Happy (belated) Thanksgiving

There's so much for which to be grateful this season. Here's a little off my list. . .

The usual baseline of food, shelter, clothing is profoundly appreciated here, as is the warmth of friends and family for sharing with. That we live where food, shelter, clothing are generally givens is awesome.

Our co-op/cottage school (still no catchy name) is exceeding our wildest hopes in productivity, friendship, volume of material covered. Thanks to this situation, the kids are getting a leap forward in nearly every subject: viewing all sorts of things with new eyes and having different experiences with awesome people. And we're going to cheerfully bust the math rut we've been in. Yee-haw.

The kids are pretty healthy. Amazingly, only the smallest of colds have made the rounds so far this season. A mere hiccup rather than nebulizer-worthy. Awesome.

Q has such an amazing array of people we're working with: Pediatrician, Neurologist, Ophthalmologist, Optometrist, Urologist, etc. Some of these have faded into the background as we do the weekly visits with Occupational and Physical therapists, twice monthly visits with his Speech therapist. Speaking of which, the news from vision therapy is that Q now seems to be seeing at about 20/310, a marked improvement from the 20/400 of the summer. The news from OT is that his newest therapist (just began this last week) believes he has some great building blocks to work with. He approaches his midline and orients to sound, though he's put off by sudden movement (proprioception again). Her goal for Q is to take him to a place where he can enjoy moving without being made afraid by it. The work he's doing in PT has him almost rolling over as well as holding himself up on his arms better while prone. We're moving on to supination (imagine holding a bowl of soup cupped in your hand="soup"-ination, vs. in pronation your hand would be upside down--think "pour"ing) and trunk steadiness for sitting. His pecs are tight, but stretching; his hands opening nicely during his grabs for toys. And note--he's grabbing for toys!! I am grateful for pharmaceuticals, for people who know their stuff and care passionately about what they do, and for progress.

I am thankful for the opportunity to mother my kids. I am grateful that they continue to grow and develop, each according to his or her own abilities and talents. S is close to reading, loves to play pretend, is perpetually hilarious in the most banal of situations, picks up bits of information wherever she is ("sum, esse, fui, I am, to be, I was" over and over again). K loves to read, is getting better with each passing week, and is so much a big girl, daily more self-possessed and self-assured, singing and playing piano with skill beyond her age. E is conquering everything that comes within reach: math, English, her reading skills and vocabulary have just jumped dramatically. She seems to be just on the verge of becoming a fashion designer--always drawing, cutting, pasting, mostly clothes/outfits. G is so different now than he was just a few months ago. He's attained new skills in piano (they are all thriving with an awesome teacher--recital's coming up). He's gaining on Latin at a nearly alarming pace. Ever watch your kid do something and wonder if and how you'll be able to keep pace with them? I've been thinking just that since he was 20 months and we were drawing parallelograms and rhombi because we were bored with stars, squares, ovals, whales, boats, etc. When he was two and a half we discussed parallel vs. perpendicular because he was playing with Jenga blocks and needed something more entertaining to do. More recently, his grasp of sentence diagramming is fun to watch. E has just begun this and she'll give G a run for his money.

Homeschooling. I can't say enough how much fun we're having with this academic business. That G says often how much he loves history (he's busy breathing science, so he doesn't think to mention that), that he asks to homeschool through college (heh), that I've been privileged to walk them through learning to read. . . Words fail me. It is an awesome, awesome thing. Additionally, having them close means I can put more effort into each of them individually. For example, the character development of late has been super. Each of them has made strides in understanding themselves, each other, that they must mind and help--why? Because that's what we do in a family. It's what we do in life. We help each other. Yup. Our conversation en route Thanksgiving day was about impulse control and personal accountability. We'll have the same conversation several times over. Various parts will fly over various heads, yes, but more will stick each time. Some day, we won't begin these conversations with, "Can you think why your sister might not enjoy dirty, smelly socks in her face? Was that a good choice? How shall we help your brain grow to remember that self-control will make for happier times for all of us?"

(Deep breath.)

So. Things are often crummy, true. But they are as often deserving of superlatives (ask G for the definition of superlative as a part of speech, he could use the review), if one is only willing to look for the appropriate features.

It's been horrifyingly rainy here. The month has literally blown the record for wettest month away. By the end of November, we will have had nearly half the rainfall for an entire year. The month has brought power outages, flooding, loss. The damage to national parks is estimated at $50 million. The damage to private property is double that. And yet.

We were driving north one morning when the clouds broke behind us and sun slanted through at a 45. The colors, wet and glossy, seemed backlit. The road reflected the sky, the clouds were suddenly a million shades of blue-grays, the trees looked as if they had been drawn with generous lines of oil pastels, stark against the backdrop of flooded fields, the few remaining leaves on those branches added with wet splotches of copper. Cranberry red leaves glowed, fir trees shone green, green, green. A great blue heron flew over the road.

Yesterday, driving home, I rounded a corner coming down a hill and suddenly the sky was a Maxfield Parrish painting: sun at the horizon broadcasting startling shades of apricotpinkgold, blues beyond description. There were clouds of every size and type, some losing rain in vertical swoops, some scudding across the darkening sky in great mounds of marshmallow fluff. The bottom edge of the picture was framed with firs, while seagulls soared and dove.

Last week we saw a full rainbow on our way from the art museum to gymnastics. A couple of weeks ago, in a drilling rain, we watched a forty foot cedar, several 30-40 foot firs and alders, and stumps speeding past in a swollen river. The camellia is blooming a whispering pink in my aunt's backyard. The jasmine twines itself higher in a protected corner next to the house. The bunnies mow the lawn.

Life is hectic (you should see my color-coded schedule--it cracks me up, I'm weird that way). It is sometimes crazy and more than I know what to do with. Often, it is messy. Though I sometimes crave a space of quiet, I don't know that I could figure out what to do with it, were it to present itself.

Life will, God willing, always be busy. Full to overflowing with the richness of growing-up offspring, the blessed cake of ordinariness, the frosting of extraordinary people.

I am glad to be here.

Howdy

I'm still here! Not asleep. (ha)

Last week, the little S had been fussing with her hair for awhile when she turned to me and said (headband askew, hair sticking up), "I look crazy. . . (pause) . . . but not dang crazy."

Splutter. Choke. Run from the room.

____________

Q starts Occupational Therapy November 20 at 8am sharp. This will add a new wrinkle to our schedule. Perhaps he'll begin to sleep more so when I have to get up in the dark in order to get everything rolling for the day I won't feel like a zombie? Too much to hope for? Nah. Sooner or later it has to happen.

He has seven teeth. This could account for some of the crankiness he had, but I don't know about the crankiness of the last two days. His neck feels like he has a fever, but I'm not getting anything to register. Hmmm.

____________


Have I mentioned that I love having a Sabbath? An honest to goodness time off from the world? This is what I read this last Sabbath:

We would never judge any of God's other children with the savage condemnation with which we crush ourselves. Indeed, self-hatred becomes bigger than life itself, growing until it is seen as the beginning and the end. The image of the childhood story about Chicken Little comes to mind. In our self-hatred, we feel that the sky is falling.

Understandably, then, we hide our true selves from God in prayer. We simply do not trust that he can handle all that goes on in our minds and hearts. Can he accept our hateful thoughts, our cruel fantasies, and our bizarre dreams? we wonder. Can he cope with our primitive images, our inflated illusions, and our exotic mental castles? We conclude that he cannot and thus withhold from Jesus what is most in need of his healing touch.

In order to grow in trust, we must allow God to see us and love us precisely as we are. The best way to do this is through prayer. As we pray, the unrestricted love of God gradually transforms us. We open ourselves to receive our own truth in the light of God's truth. The Spirit opens our eyes to see what really is, to pierce through illusions so that we can discover that we are seen by God with a gaze of love.

Brennan Manning, in Ruthless Trust: The Ragamuffin's Path to God

(Thanks to T for the book rec--it has truly been balm for my soul.)

Good News

It's about time, isn't it?

No urology surgery, for now, anyway. Chances are good that Q will grow right out of retractile testes, and the hydroceles seem to be resolving.

I'd hate to overstate it, but. . .

WAHOO!!!!

(Ahem.)

And on the "other front," according to my representation and her office, the other person retained seems to be quite reasonable and level-headed, so perhaps certain aspects of life will pass with less strain. Could I be more vague? Well yes I could. I'll just say that while I'm not holding my breath for things to turn all rosy or for (say) cherubs and rainbows to start popping out of canopic jars, I'm relieved at the notion that the hyperbole will likely ease up. I kind of don't have the time (or frankly the emotional capacity) for nonsense. Nope. I checked my schedule. It's pretty full.

So. Wow. I'm pretty happy about how the day has gone. Nothing earth shattering nor any gigantic resolution, but Q doesn't need to have surgery for this. Awesome.

I've done my Q exercises--using him as my "weight." I've nursed him, dosed him, tucked him in. The other kids are read to, prayed with, tucked in and wiped out from the birthday sleepover last night which followed our visit to the water. Perhaps I will dream for clarity tonight and it will come to me why I can't get blogger to post pictures. Argh. I have some really nice ones and I bet you'd think they're neat. Now it's just teasing isn't it?

Yeah. So have a good sleep or breakfast, whatever. Thanks for the hugs, the prayers, and for happy dancing with me.

Hal-le-lu-jah. And the people said?

Another week

We'll be having a field trip tomorrow. We're going to the water. We'll look at tidepools, get our toes wet, freeze happily. Change into warm, dry clothes. Eat warm food, drink hot chocolate, revel in the negative ions makin' us all content with ourselves. Q will nurse a lot (the sea air makes him hungry). It's his best skill.

Did I mention dithering about starting solids? I've had that gritchy mama gut thing. I started solids a little later with each of my kids, yes, but with this one I've just felt my heels digging in every time it came up. Yes, the swallow study showed no aspiration, but. . . He still gags on his tongue, uvula, extra saliva, whatever, at times he really shouldn't have any kind of problem. After discussing it with the speech therapist (following the seizure development), she said that to introduce anything new at this point could result in him rejecting it altogether. Now that's not what we want. I'm a dedicated nursing mama, but come on. Every child should get to spit pureed peaches on their mother at some point. And I'd rather not be breastfeeding exclusively when he's say, singing his ABC's. (Assuming that will happen.)

So we'll continue on for now, re-evaluate in November sometime.

The rest of the week brings both answers (I hope) and tenterhooks. Urology appointment with Q first thing Tuesday morning, court date same day, probably happening right at the same time. Funny, a number of stress tests and perinatology appointments happened while court was going on too. As always, I'm praying for cool heads, calm choices, the presence of the Holy Spirit in that room. There are a number of good people involved in this who will do their best, I am sure of it. I will roll with whatever is decided while wishing fiercely that I could make this cup pass from my children's lips. I don't know how I would do such a thing, but I feel helpless and sad for them in this. Yuck.

Speaking of which, I watched "Mean Girls" last night. I hear it's a pretty close approximation of modern high school. I'd have to say that it had a lot in common with the junior high I attended more than twenty years ago for a year and a few weeks (short enough time the second year that I don't even remember what classes I had, only that I hadn't gotten the Art class I wanted). The movie was funny, quietly scathing in it's social commentary. There was a little girl in the background in a few scenes, dancing to hideously innappropriate music. It made me think of the way so many little kids are getting handed off to pop culture for raising with nary a differing opinion offered by a parent. I think I might let my daughter see this in a few years. We'd watch it together and discuss it. I do think some of the film's premise is faulty (logically speaking), but seeing how it mirrors reality in society, it's hard to quibble with it. I recommend it, but be aware that it'll probably bring back the horrors you thought you got over a few years after you were done with high school. Now to read "Queen Bees and Wannabees" upon which I understand the movie was based.

I'd dearly love to add a blog roll to your right, over there --->, but the settings (or whatever it is) are loading weird, so there's an error on the page and I can't do anything to it. I'm going to take it as a sign from God that I'm supposed to go to bed.

Kiss those babies, nuzzle their necks--even if they're so big you have to chase 'em down and sit on 'em before they'll let you. Look past the rolling eyes and retching noises, the "MOOO-oom!!" They're secretly pleased. They might even grow up to do it to their own kids. (wink)

Sleep well. I hope things are peaceful and happy where you are.

(PS--Kate! I did get your email. The books are packed and ready to go. I just have to get to the post office. Sorry for the delay. I'm waving--would still love to share some chocolate.)

Wah

I'm pretty sure I'll come to like this new thing Blogger's doing. But I don't have lots of time for new stuff--learning things outside my current scope messes with my head. I know I could have left it like it was. I know I didn't have to switch. I thought it would be easier. I need sleep. Wah.

Moments

We had a morning "out" today. On the way to the counseling appointment, we sat in traffic behind a three car accident, thereby ending up about half an hour late, instead of the few minutes late we would have otherwise been. The kids did math, K did reading and phonics while we waited. Following our time in the professional building, we progressed to Target. As we were pulling in, the kids were listening to a history CD, so I finished up my phone conversation with a friend. Things began to fall apart.

Realizing that I was on the phone, the previously perfectly behaved children lost focus and began to "play fight." This means that the olders have instigated something with the youngers (names omitted to protect the people who should know better) and are now highly amused at the tremendous force the youngers are putting into ineffectual attempts at retaliation. This infuriates the youngers who then redouble their efforts, and eventually they manage to injure the olders who know that if they lay a finger on those little ones, mother will transform like a scary cartoon character and become a seething ten-story, laser-eyed monster o' righteousness and when this happens, all bets are off, no sensitivities are considered. ROWR!!

At precisely the point where I was ready to issue the warning that they had better not speak another word to each other until we all had something nice to talk about, Q, sitting in his car seat, pooped through his clothes and provided a delightful distraction. Saved by the dirty pants. And shirt.

Q is now tired and ready to drop, having been super cute and chatty throughout the morning's appointments, but must have clean diaper and clothes before sleeping. He's usually quite affable even under otherwise difficult circumstances, but he doesn't enjoy having his clothes changed and when he wants to sleep, it's really best to let him. Have I mentioned also that he's teething? Yeah. So I'm now wrestling the cranky infant out of (breastmilk) poop covered onesie and pants, trying not to wear too very much of it myself. He's crying louder and louder. The kids decide now would be the time to hop out and impress the world with their ability to dance in the parking lot (girls) and use the cart return spot as a jungle gym/bird spotting tower (G). Why? Because apparently, yes, they are new here. No one told them the rules (ha). Because Q screaming isn't enough. No, we need the presence of four children behaving like monkeys in order to properly attract the attention of everyone at what must certainly be the world's busiest Target store.

I roll my eyes.

Some Target patrons shoot sympathetic glances as they rush by, some shoot daggers. I holler, over Q's escalating complaints, for the girls to get back up here by the door, no you may not dance at the back end of the van, because this is a parking lot, that's why, cars drive here just like they do in every parking lot, no you cannot count on the smart grown-ups driving the cars to see you even if you are right next to the bumper, no, not even if you are touching the bumper and only wiggling your feet. Yes, I'm sure that plenty of people are quite impressed with your wanting to hug and kiss each other like sisters should, but it's not appropriate here. And get off the cart catcher. Because you are a boy, not a monkey, that's why. Would you please go get the stroller out and set it up so Q can take a nap? Thanks.

I shoot Mylanta into Q's mouth, having by now dressed the cranky little screeching octopus, Desitined the bottom, cleaned myself up. I drop Hyland's teething tablets into his mouth, wrap him in his jacket, zip it, snuggle the blankie around him like a little burrito and bounce him to settle him down. I could swear I've seen that woman over there at least eleven times and I've been busy. She's just circling, waiting to see if I deck one of the kids (not an option, lady, even now) or if one manages to escape so she can call authorities. Perhaps I'm a tetch paranoid. It's possible that she was merely returning her cart all the way inside the store thereby passing by several times in order to avoid having to interact with our little menagerie.

At my request, K and E got my purse out of the van (bounce, bounce) before anyone could accidentally lock the keys in (bounce, bounce) and managed to pick up the diapers that popped like eager corn from the diaper bag (bounce, bounce) as they were moving it from front seat to stroller. The children then fell in line behind me. I was carrying the bouncing Q, who seemed to be losing his enthusiasm for loudly emoting. Indeed, by the time we reached the inside cart area, he was out hard. (I owe those people at Hyland's my sanity, let me tell ya.) I laid him carefully into the stroller, making a dark cocoon with my coat and we proceeded on to get a little lunch. (This Target serves cheap Margherita pizza, among other things.)

Deep breath.

I parked the stroller in a little stroller-shaped niche and got the kids at one table next to it (no, you may not go wander through the "Boo-levard" looking at Halloween stuff, you will sit quietly and wait for your food, stop shaking the table, no, stop right now, don't bounce your knees under there either, thanks, now look around, use your brilliant minds to occupy yourselves while I go get food) and went six steps off to order. As I was waiting (and the kids were giggling, talking, observing the security cameras and waving benignly to them), a very tall, very leggy person dressed in high-end running gear (you know, as if she had actually been running in order to get and keep those legs) came up to get her order of tacos. She gracefully maneuvered her cart toward the counter and snagged her bag while keeping careful rein on her own three year old monkey who seemed intent on exiting the basket in the least graceful manner possible. As she did so, she turned toward me with a dazzling smile and said, "Excuse me, do you have a homeschool?"

(Oh please, please don't ask me that question today. Any other day, but not today. Did you see us in the parking lot? I don't despair easily--these moments are just that, moments, and they pass like anything else, but you must have seen us not at our, ahem, best?)

I cocked my head, smiled a brilliant and sincere smile back, and said, "Yes, I do."

"I thought so. Your children are just darling."

Uh. Smile. Blink. "Thank you."

"Just darling."

And she was off.

Huh. I wonder how she knew. Maybe it was the shoes. Heh.

(P.S. Q slept two hours as we dawdled around the store. We got all that we'd gone for--except more teething tablets.)

Huh

Is it just me or does this seem a little, hmmm, slimey?