My day, or Why I need anti-psychotics

Earlier in this day, I was thinking I would title this post "Cleaning Tips" and pass on the odd but useful things I now know because of my darling children. For example, that vast quantities of corn starch are extremely useful if you have creative toddlers in the same house as a Costco jar of peanut butter.

What I learned today is nothing like what I thought I'd be learning when the alarm went off this morning. Not that it's bad, just that it's sort of turning my expectations on their heads. But, hey--what else is new? The best thing about the day? That we're all fine, we're all happy, and ultimately, none of this stuff matters. It'll all work out just fine.

G had an OT assessment appointment this morning. Mercifully, the nice OT called and wondered if we could come an hour later than our scheduled appointment. This was a gift from heaven, because the boy didn't want to go, was feeling like a bug about to be dissected, and was scrambling just as earnestly to get away as said bug. Plus, since Q didn't settle like I had hoped last night and then rose early--I wouldn't have gotten a shower if the OT hadn't changed the time. So that was happy. Then there's the fact that she (OT) not only specializes in G's age and set of behaviors, but she's got four kids of similar ages to mine and a great rapport with G. Woohoo!!

The strange thing about this all is that, for insurance purposes at least, the diagnosis being investigated is Asperger's.

Thump.

I hadn't been aware of that. When we go in next week to see the psychologist, I'll ask her if she's thinking that's what we're dealing with or if it's some funky combination of "symptoms" that could place him in several categories, but not really isolate anything as a true diagnosis. After all the reading I've done about brains and how they work, the latter seems more appropriate, but it could be just a mama thing. Expectations and all, you know. Again, not that it's "bad"--it's a relief that I'm not crazy and that there's something to do, which I love. It's just not what I'd been thinking, so the transition in expectations will take a bit to sink in. Apparently I don't do well with transitions either, so maybe the boy inherited some of his tendencies from me. That'd be a shock, eh? The whole brilliant brain thing which is a part of Asperger's is definitely in place, genetically speaking. One needs only look at or listen to the boy's articulate and accomplished grandparents (all four) to have one's eyebrows shoot right up in recognition of that.

So on with the day, then.

I was home after Q's PT (which was awesome--love his therapist and he worked so hard), lying on the bed, nursing, when S and K had an, erm, disagreement as to whether or not K would share her gum with S since K was already using S's purple nail polish and S thought that her proposal to trade stuff would be an equitable distribution of sharing skills. K disagreed so S snatched the open bottle away and threw it at K. Guess how I spent the next 45 minutes?

This happened because I've been thinking on how to create some minutes of dedicated meditative time every day. Since I decided that I really want to do this, I've also discovered that sitting quietly isn't an option as I then process several related thoughts in the space of a few seconds, often skipping so wildly about with my squirrel brain (props to Martha Beck) that I'm more exhausted from trying to sit and be still than I would be if I just didn't try at all. So I thought I'd do the "mindless activity" thing for 10-15 minutes every day--keeping one's hands or legs moving so one's mind can track something, anything at all. That hasn't worked out so well either, as I have in my possession several small to medium size noise machines with no apparent off-switch among them. So today, the universe sat me on my behind to do the week's contemplative time all at once.

Wanna know what I thought about? Science. The fact that G said today that he wants to move from the Enrico Fermi biography he just read, right into subatomic particles. I had mentioned that some people think quarks are the smallest particles out there and his rejoinder? "Yes, but no one's ever been able to get a super collider to work well enough to actually see them." Uh. M'kay. What else might he be interested in? He'd like to know just what fusion and fission are really all about.

I also thought about what a perfectly ridiculous idea purple nail polish is, what a lucky mama I am to have such great kids (never mind their messy little foibles), how I plan to get next year's curriculum together. I am so on my knees thankful that there are so many awesome authors out there who discuss, with humor and intelligence, grace and trust and figuring out just what I want my life to look like--the parts I get some say over, anyway.

So I used up my pile of Q-tips and figured the purple nail polish must be gone. It wasn't, but I discovered that after the next educational experience.

I had a teeny nap (closed my eyes while the kids were watching the last half of DragonTales) and then my mom got home. We were off to lightning fast Target and Costco runs, figuring we could pick up burritos from Taco Bell en route. All loaded up in the van, off we go.

We made it almost to the top of the hill by the stop sign, exiting the development? Before the cuss-ed thing died. Hmm. Seems that 440 miles into that tank of gas (yes, that is an unusually large number of miles for us on a single tank), we'd run out. Okay. I thought I could make it back to the gas station, but I guess not. Well, I roll the dang thing backwards down the hill, around the blind corner, travelling in the wrong lane so we wouldn't be hit by traffic finding an unexpected mini-van travelling backwards in their lane. Over the speed bump. These things are hard to steer without the engine running. Turnturnturn the wheel to back into a side road, safely out of the way. Oops, we're a little short with our momentum . . . Everybody out and push. Except S. Who must stay with Q so he's not scared, and must also pull, with her entire weight, on the back of the driver's seat, in order to adequately do her part in "pushing" the van. (Chortle.)

G and I hiked quickly back to the house to grab up the gas can. I dialed my dad's office to have G ask where to find the gas can. With this info tucked safely into our toolbox, we headed to the shed, where I managed to shoot the padlock off the ridiculous little key over the stack of tires into the potting soil behind everything within reach of human arms. I, of course, am wearing a light pink jacket and a light blue shirt, absolute essentials when one must hurdle bodily over the greasy, filthy stuff found in a shed in order to reach the padlock that keeps the neighborhood miscreants from our miscellaneous flammables. We get the can, the five gallon one grandpa told G was the right one. Thank God there's this much so we can get where we need to go. Whew!

Off we go again, having locked up the shed and the house, hauling the five gallon can in my mom's car. Get back to the van, all excited, figure out the gas can (apparently we needed a user's manual), pour it all into the tank, hop in, up it starts, off we go to deliver the car back to the driveway, then be off on our errands in our now running van.

We made it fifteen feet before the van died.

A nice man, a "fair mechanic", stopped to listen to me try to turn the engine over. He thinks it's probably the timing belt which, if thrown, will wreck the engine. Okay. By this time, my mom, the kids and I have pushed the van back into this side road twice. If it's the timing belt, which it sounds like it could be, the nice guys down the hill will get to handle it all, so never mind. Let's go home. We're now relieved to just be done. I am also more or less splattered with fuel. It's raining.

My mom starts up the hill with Q, who turns out to love the walk and the rain. I direct the children who don't have greasy, nasty hands to get the stroller, the big red diaper bag, the baby pack, out and into the car. G puts the now empty can and it's stinky box in the trunk of the car. We're off.

I park my mom's car on the driveway and haul everyone in. The kids start making supper while G and I scrub up and I wash my hair, twice, to get the fuel stench out. It almost works. We have a lovely supper (yay kids), Q watches the Little Leap Word Factory (which thrills his soul no end).

Just now, as I'm typing, my dad gets home and eats, heads off to talk to my mom, comes back hollering for G.

Apparently, the can we emptied into the tank of my van? Was diesel.

The only question I have is: can I blow-dry my hair even though there's still a faint smell of DIESEL? Or will I combust?

(I am smiling. Almost. Or I will be before I die.)

Also? Why did I not stop when I thought that it looked way to yellow for gas? Way too thick for gas. Way too stinky for gas. Aaaaaaaagh.

Good Morning

Lots to tell, no time to spare. I'll be back later to share about Q's neuro appointment, and more.

Have a happy day!

Hey

Another wild spring week. . .

As I was tearing about yesterday (with a soundtrack of Q howling in his carseat), I saw such beautiful sights. The sun slanting through clouds, lighting everything up like a Robert Duncan painting. Seriously, the fields, the livestock, the snow on the foothills, the rain/snow sheeting down against said foothills. Awesome. There was somethings lovely on the radio (which I could almost hear over Q) and suddenly, just to my right, a bald eagle, a golden eagle, then another bald eagle, wheeling and diving, no doubt into some little prey in the middle of the glowing green pasture. The clouds were reflecting blushy pink cherry trees, the wet road reflecting either the grey/periwinkle/gold/peach clouds or the astonishing blueness of the sky, depending on the angles.

It's really odd to feel such a vast, spreading appreciation of all that is to be visually drunk up, while being serenaded by one unhappy baby.

Yesterday we saw the dentist (K is the only one with cavities, poor thing, but hooray for everyone else), came back here for the Special Ed teacher's visit, went off again to piano lessons, out to the therapy unit for adjustments to Q's chair, home for what I thought was a phone conference (but it's not until next week), then out again to pick up kids while my mom stayed with the finally sleeping Q and awaited the towing guy for her car which had thoughtfully died just at the mailbox, entailing only a short walk down the hill home for her. (I think I deserve some sort of reward for run-on sentences, don't you? Or perhaps I'll top that one.)

Tonight we're going to finish the last of Rilla of Ingleside for bedtime story, then pop up early in the morning to head off for Q's neuro appointment. I'm planning to ask for something to help the guy sleep, since I figure I can only ricochet around in my head for so long before I officially lose it. Of course, having said that, a mama does what a mama must.

I'm recommending an author. Note that it's not a book recommendation, but an author recommendation. Martha Beck rocks. She's the smartest, funniest, most compassionate, life coach-iest person ever, all rolled into (printed onto) pages, bound together into those things called books. I first read Expecting Adam before finding out that I was pregnant with Q, a move which I can only think of as the hand of God, since the memory of that book played a huge role in my remaining somewhat sane throughout that experience. Anyway. I think you'd like her. Try any of her books. I'm hoping she lives to be a hundred and forty-three, just so I can be sure that she'll still be writing until I don't need her to keep publishing regularly, since I don't know if I could afford her private rates. Of course, I'm sure her family would like to keep her around forever, too, but really, the public's needs must come first. I mean, c'mon.

I'm off to read about Rilla.

Happy Spring.

Sin and Spring

Now there's an eye-catching title for a post.

For the first part. A quote from Brennan Manning, in his book, Ruthless Trust.

"If we say we have no sin in us, we are deceiving ourselves and refusing to admit the truth" (1 John 1:8). We live in a society that luxuriates in the therapeutic and the exculpatory, condemns judgment as authoritarian, dismisses acknowledgment of sin as an assault on self-worth, and resists discernment of spirits as the imposition of arbitrary standards. The devastating consequence of these societal shortcomings is the perennial gnostic retreat from personal responsibility.

If we avoid any confrontation with authentic guilt, we stifle personal growth. If we continue to blame others for our weaknesses and failures, we refuse accountability for the present direction of our life. Although self-pity thwarts self-acceptance, wearing the scarlet letter V (for victim) allows us to take the moral high ground.

My psychiatrist friend Bob Stewart once told me of a patient, a married woman whose seven-year affair with a married man ended abruptly when he dumped her for a younger woman. Unable to face her essential unhappiness, she had blamed her loveless marriage for her infidelity and had sought therapy and pills in order to exonerate herself from her self-inflicted suffering. Finally, severely depressed and suicidal, unresponsive to antidepressant medication, she was hospitalized.

Because this woman did not hold herself morally responsible, she disdained any sense of personal guilt. For the same reason, she turned to a psychiatrist for relief rather than to the Jesus of her childhood. In a world where the only plea is "not guilty," what possibility is there of an honest encounter with Jesus, "who died for our sins"? We can only pretend that we are sinners, and thus only pretend that we are forgiven.

To knife through our pretense, cowardice, and evasions, to see the truth about ourselves and the true state of our souls before God--this requires enormous courage and ruthless trust in the merciful love of the redeeming God. Put simply, sin must be acknowledged and confessed before there can be forgiveness and real transformation.

Before anyone says, "Yes, but..." the author is not speaking from some lofty height, handing out obscure pronouncements. Brennan Manning has some mileage on him, honestly earned.

Aside from the interesting similarities to my experience in the story above, this little discussion really grabbed my attention when I read it the first time several months ago. It's been rolling about in my head ever since. I think, in my final analysis, the thing that so holds my focus here is that I feel called by the author to examine my life rather than go around looking for someone to blame. A theme, if you will, of things for me lately. I don't know really what to do with it, but there it sits.

For the second part of the title. . . We have chicks. Ten chicks. Four yellow/ruddy "Red Sex Link", six variegated grey/black/yellow Americana/Araucanas. They're sitting under a heat lamp in a big box on the little table in the corner of the living room, guarded jealously by four "parents". The kids could barely leave them to sleep at night. The thermometer reads 87-92F, depending. The biggest uproar of the day was when the sensor fell on the floor and no one noticed that it was out of the box, but it was dropping and wow, did the kids react quickly. The only thing missing was a flashing red light and siren.

The best thing about these chicks is that they'll lay brown or blue-olive green eggs. I think a couple have no chance of laying eggs, but we have high hopes for the rest.

(Don't say it. No. Don't. I'm rolling my eyes at myself, thanks.)

I finished cutting back the roses this afternoon. I trimmed the lavendar bushes back last week, cut the mums down, wrapped up with the variegated sage and lemon balm today as well. The buddleia could use a good cutting back, but it's filling in its leaves, so I'll catch it next time around. The daylilies are poking up arcs of greens, the primroses gave up pushing shyly out and just shot forth, all purple and pink. The miniature daffy-down-dillies are sitting up, waving and bowing in the breeze. It looks like, minus the "help" of the now moved neighbor kid, the Siberian iris will be showy this year. All sorts of bulb greens are lurching forth in fits and starts. The forsythia is wild--having rooted some of it's branches out as new shrubs. The forget-me-not crop will be thoroughly fluffy--the buds are dense, plus they seeded like mad last year. The columbines have gone from tight, deep mauve dew-bearing cups to leggy, silvery green foliage making clear the way for the pink flowers to follow. The clematis vines are sending out clusters of leaf buds to cover their copper trellises, and the climbing rose is taking it's task quite seriously via new arms and legs all over the arch atop the garden seat.

We rounded up more of the storm dropped branches today. It's strange to see how many piles of big fir boughs, twigs and needles were flung down in the violent winds of late last fall. We keep raking and there continues to be more. We haven't seen the lawn-mowing bunnies in a long while. We're hoping there's not some lurking predator, especially since we'd like to let the chickens run a bit when they're bigger. We're counting on them for some pest control, once we get the garden in.

The weather is so springy. The plants so obedient. The chicks so peep-y and poopy and cute. The children are so antsy about the chicks. It's Easter time soon. It's good to be here.

'Night.

(buuuzzzzz. . .)

As I was driving the kids to gymnastics this afternoon, I was trying to figure out a way to describe my mood. There are so many words, how to arrange them? It gelled as: a palpable hum of anticipatory oscillation.

Heh.

In other words, I'm pretty sure that if you were standing next to me, you'd find it difficult to ignore the low frequency buzz emanating from my pores. There's a lot in the works these days. Much to be done, much expectation to be fulfilled. Thinks to think, sprouts to spring, chicks to hatch. Honest-to-goodness miracles to unfold. (Yeehaw. Hang on for the ride.)

Q will have OT early Monday, then we'll spend the day barrelling through school. Q will see the SpEd teacher Tuesday morning following S and K's dental appointments, then have ST while the bigger kids are in piano lessons. On Thursday he'll see the neurologist again. I'm going to ask for valium or something for his sleep--I think he's having background seizures because of lack of real rest. This would inhibit learning, introduce further sleep issues, affect his tone and motor skills. Apparently, with proper sleep management, some kids can avoid seizures for years and years. (Hope, hope, hope.) Friday he'll have PT again. We squeeze in rather a lot of schooling, especially considering our appointment schedules. There are other activities and appointments in the week as well, but including all those in the description just makes it all sound frantic and nuts when in fact, as long as we all get enough rest and down time, the whole thing flows nicely.

Q saw the pediatrician on Wednesday for a check-up/-in. I was asking for a referral to someplace that would help with feeding issues. After he was sick and was only nursing--taking no solids--for a few days, reintroducing solids became tough. It seems like he's struggling with managing his saliva. As he takes his meds best in 1/2 ml increments, this isn't too much of a surprise. The initial success he had with liquids from the sippy cup hasn't been replicated--yet. When he does solids consistently, he does pretty well, skills-wise. The thicker the food (still pureed), the better he does in getting it to travel back on his tongue and down his throat. But the thicker the food (infant oatmeal cereal is his favorite for achieving this), the easier it is for him to become constipated, or at least have "overly filled" his little system. On two solid meals a day, he's clearly having trouble moving solids on through to elimination which means his whole GI tract suffers--if it's full, reflux is more of a problem, sleep drops off, etc. The negative feedback loop completes, ad nauseum. So. I have phone numbers for the feeding/nutrition clinic and for the ENT clinic at the nearby children's hospital. I'll be calling in the morning to set all that up.

I guess that's it for now.

Hope you and yours are well, grateful for each other, reveling in what is. Hugs and prayers to you.

Faith vs. Fear

Oh, we are so very happy to be (almost) completely well. Two are still coughing a little, but after Q caught the puking bug, no one else did, so hurray! And part of his feeling yucky could have been, oh, maybe the two teeth he was working on? (Insert: in the hours and hours and hours it's taken me to get all this down, Q is clearly feeling better, and, oh yippee, I went to lay him down on the pillow that is his sleepy-time nirvana, and he opened his eyes, smiling at me while I was settling him. Instead of panicking and thinking Oh joy, here we go, the boy is up and it'll be 3 before he settles again, I told him I'd be back after I started some laundry and did some picking up. I hurried like mad and thought he was starting to fuss. But? BUT??? He was asleep. He nestled in and put himself to sleep. Oh, happy day! This child does not self-soothe. He does not just fall asleep. But he did!! He did. Ahhh. . .)

I hauled us all to church yesterday. Because. Because I could. Because I had to get out of the house before I lost my mind. And because I have enough Purell to simultaneously float and sterilize the US Navy, that's what.

The sermon was about faith. My favorite line from the sermon: "The opposite of faith is not doubt, but fear." As I heard those words, I felt a sort of quiet ka-booooooom, a sound wave, the hand of God sweeping over me.

I am constantly challenged in my life and I would have it no other way. I am never bored. I always have something sort of unusual or exciting or funny just about to happen. It's odd, I suppose, but I think that it's good, for me anyway. I used to say, half kidding, that I do my very best when I'm a smidge overcommitted. After spending some time in my skin, contemplating who I am and who God would have me be, I think my exciting life (heh) is a combination of my brain working to keep me awake (boy, am I awake) and my willingness to be open to the opportunities God's universe delivers. I love to read. I love to learn new stuff. My brain is strangely like a search engine crawler--always collecting information, oftentimes the oddest things. I tend to notice stuff that other people don't. This makes me a better artist, writer, mom, friend. So this is pretty cool, living in my head. It has distinct benefits. It also means that I have to pay attention to filtering, which isn't the easiest thing for me. I am sometimes lost in all the nifty details, threshing the wheat, bewildered at the chaff whilst grabbing for the kernels of importance. Not only can one not take every opportunity that comes along or notice every little thing that floats by, but seriously, one must sleep sometime.

But. Since the great shake-up, I'm seeing things differently, open to different things, wanting different things, taking much less for granted. Everything seems to have been turned about 45 degrees to the left. Or right, depending on the day. One of the things I've found is that too many of my patterns of behavior are rooted in self-protection, or fear. Some of this is healthy, some is destructive. Healthy would be not stepping outside in a hurricane or laying one's hand on a hot burner. Destructive would be refusing to accept another's point of view because I am the self-proclaimed sole possessor of truth.

After the sermon yesterday, I found myself just reeling that phrase over and over in my head. "The opposite of faith is not doubt, but fear." While driving home, things sort of expanded and expanded.

Have you ever really wanted something but not been able to admit it because people might think you're nuts? Have you ever thought that you had an idea that could change your corner of the world, or perhaps the entire world, but not pursued it because, if you did, you'd have to give up ________, or you might miss _________, or maybe people might think you're nuts?

Do you think any of the great inventors or philosophers spent much time worrying about what the peanut gallery thought? I doubt it. It's the sort of superfluous activity that impedes progress. There are examples of how they might have given a bit more thought to their families--Einstein, for example. I often wonder if the world would have been a better place, if he would have been able to feel that he'd completed his work here, if he'd been a better husband and father, or if he really was doing the best he could? I guess then my caveat to going off chasing your dreams is that, if you have obligations to people, especially to your spouse and/or children, you need to place the sacred trust of those relationships first. If you struggle for clarity in this, think of how you want your grandchildren raised, then respond to the whiny toddler, the cranky spouse, or the snappish preteen. What you do in your family has ripples that you will never fully realize. Having said that, I don't see why a person can't be faithful to their families, to their spiritual mandates, and to their dreams. Especially if your dream has anything to do with making the planet a better place in some particular way--it seems then that all those would automatically align, right? (One could always make them align. You know, free will and all.)

But what about fear? What about faith? What about trying to go forward into something that seems like it doesn't make any sense, in a traditional way of looking at it? Who are we to defy the laws of physics, right?

Well. I think that's sort of where the fear comes in. Maybe I'm just coming from having the walls blown out of my world, but seriously--what is there to fear? If you are faith-full, what is there to fear?

A saying I've run across lately:

Fortune favors the brave.

Another from a dorm room door on my hall in college:

The more you take on and the more you accomplish, the more opportunities present
themselves. It is the difference between the people who seem never to get
started and those who are uncatchable.

Some favorite verses:

Delight yourself in the Lord, and He will give you the desires of your
heart. Psalm 37:4

"For I know the plans I have for you," declares the Lord, "plans to prosper
you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future." Jeremiah
29:11

I see a pattern here. (Could be just me, though--life has been like that sometimes. Heh.)

The universe is infinite and still expanding, right? I view this as a manifestation of the character of God. As such, how would we, His created beings, expect any less than the same for our own lives? We have pretty big dreams for our kids--isn't the same true of our heavenly parent?

Let me be clear--I don't think this is the same idea as the so called prosperity gospel. "God wants me to have a boat!" Nope. Not that I think we can't enjoy the fruits of our labors. I just don't think, that while our worldwide community suffers starvation, disease, raping and pillaging reminiscent of the Crusades (just switch the religions around for interest, they're all taking turns destroying the defenseless in the name of their particular vengeful god), that we have any business focusing on how much God wants each of us to "have a boat." Maybe if we were out on the Sea of Galilee using our yachts to pull in fish for the masses, then I could see it, but I just can't identify with the idea that some of us are "meant" to have extreme wealth and others are "meant" to suffer the naked effects of evil. Or that all we have to do is believe just the right thing and then God becomes accessible to us.

Puh-leez.

There was this very nice lady in a particular, awesome Bible study group I attended years ago. She was just on the verge of elderly, and alone. Her niece, who had avoided church of any kind for years, had just begun attending a church which the nice lady felt to be pretty much representative of the anti-Christ. The nice lady, while telling about how welcomed her niece felt there and how the niece was truly seeming to grow spiritually, was wringing her hands about how led astray the poor niece was, how this was going to lead her further and further from the true church. I couldn't help myself. I spoke up. I said, very quietly, that I believe that God meets each of us where we are. If we are truly seeking His face, He does not hide from us. If we are looking for Him, He will find us.

It is not up to us, thank God, to determine anyone else's path. It is up to us, thank God, to do what we can, with what we have, where we are. (I believe that was Thomas Jefferson, though you'd have to check.) I firmly believe that this includes finding little ways in which to raise the bar for ourselves, nudging ourselves on to higher standards in kindness, compassion, personal ethics, and then encouraging others on to the same. Perhaps we create amongst our friends and neighbors a culture of loving accountability. Perhaps we wonder out loud about how we can affect change in our neighborhoods, be they local or global. Perhaps we go looking for the wounded guy on the road, the one who needs one or all of us to be the Good Samaritan. Perhaps we step out of our comfort zone, in faith, willing to be an instrument of His peace, of His grace. Willing to give hands and feet to belief, to give wings to the prayers of those around us.

Perhaps we find ways to be fear-less. To be faith-full. Perhaps we become a part of that expanding universe in ways only it's Creator can envision. Perhaps, in gratitude, we become able to revel in what is while striving for what is possible so that we may reach out, overflowing with faith, ready to take on the responsibility of the yacht on the Sea of Galilee?

(For I know the plans I have for you. . .)

There's Q. Ready to change position on his pillow of happiness. Heh.

What do you think?

Breathe in, breathe out, repeat. . .

I love Pull-ups, baby wipes, Hyland's Teething Tablets, and Vaseline Waterproof hand lotion. (Which of course they don't make anymore. At least my pump bottle is gigantic.)

The foul trash is out, the kids all tucked in, my mom asleep.

I'm going to guzzle my Airborne (one a day max for nursing mommies--my own rule), fold a little laundry, move the next loads around, re-Purell and lotion myself (resisting the urge to just gargle disinfectant), do a little writing and collapse into bed.

I don't know if I should cancel Q's OT or not. He's the least likely to be contagious, but. . .

We'll see what daybreak brings.

(Please, please, let it bring angels carrying hot broth, ointment for my cracking lips, and some nifty all-encompassing anti-viral stuff. Please. I was almost over that sinus infection. I've been sick for more than two weeks. Wah.)

Happy happy, Joy joy

S has diarrhea, has puked twice, is very thirsty, has a temp of 100.7

Q is constipated and crying.

The washer is running at warp speed.

I have yellow snot pouring out of my head, as do G, E, and K.

My hands are going to crack if I wash them or use Purell one more time.

I hate the smell of Lysol.

Kill me now.

(Ahem. 'scuse me while I gird up for the next round. . .)

Loose ends

First the news. Or perhaps lack thereof. We go back again later this month to finish figuring things out. Some progress was made (at least on paper) and we'll see what else comes with the next round. I'm asking for continued prayers and good thoughts, especially in the interest of sheltering my kids from whatever it is that feels (not is, but feels) like it's out there, stalking them. Blech. Thank you very much.

Second, I feel like I'm missing contact with people as we sort of fly past each other in our separate paths. I am so sorry to be basically losing touch! In some respects, my life is travelling in shrinking circles, in others, the circles are expanding. Nonetheless, I feel as though I'm not maintaining friendships or extended family relationships very well and even worse, that there just isn't much to be done about it. My plate (platter?) is extremely full, everyone I'm in touch with (read: my children) needs something from me (really not a bad thing in itself), and Q's evolving needs plus schooling the bigger kids takes all I have at the moment. I have a feeling that had I been new to homeschooling when the developments (ongoing) of 2005 hit, I wouldn't still be doing it. For one thing, Q needs enough all by himself that I would not have been able to keep the details straight, never mind energy levels.

It's hard to refill one's well on this kind of a schedule (she said ruefully, scratching her head).

Anyhoo, thanks very much for understanding, as most of you manifestly do. For not taking it personally, for continuing to call, write, email, be thoughtful and prayerful about us all the time. I wish that I could reach out a bit more, travel some with the kids, initiate visits and phone calls more. It appears that my initiation of those things are off the table, at least if I plan to remain sane. (And I do so love doing them!)

As I said at the beginning of this blog, do call, write, email, etc. Please do. (Because you, of course have no life of your own.) I just can only do this much, right here.

Third, I haven't done much replying to your comments. I am enjoying them immensely. The laughter is fantastic, the praise high, the fact that I can see you're reading and enjoying my telling of this corner of the world, all these serve to help me feel less disconnected. Or maybe I should say discombobulated? (broad smiles) Thank you for your kindness, suggestions, conversation. I treasure it all.

Thanks so very much for hanging in here with me and mine as we walk this path. I know that a train wreck (back to 2005) only holds so much appeal, so if you're still here, it must be for something other than shock value. (more grins)

You rock. (Yes you do, and you know it.)

I'm off to roust the screeching young ladies from their protracted baths and help G finish making us breakfast for dinner (hashbrowns, eggs, some kind of veggie meat, and pluots). We may have ice cream for dessert. Because it's snowing outside, that's why. (You're right, that makes no sense.) Hey, at least it's Ben and Jerry's, so no RBST amongst other icky things.

And Q needs something for his cold. Oh yeah.

Have a sweet, blessed evening. (Q says "aaayyyyye". Heh.)