so nicely that Barrett told me he wanted to marry her when he grew up. <div><br /></div><div>Social media has been a blessing and a curse. On one hand, it has been tremendously relieving to hear that others are struggling with this quarantine - feeling apathetic about their long-term goals, experiencing anxiety and uncertainty, and coping with social distancing in many of the same ways. I downloaded Marco Polo and have been connecting with friends and family, and it has been amazing. On the other hand, seeing people post their obnoxious conspiracy theories frustrates me. Yes, everyone is entitled to their opinion. Yes, we are all simultaneously concerned about this pandemic's economic impact, threat to civil liberty, and unfortunate effect of non-COVID-related medical issues often going untreated while patients stay home. But we are living in an unprecedented time; pandemics are not a hoax. I sincerely wish people had a better grasp of how messy and complicated it is to compile reliable data during a global event like this. And while data comes in, gosh darn it - sit your butt down and keep the community safer. My two cents.</div><div><br /></div><div>Of course, it is easy for me to say this. Brian is still employed, homeschooling is chugging along, and I'm feeling more rested and spending more quality time with my little family than I have in a long time, if not ever. But as the world outside is crumbling, I can't help but form my own opinions... and wish I was doing more to help.</div>Maeganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11543408131843121754noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3543695605852604126.post-16943026079310671932020-03-08T13:42:00.002-04:002020-03-08T18:17:21.705-04:00We did it! Thursday night, we flew into Vegas. We took our first ever Uber to the Excalibur, which became my first (kind of negative) impression of Las Vegas, so maybe it's not surprising that I was excited to hightail it out of that city on Friday morning. The room was inexpensive; that's about all it had going for it.<br />
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Friday morning, we rented our little white Kia and headed for Arizona. Brian and I thought it would be a flat, desert drive, but it was a really beautiful four hours. We detoured down historic Route 66. I sent a pic to my parents - <i>tell the kids we're in Radiator Springs! </i></div>
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I typically approach experiences with low expectations (so am generally pleasantly surprised), but I admit I had VERY high expectations for my first glimpse of the Grand Canyon. I expected to be positively blown away, overcome with awe. Instead, I climbed out of the car, walked as near to the edge as I dared, and was seized with fear. I pictured one of us flying headlong into the depths. Brian was confidently standing by the edge, but I felt cold and scared. There's something about heights that compromises my faith in physics. I grasp my phone more tightly than usual, fearing that the power of gravity will strengthen and exert a magnetic pull, tearing it from my hands before I inexplicably tumble after it. As Brian drove along Hermit Road (on one of the very last days it was open to public traffic), he eagerly peered out the windows at the surrounding views. Even though he's an excellent driver, I kept <i>my</i> eyes glued to the road in case it suddenly swerved dangerously. <i>What if he accidentally drives us off the edge of the canyon?</i></div>
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I changed my shoes from my cute flats to comfortable running shoes, put on a winter coat, and kept getting out when we pulled off at each outlook. My second impression - I'm sorry to say - was, <i>yep, it looks like the pictures. </i>My third impression was, <i>How in the world can we possibly hike down? </i>That prospect seemed impossible as I surveyed the steep, rocky cliffs. Brian took a photo of me crouched by a low wall, afraid to stand up fully. I felt truly embarrassed, but also... I mean, that's who I am.</div>
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After fajitas in Tusayan, a lovely night's rest, and a delicious hotel breakfast, we assembled our packs, checked out, and headed back to the Grand Canyon National Park. We parked by the visitor center and took a shuttle to the South Kaibab trailhead. We chatted with a friendly couple from BC who were packed light, with water and trekking poles, and planning on hiking down South Kaibab and back up Bright Angel that same day. "We're hoping six hours?" she estimated. I was impressed. I never saw them again; they probably ran the entire way down.</div>
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With a deep breath, we began the trek down! It was mentally difficult for me, especially when Brian almost ate it on a patch of ice covered by dust. We were so <i>high.</i> Over the next few hours, I grew more comfortable with stunning dropoffs and steep declines. My body tolerated the downhill hiking just fine (I personally didn't find it true what I'd heard - "it's the downhill that's the worst") but my darn pinky toes! I never would have thought those tiny toes would be my weak link. By the time we made it to camp, my little toes felt like they were on fire. Brian loves having good, sturdy boots, and he'd bought me a really nice pair of Schnees a few years ago. But they felt like stiff Army boots that day. I regretted not carrying a pair of tennis shoes to change into at the bottom. If I could change anything about the trip, it would be having worn the boots around the house for a few weeks before the hike - and maybe still carrying some different shoes down so I didn't have to hobble barefoot to the bathrooms. We set up camp, and I was cranky. I <i>wanted</i> to hike to Ribbon Falls. The camp was nice, but it wasn't particularly gorgeous, our neighbors were smoking, and I didn't want to sit there for the last half of the day. But I wasn't sure if my feet could take another mile, let alone thirteen more, especially considering we still had our ten-mile uphill hike out the next morning. I felt so frustrated. I wasn't sore or tired <i>anywhere else</i>. Just my tiniest toes.</div>
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Brian held my hand and helped me, barefoot, into the creek, which felt like barely-melted snow. The cold took my breath away. "This will help your feet," he insisted. And soaking them for several minutes really did. Ever well-prepared, he gave me duct tape to wrap around my toes after drying off my feet. The soak plus the duct tape fortified my toes and they did not get any worse. We set off for Ribbon Falls around 4 PM. It was a lovely, easy hike in the shade of the canyon, the breeze blowing coolly and the creek running beside us. We alternated between pleasant conversation and companionable silence. It was at these quiet moments that I really pondered the magnificence of this place. The phrase <i>"deep calls to deep" </i>kept repeating itself in my mind; as I took in the seemingly infinite capacity of the canyon, I felt such a longing for the love of God to fill my heart in the same measure. I want so badly to be a channel for the measureless love and goodness of God to flow into the needs of this planet, and the magnificence of that place powerfully reaffirmed that desire. (These experiences, I've found, are often followed by bouts of depression and feelings of failure, which I have been working through since coming home - I suppose those are the highs and lows of life!)</div>
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We reached Ribbon Falls right before sunset - the bridge was out, which meant we'd have to cross the river. I had heard the falls described by others as "the prettiest I've seen," but from my view on the opposite side of the river, they looked like a trickle spouting from the mountain. I admit I was miffed. I <i>knew </i>I was going to slip on those slick boulders and fall in, soaking my socks and dooming my feet to blisters on the 6.5 miles back home. I had left my trekking poles back at camp and stubbornly refused to cross: "Take a picture and bring it back to show me; I'll sit here." Brian crossed first, threw his poles back across, and hollered, "I'm not letting you stay there! We walked all this way." Muttering under my breath, I managed to cross, grabbing his hand at the end and narrowly avoiding a swim. The easy trail had disappeared and we hauled ourselves up piles of boulders to eventually make our way <i>behind</i> the falls. It was a magical spot and well worth the headache! We enjoyed it for several minutes, took pictures, and made it back across the river before daylight was gone. This time, we took off our boots and waded across, re-icing our feet and sitting for a minute to eat some trail mix. We hiked back in the darkness with our flashlights, stopping every now and then to admire the brilliant stars. We collapsed into our soft sleeping bags and were asleep by 11:30. </div>
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The next morning, we laughed about how sore we were. We ate and packed leisurely, setting out around 9:30. All along the way, I admired the views around us, including the trail itself and the beautiful way it snaked back and forth up and around the canyon. It still amazes me that it's possible to hike <i>down into the Grand Canyon and back out</i> - two different ways at least! We both agreed that South Kaibab was more picturesque, with grander, more sweeping overlooks, while Bright Angel was more tucked into the canyon, albeit less steep. </div>
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Honestly, I'd love to see it all again.</div>
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I had expected the hike out to be the most difficult for me, and it was. The sun was hot, my feet were aching, and my toes were in pain. Yet we were both in good spirits, encouraging each other and joking around about our misery. We took lots of little breaks. Brian likes to hike and talk, or just listen to the sound of nature, but I relied heavily on music to keep me going. Thankfully, I'd packed my earbuds. I would say I was doing <i>great </i>until we reached the Three-Mile Resthouse. I was under the assumption that we had less than two miles to go when we arrived there and discovered it was three miles to the trailhead. We took deep breaths and pressed on. I didn't get <i>gloomy</i> until the trail became <i>icy</i>, and now that we were up so much higher, my fear of gravity overstepping its bounds and powerfully sucking me over the edge returned. Every step felt like a risk, and every switchback revealed what looked like a hundred more switchbacks to go. The next time we sat down, I lamented to Brian, "I don't think this trail ever ends." As we sat, we saw a young girl (no more than ten) dressed in tiny shorts, a bathing suit top, and tennis shoes, trekking fearlessly over the ice, alone, carrying an iPhone that was playing a Harry Potter audiobook. I was simultaneously afraid for her safety and inspired that I - with my tough boots and trekking poles - could definitely make it up without slipping off the edge, if <i>she</i> could. (We saw her reunite with her parents further up the trail.)</div>
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And then - a corner - a final incline - and suddenly, we were done! We'd made it! It was instantly freezing when we emerged from the protection of the canyon. I suddenly understood why almost everyone we'd seen on their way down was wearing winter coats and hats while we had t-shirts. We donned coats and gratefully boarded the warm, crowded shuttle that would take us back to our car.<br />
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That hot tub back at the hotel felt AMAZING.<br />
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On Monday, we went back to the Grand Canyon for one final visit. We drove along 64, finally winding up at Desert View. The building there is incredible! Our favorite stop along that route was Moran Point. I left feeling very saturated with the Grand Canyon. One final stop back in Tusayan to pick up some t-shirts for the kiddos, and then we were on our way back to Las Vegas for the last night.<br />
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I had a blast on the way back. Brian was preparing to interview for a new director position in two days, and I had such a good time grilling him with practice interview questions. We stopped at the Hoover Dam, which was unexpectedly beautiful. That's the last adjective I'd have thought I'd use to describe the Hoover Dam, but it's true. We didn't have time to take a tour, but we walked across the dam and admired the monument. And I must say, the bathrooms were very impressive, too.<br />
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We arrived in Vegas at dark and drove along the Strip for a bit before we had to turn in the car. My opinion of Las Vegas shifted that night. The Excalibur isn't a very nice place to stay (and honestly, neither is the Luxor, where we spent that night) but the Strip was fabulous! It took at least an hour to check into our hotel and make it to the room. I wanted to call it a night and eat the rest of our trail food for dinner, but Brian insisted we'd regret it if we didn't walk the Strip and get dinner out. We limped down to the Bellagio and back, bonding over our insanely sore feet and winding up at Shake Shack for dinner - which was predictably awesome. I loved that walk, despite the pain. Everything on the Strip is so <i>extra</i>. I would have loved to walk a <i>lot</i> more had our feet felt better; I would have liked a little more time in Vegas.<br />
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I was ready to go home the next day. I missed the kids, and I felt like we had enjoyed a luxuriously long time away. My parents had put the kids to bed for <i>six nights</i>, had taken them to church and school and extracurriculars, had driven us to and from the airport... they were true MVPs. We spent the day traveling home; when we told our Uber driver that we were from Michigan, he scoffed. "WHY?" But home is <i>home</i>. The trees are bare but spring is in the air, and the best of the year is yet to come.<br />
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Joe was having his second brain surgery that day, and I kept checking my phone for updates. His experience contrasted so sharply with ours that I felt guilty. The surgery went well and the surgeon removed most of the newer tumor growth. But his recovery has been slow; as of today (Sunday - five days later) he is still on the EEG tracking residual seizure activity. It's been a strange several days since our return. I have felt tired, sad, and drained - though also very happy to be home. Life is such a rich composite of emotions.<br />
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I am profoundly grateful for this trip - to have experienced the Grand Canyon so thoroughly, to have seen new sights, and to have tested my hiking limits, and all with my best friend. I am very thankful to be here. </div>
Maeganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11543408131843121754noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3543695605852604126.post-23874521423860711912020-02-27T07:03:00.000-05:002020-02-27T08:23:11.655-05:00The Good LifeLife is flying by, and I love it. I've heard others lamenting the interminable length of these winter months, but my head is spinning. Winter is almost over.<br>
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I haven't minded this winter. Something broke over the holidays; the fog of sadness hanging like a cloud throughout the fall was blown away. January came with freshness and clarity. I have enjoyed the last two months more than I can remember having enjoyed anything in a long time.<br>
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The kids are cute and fun and wonderful. SURE, there are many, many days that I can't wait to get them into bed, but even those days are full of moments that make me laugh as I wash dishes or fold laundry and hear them playing in the other room. I see progress and growth in them and in myself. School is sailing along so smoothly. I've hardly had time to read (a book a month, if I'm lucky - working through <i>Hidden Figures </i>and <i>Omnitopia Dawn</i> right now) or pursue my own various goals- which, honestly, makes me reevaluate why I even have them, at this point. I've been so happy to simplify lately, to be able to mull over the Scriptures every morning, to make good meals for my family, and to plan more date nights with Brian. I'm training consistently in the basement, but there's no race or meet on the horizon. I'm content to dial in on school and life and do my best to excel at those. <i>Simplify and Excel</i> has been my theme for 2020.<br>
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Brian took the winter off tackling any house projects. There's enough to be done with plowing, hauling wood, and wrangling these kids. Having him more present has been incredible. And as for the two of us- we have changed. Our relationship faltered last year, and this year we are reinvesting in it with purpose. We are handling conflict with awareness and humility. I am so happy to be here, <i>especially </i>considering that TONIGHT we are flying to Las Vegas to check a great BIG item off our bucket list: the Grand Canyon! My parents are doing the heavy lifting for five days. Where would we be without them? I truly do not know. Brian has single-handedly packed our equipment, booked the rooms, and arranged flights and rentals. We'll be camping at the bottom for one night. I'm hoping to also hit Ribbon Falls while we're down there, but that'll be about thirty miles' hiking in two days. Hiking to the bottom is seven miles. We <i>could </i>just take it easy once we set up camp; the trail to Ribbon Falls is an additional thirteen-mile round trip. I'd love to do it, to make the most of our time down there, but the following morning we'll have a ten-mile hike back to the top to consider as well. I've trained and cut and am hoping we can come back and say we <i>did it all!</i> Brian is not so determined. He's more concerned with "enjoying the time" and "not being miserable." :) He may be right. We'll see.<br>
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Every morning, for the past week, I've woken up at four AM. <i>Is it the day? Do we leave yet? It's so soon! </i><br>
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Everywhere I look, I see evidence of love. A fire burning in the fireplace. A stack of firewood in the garage. The sounds of wrestling kids and daddy upstairs. A sink full of dishes after an abundant meal. Cars and appliances that work reliably. This winter has been, for me, a season of abundant love. And I am so, so happy to be here.Maeganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11543408131843121754noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3543695605852604126.post-70137952837902609322020-01-09T17:14:00.001-05:002020-01-17T18:00:46.572-05:00 TodayBarrett, having been handed a pint of cherry tomatoes and being excited to eat them: “All RIGHT! My red rocket balls are ready to ROLL!” <br>
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Barrett, eating a frozen Ninja Turtles Go-Gurt: "Oh, Ninja Turtle, please stop giving me a breen fray!"<div><br></div><div>Barrett and Neva are racing each other down the stairs; Barrett is telling on her. </div><div>Barrett: “MOM! Neva’s not helping clean up!”</div><div>Neva (having been instructed to do so): “My heart doesn’t TELL me to!”</div><div><br></div><div>Mac, looking down at the shirt I’ve just put on him- a long sleeved t-shirt with a robot dinosaur riding a skateboard: “WHOA! Beautiful!”</div><div><br></div><div>Barrett: “Mom, I’m still a giant spider. My name is Legs.”</div><div><br></div><div>Barrett: “Mom, I’m still a hamster named Cheese.”</div><div><br></div><div>Barrett, working diligently on a coloring page: “Mom, I wanna give this to someone who never had anyone make a picture for them.”</div><div><br></div><div>Mac, having been handed a toy by William: “SANK you MUCH!”</div>Maeganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11543408131843121754noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3543695605852604126.post-4391283493528724102019-12-19T07:47:00.002-05:002019-12-23T07:15:07.901-05:00Merry Christmas, to all waiting.This morning I woke up at 4:45 to bake the appetizer Brian had to bring to his holiday party at work. As I was brushing maple syrup onto the bacon-wrapped stuffed dates I'd assembled the day before, I heard William call for me feebly from upstairs. "I don't feel good," he told me, and sure enough, the fever he'd had at bedtime was still burning. I carried him downstairs, thankful that I still can carry my big boy, when he vomited over my shoulder onto the wood floor behind me. I arched my back and held very still until he was done. Poor Will; of all our family members, he is disproportionately afflicted with these bouts of stomach flu.<br>
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I was supposed to make a trip to the grocery store last night for more baking ingredients. The day's mess in the kitchen, however, was so overwhelming that I figured I'd tackle it first, and of course I didn't finish in time to head to the store. Really, I would've been too exhausted anyway. Now I find myself with a sick little boy stuck on the couch and no ingredients to finish my baking and you know what? This is a <i>gift</i>. I get a day to take care of my boy, a day that tethers us home and makes us read those Christmas books that have been piled in the book nook. (Let's hope he can rally in time to enjoy them.)<br>
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Maybe today will finally bring us those peaceful moments I've been wanting.<br>
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My parents gave us the warmest, most wonderful Christmases I can imagine. They are some of my most vivid childhood memories. My mom told me, when I'd become an adult, that since there wasn't much money, they wanted to make Christmas more about the traditions than the gifts. There were always both, of course, but maybe their emphasis on tradition really made it magical.<br>
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December was the most dilatory month of the year, offering in exchange for its agonizing crawl excitement like church caroling, candy houses with the Missionettes, and the school Christmas play. When Christmas Break finally began, it was just the six of us- my parents, my brothers, my sister, and me. Christmas Eve was my favorite day of the year, eclipsing Christmas Day only barely, by its added luster of anticipation. At Christmas Eve dinner, we ate artichokes and cheese fondue, with cookies for dessert brought over by various friends and neighbors. For many years, until we were too cool for it, we'd film our own little version of the nativity story in Luke. My dad would be the innkeeper; Erin and Matthew would be Mary and Joseph, Joel was a shepherd and I the attention-hogging angel. My mom filled in the undesirable roles - the donkey, an extra shepherd. We'd tape it with the camcorder and watch it together afterward. Then there were family devotions, and: "Okay, you guys can open just ONE present!" Then there were snacks- pigs in a blanket, nachos. We'd stay up late, playing video games together. One year- I must have been older- twelve?- we opened a Playmobil Nativity, and Erin and I played for hours.<br>
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Finally in bed, I'd lie awake, watching the pattern of headlights play on my ceiling, listening to my parents wrap gift together in the basement. I could not <i>possibly</i> wait until morning. How could it be so far away?<br>
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My siblings and I grew up with an intense love of Christmas, though I think we've all struggled with the transition from "childhood Christmas" to "adult Christmas." I'm thirty-two years old now, and each year I find myself farther (not in time, but in experience) from that magical holiday feeling. The hustle of this time of year is completely antithetical to what Christmas used to feel like, what Christmas <i>should be.</i> What it has become for me, and for many, I think, is a time of hectic frenzy: late nights, long lists, days that fly by, traditions cast to the wayside. (I don't really know how to change this. I think it would involve breaking a lot of the expectations required by the ties we share with our supportive community, and I don't believe my selfish desire for tranquility is worth that.)<br>
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Anyway, Christmas is, and should be, a time of <i>waiting</i>.<br>
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The Jews were waiting, had been waiting, for their Messiah. For over four hundred years, not a single prophet had entered the scene. I wonder if the Jews, suffering under Roman rule, suspected God had forgotten them.<br>
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And then, unexpectedly, <i>a baby, </i>born of poverty and shame. A <i>beginning</i>. No deliverance yet: just a <i>promise</i>. Christ was The Word, a physical embodiment of the intentional, spoken order that brings the chaos and uncertainty of our lives into submission.<br>
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That uncertainty lingers. Millenia later, <i>we</i> are all still waiting now. Waiting for <i>something. </i>Change, maybe, or resolution. An end to something, or a beginning. We are all <i>waiting</i>. And just as the Jews could not make their Messiah happen by strength of will, most of us cannot bring about that change for which we wait. Despite all the mastery and discipline capable of the human spirit, in some way we are all nevertheless, unavoidably, in "the fell clutch of circumstance." Christmas is the time for us to recognize that <i>wait</i>, the time of year we hallow it, hold it in our hands, and make our peace with it. Christmas is waiting, distilled.<br>
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When I become overwhelmed by the minutiae of the Christmas season, as I do each day, I close my eyes and find myself alone, at night, in the snow. I can feel myself there almost tangibly, surrounded by blue spruce trees and gazing upward at stars so brilliant they outshine the moon. It is perfectly still and quiet. I don't know what I'm doing there, but I know that I'm waiting, and it feels like Christmas.<br>
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I won't be alone in the snow at midnight, today, but I'll be in the living room with my children, in front of the fire, with something warm in the oven and the Polar Express playing, experiencing <i>their</i> impatience for Christmas Day. That will be enough.Maeganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11543408131843121754noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3543695605852604126.post-41886350785126610782019-12-13T23:00:00.003-05:002019-12-13T23:06:27.565-05:00"I'm him."This is a post about Barrett.<br />
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Right now, Barrett is at his very first Royal Ranger Lock-In with his daddy and his big brother. It's a junk-food-fueled, all-night Nerf battle for all the church boys ages 6-12. I asked him and William to pack their things - "Just something to sleep in, and something to wear in the morning-" and he descended with seven pairs of underwear and a pile of clothes. "I got three pairs of shorts, just in case."<br />
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He disappeared again, then returned with an armful of stuffed animals. "I can't sleep without these."<br />
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"Also, I need to bring this toy bull."<br />
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"Do you think the boys will want to play Frisbee?"<br />
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"I should bring my school stuff, in case we do school."<br />
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"I should bring my Bible."<br />
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"We need our walkie-talkies!"<br />
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(Suffice to say he left with much less than he packed. I did send the walkie-talkies, with fresh batteries.)<br />
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So now they're gone, and I'm baking, and listening to my book, and working out, and taking a minute here to dedicate a post to Barrett, my number-two, little five-year-old guy with the massive heart of gold.<br />
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Barrett is always <i>some creature</i>. "Mom, see this chameleon? I'm him."<br />
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"Mom, you know that blue turtle shell from Mario? I'm him, but with a turtle inside."<br />
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"Mom, you know that fire lizard from Frozen? I'm him."<br />
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"Mom, you know that kind of fish? With the spikes that blows up like a ball? I'm him, but I have long spikes on my fins and they shoot in and out."<br />
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(Of course, no matter what fearsome creature he is at the moment, I'm always his caretaker, whom he adores and would never hurt.)<br />
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Every night at bedtime, he requests a variation of his old favorite, "It is Night-Time," which I came up with on the fly four years ago, unaware I'd be singing it hundreds of times over the next few years. At some point, Barrett began asking to change it to "It Is Green Iguana Time" or "Tomato Frog Time" or "Pig Time" or "Fire Lizard Time," and now, every night, it's something new. A few months ago he asked for "Ninja Frog Time," which Mac and Neva loved so much that they ditched their own songs and adopted "Ninja Toad" as their favorite, so I literally sing this same tune three times every night, once for Barrett, with on-the-fly lyrics about the Creature of the Minute, and then twice for Mac and Neva:<br />
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<i>It is toad time, ninja toad time,</i><br />
<i>Hi-YA, kick, and punch</i><br />
<i>You are such a tough amphibian,</i><br />
<i>You eat bad guys for lunch (crunch!)</i><br />
<i>You jump and you flip,</i><br />
<i>You save animals from the road,</i><br />
<i>All the forest creatures love you,</i><br />
<i>You're the sweet Ninja Toad.</i><br />
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I digress. Anything unusual that moves, fascinates and inspires Barrett. He covers our walls with art, mostly pictures of animals, monsters, and aliens, fierce and friendly. He is fascinated with Pokemon. He just loves CREATURES.<br />
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He is full of love. He gives in in heaping measure to anyone who needs it. Today, in an email to his mentor, he had to answer a question from her about what made him special and unique. He thought for a minute and then dictated to me, "<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 16px;">I am special because I can try to juggle. And I am good at drawing and writing and art. And I am good at making friends with babies and kids and being nice to kids that are hurt or sad."</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 16px;"><br /></span>
He really is. He possesses remarkable empathy for someone his age. He is the best friend of everyone in the family, playing alternately with William and Neva and Mac, bridging the gap beautifully. Mac loves him dearly. "Bunnett!"<br />
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Sometimes, I think, the stress of being everyone's playmate gets to him a bit. The other day, in a burst of <i>Home Alone</i>-inspired independence, he yelled down the stairs, "When I grow up and get married, I'm livin' ALONE!"<br />
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On my way upstairs one evening, I met him traveling down to the first-floor bathroom with an armful of Consumer Reports magazines. "I have to poop," he explained, "and I gotta see what's going on in the news." Quite a while later, he emerged with a handful of promotional cardboard coupons he'd torn out of the magazines as he'd sat there on the toilet. "Mom, is this money??"<br />
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Whenever Barrett is naughty, I breathe a little sigh of relief. It's refreshing to know he's not, after all, a perfect child. Because sometimes he's pretty darn close. I sometimes think about the miscarriage I had before him. I wouldn't have had Barrett without that bump in the road. At the time, it seemed purely awful. Now, I would live it again ten times over, if that's what it took to get my Barrett boy.Maeganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11543408131843121754noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3543695605852604126.post-55884610556368585682019-11-17T23:48:00.001-05:002019-11-17T23:55:19.825-05:00Flu Shot FridayWhere else can I brag on my kids, but here?<div><br></div><div>On Wednesday, a few hours before the kids and I were supposed to pick Brian up from work to take him to the airport, he called and asked me to leave early to pick up a package that had been delayed by the gross winter weather. The pickup easily added an extra 50 minutes to the trip. On the way home, we were stopped by unusual, heavy traffic. All told, the kids ended up sitting in the car for <i>four hours straight</i> <i>without one complaint</i>. </div><div><br></div><div>My kids are just plain awesome. Plainly, awesome. So that’s what I’m dealing with here. </div><div><br></div><div>Friday was our second annual Flu Shot Friday, when we collectively get our flu shots, then go do fun things together. I told them that the one who won Toughest Kid Award would be able to pick the movie for that night. The top three rose to the challenge (Mac oblivious to both movie night and impending inoculation). Will and Neva both expressed nervousness, but when the moment came they took it like a BOSS. Barrett won, however, for taking it like a boss AND for not once complaining (“I can’t WAIT to get my flu shot!”). Mac cried a bit but was sunny again in a minute. We all marched out of there with suckers in hands and smiles on faces. I tell you, there’s nothing you can give someone that’s quite like the gift of self-confidence. </div><div><br></div><div><img id="id_e23a_e597_824d_5fff" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/tdxBX3Pv_MZPMNadliM-kLJPB_jKMK9HIJolkmc13_ZIEcdUAzAlb21YsS4" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 392px; height: auto;"><br><i>Before their shot: “Show me your toughest faces!”</i><br></div><div><br></div><div><img id="id_bb73_7b29_a873_6de5" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/tjSQrk_ORzZyHxIOMckHfTA7h87J8eUuPDnnKGIaaPuocqGfwpLjrY08kRg" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 392px; height: auto;"><br><i>After their shots- “Mom, that was like nothin’!” (Will)</i><br><br></div><div>Their reward was a simple lunch at the Burger King playplace next door. “I’ve been wanting to go here for <i>years</i>,” said Will. “Ever since I was a kid.” They played there for three hours. When other kids left, they sat forlorn for a bit- then kept playing. Even after three hours, they would have stayed, but it was time to meet Grandma at Five Below. </div><div><br></div><div>On the way to Five Below, I reminded the kids that we weren’t going there to shop for ourselves. We were supposed to be buying toys and supplies for our Operation Christmas Child boxes. And guess what? Besides Mac, who was oblivious to everything I said, I didn’t get a single complaint about not leaving with a toy. On top of that, I didn’t even get a single <i>request</i> for a toy. They really just wanted to find cool things for their shoebox kids. Will kept approaching me: “Can I get <i>this</i> for him, too, please?” Barrett was upset about not having enough for his boy. When I reminded him of some extra things he had at home that he could contribute, his face brightened. “Hey, thanks, Mom!”</div><div><br></div><div><img id="id_8c69_c6f1_ac92_83f5" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/bC-y1dAjCW2fUJwo3kqq8GzE3E8Uf9MMB_T2lC8UpJ8Ph4NFuheHPPg1EvY" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 392px; height: auto;"><br><i>Trying on superhero masks with Grandma </i></div><div><br></div><div>At home, we heated up the leftover Burger King and watched Zootopia. I just kept staring at their faces while they ate their popcorn. They hobbled up to bed on their little legs, sore from the shots, and I kept telling them how proud they’d made me. </div><div><br></div><div>This was one of those effortlessly happy days. </div>Maeganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11543408131843121754noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3543695605852604126.post-15285608011569278172019-11-13T23:32:00.000-05:002019-12-14T21:42:40.413-05:00Teratoma<div>
It's October 23 at 8 AM, and I'm having an ultrasound. I tell the tech that I'm there for irregular bleeding, some minor symptoms - that I'm worried my IUD might have shifted. I've put this off for too long - for one reason or another, it's been months since I decided to make an appointment.<br />
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A squirt of warm lubricant on my stomach, and there we go. It's strange, experiencing this without a baby on board. Things look different.<br />
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“What’s that big white blob?” I ask. “Is that my uterus?”<br />
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“No,” she replied. “Your uterus is right <i>here.</i>"<br />
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"Can you see the IUD?"<br />
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"Yep, I can. It looks fine."<br />
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"So what <i>is </i>that big, white blob?"<br />
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"Oh - it’s all just part of your pelvis; the doctor will go over it with you. I’m not allowed.”</div>
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Within fifteen minutes, I'm back in the waiting room, reading my book. The doctor won't be in until 9 AM for the follow-up. I'm feeling very grateful Brian is able to watch the kids and guilty that I unexpectedly have this huge block of time to do nothing but relax.<br />
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A stream of easy-listening hits plays through the exam room speakers. The Band Perry sings, “If I die young, bury me in satin...” Two songs later, Joey and Rory: “But you’ll be okay on that first day when I’m gone...” <i>Jeepers</i>. </div>
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Finally, at 9:25, the doctor enters, shakes my hand, and gets right down to business.</div>
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“You’ve got a ten centimeter mass,” he says. “That’s the size of a baby’s head.”</div>
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My mouth drops open. I hold my hands together to form the size of a grapefruit. “<i>This</i> is in my body?”</div>
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He's a young guy, long hair, casually dressed, and his demeanor is something between astonishment and amusement. “Yeah,” he replies with a smile. “It’s most likely a dermoid cyst- they’re full of hair and teeth and stuff like that.”<br />
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I am still slackjawed. "Whaaa-?"<br />
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He explains they'll do blood work today for cancer markers, then schedule surgery as soon as possible. “Because of its size, we won’t be able to remove it laparoscopically,” he says. “We'll make the incision at your bikini line. You’ll be in the hospital for two days.”</div>
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My facial expression has not changed. I cannot believe I have a mass of body parts sitting in my pelvis- completely invisible externally- and now to spend two days in the hospital? “What?” I must sound like an idiot.</div>
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“Some people get out sooner.”</div>
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“How did I not feel this in my body?” I hold out my imaginary grapefruit. </div>
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He shrugs. “You must have a high pain tolerance.”</div>
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He shows me pictures of dermoid cysts. <i>Disgustingly fascinating</i>. Their alternate name is <i>teratoma</i>, from the Greek word <i>teras</i>, which appropriately means “monster.” Apparently, when I was just a plum-sized developing fetus, a germ cell (one of those delightfully versatile cells that can become any type of tissue as the fetus grows) attached itself to the wrong place- in my case, my ovary- and has been riding along ever since. And as ovarian dermoid cysts do, mine had begun growing in earnest during my reproductive years- though later, it occurs to me that it must have put on all its size since Mac’s birth.</div>
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I ask more questions:</div>
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What other symptoms can this type of tumor cause? <i>Bleeding, cramping, bloating, weight gain, nausea, localized pain. </i>(I suppose I <i>have</i> had most of those.)</div>
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Will my health improve after its removal? Laughing- <i>Yes</i>. (This feels like good news, since I haven't even been feeling that bad. Maybe I'll emerge from this with more energy in general.)</div>
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Who will do the surgery? <i>I will- unless it’s cancer, and then we’ll send you to a specialist. </i></div>
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How long do I have to wait to have it removed? <i>As soon as the bloodwork indicates it’s benign, I’ll get you in my books; you’re looking at about two weeks. </i></div>
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Can I have a tubal ligation at the same time? <i>Sure. </i></div>
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Will you be able to save my ovary? <i>We are having a hard time getting a good image of it. I won’t know until I’m in there. </i></div>
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You <i>really </i>don’t think it’s cancerous? <i>I really don’t. </i></div>
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I thought of more later:</div>
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Will I experience other health issues if you have to remove the ovary?</div>
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Will I be able to see the cyst after the surgery?</div>
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Should I not be exercising? What is the likelihood of torsion? Of rupture?</div>
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Driving home, I feel astonishment and bewilderment, as well as relief, horror, and amusement. Everybody laughs about the aunt in <i>My Big Fat Greek Wedding</i>- “Inside the lump he found teeth and a spinal cord.” I feel confident that the cyst will be benign; still, the idea of it is so disgusting. I want it <i>out</i>.<br />
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<i>This doesn't have to be a big deal</i>, I tell myself. <i>I've been carrying on normally. Nothing has to change.</i> But after the appointment, true to the power of suggestion, I discover I can very much feel the mass inside me whenever I move, and it makes me positively squeamish.<br />
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Two days later, after Googling my head off, I am in a more sober headspace. The stupid mass is all I can think about. I've told my parents and Elisabeth, but I don't feel like talking about it to anyone else. I'm now aware that a dermoid cyst grows relatively slowly, less than 2 mm per year, and I find myself focused on the same stupid deduction: <i>this doesn’t add up and it’s probably cancer</i>. The math isn't reassuring: I didn't have this mass less than three years ago, and now it's 10 cm. <br />
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I want those blood work results something <i>fierce</i>.<br />
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The office is working with me to schedule the surgery. Meanwhile, I recognize how much this ordeal is throwing off everyone’s busy lives. My parents, Brian, and Brian’s parents are all figuring out how to take time off. November isn’t exactly a great time for this. We settle on November 19th for the surgery.<br />
<i>Thanksgiving is November 28th. When will I get ready for everyone?</i><br />
<i>Dad turns 60 on November 17th. What are we going to do for him?</i><br />
<i>This is totally derailing Brian's hunting season. </i></div>
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<i>I want those results. </i></div>
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On Friday, I’m packing to leave for a church women’s weekend retreat. I’ve been looking forward to this for months, but today, I do not feel like going. Everything in me just wants to stay home, cuddled on the couch with my kids. I walk down to the barn to close the doors on Brian’s cooling buck, and I find myself crouched down on the concrete floor, crying. <i>I can’t leave. My kids need me. I can’t leave them.</i><br />
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Saturday, October 26 - I'm at the women's weekend retreat. It's the first time our church has planned one of these, and it's amazing. Robyn is teaching us about inductive Bible study when my phone lights up quietly. I grab it and run out the door and up the stairs to the lobby. It’s my doctor. </div>
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“You sound nervous,” he remarks when I answer the phone. “Don’t be. Your tumor markers came back low risk.” I know this test is not conclusive, but he explains it’s the best result I could hope for, until they can conclusively test the mass itself. He seems genuinely relieved for me. “So you’re good to go for the nineteenth,” he says. “Take it easy until then, and call or text me if you have any questions.” </div>
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I feel like dancing. I text Brian. I head back down to catch the end of the teaching. As soon as it’s over, I beeline for my mom. When I tell her the test results are good, I'm surprised to find that I'm crying again, relieved tears this time. <i>I don’t deserve good results, </i>I think. <i>Other friends are fighting cancer, and their families need them, too. </i>But I am so very <i>happy</i>. </div>
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Time to get comfortable with my monster baby on board. It’s gonna be a few short weeks until he comes out. I find that the word <i>teratoma </i>brings to mind the musical <i>Oklahoma! </i>and I discover myself frequently singing that theme song without realizing it.<br />
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Initially, I expect that the mass will constantly be on my mind, but as it turns out, I often forget it's there. I keep working out - Erin, Bayda, and I are completing the Morning Meltdown 100 challenge together - but no powerlifting, per the doctor's orders. Honestly, life seems so hectic and heavy that fitness has taken a backseat in general. I'm thankful for the challenge; without their accountability, I probably wouldn't be working out at all right now. The doctor told me no lifting anything heavier than 20 pounds - he surely doesn't realize I have a needy thug two year old who lives in my arms. I keep wearing Mac around, especially when he's sick and cranky. Life goes on, and people need you. It's reassuring.</div>
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<img alt="" id="id_9623_e657_3029_1909" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/8j7S9SN1mXA_mA3IxDh-cdTOb37vfFDfbURxV9oilVLi8b7lg-1KNAX0oos" style="height: auto; width: 392px;" title="" tooltip="" /><br />
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Other life issues have a friendly little way of popping up during the wait for my surgery, so my mind isn't really on it. Frankly, I find myself looking forward to a good, long, anesthetically-induced sleep. Nana and Papa are coming all the way down from Charlevoix to help with the kids for a few days, and everyone is excited to see them- although last week Barrett spontaneously burst into sobs and, when pressed, explained that he was crying because: "I don't want you to leave - Nana and Papa aren't the same as you."<br />
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Brian's taking several days back in Montana to try to fill his tag, and while he's gone, it's prep time. I need to get my to-do list checked off, and it's about as long as my arm. (I'm keeping my fingers crossed that the recovery will be shorter than predicted because <i>man</i>, these days are busy enough when I'm quick on my feet.) He'll be back just in time for the surgery, and I'm planning for him to find the house immaculate, the laundry - shockingly - 100% done, the boys' school lessons printed and prepped, and everyone's extracurricular bags packed.<br />
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I'm excited to deliver this little monster. </div>
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On Sunday morning, the kids and I drive down to Royal Oak for my blood type and screen at the lab. What an adventure! We park in the second level of the parking deck (cool), take the elevator down to the tunnel (double cool) and find our way to the Imaging Center, where the phlebotomist good-naturedly lines up four extra chairs so that the kids can watch the blood draw. William and Barrett are transfixed and disgusted as they watch the tube fill up with blood. “What are they going to do with that?” William asks. The phlebotomist answers, “Oh, we’re vampires. We eat it like a snack.” He laughs at William’s dubious expression. Barrett throws his head back. “I’m never gonna, ever gonna, EVER gonna do that!”</div>
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With my hospital bracelet double-checked and snapped on for Tuesday’s surgery, we leave the hospital to get ready for Grandpa’s 60th birthday lunch. It’s a great day, to celebrate the best guy ever. </div>
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Monday, the day before the surgery, is a very hectic day. There’s so much to do. My in-laws arrive around 7 PM bringing a car full of groceries and presents for the kids. Brian’s dad and I go over the dropoff/pickup/dropoff/pickup instructions- he’ll be handling taking the kids to school and picking Brian up from the airport while I’m in surgery. I fall into bed that night and have restless dreams- dreams that I have to bring the kids with me to the OR, that no one is there to watch them, that I’m barking instructions at them while they’re administering the gas. I dream that the surgeon tells me he can’t perform the procedure after all. I dream that I’m unexpectedly pregnant. </div>
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On Tuesday, my mom and I drive separate cars to the hospital. We check in at 11, and it’s not long before they take me back to pre-op. My heart is beating a bit more rapidly than usual, but I feel happy to be there and excited to get fixed up. The surgeon greets me and says he’s been looking forward to this case. I imagine that pulling this cyst out is going to be immensely satisfying. </div>
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<img alt="" id="id_cc1e_29a_c5ab_1cfb" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/RbCV4FcG3qyLWQPLQKAspJHRpwS4WzgpYMcTm8-60-DJOzBsSInf1FuMKTY" style="height: auto; width: 392px;" title="" tooltip="" /><br />
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He confirms that I’d like to do the tubal. This, surprisingly, has not been a difficult decision. There was a brief period this summer/fall when I wanted another child. Brian wasn’t sure, and he suggested we wait until the 1st of the year to decide. Then life swooped in and school started and I realized that, for a hundred reasons, our family simply couldn’t handle another member. And then I found out about this tumor, and knew it was the perfect opportunity to take care of the sterilization discussion we’d been having about who/when/why. We are all here; I’m confident of this. I’m looking ahead to experiences I’ll be able to share with the kids, untethered by nap schedules and breastfeeding. I’ve been extremely lucky to have four healthy pregnancies and four rockstar kids. So I tell my surgeon that yes, I’d like to do the tubal. The nurse reads off to me the procedure at hand: <i>exploratory laparotomy, left cystectomy, possible left oopherectomy, bilateral salpingectomy. </i>My mom and Becca come back to say goodbye. My mom, in true mom fashion, asks the surgeon to please make sure that the incision is nice and smooth and does not leave me with a pucker of fat. She asks the anesthesiologist if I can choose a flavor of gas. “Mom,” I groan. She prays for me, and they say goodbye. They wheel me into the operating room and we chat about children, until they give me the gas. Six or seven breaths, and I’m out. </div>
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I wake up in post-op around 2 PM with a scratchy throat. My nurse’s name is Brian, but unfortunately my Brian hasn’t made it back from the airport yet. My first question: “Did they have to remove the ovary?” <i>Yep</i>. My surgeon shows up soon. Everything went well. The cyst, which ended up measuring 12 cm, came out without bursting, but since it was enveloping my ovary, they had to remove it. My tubes are gone and so is the IUD. I feel like I’ve done 100 abdominal workouts in a row. </div>
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It takes several hours for them to procure a room for me. Brian makes it in and we chat for a while before he heads home. My mom is determined to stay with me until I get settled into my room; she doesn’t end up leaving until after 9:30. That first night is rough. Walking from the postop bed to the bed in my room is extremely painful, and it’s hard to control the pain after I get situated. Thankfully, the catheter is still in place, so I stay put all night. </div>
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At midday on Wednesday, they remove the catheter and get me up and moving again. I’m feeling better every hour. Becca and Brian come to visit in the afternoon, and my mom comes in the evening to stay for a few hours. At that point, even though I’ve had no solid food for two days, I’m very bloated and uncomfortable. We walk, walk, walk- more of a shuffle at first, but I get stronger. That night, I sleep wonderfully, the nurses keeping my medications consistent.</div>
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Though I was hoping to be home in one day, I’m so grateful to stay for two. By Thursday afternoon, I feel prepared to go home- although a bit apprehensive about how it’ll be to manage the chaos. I’m hoping that the weekend will see me feeling ready for Monday- and I’ve learned that there’s no school Thanksgiving week, so that will be a nice break, too. My mom and dad plan to bring over a simple Thanksgiving meal; my siblings will be celebrating elsewhere. Maybe this wasn’t such a bad time for this. I’m so relieved it’s done. </div>
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On the way home, Brian and I talk. We talk about hard things and future plans. Somehow, this feels like a new beginning, a resolution of sorts. We sit in the parking lot of the pharmacy and hold hands, expressing ourselves in quiet voices, listening to each other, pausing to get the words right. At this moment, this whole experience feels like a gift. <br />
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A couple days later, on Saturday, I'm not feeling so euphoric. My abdomen is unrecognizable. I can't hold my stomach in; my abdominal muscles are pooling below my belly button, straining at the incision. Standing, sitting, walking hurts. It's all I can do to avoid texting the doctor: "Tell me this gets better!"</div>
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Monday is my postop visit. To say I’m still feeling rough is an understatement. Brian offers to drive me to my appointment, and I take him up on it. The surgeon had said I would be able to drive by Monday, but I can hardly climb into the truck. In the exam room, I tell him that I thought I would bounce back faster than this, and he says he surprised I’m not feeling better. He checks me out and, according to him, everything looks good, and my pathology came back “beautiful.” He tells me to wean off the Norco and gives me the go ahead to start working out- “nothing over 35 pounds.” I look at him askance. Jumping jacks? Squats? “Oh yeah, you can do all that,” he says. There’s absolutely no way, I think. “The more you move, the faster you’ll recover,” he insists. </div>
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After that, I don’t take any more Norco. Throughout that night, Mac is awake and out of bed eight times. Remembering the doctor’s advice, I am up and down the stairs with him all night long. The next day - Tuesday - sees a huge improvement. I don’t know if I was having an adverse reaction to the Norco, or if it’s simply a psychological effect of hearing that everything is fine and I need to move more, but I feel <i>markedly</i> better. I even do a little stretching workout at the end of the day. It feels like working out with someone else’s body. My stomach looks completely different than it did before, and I can’t hold a plank for more than 30 seconds. Still, I feel triumphant. I’m back!</div>
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On Wednesday, I try a cardio workout. It goes great! Burpees and plank-based movements are quite painful so I substitute with jump squats or other moves. </div>
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Thursday, I work out upper body. No problem! It’s Thanksgiving and I find myself in a wistful mood. I miss people. I decide to make cornbread dressing to take to my parents’ that night, just for the smells in the kitchen to make it really feel like Thanksgiving Day. I’m hopping around the kitchen just fine. That night, I set up my phone for a family picture, time the shot, and run into the pose quickly. Ouch! I pull something pretty hard and hobble home. </div>
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On Friday, I’m still hobbling. It’s so uncomfortable to walk. Brian pulls out our Christmas tree and it sits in three disconnected dark green lumps in the corner while the kids beg me to decorate it. I look around at the messy house and the laundry and dishes and all that needs to be decluttered before decorating that tree and I cry in frustration. So much to do and I just want to sit very still and be left alone. So I compromise. I turn on a movie at 10 AM and I sit and watch it with the kids. After that, I feel a bit better, and somehow, we get through that busy, busy day. We even decorate the tree! </div>
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In my frustration, however, I begin a water fast to accelerate healing. I fast through the weekend and up until Monday night (80 hours). Who knows if it helped, but the placebo effect is all I need to tackle Monday and everything that needs to be done. I’m truly feeling better every day. </div>
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The incision still hurts and the skin around it is painful, but finally I’m able to move around just fine and do what I need to do. My abdomen is still pretty puffy, and I can’t wear much more than very soft leggings or the skin above the incision becomes very irritated. Honestly, that’s been one thing that’s thrown me a bit- my puffy stomach. Brian insists it’s swelling, and I hope he’s right! I hate to be vain, but if it’s not, my stomach has drastically changed and I was not expecting that. When I find myself worried about that, I remind myself that this is likely something that would have killed me within the next 5-10 years, if I lived a century ago or lived somewhere where I did not have access to medicine. How many of our friends, I wonder, would be gone right now, without modern medical intervention? I can easily think of a few. We are so, so lucky.<br />
<br />
Three weeks post-op, I can truly say I feel like myself again. I can work out just fine, I can run around the house as usual, and the puffiness and sensitivity is almost gone. My stomach is almost back to its normal appearance, with things settling in nicely without the monster grapefruit pushing them around. I can even wear a pair of jeans for the first time. I feel amazing. I'm still waiting for my final post-op visit at the beginning of January, to get clearance to lift heavy again, but I truly feel like I’m through this. </div>
Maeganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11543408131843121754noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3543695605852604126.post-414813586320479032019-11-13T06:46:00.001-05:002019-11-13T22:21:22.592-05:00William at night<div>As I always do, I went up to check on William again before going to sleep. I turned off the story he was listening to and kissed him good night. Apparently, he had been doing some thinking, and needed to talk- we ended up talking for at least 25 minutes. I wrote down as much of the conversation as I could remember. (There was much more, and I get so frustrated at my memory that can remember lyrics to rap songs I learned in high school and not the random cute things I hear in present day.) When I finally came downstairs, Brian was like, “What the heck were you doing?” <i>Talking to Will.</i> “You should tell him you can talk in the morning!” </div><div><br></div><div>But these things never come up in the day. There’s playtime and school and chores and chaos. There’s no chance to sit and spend half an hour talking to a little boy in the quiet darkness. And really, these nighttime conversations don’t happen often. I usually kiss him goodnight, reassure him that “it’s nowhere close to midnight,” and leave. So when he starts in like this, I pay attention. </div><div><br></div><div><i>So, in short:</i></div><div><br></div>Mom, I’m a little bit afraid of God.<div><br><div>Why, buddy?</div><div><br></div><div>Because you know Mom, He could blow up the world with a snap of His fingers.</div><div><br></div><div>Well, He could, but we know He won’t, because the Bible tells us how the world will end. But it’s good to have a bit of the fear of God. It’s good to remember He watches and weighs the things we do. We obey Him because we know He’s watching us, and we love Him, and we want to do the right thing because we love Him. That’s called the fear of God. Do you member when I accidentally stole those donuts from Meijer? I really didn’t want to haul you guys all the way back into the store to pay for them.</div><div><br></div><div>But if you hadn’t, you would’ve gotten into huge, big trouble! The police would’ve come!</div><div><br></div><div>No, William, nobody even knew. Nobody would’ve even done anything at all. But I knew that God was watching and I knew it was the right thing to do to go back into the store and pay for the donuts. Even if no one else sees what we do, God sees it. And we need to do the right thing if only for the love of God. </div><div><br></div><div>Mom, could God make our house fall down? Could He make my bunkbed lift up off the floor? Could He make the sun explode?</div><div><br></div><div>Yes He could, but he won’t do any of that. God gave us order and scientific laws. The changing of the seasons, the rotation of the earth, these things are predictable and orderly. God is not a little kid like you, you goofball. He’s not going to do crazy things on a whim.</div><div><br></div><div>But God sent his Son. And sons are little kids!</div><div><br></div><div>Oh Will! Jesus grew up, honey, into a man. He was around my age when he died.</div><div><br></div><div>Mom, why would God send people to hell who don’t know they’re supposed to believe in Jesus?</div><div><br></div><div>Will, I don’t think that’s true. I believe that everyone who wants to spend eternity with God will have that choice. The Bible says that God desires that no one should perish, and that God is rich in mercy. We don’t know much about hell. We just know it’s separation from God. And probably some people wouldn’t want to be with God. </div><div><br></div><div>Mom - (referencing a weeks-old conversation) - how can you say that everyone is bad? We are good people! We don’t steal things! And there are really bad people who steal things! How can you say that everyone is bad?</div><div><br></div><div>Well buddy, we all have the potential for evil in our hearts. For some people, one little bad choice leads to another one, and then one even bigger, and before you know it, you’re doing all the wrong things. Other people were never taught how to do the right thing. What if you were born into a family where there was fighting and drugs and violence? And you didn’t have a daddy or mommy to teach you the right thing to do? This is why we need to fear God, and do the right thing ourselves, and have mercy on other people, and show them the love of Jesus because maybe they’ve never seen it before. You and I are no better than anyone else.</div><div><br></div><div>Mom, everyone says that the Bible is worth more than diamonds. A Bible costs like twenty bucks. How could anyone say it’s worth more than diamonds? Why don’t you wear a Bible on your finger instead?</div><div><br></div><div>Honey, it’s not the paper it’s printed on, it’s the words inside. They are precious and special. They show us the character of God and they help us to know the right thing to do. If I was in a jail cell - remember we read about Corrie ten Boom today? - if I was in jail like her, and I could either have my diamond ring or a Bible, I would pick the Bible. That would bring me a lot more comfort. The Bible tells us what God is like. That makes it really precious.</div></div><div><br></div><div>Mom, you know God could crush a rock like nothin’- He could even crush a diamond. Mom, can God do anything?</div><div><br></div><div>Nope. He can’t sin- He can’t lie- He can’t change. </div><div><br></div><div>Mom, when did God make the world? </div><div><br></div><div>I don’t know, Will. The Bible indicates that the Earth existed in the beginning. I don’t know when He made it. We can look at rocks to figure out how old they are. </div><div><br></div><div>Mom, rocks are so cool. Is my crystal rock worth a TON of money? </div><div><br></div><div>It’s probably worth some money, yeah - I don’t know about a TON, though. Maybe you’ll be a geologist someday, Will - a scientist who studies rocks. </div><div><br></div><div>Mom, I think I know what instrument I want to play. The clarinet.</div><div><br></div><div>That would be really awesome, Will. But first you have to learn how to play the piano. </div><div><br></div><div>I already know how to play the piano! </div>Maeganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11543408131843121754noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3543695605852604126.post-16191972853503897452019-11-11T19:20:00.001-05:002019-11-13T22:20:14.597-05:00Veterans DayToday the kids were reminded of their family heritage of military service and the gratitude they owe to all those who have sacrificed for our freedom. I’d had bigger plans for the 100th anniversary of Veterans Day- I wanted to take my grandpa out to lunch - but Mac had a fever and Neva was coming down with it, too. It was, as Barrett put it, “pouring snow,” and swimming lessons were canceled, so we hunkered down, rescheduled with Grandpa for Friday, and celebrated at home.<div><br><div>The kids are learning about monuments and famous American landmarks. In a moment of exhaustion, after spending the night awake with Mac, I asked the boys to build some Duplo monuments to honor our veterans while I napped with the sick younger two upstairs. They were proud of the result. Barrett built two flags- one flag to represent the veterans who had died, and the American flag for the ones still living, and William (for lack of military figures) used two construction workers to represent “the ones who are separated from their families.” <i>That’s all of them, buddy.</i></div><div><i><br></i></div><div>It’s so hard to convey these things to children. I try my best. I asked the boys if they would want to be soldiers when they grow up. “No,” said Barrett, as he chewed his taco. “Actually, yes.” </div></div><div><br></div><div><img id="id_af83_8107_3cb4_e430" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/12Ru7PotE5pPfa17L6dFul8wkW386YK1KH9SdhXK0i5IKfzmGP0ZIhsoH5c" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 392px; height: auto;"><br><br><img id="id_ba9d_bfe1_86d3_448a" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/DBNEkRIHhdZrGcWywifm04ht_ASwQ24xOVsXCEoLJ3w2Pav-fxSRQ2g_w7M" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 392px; height: auto;"><br><br><img id="id_e82d_dcc9_64b1_bee7" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/wGFBILh4I58rbMNeuZQK7lbfn8divmFkfvhvY9Nm8r2TGVf7LkZuIMS3mcA" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 392px; height: auto;"><br><br><img id="id_df43_c630_f816_d74c" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/BnIofs3b2pmlWeZLlV6hsesjDcow3WQ_X05tR1T4wKxVnylF211L-SbVuWI" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 392px; height: auto;"><br><br><br></div>Maeganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11543408131843121754noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3543695605852604126.post-56023153594479085922019-11-08T09:14:00.000-05:002019-11-13T22:19:58.837-05:00This girl!This morning, Neva came down into the bathroom, where I was getting ready for the day, and asked me to do her hair. I unbraided it and asked her how she would like it styled. <div><br></div><div>“Two big braids! Like Auntie did!” I love braiding her hair. We sat on the floor and talked while I put her hair into two French braids. </div><div><br></div><div>While I was finishing up the second braid, I remembered that the style Auntie had given her had been different. <i>She’s not gonna like it</i>, I thought. I braced myself for confrontation. </div><div><br></div><div>“You look so cute,” I told her. She really did. “Check it out,“ I said, turning her toward the mirror. </div><div><br></div><div>She looked at her hairdo, turning her head from side to side. She regarded me with disappointment. “I really don’t like it at all, mom.” She paused for a good measure, and smiled. “I <i>love </i>it.” Oh, you stinker! I laughed so hard. </div><div><br></div><div><img id="id_120e_75dd_43e1_1134" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/31pDIqX6Kychgij5QKICkt8O2xXJrYz4eqVXNDtNK0oNgswq9feL9pus3ns" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 392px; height: auto;"><br><br>We are working on declining food more respectfully. She often comes to the table for a meal and promptly declares, “I am NOT eating that.” The other day, I was plain floored. “How did it <i>ever </i>become okay to say that, Neva?” Oh man. Last night, after picking tiny pieces of tomato out of her Spanish rice, she gave up. “Mom, I’m just not eating this rice. It’s too potatoey.” Nevertheless, she’s my best eater. (Ha! What does that tell you about my kids’ eating?)<br></div><div><br></div><div>Lately, every day, when I’m working in the kitchen, she asks me, “Mom, do you wanna play house?” Up until this week, I’ve usually said, “I’m sorry honey- mommy’s getting dinner ready, and I can’t play.” But the other day I thought, <i>what the heck</i>. “Sure.”</div><div><br></div><div>“Okay,” she replied happily. “You be the mom, and I’ll be the kid.” Oh my goodness. Apparently, playing house simply involves me working around the kitchen <i>as per usual</i>, talking to her in a more exaggerated “grown-up” voice. One of her baby dolls is her pretend little sister, and she takes care of her while I work. Her pretend dad is a mailman. And that’s all that is required to make Neva happy! </div>Maeganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11543408131843121754noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3543695605852604126.post-43538671341457411052019-11-07T06:11:00.001-05:002019-11-07T09:21:41.401-05:00TodayYesterday at lunch, Neva looked in disgust at her plate. Among the different foods I’d given her was a small serving of raw cauliflower. “Mom, I’m never gonna eat that white broccoli.”<div><br></div><div>——<br><div><br></div><div>On the way home from church last night Will asked me, “What instrument would you want to play?”</div><div><br></div><div>“The violin,” I told him. “What about you?”</div><div><br></div><div>“I can’t decide,” he lamented after a few minutes. I described the different types of orchestra instruments to him, and all the non-orchestra instruments I could think of, but no bites. Finally, I said, “I could see you playing the trombone, Will!” </div><div><br></div><div>“Okay, I’ll play the trombone,” he agreed happily. He was quiet for a while, then said, “Mom, when I grow up I’m gonna invent an invention with a bunch of horns on top and the strings on the bottom and big cymbals on the sides and I’m gonna call it a <i>zingey.</i> And it will play whatever music I want!” </div></div><div><br></div><div>I laughed. “It sounds like you’ve been reading some Dr. Seuss.”</div><div><br></div><div>——</div><div><br></div><div>Mac is lately saying, “Sank-oo, Mom.” Very clearly, very enthusiastically, for everything I do for him. It’s plainly adorable. </div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div>I love these kids so much. I love their kind hearts, their good intentions, their curiosity, their innocence. They are playful, inventive, forgiving, and thoughtful. Yesterday William kept singing a worship song: “Even when I don’t see it, You’re working. Even when I don’t feel it, You’re working- You never stop, You never stop working.” Every time I’d hear it, I’d lift my head a little higher. These are the kids I dreamed of having, and on homeschool days that run fairly smoothly I find myself imagining what we will be able to do with all the time we have ahead together. Barrett wants to see the Statue of Liberty; William wants to visit California. And I think, well, there’s no reason we can’t do that together. Let’s go. </div>Maeganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11543408131843121754noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3543695605852604126.post-66566348539735311822019-11-06T06:42:00.001-05:002019-11-06T06:42:07.070-05:00Eight extra handsAbout a month into the school year, Barrett’s teacher told me that Barrett and another little boy, Garrison, had become good friends. “Garrison is very quiet,” she said, “but they have been inseparable.”<div><br></div><div>When I got home, I asked Barrett, “So, you and Garrison are friends?”</div><div><br></div><div>“Yeah,” he replied. “He was all alone and no one was playing with him, so I asked him if he wanted to be my friend.”</div><div><br></div><div>I got down onto my knees and hugged Barrett, tears in my eyes. “That was so <i>kind</i>, buddy,” I said. “That was like <i>Jesus</i>.” His eyes reflected my pride and happiness. </div><div><br></div><div>I have felt bursts of impatience, wishing I could do more to help others. I want to get out of my cozy home - away from my homeschool-mom-angst - and grapple with true need and despair. But my place is here. </div><div><br></div><div>And that day, it was demonstrated more powerfully than ever before that my time is not being wasted. I couldn’t have impacted that little boy, but my son <i>could</i>. And he <i>did</i>. I am (oh God, I hope I am) training - striving to train - four more people to work hard, to be kind, and to follow Jesus in such a committed way that they are willing to live their lives for him and not for themselves.</div><div><br></div><div>One day, God permitting, I will be able to help <i>out there</i>. Oh, there is so much <i>need</i>. But when I feel that frustrated longing, I remind myself that on that future day, I will hopefully know that four others are doing the same, in other parts of the world. My eight extra hands. </div>Maeganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11543408131843121754noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3543695605852604126.post-67348961941251878632019-11-01T07:14:00.001-04:002019-11-01T07:14:06.907-04:00“these dark days of autumn rain are beautiful as days can be”Oh November, here you are. <div><br></div><div>I am succumbing more readily than ever to the season’s insistence to hunker down and disappear. Time used to be that I would blast the Christmas carols come October first, quickened with new energy for the coming season. That’s not me, this year. That girl has vanished. Someone similar to Robert Frost’s “November Guest” has replaced her. I do not like the switch. </div><div><br></div><div>There was no harvest party or fun activity last night for the kids. We stayed in while the snow blew. I could tell they were disappointed; that seems to be the reaction I elicit from them routinely now. </div><div><i>What are we doing today? </i></div><div><i>School, chores, playtime. </i></div><div><i>Oh, mannnn.</i></div><div><br></div><div>I have such a fervent desire to focus solely on the positive. I can so easily find it. I can shove away the negative, bury it for later, tell myself I’m crazy, and remind myself to be grateful, for heaven’s sake. And yet, when I find myself cracking more than mending, and someone else confesses that they are struggling, just like me, it is comforting. Maybe someone would like to hear that same reassurance from me?</div><div><br></div><div>Oh, I know that no kind person would wish their struggle upon a friend. I suppose I am simply justifying my impulse to complain this morning. I’m currently making my way through Jordan Peterson’s <i>12 Rules for Life</i>; his pragmatic acknowledgement of the struggle of human existence is appropriate for these days of wading through a routine I cannot manage. </div><div><br></div><div>Let’s pull out of this dive, shall we? This November is going to be markedly different than prior years’. I have a single goal for this month, and that is to finish our family’s photo book. </div><div><br></div><div>Okay, I have a thousand other goals- AS ALWAYS- but that is primary. </div><div><br></div><div>Secondarily: patience and joy. </div><div><br></div><div>But the photo book is definitely more important. </div>Maeganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11543408131843121754noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3543695605852604126.post-35444148704884181052019-10-25T07:06:00.001-04:002019-10-25T15:01:54.440-04:00My tiny girlYesterday, on the way to pick the boys up from school, Neva told me that she had watched a Netflix show, a show that I had prohibited after viewing about ten minutes and finding the main character to be really unpleasant. “The ladybug girl isn’t bad,” she declared. “She just doesn’t want to be friends with that other girl.”<br />
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“Oh yeah?”</div>
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“Yeah, she’s not bad, Mom. I watched the <i>whole show</i>.”</div>
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“With whom?!”</div>
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“Yeah!”</div>
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I think she might have suckered Brian into playing it for her. </div>
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And last night, when Brian came home with a beautiful ten-point buck, she ran outside to see, then came back to tell me, “MOM. Daddy <i>caught</i> a deer!”<br />
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——<br />
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<i>The other day:</i></div>
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<i><br /></i>
Neva: “Mom, I really hate to tell you this, but-”<br />
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Mac: “Mom!”</div>
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Neva: “Mac! I’m trying to talk to Mommy! Ok, Mom. Mom, I know you’re not going to like this, but-”</div>
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Mac: “Mom!”</div>
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Neva: “MAC! Please stop! I’m trying to tell Mommy something! Mom, I really hate to tell you this, but-”</div>
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Mac, now smirking with mischief: “Mom.”</div>
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Neva: “Mac! You’ve got to stop distrupting me! I’m trying to talk to Mommy! Mom, I know you’re not going to like this, but-”</div>
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Mac: “Mom!”</div>
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Neva: “MAC!”</div>
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Me: “Neva, ignore him! For goodness’ sake! What do you need to tell me?”<br />
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Neva (grinning impishly, looking out at the sunshine, grasping for something to say): “Ummm, it’s probably going to rain.”<br />
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——<br />
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Today, while wiping her after going potty:<br />
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Neva: Mom, I HATE bears.<br />
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Me: What? You don't hate bears, Neva.<br />
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Neva: I don't hate the Berenstain Bears. I hate real bears. I HATE them.<br />
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Me: Oh, honey, bears are really important. Without bears, there would be TOO many elk and TOO many deer. They'd eat too many resources and they'd get sick.<br />
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Neva: I HATE bears. They want to EAT me.<br />
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Me: Neva, you don't need to worry about bears. They don't live anywhere near here.<br />
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Neva: No, Mom! The <i>panda </i>bears! They are SO dangerous.<br />
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Me: Neva, panda bears eat plants! And they don't live anywhere near here!<br />
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Neva: Mom! they don't live in <i>Africa space!</i> They live right next to our HOUSE!<br />
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——</div>
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She has this cute little valley girl way of talking. The other day I heard her express decidedly, in the tone of voice you might hear a teenager using to describe her manicure, “I LOVE Jesus. I LOVE the Lord.” And can this girl TALK. She talks pretty much nonstop, and it’s delightful to listen in. She intersperses her observations with nonsense words and phrases, just to keep a steady stream going. I can hear exactly what she’s thinking at every moment. And a lot of the commentary takes place in front of- or passing- a mirror. She acts like she’s talking to someone, but what she’s really doing is verifying that she is successfully pulling off an imitation of a <i>big girl</i>. </div>
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She mothers Mac and dotes on him, except for the times when she gets a mischievous gleam in her eyes and decides its time to reestablish the pecking order. Overall, she’s a wonderful big sister and often remarks, “This is my baby brother. He’s SO cute. I just LOVE him. I’m just going to KEEP him.”</div>
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She literally sings my praises. I often hear her singing,</div>
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<i>My mommy is the best,</i></div>
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<i>The best there ever was,</i></div>
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<i>My mommy is the best, </i></div>
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<i>And I love her just because</i></div>
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<i>She takes care of me and loves me and [insert extra reasons]</i></div>
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<i>She’s the greatest mommy that I have ever seen!</i></div>
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<i>She’s the greatest mommy that I have ever seen-</i></div>
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<i>(Repeat refrain indefinitely)</i></div>
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I certainly don’t deserve that, but do I love it?! I do. </div>
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The little bit of love I pour into Neva returns one-hundredfold. She, unfortunately, does not get a lot of attention from me. Between Mac’s constant shenanigans and homeschooling the oldest two, she has to entertain herself much of the day. And she really does a wonderful job of it, even though she would love to spend hours playing with ME. She’s such a good girl, and I’m so thankful for her. </div>
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<img alt="" id="id_bf0b_b80d_f5b1_e45" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/VgewVS4K4ZSdpEHuA8AC_dBO0P1fdzOF6QUtsO0RQHnOKFZnv6GyYkIfk-o" style="height: auto; width: 392px;" title="" tooltip="" /><br />
<i>Back in Montana, in our “sister shirts” from Aunt Kathleen</i><br />
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Maeganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11543408131843121754noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3543695605852604126.post-58762629979658529792019-10-21T13:11:00.001-04:002019-10-23T09:01:36.149-04:00Big Girls Don’t CryAt the end of last week, I was flying around the kitchen, pulling dinner together for the instant pot, and went to thaw a quart of frozen chicken stock. I threw it into the microwave and hurriedly entered “666” (for seven minutes and six seconds) and that number literally <i>broke the microwave</i>. The light went on, the timer began counting down, but it just stopped heating.<br>
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As I write this, I confess to hiding in a corner of the house for a moment’s peace. It’s lunchtime, and I hear Mac screaming in displeasure, a bite of turkey sitting unchewed in his cheek. The past couple of weeks have been a bit of a struggle… a string of those days that you look around and think, <i>my life’s work is cooking food people don’t want to eat, teaching people who don’t want to learn, and cleaning a house that never looks clean. </i>Sometime after returning from Montana, I began an ambitious list of five and ten-year goals, items like learning new languages, attaining new fitness goals, being involved in new ministries, and single-handedly accomplishing renovation projects. The days that followed were so laughably frenzied, culminating in arm-length lists of “bare minimum tasks” I had not accomplished, that I have not returned to even <i>view</i> that list of goals. Furthermore, I honestly don’t even know if “shoot-for-the-moon-to-land-among-the-stars” is the right approach for my next ten years, or if I should just set the bar low enough so that I feel like a smashing success if everyone gets their flu shots before Christmas and no one starves. </div>
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I am learning when to press on, and when to let go. It’s not easy. </div>
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Nevertheless, there are always victories. Always. Even when for every victory you can count four shortcomings, failures, or tasks undone… There are always victories. So here are mine:</div>
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1. I saw Neva standing in the mirror, whispering to herself, ”You are perfect just the way you are.”</div>
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2. William wanted a bedtime snack of leftover turkey last night. This is huge, for my picky big boy. In fact, since our return, I’ve tightened up our diet enough that all the kids are happily eating healthy food they’d normally resist. </div>
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3. I took the kids to the park two times last week. We collected brilliant leaves, made new friends, and raced each other up slides. It was less than fifty degrees and all of us were so warm from running that we ditched our coats. </div>
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4. I worked out almost every day. Strength training? Not much of that, but I did <i>something</i>. I was considering my lack of lifting a failure, until I realized that the workouts I <i>had</i> done would’ve been incomprehensibly strenuous for me five years ago.</div>
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5. I beat Brian in chess!</div>
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6. Will is reading so well. Mac and Neva are playing together so nicely. Barrett is obsessed with porgs and snapping shrimp. At night the kids are asking for a made-up song called “Porg Time,” about fictitious Star Wars birds who befriend Chewbacca. </div><div>7. Little by little, I’m tackling the overdue deep cleaning projects that have been under my skin. The basement is mopped and reorganized, the homeschool room has been purged and re-sorted, and the bathroom floor is finally looking new again since I discovered the right product for the weird, white, pebbly plastic tile that was looking so grungy. The Honda upholstery looks fresh, the pantry has been resorted, and I think we are over the post-vacation laundry hump. There is still so much to be done. One bite at a time. </div><div>8. We are in Week 9 of school. I haven’t quit yet. </div>
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See? In five years, when I read back over this post, I’ll laugh about the microwave, smile at our successes, and wonder what on earth could’ve possibly been wrong this month. </div>
Maeganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11543408131843121754noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3543695605852604126.post-16390911769257402762019-10-14T21:26:00.001-04:002019-10-14T21:26:35.305-04:00Breaking out the big guns. “Mom!” Neva wails, running into the bathroom, where I’m putting away laundry, getting ready for the day. “Barrett’s not sharing his mints! He’s not letting me eat them!”<div><br></div><div>“Where are YOUR mints?” I ask her, knowing the answer. </div><div><br></div><div>“I ate them already! I ate them one-at-a-time!” HER mints, which were distributed as equally as those of her brothers, have been gone for weeks. It took two days for hers to disappear. </div><div><br></div><div>“Honey, Barrett is saving his.”</div><div><br></div><div>“He’s not! He’s not, Mom! He won’t give me ANY!”</div><div><br></div><div>“That’s because HE wants to eat his own mints, Neva. He’s saving them so HE can enjoy them.”</div><div><br></div><div>“No! He’s NOT, Mom! He hasn’t eaten any in a WEEK!” To Barrett and Neva, a “week” is the greatest conceivable measure of time. It’s longer than a year. (Definable lengths of time have no basis in their reality. I often hear phrases like, “It hasn’t been my birthday in a WEEK.” “Ten minutes to put away all these clothes? That’s like, one second!” “Forty-five minutes?! That’s like an hour!”)</div><div><br></div><div>“Honey, he doesn’t have to share them if he doesn’t want to. YOU got your own mints; you ate yours. He wants to eat his.”</div><div><br></div><div>“Well, fine,” she concedes rather maturely. She shrugs, tosses her hair over her shoulder, and then continues in three-year old babble. “But I think it’s inappropriate. And if you don’t care about me—” another pause— “well then, I’m not going to be on the girls’ team anymore. I’m on the boys’ team.” She blinks and looks at me defiantly. </div><div><br></div><div>I give her my most exaggerated shocked-high-school-girl chin-drop gasp. “No. You’re not going to be on the girls’ team anymore, Neva?!”</div><div><br></div><div>She breaks into a big, little-girl smile. “I’m just kidding. I’m on your team, Mom.”</div>Maeganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11543408131843121754noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3543695605852604126.post-79300934514648384082019-10-12T16:42:00.001-04:002019-11-04T06:17:20.222-05:00 Mister Mac<div style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">
<img alt="" id="id_308f_9f72_118c_8825" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/Hob2CKXkg10PNqvDuJ4qvQ0frWRKE7ZbYMjds6fxN4o4pZkfmcdJxtKS5Iw" style="height: auto; width: 392px;" title="" tooltip="" /><br /><br /><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Talking to Mac, who’s cranky after a bath:</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“Can I hug you?” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“<b>No</b>!” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“Can I kiss you?” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“<b>No</b>!” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“Can I tickle you?” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“<b>No</b>!” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“Can I squeeze you?” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“<b>No</b>!” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“Can I love you? </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">“No— yeah.”</span></div>
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Mac can make the <i>d </i>sound only at the beginning of a word, not at the end. So if he’s not hot, he’s “coln,” and when he greets Brian at the door, he says, “Hey, Dan.” When he’s impressed, he says, slowly, “<b><i>Oh my wern</i></b>.” When he’s tired, he asks, “Go t’ ben, Mom?”</div>
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Somehow, he knows Michael Jackson’s song <i>Bad</i> and sings it often, making up his own words to suit his mood. Because he can’t pronounce the final consonant in “bad,” and doesn’t know any other words (so they come out in an indistinguishable stream), it can be hard to catch. </div>
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For “more bread:”</div>
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“More bren, more bren, no lo lo bren.”</div>
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For “I’m mad:”</div>
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“I’m man, I’m man, no lo lo man.” </div>
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Etc. </div>
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He calls Neva, girl, and William and Barrett are “guys.” (He never calls Neva by her name. Only “girl.”) “Tell Neva ‘thank you,’ Mac.” “K’ou, girl.”</div>
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He loves to sing. He’ll mouth the words to songs in the car, after telling me to ‘watch this’- “Mom, ah dis!”</div>
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He sings “Twinkle Little Star” like this:</div>
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“Keno, keno, keno tar</div>
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Up buh buh buh buh buh high.”</div>
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At night, he asks for the “Neva Mae” song: “Ah Mae?” He wants the same thing Neva has, wants to do the same thing she does. Sometimes he requests the alphabet song first: “C-D-D?”</div>
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He’s in the thick of learning how to speak English, and I am holding onto this phase tightly with both hands. I am going to miss it with all my heart. </div>
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“Broke-it, this, mama.”</div>
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“Have-it, this?”</div>
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“Eat-it, this?”</div>
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“Hold-you, me?”</div>
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“Oh, ‘licious!” (delicious)</div>
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“Oh, shoes!”</div>
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“Oh, un-wear!” (underwear)</div>
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“Lap!”</div>
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“Hand!”</div>
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He replaces the <i>w </i>at the beginning of words with <i>l</i>. </div>
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After potty: “Mom, I lipe?”</div>
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In the car: “Down, lindow?”</div>
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In August, he took to potty training like a fish to water. He’s had the fewest accidents of any of the kids, which I didn’t expect. (This is probably because anything his siblings do, he wants to do, too, and just as expertly.) He quickly- almost magically- transitioned, upon turning two, from being a pretty cranky guy, to such a pleasant little fellow. He trucks along at a good jog to keep up with everyone, climbing and jumping when they do, swinging his fat arms as he runs. </div>
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He loves to be a big helper. After he picks up toys or puts food into Bo’s bowl, I gush over him: “Mac! That was so nice of you!” “Nice-you,” he repeats. Sometimes, he praises himself before anyone else does. “Nice-you!”</div>
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We have played this game over the past month, but I think it’s ended. He doesn’t seem to like it anymore. I’d tell him, “<b><i>I</i></b> kiss!” And then I’d kiss his cheek. He’d reply in his husky little voice, “No, <b><i>I</i></b> kiss!” He’d wrap his arms around my head and pull my face in to kiss my cheek. We’d go back-and-forth like that seven or eight times: “<i><b>I</b></i> kiss!” “No, <b><i>I</i></b> kiss!” Can you imagine a better game? I’m so glad I just wrote it down. I never want to forget it. </div>
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Finally, I never want to forget how each night, in the dark, I hear him tell me <i>I love you:</i> “Luh loo, Mom.”</div>
Maeganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11543408131843121754noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3543695605852604126.post-36643802487658139322019-10-12T00:22:00.001-04:002019-10-13T20:48:27.046-04:00My big boy<div style="caret-color: rgb(69, 69, 69); color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">William, at seven-and-a-half, is a lot like me as a kid. A LOT. Right down to the poor eyesight and bumpy knees. I am right on his wavelength. Still, that doesn’t mean I’m not baffled by his random fears and eccentricities at times (as I’m sure my parents were baffled by mine). Recently he’s developed a fear of midnight. “Is it midnight?” - he’ll ask, as soon as the sky is dark. “Is it midnight?” - he’ll persist, when I check in him after bedtime. I’ve sat down with him <i><b>numerous</b></i> times to analyze and neutralize this fear. I’ve drawn pictures, gotten out the classroom clock, and had him unknowingly stay up until midnight having fun with friends, only to say, “See? Midnight won’t hurt you.” It persists. The other day he sat bolt upright over his Cheerios. “Is there a mid<i>day</i>?!” And riding home the other night commented that the worst part of a storm was “probably the <i>mid</i>storm.” </div><div style="caret-color: rgb(69, 69, 69); color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"><br></div><div style="caret-color: rgb(69, 69, 69); color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">I remember laying in bed at night as a kid, afraid my parents would go to sleep and I would be the only one in the house awake. William struggles with the same fear. For some reason, he can’t fall asleep for at least an hour and a half after I put him to bed. I give him a flashlight and books, and play children’s audio dramas for him. I keep promising I’ll be back to check on him once more. He wants to know I’ll check on him when he is sleeping. He is such a good little boy to lay there, holding his blanket to his face, looking up at the ceiling, waiting for sleep. </div><div style="caret-color: rgb(69, 69, 69); color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"><br></div><div style="caret-color: rgb(69, 69, 69); color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">He sees the world in black and white. He likes knowing the rules, following the rules, enforcing the rules. He asks me several times before doing something he’s patently allowed to do, wanting the reassurance that YES, you can go upstairs to put socks on. He hates crying; he seems to consider it shameful. When he sets his jaw and blinks hard, I know it’s time for a quiet talk.</div><div style="caret-color: rgb(69, 69, 69); color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"><br></div><div style="caret-color: rgb(69, 69, 69); color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">He loves Bo deeply. He pets him every day, and when Bo presses against him for more affection, William laughs and says, “Bo, I’ve been petting you all day long!” But Will always obliges. He likes to rub my back and play with my hair too, because he knows I love it. At night, when I go to check on him, I sit on the edge of the bed and talk to him, and he reaches over to rub my back, “so you’ll stay with me and you won’t be able to leave!”</div><div style="caret-color: rgb(69, 69, 69); color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"><br></div><div style="caret-color: rgb(69, 69, 69); color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">He loves tickle fights. He loves to initiate them, usually at the most inopportune moments. I’ll be holding a cup of coffee, or cutting an apple, or deep in thought and focus, when I feel fingertips abruptly shoved into my armpit. Cue deep annoyance (which, to be fair, is a reaction he loves to elicit from all of us). One day I’ll look back on this and laugh (okay, I’m laughing to myself now), and I’ll think, I should’ve been a little more lighthearted and fun-loving, but as it is, I don’t handle being tickled very well, and I usually respond with, “Gah! William! that’s enough!” I keep a mental tally of how many times I rebuff his tickling advances and how many times I laugh and try to tickle him back… I try to keep the tally fairly even.</div><div style="caret-color: rgb(69, 69, 69); color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"><br></div><div style="caret-color: rgb(69, 69, 69); color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">He has his Shelf of Treasures. This is an important aspect of William. These treasures are broken toys, interesting pieces of debris found in parking lots, spent gift cards, shiny objects, rocks and shells. He is the proud curator of a museum of things saved from the garbage can. He doesn’t really ever look at the objects; he just enjoys knowing they’re there. Mixed among all of this are some truly cool things, like a geode he found in Montana and a Petoskey stone he got from Uncle Mike. He often approaches me with a communal object - Neva’s necklace, a Star Wars book – “Mom, makes me want to put this on my shelf.”</div><div style="caret-color: rgb(69, 69, 69); color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"><br></div><div style="caret-color: rgb(69, 69, 69); color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">He loves saving his money more than he likes spending it. He was in the habit of promising his siblings a certain amount of money to do favors for him – bribing Barrett to wrestle with him or Neva to let him play with her toy- then he would, for the rest of the day, threaten to withhold the payment if they did not continue doing other things for him. I put a stop to that.</div><div style="caret-color: rgb(69, 69, 69); color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"><br></div><div style="caret-color: rgb(69, 69, 69); color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">The other day, halfway through a game of Long Cow: “Hey! Is this a CARD game?!”</div><div style="caret-color: rgb(69, 69, 69); color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"><br></div><div style="caret-color: rgb(69, 69, 69); color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">He made me laugh so hard a few weeks ago. We had just picked out our Halloween/harvest party costumes from Goodwill, and he was so intrigued that his Revvit costume covered up his face so effectively. He began concocting a plan to go to his school harvest party <i>as a new, different student</i>. “Mom,” he said excitedly, “I’ll go in with my costume on, and you’ll say, ‘This is Dan. We just moved to town and we go to this school now.’” He paused considerably. “Oh, you’ll have to say, ‘We just visited William, and he’s sick, so he won’t be here, and this is Dan.’” Another pause. “And Mom, you can wear your sunglasses- and different earrings- and your rocketship shirt” (a t-shirt from my Dearborn 10k with Hannah) “and you can tell them that your name is <i>Kelly</i>. And <i>no</i> one will recognize you. And you can tell them that our last name is Slaze.......dird.” The last name was devised so arbitrarily that I could not stop laughing, even later when I related the story to some friends. </div><div style="caret-color: rgb(69, 69, 69); color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"><br></div><div style="caret-color: rgb(69, 69, 69); color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">Today we were slogging through some online discussion board work (“slogging” is being generous- it was an exercise in patience- Will does not love making his virtual academy contributions) and after at least an hour, we were on the very last question. “Okay, Will. One more. Stay with me. ‘What is subtraction, in your own words? Give an example using apples.’” His eyes were already viewing distant planets before I’d reached the end of the question. I rephrased it, helping him define subtraction, then said, “Now, tell me a story to illustrate subtraction, using apples.” (Every other kid had entered something like: “Four apples take away two is two apples.”) William instantly perked up. “Okay,” he said, “four apples walk into a haunted castle. Suddenly, a live skeleton jumps out and grabs two and eats them! Now there are two left. They run down a dark passageway, but it’s not a passageway! It’s a monster’s mouth! He eats them! CHOMP! Now there are zero.” </div><div style="caret-color: rgb(69, 69, 69); color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"><br></div><div style="caret-color: rgb(69, 69, 69); color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">When he was very little- three years old- he decided he was afraid of swings. “I don’t want one to break,” he told me. </div><div style="caret-color: rgb(69, 69, 69); color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"><br></div><div style="caret-color: rgb(69, 69, 69); color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">“Honey,” I assured him, “swings are strong. They won’t break underneath you.” </div><div style="caret-color: rgb(69, 69, 69); color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"><br></div><div style="caret-color: rgb(69, 69, 69); color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">“Well,” he replied, “I saw a broken one, once. SOMEBODY was swinging on it when it broke.” I was dumbfounded. Since then, he has not wanted to swing- until this year. Now, we swing side by side at the park, and I’m so proud of him for moving past that. I know that he will continue to conquer each and every fear he faces- in his own time. You can’t rush a William (or a Maegan). You just encourage, and wait. </div><div style="caret-color: rgb(69, 69, 69); color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"><br></div><div style="caret-color: rgb(69, 69, 69); color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">Will’s favorite things to do are: reading in the book nook, playing LEGOs, eating chips, watching football with Daddy, helping Daddy work outside, wrestling with Barrett, playing Beyblades and checkers with anyone who will join him, watching movies, talking to me, and playing VIDEO GAMES. He lives for video games. </div><div style="caret-color: rgb(69, 69, 69); color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"><br></div><div style="caret-color: rgb(69, 69, 69); color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">He is just like me, in so many ways, and I’m so delighted to be able to understand and relate to his quirks. I’m so curious to discover what he will do and become. It’s such a profound privilege to be his mom- his, and Barrett’s, and Neva’s, and Mac’s mom. Will, if you read this someday, I hope you know that you are- and have always been- and always will be- <i>very much loved. </i></div><div style="caret-color: rgb(69, 69, 69); color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"><i><br></i></div><div style="caret-color: rgb(69, 69, 69); color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"><img id="id_6224_a51c_f8a4_c638" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/LExiV2H7URQkY55sH7pcmd1sXoAzWl8oCUIQYKtA0Dwq6MqrS8uzBJeYTJ4" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 392px; height: auto;"><br>His favorite horse at the Shelby carousel, named “Ben”<br><br><img id="id_d2eb_3944_6e35_13a5" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/ay62GiuVftVsFW5YrcvLZwdjHpER4Xhbd6cfZPIIbi8g-h1U0MQfHC_WP3c" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 392px; height: auto;"><br>Target practice<br><br><img id="id_2000_b4c0_8f48_20eb" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/lxNP8tJlVauvtrBVNzUx5jbwh6MBMTIl98aaso6MSBYWBVYIxddWMWc3UNQ" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 392px; height: auto;"><br>Being my teammate for “Oregon Trail” board game<br><br><img id="id_43af_5851_fbbf_4f68" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/42jnLrwZJ2oq6Szlweagu2YJLjGusv0GN4SuoL7NpQJpJDYI5A7z80G2mQA" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 392px; height: auto;"><br>His most faithful friend</div><div style="caret-color: rgb(69, 69, 69); color: rgb(69, 69, 69); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;"><br><img id="id_bb0c_4094_4e44_e5e0" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/imKuXCcM9oDPiYP0ZH82l_AKX_MSMyhyFWfZexeONczJy_-g3JU5KGjaY40" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 392px; height: auto;"><br>Do you see Dan Slayzdird back there???<br><i><br></i></div> Maeganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11543408131843121754noreply@blogger.com0