Christmas

Here's a little peek at how Sam's Christmas morning went down..

He came downstairs bright and early, a little confused by the piles of wrapped packages scattered about the floor. He crawled around, having a look at it all. 



But he didn't show any interest in doing anything with any of them (he's heard "no touch!" on too many occassions, I think!) until Grammy led the charge. Then he tentatively started ripping off paper.

 

He paused to thoroughly investigate each thing he opened which really paid off at Grammy cookie/paint marker fun box. Cookies for breakfast, why not? It's Christmas!



There was Play-doh in there too. That got eaten as well but not until later. :) (Nice face, Dad!)



This is the awesome Little People nativity that Mom and Dad got for Sam. The stable plays "Away in the Manger" when you put the angel on top and press down. Sam figured out that you can also put a bunch of other things in the angel's place so we've had a cat, Joseph and the innkeeper up there too. Everyone gets a turn!



This is Sam crawling through the tunnel/tent combo. Along with the toy vacuum we got him, I think this is the favorite toy. That Grandpa knows what's fun!

Playing hopscotch, or "dancing" as we call it.



Me reading the Christmas story to Sam.



Sammy with Grammy at his new art table, playing with his new paint markers.



This picture pretty much sums up Sam's feelings about my parents. :)



There's more to see on video but I'll save that for another post. I hope you all had a happy Christmas!

Getting into practice :)

Last night I finished knitting my very first sweater! I need to sew a button on the front and block it but I didn't worry about minor details like that when I asked Jeff to take my picture.



As you can see, I was so excited about the whole thing that I didn't notice I'd put my sweater on inside out. Sigh. Nobody home up there!



Here's what it looks like the right way out.



Sam decided to help mommy out.



In fact, Sam has become a great helper around here. This morning we vacuumed the kitchen floor and then he proceeded to Swiffer the whole thing for me, just to make sure it was clean before I mopped.



After dinner I decided that everyone had worked hard today and declared it a Smoothie Night. I whipped up some fruit and yogurt in the blender and by the time I got into the living room with my cup, this is what I found. My two men, just hanging out, drinking their smoothies. Could I ask for anything more?

Starting over

I think it's time to acknowledge that I am not a very good blogger. :( It's been brought to my attention by several people that I have neglected my public (GASP!) which wouldn't be so awful if that didn't include neglecting to update all of you concerning Samster the Hamster. Mea culpa! I promise to make it up to you. How, you might ask? Starting January 1st, I'll be (gulp) making my best attempt at Blog 365. For those of you unfamiliar with this little endeavor, that means that I will try to post every single day for the entire year. I don't have anything fancy like a phone that accesses the internet so I'm not sure how this is going to go if we leave for vacation. But you'll get my best attempt. (Sara, you totally inspired me!)

In the mean time, I'm putting the rest of Sam's adoption story on hold. I think you know how it ends. :) It was exhausting to write the first part and I'm finding that writing the second part is stonewalling all my other attempts at updating you. Look for Part II sometime in the New Year. When I have more energy.  And while you wait, here's a picture to tide you over:

National Adoption Month

Unless you are my BFF on Facebook, you probably don't know that November is National Adoption Month. I realize that I have been a TERRIBLE blogger (the guilt! aaagh, the guilt!) but I couldn't let this November go by without writing something. On Facebook I asked if anyone had any questions about adoption and I'd like to do that here. Is there anything you're curious about? Leave your questions in the comments section and I'll leave a respone to you there so that everyone can see the answer.

I also wanted to share the story of our adoption. It's a long one (because I don't understand the concept of brevity) so it might come in installments. What follows here is the story of our journey toward Sam.

***********

Jeff and I were agreed upon our desire to have children when we got married. His illness delayed that dream for us and that was very painful for me. When we were finally ready to think about a family, I was ecstatic. I couldn't wait to be a mother. We didn't expect to have any trouble concieving though I'd been pushing nagging doubts about my body's wellness out of my head for the past ten years. I gave us a few months at best before we were pregnant. A few months became six, then a year. Initial tests showed not much wrong with me but deeper investigation revealed that we'd need some assistance to achieve a pregnancy. No problem, I thought. I could take some drugs and we'd be fine. But we weren't. The drugs made me sick and they didn't work. It looked like we needed massive help and that was something we just couldn't afford. I spent months crying as yet another dream folded in front of me. We had already been through so much...why this too? Ultimately we managed to become pregnant only twice in five years. Both times I miscarried very early. It looked very much like we would never be parents. To say that I was hurting and bitter would be an understatement.

Well-meaning friends (and strangers) gave us advice. They told us to relax, to go on vacation, to stop trying so hard, that if it was meant to be, it would be. My heart resounded with hurt; apparently it was not "meant to be." Relaxing has never gotten anyone pregnant, despite the rumors, and neither had our numerous vacations. Vacations are for people who ovulate, something I don't do. But mostly we were asked why we didn't "just adopt!"

We had investigated adoption early on in our troubles. Jeff and I had agreed that adoption was a possibility for us even before we were married and found out that we were unable to produce children. However, we were told by a social worker that because of Jeff's illness we would be unable to adopt. Together we are kind of a health disaster and we would be disqualified from adoption. It was the opinion of this agency that we were not fit for parenthood, despite our desire.

One day, in a fit of desperation, I decided to call Bethany Christian Services. It had been a few years since we'd talked to anyone, Jeff was better than he had been, and I could not stand the thought that perhaps I had left a stone unturned. I will never forget the day that Christyn called back and told me: "You would not be allowed to adopt from another country because of the strict out of country rules. There is no way they would understand that Jeff is being treated and is capable of being a parent. But you could most likely adopt domestically. I can't give you a 100% yes without doing a homestudy and talking to our director but I don't see why not." I sat on the couch and cried tears of relief.

995 days ago, we recieved the homestudy packet from BCS in the mail. We meticulously filled out every form and sent it back to them as quickly as possible, anxiously awaiting the next step. For some reason our paperwork was delayed and we didn't hear anything for three weeks. We bit our nails to the quick until Christyn called at the end of March 2007, asking to meet with both of us. That began the long process of paperwork and legalities. We were excited to start with; there was so much to do! We felt proactive, like we were making actual, physical strides toward our future child. It made the intrusive homestudy questions about our bank accounts, sex life, past relationships, etc., more bearable. We had to get written references from people we knew stating that we were stable and would be good parents. Because of Jeff's illness, BCS called each and every one of our references to talk with them personally, including Jeff's doctor at the VA. We had more meetings than normal for a homestudy because of our health. We took great pains to disclose everything that had happened to us; if we were going to be rejected for some reason we wanted it to be now, not later on when we finally had a baby in our arms. We could not take any more heartbreak. We also felt strongly that it would be unethical to hold anything back. If a birthmother was going to choose to place her child in our arms, she should do so with all the facts. Anything less was coercion--baby stealing.

We put together a profile with a "Dear Birthmother" letter telling about us and our hobbies. We included photos of ourselves, our families and our home. In the letter we stated that we were very much interested in an open adoption; one in which contact is maintained with the birthfamily. Although we had started the process believing we wanted a closed adoption, we had done a lot of reading and our hearts had completely changed. We believed it would be best for our baby if he had access to his birth family throughout his life. We didn't plan to stifle the fact that he was adopted and we knew that he would naturally have questions. We wanted him to have the best answers possible.  Also, it seemed to us that the more people in the world who could love our baby, the better. What a special child, to have two families instead of one! He would never need to question whether he was loved or wanted.

Throughout the process of paperwork and waiting, Jeff and I became more and more compassionate toward our birthmother and her family, whoever she might turn out to be. We prayed for her, that she would be safe, that the child inside of her would be safe and healthy, and that she would have peace with her decision. We prayed that if it came to it and she felt the decision to place her child for adoption was wrong, that she would have the strength to keep him and the support she needed to raise him. We came to understand that adoption is a broken world solution that leaves a wound, no matter how loving a situation the child is placed int. So in my secret heart, and partly from unbelieving despair that I would ever be a mother, I prayed that the mothers looking at our profile would find a way to keep their children. My heart was already broken from losing two children I desperately wanted; I wished very much to keep another woman from that pain. Lord, I prayed, if adoption is the right decision, help me to give this birthmother what she needs. And help me to give my child what he needs. And heal us all.

There came a point when paperwork was finished, the FBI declared that we had not comitted any felonies, and our profile was on BCS's website and in three local branches waiting for birthmothers to look it over. So we waited. And waited. And waited. We filed our profile in November. In the beginning of December we recieved a call from BCS. Christyn sounded hesistant over the phone; this was not the joyous news we expected. She explained that they had a child on the way, due to be born in just a few days, with a sever heart defect called hypoplastic left heart syndrome. Would we be interested in having our profile shown to the family? We needed to let her know by 5PM that day. It was just before noon when she called. We hung up and wept over the impossibility of the situation. If anyone knew the ins and outs of hospitals, it was us. We could be good parents to a sick baby. Jeff in particular empathized with the little one, feeling that his brokenness called to hers. We called our pastor and a pediatrician who is a good friend and asked their opinion. Our pediatrician told us that the outcome for this heart defect varies but almost always requires a transplant by the time the child is a teen. If we brought the child home, we'd be looking at many, many surgeries, medications...likely this child would not lead an average life. We asked our families what they thought and weighed our own health concerns. It was with broken hearts that we called Christyn and told her that we could not consider parenting this child. When we hung up the phone, we felt miserable. It would be three more months before we heard anything from BCS.

Je me souvien.

I wrote this on 9/11/08 and thought I might make it public this year.

****

Lux et Tenebris

That was the slogan sewn on Jeff's unit badge September 11th, 2001. Light in darkness.

I was a senior at Rutger's University that day and I skipped class because I was too lazy to get up for an 8 AM discussion of feminism. It was the end of the summer, it was going to be a beautiful day and I was not wasting it inside. Jeff had left the day before after spending two weeks of leave with me. We'd spent our last day together in New York City, visiting the World Trade Center, walking all over. We'd even contemplated spending the night but decided to return home so he could make his flight the morning of the 10th. I missed him but I was going to see him again soon. He had tentative plans to return in March, if the Air Force and his particular position allowed him more leave.

I didn't know anything was wrong when I finally climbed out of bed at 9 AM because I didn't have the radio or TV on. I was on my way to get into the shower when my roomate, a reliable med student who never skipped class, slammed open the door to our apartment shouting my name hysterically. "We've been attacked!" she yelled, crying. I thought she meant the med school. I couldn't understand. When she finally told me, when it finally got through, I sat down hard on the toilet and began to cry. All the people I knew in NYC, what had happened to them? Faith? Had she made it home to Queens? Kapps and her dad, what about them? The larger implications began to hit me; what about Jeff and my brother? What would happen to them if a war started? One was Army, the other Air Force. Would I lose them both? I felt like someone had poured ice into my lungs. What if I never saw Jeff again?

He wasn't reachable by phone; I had no idea where in the world he was. I knew he hadn't made it back to Japan yet and the phones were locked up busy in any case. My brother Josh just managed to get through to me, to ask if I was okay, to tell me to be strong and that Jeff would be alright. Josh was at the ROTC house on campus, he'd be there if I needed him. Just hearing his voice steadied me.

Jeff called at noon, all too briefly. "I love you, remember that." he said. He sounded alert in a way he didn't normally. I could feel his mind clicking away, analyzing a thousand different variables. I call it his military mode and he was in it, full force. "I won't be able to call you for a while" he told me. "Just know wherever I am, I'm thinking of you."

I didn't hear from him for weeks. And eight short months later our whole lives changed as his brain was permanently, life-alteringly damaged in the war that began that bright and beautiful September morning I was playing hooky. The last day I was truly carefree.

Moonlight

This. This moment when the last of summer is blowing through my twilit house, this moment when my baby is slumbering peacefully upstairs, when my husband is kissing me and telling me again how he loves me, this moment when the voices of children echo down the street, chasing each other toward home, this moment when the moon is just beginning to shine through our living room window, this moment is what I dreamed my grown-up life would be when I was still a little girl.

I breathe it in and smile at the shadow of my smaller self. My life is rich with fulfilled dreams.

OctoMom: Before and After

So it seems that Octomom has signed a deal for a reality show. I know, I know, Octomom is old news now, she's been done to death, why am I just talking about her now? Well...procratination. And because it's taken me this time to get my heart and my words together because I want to talk to you about something important.

You're all familiar with my history: barren all my life, keenly aware of it for the last six years. Two miscarriages, too many years of trying and failing, too many doctors, too much heartbreak...and then finally the brilliant punctuation to our story, Sam. I've been a mother for a little over a year now and the feeling is exquisite. It's everything I desired and so much more. But...the barren woman remains. So when Octomom first hit the headlines, I hit the roof along with everyone else. I stood in the church nursery and banged on the changing table as I shouted to my friends about the wrongness of it all, how no doctor should EVER have transferred that many embryos to a woman of that age with those risk factors, it was pure negligence, it would destory reproductive medicine for the rest of us that were behaving responsibly. My friends, who had supported me through countless tears, all nodded vigorously and agreed. They were appalled too.

I was angry for a good long while. It felt good to be angry. I felt justified. Right. I wasn't just morally right, I was SCIENTIFICALLY right. I had the American Society for Reproductive Medicine and their guidelines on my side. I had America on my side! This woman was a menace.

But then I came home one day to find my Gospel Transformation book lying on my desk. I'm sure it had been there for weeks; I use it for reference once in a while. It's green and white cover stared gently back at me, asking me that fundamental question: "Linda, do you need the gospel? Do you still need Jesus in your life?" Yes. Of course. Yes.

That was the beginning of my softening, the first brick in the wall to fall out and down and crumble to dust at my feet.

Here's what you may not know about me: Nadya Suleman ("Octomom") and I, we're the same. Our hearts are in the same condition; needy. When I moved out of my parents' house, I needed to find out who I was apart from them. I was eager to experiment with the world. When my first tastes left me even thirstier, I drank even more deeply. I left old friends behind, got newer, edgier, more dangerous ones to hang out with. I thought them intelligent, sophisticated, cool. I drank a lot. I dated wildly inappropriate men. I turned my mother's hair grey and caused my father's to fall out. I went wild. And I felt awful. Awful. So insecure. I was the thinnest I'd ever been, so thin that I actually modelled for a while. What girl doesn't want to be a model?! I should have felt awesome! But I wondered if my new friends really liked me (no) and if I'd ever really "make" it in their circle (also no.) I wondered what it would take to be accepted. I was already so far outside the boundaries, how much farther would I have to go?

I hit rock bottom, as people sometimes do. It was a long way up. One Sunday, two months into my recovery, I recieved a call from the old crowd that I'd severed ties with. I got to hear what they were calling me, what the rumors were, all the nasty stuff that was being said. I felt the filth of my old life return and I knew in my heart that it had never been gone. I was defiled. I had always been defiled. I would never be clean of it. I stood in front of my pastor's wife the next morning, unable to do anything but weep and say "I want my past to stop following me."

She had the remedy: Jesus. Here was the thing that I'd heard all my life but never understood at the heart level: grace. It was easy for me to accept that I was a sinner; I could clearly see all the wrong things I'd done and I felt the weight of them bowing my shoulders down. I knew I couldn't make that go away on my own; it was going to take something supernaturally strong to erase that feeling of defiled worthlessness away from me. I had no confidence that Jesus could do it but lucky for me, Jesus simply asks that we ask. So I did, I asked. And He showed up. He's shown up every day, for everything since. When the worthlessness comes knocking, He's there saying "You're my daughter. I've forgiven you. Put down your sins and stop carrying them around. I died so that you could be free of that burden."

All that came back to me in a moment, staring at my GT book. Do I still need Jesus? Yes. Does Nadya Suleman need Jesus? Yes. Yes. Her heart and my heart are in the same condition. She is trying to fill her heart-hole with babies, media attention, free stuff. She's trying hard to be a good mom, to live up to a standard she's set for herself; a standard she can't meet. What she needs is someone to lift the burden, to tell her about a Friend that never fails. One day I hope to stand with Nadya at the foot of the throne of Heaven and clasp her hand and know her as a sister. I hope we turn to each other, faces alight with grace, worship and wonder and say to each other "I never imagined He was so good!"

There are a million Nadyas, a million Lindas out there and I see them each day. When I'm tempted to trot out my dogma and righteousness, I think about that green GT book and I think about the barren hillside where Jesus died. I picture myself there at the foot of an empty cross...needy again.

For the record

I just want to say that Jackie Chan is a machine and also a thing of beauty. Love to watch that man move.

This is what happens when you grow up with boys.

One Year

From this:

to this:



Everything I want to say seems so cliched so I'll simply say that tonight my tears are infinitely sweeter than they were a year and a day ago.

A more beautiful me

They swirl and flutter around me, bright as birds, their words coming at me from every direction. My nickname echoes down the hallway, shouted exuberantly.

"Lindiebooooo!"

"You look hot, Lin!"

"I love that skirt! You made it? That's awesome!"

"You're so talented."

I watch them, fascinated. They are tall and small, short hair and long, curls and heavy flowing strands, pale skin with blue eyes, darker with glowing brown, and a fascinating green thrown into the mix. Every one of them captures me, takes my breath away. That they love me, that they want to hang out with me and run to hug me and love my baby makes me astonished. My girls, that's how I think of them.

I'm not a natural with teenagers, ask anyone. I wasn't a graceful teen myself, in any sense of the word. I grew too fast to achieve any sort of comfort with my body; for years I was all gangly arms and legs, forever tripping over any random thing. My figure developed fast but late. And my beliefs were never compatible with a high school environment. So, scarred by high school, I found myself intimidated by teenagers for years regardless of the fact that I was older, more confident in my identity and had fought much bigger battles.

Until now. Until these girls. I don't know how it happened, exactly. Suddenly one day they were there, a beautiful part of my life. Suddenly I was privileged to hear their secrets and dreams, share in their hopes for the future. Suddenly their parents were thanking me for "spending time" with their kids. I always find myself mumbling something about "my pleasure" when that happens but what I really want to say is:

"Are you kidding me? I am SO getting the better end of the deal here."

"Your daughter is a treasure."

"Her heart is amazing. I am humbled."

"I love every minute of time I spend with her."

I can never get myself together enough to articulate that but that's what I want to say.

I often fall asleep at night with my girls on my mind. I think of all the challenges they face in life. Being a teen girl is different now than it was when I was younger. Some of these girls are handling things that blow my mind. I have no idea what to say to them half the time and I pray for wisdom on the fly, that what I say would build them up, that I would root them in a foundation that is firm, that they would know their incredible value, worth and beauty. Because this is what I hear from their lips, the regugurgitation of what the world is telling them:

"I'm too thin. I don't have enough of a shape."

"I need to lose weight. But at least I know if a guy likes me now, before I change, he likes me for who I am and not how I look."

"My hair is too curly. I wish it was straight."

"I'm too short."

"I'm a giant!"

It makes me want to cry. I wish I could show them how I see them in my mind, peacock-bright, shining like stars, each of them unique and amazing. I see their beautiful hearts, each one so gifted in a different way. They are passionate and quiet, strong and gentle, caring and intelligent, clever and funny, and all of them are incredibly generous in spirit. They enrich the fabric of my life; I cannot remember how it was before I recieved random text messages from them throughout the day, before they saved my life some Sunday afternoons by helping me take care of Sam, before they barreled down the hallways Sunday morning, shouting my nickname, to hug me passionately. 

If all that were not enough, they have given me one last gift, one which is truly priceless. I can finally look back and see myself at 13, 14, 15, 16 and se the girl I was then. We haven't ever been at peace, that girl and I. She said all the same things these girls say to me now. But here in the present I can be kinder to my teenage self and I can see her for who she was; a girl on the verge, someone just becoming. The seeds of Linda. I can see a more beautiful me. And I feel at peace.

One year ago today...

...we got the call that we had been selected to be the parents of a little boy, due to be born on June 25th. And life has not been the same since!









Thank God.

I love you, Samster Hamster.

Feeling so small

Sometimes I'm reminded of how small my own issues are these days.

This morning Jeff read this article. Go read it, it's short and I can wait. Because of his memory issues, he didn't immediately recognize the name of the surviving crewmember. But later in the day I got this email from a longtime friend:

Mark was able to see Lee and Stacy this evening.

Mark said that Lee was unrecognizable.  He's in the ICU and has had

multiple surgeries so far...he's extremely swollen...he has all sort of tubes coming in and out of his body...has had quite a few rods put in.

Apparently, the aircraft that Lee and the pilot were on became unstable at 20,000 ft - and they ejected.

At the time, a husband and wife were out in the middle of nowhere, and saw the plane and Lee parachuting down.

This couple was able drive out to where Lee landed and the wife was at Lee's side, while the husband was able to aid the rescuers in finding him.

This is a blessing - that helped arrived so quickly at such a critical time.

Mark met Lee's surgeon - he's prior airforce - and the surgeon's wife opened her house up for Stacy to stay...just a very nice couple.  At the moment, they are in Bakersfield...which is about an 1 hr 1/2 from Edwards AFB.

Lee will be transported to a hospital in San Diego in a few days.

Lee's parents are on their way out as well.

Stacy has been given much support from the commander and his wife, neighbors, and the wives of Lee's test pilot program.

Lee is in really good spirits.

 

love to you all!

christina

 

I put my hand over my mouth after reading the first sentence and then crumpled into tears. This would be awful news for any family to recieve but the idea of my friends having to suffer this just breaks my heart.

 

This is what I want you to know about Stacy and Lee: they were an integral part of a group of people that kept me alive and functioning when Sarge was newly ill. During that whole horrible first year when he was in the hosital more than out, when he was trying to kill himself, when he'd go for days without speaking, when medication didn't work or when it wracked his body with side effects that landed him the ER and the ICU, Stacy and Lee were there.

 

They have this huge dog, a cross between an Irish Setter and a St. Bernard. He looks like Clifford the Big Red Dog. I'm a tall person but Napolean's head comes to the top of my hip. He's the size of a small pony; I could practically ride him. He's as gentle as can be, just a really lovely animal. Stacy and Lee let me use him as my therapy dog. There were days when I just showed up at their house, my heart so heavy I could barely walk and Stacy would open the door, park me on her couch, and call Napolean. There we'd sit, the dog with his head in my lap, and I'd just pet him and pet him and pet him. Some days we'd all go for a walk. If Stacy and Lee traveled, I took care of Napolean. I spoiled him rotten those days. I just needed the companionship.

 

Stacy taught me to scrapbook. I haven't done it since; the fun of doing it was being with her, parked at her sunny kitchen table, using her cutting tools and gabbing away. The best thing about Stacy was that she never talked too much. It was okay to be quiet with her, too. The silence was beautiful, never awkward. But even with that, she never hesitated to ask me questions about Sarge's health or how he was progressing. She asked about his voices, whether he'd get better, how the medical board process was going. Things that should have been awkward to discuss, weren't.

 

During the hardest times, Stacy (along with others in my special group) sent cards to encourage me. She brought a meal when I had to have surgery. She prayed with me. I thought of myself as a flimsy wall and Stacy as one of many sturdy beams that propped me up and kept me from falling. I know I couldn't have made it without her.

 

Lee was a friend to Sarge too, during a time when friendship was extremely difficult for him. Anyone in uniform was a reminder of all that he was losing and additionally, a goad to his spirit. He felt like a failure, as though he wasn't a good provider for me, among other things. Lee embodied so many things that Sarge would never get to accomplish in his career. At that time Sarge was also wrestling with the stigma of mental illness. I won't lie, it was tough for the guys of our group to reach past the natural reticence that men feel in the face of such things but they did.  Lee prayed with Sarge, encouraged him, visited him. He asked me how I was doing. Later, when their daughter was born, he made it possible for Stacy to come out with me so that I in turn was refreshed enough to go home and serve my husband with a renewed heart.

 

And now this awful thing has happened to my friends. Time and geography have separated us but I have never forgotten the way they heaped blessing upon blessing over our small family. I think about Lee laying in the hospital and I wonder what sort of road lies before them now. I know they'll have great interim care; the military is good at that. What sort of disabilites will Lee have long term? I pray that he'll have none. I wonder what their future will hold. I don't want them to have to shoulder the burden we've borne, to have to wrestle the VA for benefits and treatment. I don't want them to know any of what we've known. I wish with all my heart that I was near enough to bring them meals and babysit their children and bless them the way they blessed us. My heart is broken into a million pieces for them. Please, if you pray, pray for my friends.

 

Parent/hack

Today was an interesting day.

At lunch we saw our neighbor from down the street wandering past on her daily walk with her four very small grandchildren in tow, a giant pickaxe firmly gripped in her right hand.  I have no idea what that was all about as she doesn't speak a lick of English but she was headed toward the park.  A few minutes later two teenagers staggered by, one of them limping with a cane.  Jeff and I speculated that the two events might be related.  Message recieved: don't cross Awuh.

Then we put Sam down for his nap.  As usual, a cacophony of bangs accompanied his incarceration.  Normally that stops in about five minutes and he's sound asleep, out like a light.  In the mean time it always sounds like an elephant is coming through the ceiling but we generally ignore it.  Our crib is one with a changing table attached the side which means that it's basically the perfect drum set for little feet.

Jeff found the banging unusual and asked me what I thought.  "Oh, it's just our son, communicating to you in Morse Code." I replied.  "'Dear Dad, How are you?  I am fine.  The weather is nice.  Please get me out of here.  Love, Sam.'"  Jeff, ignoring me, was sprinting up the steps to check on our son while I sat on the couch thinking to myself that he was fine and how cute it was that my husband still overreacts even though Sam is no longer a tiny baby.  (It's true, he really does overreact a lot.)

Suddenly from upstairs I heard Jeff's voice boom a loud "NO!  SAM, NO!"  My turn to sprint up the stairs, no longer convinced of anyone's overreaction, wondering what on earth....  Sam, our moneky, our pirate monkey, climbed out of his crib and was sitting on top of his changing table, back the room, banging merrily away on the wood between his legs, an inch of space separating his bum and a three foot fall.  I'll let you take that in for a minute.

MY NINE MONTH OLD CHILD CLIMBED OUT OF HIS CRIB ON HIS OWN AND ALMOST FELL TO HIS MERRLY LITTLE DEATH.

He wasn't sorry about it all either, the little snot.  Every single follicle of my hair is currently gray.  We cancelled the afternoon wagon ride and went on a fruitless many-hour pursuit of a crib tent that was rumored by store associates to be at that big store with the backwards "R" but which was in fact NOT there and would never be there again.  My mother ordered us one but it won't be here for a week.

In an attempt to keep Sam alive until the crib tent could come, we removed his bumpers, rightly assuming he was using them as stepladders.  And he most certainly was; without them he can't get out.  He also lost his tiny little mind at all the open space and had a crying hyperventilating panic attack.  He would. not. sleep. without. the bumpers.  This is a kid who's max cry time is 20 minutes.  He was still going strong at 45 minutes after no nap at all and a trip to the store so we took pity on him and brought him down to be with us before dinner.  We'd thought maybe a nap in the bumperless crib would help him adjust for the evening but ummmm....not so much.

That is when genius struck me.  Using several yards of grey flannel recently given to me by my friend Lorie and some old scraps of quilt binding I made curtains to tie around the outside of Sam's bed.  They're eye-achingly uncoordinated color-wise but they make for the illusion of a cozy cocoon.  He went to sleep tonight with minimal fuss (I think being tired helped too) and I ate my dinner feeling like a superhero.  Hah son, I've foiled you again!

Until next time.

Buwahahahaha!

Degrees of heat

There are times that being a parent is scary to me.  I don't mean that in a funny way, scary as in "ha ha, this kid is my mother's revenge."  I mean scary in the way that makes my pulse race, a way that makes my mind snap into that automatic mode that is never far away, a product of my days working in the hospital.  Those days I roll over  instantly awake, assesing breathing patterns, pulse, skin tone, lethargy and a million other variable in the time it takes me to say to my husband (in a carefully neutral tone) "Let me take a look at Sam.  Come here, sweetheart."

The week before last, we had too many of those days.  Sam developed a small fever before bed one day so we dosed him with Motrin and put him down to sleep as usual.  In the middle of the night I awoke to Jeff's hand on my shoulder.  He was standing at the side of the bed, Sam in his arms, asking me "At what number is a fever dangerous?  Can you look at Sam?  He's really hot."  Hot he was, burning up in fact, his temperature at 104.8 F.  "It's okay" I soothed, stripping off his sleeper, even though it was anything but.  We dosed him again with Motrin, sat him in a cool bath for as long as he would stand it and dressed him in the lightest short-sleeved onesie we had before I rocked him back to sleep.  In the morning his fever was back down and we breathed a sigh of relief.  Jeff and I were exhausted from being up all night but more exhausted from the worry that accompanies a sick child, especially OUR sick child.  Our dearly loved, hard-won, much-sought and only child.

We took him to the doctor and she pronounced him on the right side of a virus, on his way up.  She noted his nose looked a little stuffed and told us that if his fever rose again we were to admit him to the hospital right away.  This seemed strange to me at the time; normally they keep you home for fevers under 105.  We'd called the emergency line the night before and their advice to us had reflected that paradigm.  Later that week, however, we read two separate blogs, tertiary friends of mine, whose children had died of respiratory complications, one of them involving a high fever.  I found out much later that this has been a bad year; my friends are not the only ones who've lost their babies.  Many kids are severly sick.

When Sam's nose started to run in the next few days I didn't pay much attention to it because I remembered that Dr. C noted it had been stuffed.  I thought it was the end of the virus clearing out.  A few days later his chest began to rattle and he started to wheeze and I knew it wasn't the end of anything but rather the beginning.  Jeff woke me up again in the middle of the night to ask me if Sam looked like he was retracting (a breathing issue that can signal severe distress.)  Thankfully he wasn't but I was glad we had an appointment to see Dr. C. the next day all the same.  My gut told me not to let him try to fight this one on his own.   Back to the doctor we went and she grimly told us that Sam had bronchiolitis yet again, his third or fourth time this winter.  She placed him back on Amoxil for the infection and Albuterol nebulizer treatments to help his breathing.  She told me that Sam's lungs seem peculiarly susceptible to infection and because of that she was adding a new medication: Pulmicort.  We were to infuse it with the nebulizer twice a day for four weeks.

Pulmicort was a big deal to me and still is.  It's an asthma medication routinely given to children over six years of age but rarely given to babies.  The only time I've ever seen it used for babies is when a pulmonary problem exists, such as in preemies whose immature lungs need support during their first years of life.  And now Sam is on this drug and I find myself watching him closely, looking for signs of...what?  I'm not sure.  He seems fully recovered from his bronchiolitis.  He managed to pass it on to me before he was done and I turned it into a sinus infection.  (Who knows what Jeff will do with it?)  His lungs seem okay for now.  I'm hoping that the Pulmicort will buy us some time, get us through the last of this unnaturally cold and wet spring into the dry heat of summer.  Maybe by the end of a long, dry summer Sam's lungs will be strong enough to face the fall without threat of constant infection.

Until then, I'm wishing for boring nights with no racing pulse.

Safari

When I was little, I had a deep fear of Africa.  I had once heard a reference to "darkest Africa" (probably someone quoting Joseph Conrad) and in my youthful mind I took that to mean that the sun shone very dimly there.  Even as a child I was solar-powered and the thought of not seeing bright sunshine every day struck fear into my heart.  My limited knowledge of Africa also included the fact that the Sahara desert was there and that it was full of wild animals.  (That Africa had elephants was its only plus and not even my love of that particular pachyderm was enough to induce me to want to travel there.)  Put it all together, throw in some adventure stories I'd read, and this is what I knew about Africa: if you went there you would die in the middle of the desert after you got lost and your camel shriveled up from dehydration.  If you were lucky you'd get kidnapped by a tribe of bedouins, sold as a slave, and wind up in some dusty village getting speared by a native.  Or you'd get juju'd to death.

I was very, very afraid.

This was unfortunate for me because the feature of every missionary story told in Sunday School was Africa.  It seemed that if you wanted to be a missionary, that was the place you went.  I was all for serving God because I really, really loved Him but I was petrified down to my core that He was going to make me go there.  One day I asked my mother about it, afraid she'd tell me that this was one of life's hardships and that I'd have to deal with my eventual exile and death.  I remember her smiling just a little as she told me that not every missionary went to Africa and that God would not send me there if I were that scared.  "Honey, He'll prepare your heart if He wants you to go there.  He won't make you go like this."  What a huge relief!  I was so glad to be standing there on our stone driveway in the full sun, knowing I'd never have to leave the comfort of my house to get speared by hostile tribesman.

Whew.

A few years later my youngest cousin Holly was severely burned while carrying a cup of hot tea upstairs to my aunt, who had the flu.  She tripped on the way up, splashing boiling water all over the side of her face and shoulder.  I remember getting the phone call.  I remember the way the bandages wrapped around her poor little head and neck disappeared into her shirt when we saw her next.  I remember her face shiny with salve.  Mostly I remember sitting in the quiet darkness of the living room, absorbing the news that this small girl, one half of a miracle set of twins, might be permanently scarred.  I couldn't bear that thought so I bargained with God, offering Him the thing that cost me the most.  I knew He wouldn't want the locket I treasured or even the stuffed animal I'd had since infancy.  I was old enough by then to know that God doesn't want things.  But service, that was something I could see Him wanting.  So I promised Him that night if He would heal Holly without a scar on her face and neck, I would go to Africa and be a missionary for at least two years, longer if that's what He wanted.  It was the only thing I had that I thought God could truly want.

Looking back I can see how misinformed I was about God, not to mention Africa.  As an adult, I know Africa is a continent, not a country (crucial to my minsunderstanding as a child) and I also know that as a continent it is anything but homogenous.  I also know my chances of getting eaten by a wild animal or speared by someone is pretty slim provided I use my common sense.  And I don't think I'll be traveling across the Sahara by camel anytime soon.  As an adult I know that God is not a bargainer.  I can just imagine His pained sigh as I prayed with fear seventeen years ago.  There wasn't any need for that; He would have healed Holly just for the asking.  Any price that needed to be paid was paid long ago, and not by me. 

Here's where I'd like to point out that if you met my cousin today you'd never know how badly she was scalded all those years ago.  She has a relatively small scar on her shoulder that I know bothers her sometimes.  But her face and neck are pristine.  And I've yet to set foot on any part of the continent of Africa.

Last weekend our church hosted the West Africa Partnership Summit.  Africa came to me, in a sense, particularly Ivory Coast, Senegal and Togo.  The pastors I met in November came back again, spoke to us again through translators, and were in turn revived and refreshed by our hospitality.  It was a beautiful time of fellowship for all of us.  We greatly enjoyed serving them and hearing from them; they were in turn happy to be here with us, giving us perspective on their very different lives.  Their struggles are so very different from my own and yet at the heart of the matter we have so much in common.



As I listened to one of the pastors speak, I thought about the idea of the global church.  It occured to me that these men are my brothers even though we look nothing alike, don't speak more than a handful of common words, and have met only a few times.  According to what I believe, I will be spending eternity with these guys.  It made me wonder who else I bump into on the street that may be my brother and I just don't know it.  It's a good basis for thinking about people; how can I treat anyone as "less than" if they are my family?

I haven't felt afraid of Africa for a very long time but this weekend, for the first time, I actively desired to go there.  I'm not sure when a trip will happen; my time's not as free as it used to be.  But I'm sure now that my mother was right; God has prepared my heart for Africa.  When I go it will not be with reluctance, because I feel I must; it will be because I have the desire to love the people there.   I have made the most important journey right here at home, from fear into freedom.

This time, tears of joy!

745 days.

14 hours.

38 minutes.

18 seconds.

The judge signed Sam's finalization papers today, on Jeff's birthday.  Forever and always, we are a family!  HOORAY!!!!

(Ignore how terrible my hair looks in this picture.)

The blessing of infertility

Yesterday it was 14 degrees outside and the wind was bitter but the sun shone in a cloudless sky so I called it a win.  This cold can't hang around forever.  At around 5PM we all gathered in the kitchen so I could start dinner (lemon chicken, Jeff's favorite.)  Sam was contained in his runaround and Jeff lay on the floor next to him, half under the table, playing peekaboo every time Sammy came trundling around.  They were laughing their heads off at each other as I sauteed chicken breasts.  I filled my eyes with the sight of them having fun with each other, occasionally running over to plant a kiss on Sam's forehead.  I do this thing where I pretend to run on my tippy-toes like a cartoon character with my mouth open wide like I'm going to eat him.  It makes him jump up and down with giggles every time.

There was a part of me, though, that was reflective.  Part of me will always be infertile, always in awe of the ordinary blessings that permeate my every day life these days.  Last March it was windy, cold and sunny, too.  I had surgery and finally recieved at least a partial answer as to why we couldn't have children.  I felt fragile and hopeless despite the sun.  I wasn't calling it a win.  But God was.  God was already moving me toward the little boy I hold this March.  God knew that my son was in his second trimester of growth, that I was a few months from becoming a mother despite my useless body.  God was busy making beauty from my ashes, joy from not just my pain but the pain of another family as well.  God was busy restoring me even as I questioned "Are you even there?  How can You continue to let me suffer like this?  How can I possibly hurt any more?"  God made utter blessing from utter desolation.  That's just His way.

The cold doesn't last forever.  Sometimes it's hard to feel the stirring of life amidst the deadness of winter but where God walks there is always the promise of spring.  Where a barren woman once wept, she now rejoices.

So it turns out...

Sam has had RSV.  He's on the mend now, thanks to Orapred and Albuterol.  It's been a long week and a half.

Oh, by the way, he gave it to Jeff and I.  That's why you haven't seen us lately.  We're trying not to give it to any of you or your children.  Because RSV?  Is like being hit in the head and then run over by a truck as the ocean fills your sinuses with glue. 

Here, look at a cute baby while I go cough up my left lung:





For the source of a raging plague, he's pretty cute, don't you think?

Some people have a monkey on their backs, I have a baby.

 He was just so fussy (and really, I couldn't blame him) while I was trying to cook dinner that we finally decided to backpack him.  He was interested in the boiling pasta, moderately tolerant of the spam (I know, I know...as person obsessed with fresh food,  and healthy eating, I should not broadcast my secret love affair with spam on the internet) but advertised his displeasure when it came to the velveeta.  (Don't judge me!)   He did like my ponytail though. 

After dinner (his was organic, from a jar) we tried to keep him awake the extra half an hour for his nebulizer treatment.  He was in full meltdown mode, exhausted after a day of hacking in spite of a good nap in the middle of the afternoon.  Although we were told that we could nebulize him in his sleep, the sound of the machine always wakes him up.  It seemed cruel to put him down only to jolt him awake half an hour later.   I didn't see a good outcome for that scenario.  Instead, I called Joanna to make sure that nebulizing him half an hour earlier wouldn't kill him (it didn't) and we did that.  By the time we got halfway through the treatment his cries had become high-pitched whimpers as the tears poured down his sad little face.  A minute later he fell asleep from sheer exhaustion, noisy machine not withstanding.



You can see the tear track still drying on his cheek and how sweaty his little head is from the effort it takes to cry with clogged lungs.  Is there anything sadder than a sick baby?

'Tis the season.

Poor Sam has bronchiolitis again. This time he's getting nebulizer treatments. It happened virtually overnight; he's been coughing and hacking up a storm since early yesterday evening after being fine yesterday morning. He doesn't understand the nebulizer tube and why he can't eat it, shake it to death, and otherwise maim it. We have to pin his hands down while it goes which he takes just about as well as you'd imagine. All that cyring though, we know the albuterol is getting into his lungs.


PS~ Jeff's MRI seems to have gone well. No one rushed out and told us to go to the hospital for immediate brain surgery so I am guessing he's okay. We see the neurologist on Monday.

'Tis the season...

Poor Sam has bronchiolitis again.  This time he's getting nebulizer treatments.  It happened virtually overnight; he's been coughing and hacking up a storm since early yesterday evening after being fine yesterday morning.  He doesn't understand the nebulizer tube and why he can't eat it, shake it to death, and otherwise maim it.  We have to pin his hands down while it goes which he takes just about as well as you'd imagine.  All that cyring though, we know the albuterol is getting into his lungs.

Just a small fracture around the edges.

The neurologist's office just called.  They saw something on Sarge's MRI.  He has to have another with contrast, ASAP.  He's going on Thursday, when I have my migraine appointment, so we can go together. 

He's telling me it's fine, most likely just a nasal cyst he's had for years.

That's probably it. 

Right?

In the nicky noo-nah.

Sam, not me, obviously. 

My darling, clementine.

The beautiful thing about having a migraine for six days is that when it's gone, you are so intensely grateful for everything about your life.  This morning when I woke up with no pain, it was like a revelation, like seeing Heaven with my physical eyes after existing in Hell for so long.  I felt amazing.

It was a cloudless day.  The sunshine streamed into our living room in blinding rays; we don't bother with heavy curtains or blinds.  I only have sheers on the windows, privacy be damned.  Jeff  jokes that I am solar powered and I am; I live on sunlight.  That makes the migraines so much more painful; I am deprived of my primary element and I miss it when I am forced into the darkness.  But this morning Sam and I rolled around on the living room floor, laughing at each other, letting the sunlight sear through our clothes and into our skins.  It felt incredible.  I felt alive for the first time in a week.

Yesterday I went to Wal-Mart because we needed formula (and if you want to experience a head trip, go to Wal-Mart with a migraine; if anything was designed to wig an already taxed nervous system, it is Wal-Mart) and spied a box of clementines.  They called my name; I couldn't ignore them and so I brough them home.  I ate six of them yesterday, unable to help myself.  I credit them for my miraculous recovery.  They were so juicy and good against my tongue.  Each one tasted like a burst of full summer; in each segment I could taste the heat of July, the smell of sun-warmed earth, the green of new plants lifting their heads toward the sun and hot nights under the full moon.  I looked out at my garden as I ate, lying fallow under weeds and frost, blasted by this arctic air we've been getting.  I dreamed about the coming spring when eventually just the right April day would occur, warm enough to bring the baby to the neighbor's, rent the rototiller from the place down the street and plow my strip of garden fresh again.  I will plant green beans, peas, tomatoes, carrots, potatoes, peppers, sunflowers and maybe corn and wild strawberries as well.  Too much for me to handle, certainly, but I'll do it anyway, like I always do.  I'll remember last year when I planted with hope, not knowing what my harvest would be.  And I'll think about this year and how the harvest is already so abundant, even before the planting has begun. 

These are the sweetest, juciest, orange clementine days.

Bloom and grow, forever.

I picked up a comfort read from my shelf the other day, wanting a book that I wouldn't have to focus too hard on yet would still enjoy.  My head was spasming in ten minute intervals and staring at the computer screen was making everything worse.  A smooth yellow page seemed soothing and a good story would take me away from my head and into a different self.  I decided I could be strong as Harry Crewe and settled into bed with a big glass of water.

Which is when I found it, just peeking over the top edge of my book.  It was a petrol coupon, issued to members of the military posted in Germany only, redeemable at any Esso station off base.  It was marked expired as of September 2004.  I stared at it blankly for a second, wondering where on earth I'd gotten it.  And then I remembered: Beth gave it to me.

It was my first solo trip to Germany, back when she'd still drive the two hours to Frankfurt airport to pick me up, back before I learned how to use the ICE train and felt like a real citizen of the world.  Sarge was stable for the first time in our marriage and I was able to leave him for a week to go visit Beth.  Beth was all alone because my brother was in Iraq, where he had been since February of that year. 

She was still living in the downstairs apartment of the house they lived in their entire stay in Germany.  It was dark and slightly damp and I remember it being very chilly.  And there were spiders, very big spiders.  Beth hates spiders and these guys were all legs. They loved to come out at night and creep around the bathroom; a nasty surprise for anyone who had to pee in the middle of the night (both of us).  They weren't very good climbers so Beth trapped them in wastebaskets and waited for them to die.  When I arrived, she'd had one trapped for five days and it was still grimly hanging on to life.  Every once in a while she'd go by the wastebasket and kick it, shouting "You dead yet, Sanka?"  which we found hysterically funny.  Eventually I put Sanka out of his misery with a flip-flop and thereby became the designated spider-killer.

I got lucky with the weather that trip.  The sky was a cloudless blue and the air was cool but not cold.  I think it was 65 most days and deliciously cold at night--perfect for walking and sleeping.  The first few days we went everywhere; shopping in Schweinfurt, the Residency in Wurzburg, a tiny little town off the map with an absurd flock of white ducks and the most beautiful stone bridge.  On the way home from that little town we got lost and Beth decided to take what she thought was a shortcut.  We wound up on a dirt road that quickly made itself known as a tractor path through some farmer's field!  It had been raining the week before and we nearly found ourselves stuck in the mud.  Her old BMW was a workhorse though, and pulled itself out.  By the time we made it to the other side of the field we were hysterical with laughter and we knew where we were.  We called it "adventure driving".

Toward the end of the trip the weather turned cold and rainy, as the autumn and winter so often is in Germany.  Beth asked if it would be okay for us to stay in one day.  A sigh of relief exploded out of me as I agreed and we spent a whole day sleeping late, playing SpongeBob the video game, eating junk food and watching TV.  It was incredible fun.  We had a friend over for dinner (because I adopted some of Beth's friends and made them mine) and just chillaxed, as we called it.  That was the day I felt like more than a friend and more than family.  I felt like something special.

Back in my bedroom at home, I tucked the expired Esso coupon in the back of my book to remind me another day of blue skies, dead spiders, laughter, and the bonds of sisterhood.

Your daily dose of Sam

I love this picture of us.

I bought that froggy shirt while visiting Beth, Josh & Co. in Germany, as we waited for Sam to arrive.  It is incredibly good to see him wearing it now!

Designer duds from Uncle Bobby, designer shoes from Aunt Joanna and Uncle Pat.  Look at my little stud!

This outfit is from Gramma W.  The sly, come hither look came naturally.

Angry eyebrows!  (But check out those amazing green eyes.)

Fooling around at breakfast.  Sheik Sam is in da house!

My Dad, the gentleman.

I started college early.  I was a sixteen year old senior in high school when a local community college began offering to let seniors take college courses at night for a ridiculously reduced rate.  I'd recieve full credit.  My parents asked me if I'd like to try it out and eager for more reasons to overachieve, I said yes.  I couldn't drive yet, too young, so twice a week my father and I would stroll out to his little car and drive thirty minutes to campus.  It was autumn and dark and my father was not willing to risk his teenaged daughter's safety on a strange new campus, community college though it was.  So he walked me to my class each night, my arm tucked safely in the crook of his elbow.  He carried my books for me too.  Some day it made me roll my eyes.  I was SIXTEEN.  Practically GROWN UP.  I would be fine.  Truthfully, it was dark and cold on that campus and I was really glad to have my dad backing me up.  He walked me right to the door of my classroom.

During class Dad hung out in the library, a few buildings away.  There were mostly older women in my night class and they thought it was spectacular that Dad took such good care of me.  I became their pet.  The professor liked me too.  He was a tiny man; I remember specualting that he must be part dwarf; not the achondraplasia kind, the mythical kind.  He looked exactly like I imagined Prince Caspian's tutor to have looked, right down to the goatee and the sparkling blue eyes. 

At the end of class my father would be waiting outside the door, smiling gently.  He'd carry my books and we'd laugh about the mysterious way the lights along the sidewalk always flickered when he walked by.  I hung back once to see if it was just him and it was.  (Maybe my dad is Dumbledore with his putter-outer?)  The head start in college was nice but thing that stands out the most to me is those walks and drives back and forth with my father.  It was time when I had him just to myself, time when I was at a vulnerable age and I knew I could tell him anything.  And I did.  Those rides were always over too soon and I was always looking forward to the next one. 

I've always known I have an extraordinary father but it's taken me years to realize how rare he really is.  Tonight I hope very much that I am even half the parent he was.

Happy New Year!

I hope everyone had a lovely celebration last night.  Me, I decided to do it up right with a migraine so bad I had to call Sarge at 4 AM to come home from the all-night youth event he was staffing.  If I could have stood the car ride, I'd have gone to the hospital.  As it was, the ambient light from the street leaking around my room darkening shades was enough to make me want to throw up everything I'd ever eaten.  It's 10:58 AM and I've only just crawled out of bed, feeling as though someone has taken a baseball bat to every part of my body.

Here's to a 2009 without migraines.