I found the beautiful Agnus Dei which is sung in our parish during Lent.  From Hans Leo Hassler's Missa Secunda, it is a lovely, introspective few moments of prayer.  I wish we used it all year...but I suppose that would take some small bit away from the joy of hearing it for such a short time.

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I was chatting with a friend late last week and told her that I was preparing my meds for the coming weeks.  It occurred to me that she had no concept of what that entailed--in fact, for most people, "bead counting" bears no meaning whatsoever, unless one imagines jewelry or Rosary making or something along those lines.  But that's what I'm doing.  I took pictures to text to her.  She was absolutely dumbstruck at how involved it is.

I've been taking Cymbalta.  It's an antidepressant which is also sometimes prescribed for the pain that comes with fibromyalgia.  After being on it for 6 months, I had begun really not liking the side effects, and made the choice to go a different way to work on the pain I experience.

The problem with that choice is that Cymbalta is darned near impossible to stop taking.

You can't just stop.  You can't even just taper down by reducing the dose.  Lots of doctors think the way to help their patients stop taking Cymbalta is to tell them to take it every other day for a couple of weeks, and then go down a step, and take it every other day for a couple of more weeks, and then just stop.

Cymbalta has a half life of 12 hours.  And the cold turkey withdrawal effects are absolutely horrific.

Nope.  That's not an exaggeration.  It's truly horrific.

I started out on 30 mg each day, and within 2 months, I was taking 60 mg each day.  That seems to be about average for timeline and dosage.  And like I said, I was on it for six months.  I had no idea what the withdrawal would be like--but when I ran out of my prescription, I thought, "I don't need to pick up the refill.  I'm not really in need of this stuff anymore."

That lasted for four days.

By the end of four days, I thought I was going crazy from the outside in and back out again.  I was nauseous, dizzy, my brain was in some sort of fog that felt like I was trying to think through unspun wool.  And the worst parts: even just sitting, doing nothing, was excruciatingly painful, in addition to having "brain zaps" on a frequent basis.  I wanted to crawl out of my skin.  I couldn't breathe.  I was absolutely terrified.  The nightmares were so real I was waking up drenched in sweat--and that was on the nights I could sleep.  The headaches were blinding.  My Darling ended up racing to the pharmacy and telling me: "We need to find another way to get you off of this stuff."

Cold turkey is not the way to get off of this poison.  And the trouble with the way many doctors tell their patients to taper down is that it throws them into that same pattern of cold turkey withdrawal every other day.  That's a real problem.  And yet, the doctors do not seem to know the havoc which is wreaked on the minds and bodies of their patients by this awful medication.

But the maker of the drug....they knew.  They knew and they did not share that information, and there are ongoing lawsuits addressing this issue.

The only safe way to get off of Cymbalta--or it's generic form, duloxetine--is what I mentioned above: the bead counting method.

When My Darling retrieved my prescription, we found out that there had been something of a miscommunication.  I was out of 60 mg refills, but I had remaining 30 mg refills.  The pharmacist said I could get the next refill after 15 days rather than the 30 days it was "supposed" to be for.

Pharmacists.  They get it.  People forget how knowledgeable pharmacists are.

I had already done a bit of searching--mostly at that point, I wanted confirmation that I wasn't going crazy--I wanted to know that I was not alone in what I was feeling because of the withdrawal effects.

Oh boy, was I not alone.

If you go to your favorite interweb search engine and type in "Cymbalta withdrawal side effects," you'll get a real quick education.  And it's not a pretty one.

I spoke with the PA I've been blessed to see and he was fully supportive of my need to get off of this drug.  The doctor I've been assigned...not so much.  More on that later though.

So the bead counting.....here's the scoop.  Inside each capsule are tiny little beads.  There are either hundreds that are the size of nonpareils (those tiny little multi-colored bead-like cookie sprinkles) or several that are the size of dragees (the bigger silver or gold bead-like cookie decorations).  If they're the larger sort of beads, then the unfortunate individual needing to taper down has to contact a compounding pharmacy in order to do so safely.

But the tiny ones?  Those are relatively "easy" as it goes.  In my generic 30 mg capsules, there are 250 beads.  Two hundred fifty.  I know this because I removed six random capsules and counted. every. single. bead. in each one.  And being on 60 mg each day, that meant I was taking 500 beads per dose.  After doing some extensive reading (like, solid hours of reading each day over several days), I concluded that based on my dose and the length of time I'd been taking it, I was probably safe doing a relatively aggressive taper.  I decided I could safely remove 11 beads the first day, 22 beads the second day, 33 beads the third day, 44 beads the fourth day, and so on, increasing the amount removed by an additional 11 beads each day.  All of my reading told me that if I began to feel the negative effects of withdrawal, I could absolutely hold steady where I was until those effects faded, how ever long that might take.  The normal effects?  The ones that you just have to learn to cope with?  Intense muscle and joint aches.  Insomnia.  Vivid, strange dreams.  Equally vivid nightmares.  Headaches.  Mild brain zaps.  Mental fog.  Increased anxiety.  Panic attacks.  Those things are my constant companions.

It took me about 5 weeks to get down to one capsule.  I spent a few hours one night removing the beads from each capsule until I got more than half way through, then began removing all of the beads and counting out what to put back into the capsules.  And I saved the beads I removed in a plastic baggie.  It actually went pretty smoothly.  The insomnia is killer, but my anxiety has been minimal.  The aches....I really thought I would get used to them, but they're really bad some nights.  Doesn't make the insomnia any easier. 

In that second capsule, the day I got down to 117 beads left in the capsule, I started having some pretty bad withdrawal again.  It coincided with my needing to be on antibiotics.  Apparently the way antibiotics affect gut health also affects the way the body is able (or less able) to metabolize a chemical like Cymbalta.  I ended up having to hold steady at 117 beads for an additional ten days.

Last week, I was able to resume counting down.  On one of the many nights I couldn't sleep, I finished up.  I had pretty solid advice from my pharmacist (who also graciously supplied me with empty capsules so I could use up my saved beads, rather than filling another prescription) that I should be extra careful toward the end.

Here's what my night's process looked like.  First, I got everything I needed on my wooden lap desk.

I have my baggie of empty capsules, my multi-dose pill organizer, tweezers, two little glass dishes, paper and pen, and the all important beads of poison.

I start out by counting out ten beads into the glass dish.  This is what ten beads looks like, with the tip of my ballpoint pen next to them for reference.

 I count out loud--sort of.  I listen to music in my earphones while I count so that I don't get distracted by outside noises.  Then I make a mark on my piece of paper so that I know I've counted out ten.

This is the same piece of paper I used when I was counting out the 117 beads I was taking while on antibiotics.  This time I was doing several days in a row: you can see the numerical progression.  My first mark for the evening is beneath 106.

This is what 50 beads looks like:

 It really doesn't look as sinister as it is.  Evil hides in small places sometimes, I guess.

Here's the whole 106:

Truly amazing.

Even more amazing to me is the amount left in the little dish after I had counted out enough for THREE WEEKS:

I am so, so grateful that those things are not in my body.

And this is what the dish along with the remaining beads in the baggie look like:

And my little scrap of paper...I really slowed the taper down at the end, removing four, three or two some days and one on others.

I'm praying like mad that it continues to go smoothly, that I don't have to increase the number of beads in any of my capsules, and that I'm done counting for good.  I still have about 70 empty capsules left, along with those hundreds of beads...so if I need to tweak as I go, I certainly can.

I'm also thankful that I at least have access to the medication I currently need.  There are so many people who've had to go cold turkey off of this stuff because they completely lose their insurance or prescription coverage.

Please join me in prayer this evening for those who need medications that they cannot afford or have no access to.

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Please also join me in prayer this evening for the Spader family, especially Tony and Stephanie, and their dear, sweet daughter Rebekah.

Shower of Roses giveaway

There is a lovely Catholic blog called Shower of Roses.

This week, the author has compiled an incredible list of Eastertide products and resources, and she's also put together a beautiful collection of things which are being drawn for in a giveaway.

Go on over and visit.  The way to get entries into the drawing is to go to each of the links, and then verify that have done so.  There are etsy shops, retail sites, Facebook pages galore (YES, please clutter my news feed with Catholic goodies!), and a few other odds and ends. 

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Speaking of social media, I've decided that there is enough going on in my life here at home that I actually kind of need the outside link to the world.

Here's the thing: in a typical week, I leave my house once.  Definitely once.  Mass on Sundays.  Before Mass, I rehearse the week's music with the choir and maybe a little bit of next week's music, too.  After Mass, I stand in the narthex with lots of other people and try really hard to give my attention to at least one dear friend for more than 2 minutes.  Usually, I end up sitting with Honey Bee on one of the two stretches of pews to give her a little milkies.

I don't get to go to choir rehearsal.  Rehearsals are on Thursday nights.  Frog works most weeknights.  Pickle and Reepicheep are in the school musical, and have rehearsals on Thursday nights.  It's a good thing I have an incredibly gracious choir director who lets me sing with the choir even though I am not able to be at rehearsals.

Date nights used to be a regular thing, but with the increasing number of musical practices (impending performance and all that) and the Frog's evening job, there just isn't anyone to watch the four littles.  We don't do babysitters--they're scarce, I'm not terribly trusting, and our budget is very limited.

So......social media is back in.  There are Mamas there.  There are people with fibromyalgia there.  There are Catholics there.  There are a huge number of priests and seminarians there, and even several religious sisters.  It's not an entirely bad place to be.

This last week, especially, was not one of my favorite.  For about a week preceding, there was a cough going around the family, and then my Honey Bee popped a fever.  It topped out at 103.5 under her arm, and I felt solidly good about medicating that fever.  (I am one of those Mamas who doesn't reach for the meds immediately: until it gets to be about 101 or a little above, I would rather let it do what it's supposed to do.  Tepid baths and cool cloths are great for comfort.  Obviously, if one of my little ones is in pain, I do what's necessary for comfort.)

Hence the visit to urgent care (because the clinic could not get us in for a few days, even though I said, "My littlest one has an ear infection, and I think my eldest has a scratched cornea.").  Five hours.  Six of us seen.  Lots of meds being juggled.  And we're on the upswing now, thanks be to God!

But when a Mama's buried beneath a pile of coughing babies, Mama sometimes needs to be able to connect with other Mamas who know just what that's like.   And those Mamas are there on the social media, the facebook, the place where we meet people on a regular basis whom we might not ever meet in person.  It's an interesting time in which we live...today I'm glad for the facebook.

Advent, 2011

If you're Catholic, and if you've been paying attention, you know that the beginning of Advent next year means that the new, corrected Translation of the Roman Missal will be implemented by churches throughout the world.

What does it mean? Does the use of a translation other than what we use now during the NO Mass mean a step backward? Does it mean that the people attending Mass will somehow be less able to participate in the Mass?

Read the Order of Mass for yourself here, and then think about it. It's not difficult, I promise.

The thing is, there seems to be a huge debate rising about what it means to have this "new" translation. But it isn't a new translation at all--it's a corrected translation. Fr. Z frequently presents to us the beautiful prayers and collects in the original Latin, then with a literal translation, then what has replaced the literal translation, which has nearly always been watered down so far as to change the original meaning. Take a look at his post of last Sunday (Oct. 8th) here.

How does it serve the faithful if the original meaning of our prayers is removed? And how in the world could anyone see anything negative in that original meaning being restored? Does it somehow change the tenets of the faith, the very foundation that the Catechism has laid out for us? It is not an edict demanding a return to singularly Latin Masses being said; it is far more in keeping with the "Spirit of Vatican II" that people rave on and on about. How does this equal somehow moving backward? And what's wrong with Latin, anyway?

To my mind--admittedly rather young, in all things Catholic--the corrected translation is an incredible blessing! The removal of "every day" language from the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass is something to which I very much look forward. To have Heaven on Earth be brought just a little closer by the reverence of the very words spoken is something the heart and soul ought to long for.

When things are phrased in a particular way, it makes us perceive things in a different way. If the phrasing is crude, choppy, disconnected, then the idea will not be properly conveyed. If the phrasing is smooth, eloquent and refined, would logic not then bring us to the conclusion that our minds would be collected in such a way that we might perhaps be further drawn into contemplative thought? Isn't that what Mass is supposed to be about?

What would you do?

What is the charitable thing to do in a difficult situation? Here's the set-up:

There's a family of four--two little girls and Mom and Dad--who've been attending the same Mass as our family (and loads of other families) for about 2 years now. They seem like very nice people. The children are roughly 3 and 5, though they might be a bit older. It is obvious that there is no mental illness nor disability on the part of any member of the family.

The trouble is that the girls chatter like squirrels throughout Mass, and they do so without correction. They ask for (and are given) snacks. They ask for (and are given) paper and pen. They dance on the pew. They balance on the kneeler, as though on a beam, pulling hair and pounding arms of those in front of them.

When a parent does speak with them, it's usually Mom--and she actually speaks to them. At a conversational volume. Regardless of what is happening in regards to the Mass. She does this during the homily, during the readings, during the hymns, and even during the crux of the Mass--the Consecration. Her speaking to her children is never to correct them--just to answer and pacify them. The children are never removed, for any reason. The younger one has cried loudly during Mass before, and nothing was done.

I think this might be one of the families (though I've not seen other families with this type of issue at the Mass we regularly attend, but there are also three other Mass times within our parish) which prompted the message written by our dear Monsignor about six months ago, regarding behavior during Mass, and when it becomes necessary to remove a child from the nave in order to allow other parishioners to worship appropriately.

It is maddening. It is distracting, and it is completely disrespectful of Our Lord during the Mass.

So I ask you--what would you do?

I understand what it's like to wrangle children during Mass. I have five, for Pete's sake, and am not looking to be out of the Narthex Crowd anytime soon!! I know what it is to sit in the narthex as close to the speaker as I can, or where I can watch through the glass panel on the door, knowing that I can hear the Mass just fine from there, and that my small ill-behaved child is out of hearing and sight range of the rest of the people, and that this leaves only me as the distracted one. I definitely know what it's like to have the strong desire to be in the nave, seeing the beauty of the Mass, immersed in the ways in which the Mass stirs our senses, and feel as though I'm not really there at all. In other words, I've been in their shoes--but rather than sit there, I've gotten up and moved my feet!

I am finding it terribly difficult to remain charitable in my heart, especially in those moments during Mass when I am left to strain to hear Monsignor's homily, because the woman behind me refuses to whisper. I found this to be especially so this morning, when this family sat down directly behind our family. Finding another pew at that point was not possible.

So, besides "offer it up"--which, believe me, I have been doing!--what in the world would you do??

Bad days happen even here...

Disclaimer: Gratuitous whinging ahead. Read at your own peril. Even Catholic homeschooling happily-married Mamas have bad days.

I am grumpy. I'm in a terrible mood, and no help for it.

I know, I know...this funk is not something of Heaven; rather it reeks with the foul stench of the other place. And I know that eventually the clouds will lift.

But it's been a rotten afternoon, and part of me just wants to sulk in it for a few minutes, get it off my chest, and move on.

I'm trying to adjust to my Frog being gone from me each day to the wonderful school. I know full well what a blessing it is--especially for her--but it's been really hard on this Mama's heart. I miss my girl! I miss her companionship, and I really miss her capable help.

I am becoming increasingly frustrated with my Pickle. I'm stretching myself each day to find the wonderful qualities that make him the lovable boy he is, but for Pete's sake, when you have to tell a 12-year-old to look on the floor for things like shoes, rather than staring at the walls and saying, "...but I don't see them!".....it just gets old.

The Reepicheep is trying. Ten is a really difficult age. It's physically awkward, and it's psychologically worse. She wants desperately to be more capable than she is at lots of things, and frequently tries to do things with disastrous, or near disastrous, results, and sometimes at the peril of others. She wants to stay up late and have the privileges that come with being a teenager, but she's really not even close to teenagerhood. She rebels at the things that we know are best for her (like the earlier bed time and the necessity of school work and chores) sometimes, but other times (at this very moment, for instance), I'll say, "I need the counter spiffed up," and she'll practically scrub all of the counters, sweep the floor, shine the sink and set the table. It's just so blasted unpredictable! I know she'll grow out of it, and I know it won't be long...if we could go from eight to eleven, and skip the two years in between, that would be fabulous.

My little Squash boy....well, he just melts my heart almost every minute of the day. When he's not smooching my nose (because, you know, sometimes it's empty...) or snuggling with me and sighing and saying, "Mama......I just love you..." he's unfortunately squabbling with either the Pickle or the Reepicheep. And his squabbling generally takes the form of a very loud, insistent voice which is audible throughout the entire house, for Pete's sake, and which does not cease until the world bows to his short little whim. If you're playing for points, that's a long way down to bow.

The Cuppie......well, she's on the cusp of two. She has two volumes: tolerable and sweet, and LOUD AND HORRIBLE. If she has what or who she wants, life is good and she's terribly cute. If she does not have it or them and she wants it or them, then you'd better grab your ear plugs. The squeaky wheel gets the grease, and she's apparently in need of a great deal of grease. We could buy an industrial vat of olive oil and pray that it would be enough. In other words, there is a great deal of my day which is spent attempting to entertain or appease my sweet Cuppie, and the rest of my day is spent in grateful thanksgiving to my merciful Lord that she is peacefully napping.

And may I say, I would just like one. evening. with. my. husband? We're so busy, it really feels like I can barely come up for air. I'm trying to figure out when we even have time to go grocery shopping, because we're running out of staples like bread and cereal, and I totally consider grocery shopping to be a date, but only if we have no children with us.

The upside? I'm feeling markedly better. In the last week, I've only had to battle Major Pukey and his Miserable Minions thrice. The Nausea Bug is still around, but is showing himself to be pitifully battle-weary, thanks be to God. Now if I can just get my blood pressure up a bit--you know, not in the I'm-having-a-terrible-day-and-will-probably-explode way, but in the I-can-stand-up-for-more-than-two-minutes-and-maybe-even-stand-at-the-appropriate-parts-of-the-Mass-and-not-pass-out way.....well, that would really make my day.

I guess perhaps there could be some help for it after all.

It's WHAT time?!

On the one hand, it's really nice to be in a quiet house. The lights around the Creche glow warmly, the lights around the windows shine gently, and the slow, steady breathing of my Pudge falls on my ear. She is resting peacefully on my chest, the smell of warm milk sweet on her cheeks.

On the other hand, I could totally do without insomnia. Really. I am so tired that I can't even stand it, but my mind just will not let up.

It's been a strange Advent. My heart has been trying and trying to prepare Him room, but it's been complicated somewhat by the turn of events following Pudge's measles.

People are afraid of measles. Think about it--when was the last time you were in the presence of a person with the measles? Probably doesn't happen very often. Most people in my mom's generation had measles when they were kids, and most people of my generation and younger have been vaccinated.

The thing people are afraid of is not knowing enough about this virus to keep cool when they hear that it's "out there."

So the Pudge got measles. We don't know where, and we don't really even know how or when. It could have been at the library, or the grocery store, or even in the Narthex at church. She could have gotten it because some baby slobbered on the handle of the cart at the store and then she touched the handle and then sucked on her pudgy little fingers, or because she was drooled on by a playmate who had just been vaccinated.

So what happened? She had a fever, which we controlled easily with acetaminophen and ibuprofen and tepid baths. She had a rash which lasted a few days and then faded. She had two runny diapers. She may have had a headache and sore throat--both of which would have been alleviated with the meds. She had goopy eyes and a runny nose, which, considering her age, is not so surprising--perhaps what is surprising is that this bout with measles is the second time ever in her little life that she has been sick. And oh, yes, I do count that puny little Piggy Flu as the first.

Oh--and just to get it out there, as soon as we knew that measles was what was had, we were on the phone with those we knew to be at risk, those we thought might possibly be at risk, and those we knew would pray for the Pudge. And for Pete's sake, we kept her home until we knew she was past the possibility of passing it on.

Most of the people with whom we are in contact vaccinate. Some of them don't. Whether we or they do or don't doesn't really matter in this case--Pudge, having just turned a year, was too young to have received an MMR shot, so she fell into the category of "unprotected" by default. And those who choose not to vaccinate do not do so thinking that their children will never get______(measles, mumps, chicken pox, etc......). Generally speaking, they are a very well-educated, well-informed bunch who make decisions after weighing pros and cons, and with the support of their doctors.

But I gotta tell ya, there was mass hysteria out there. Grown, thinking, mature adults absolutely freaked out about this--and mostly because they had no idea what measles is, how it progresses, how it spreads, who's at risk and who isn't, and what they should do about it--because for Pete's sake, we'd better do something!

And why, you might ask, would this affect our Advent?

Well it's like this. We discovered Pudge's measles on Thanksgiving evening. That would be November 26th. That following Sunday (the First Sunday of Advent), November 29th, she and I did not go to Mass (though I was able to go to an evening Mass, thanks be to God). That Monday, Pickle went with My Darling to the boys' club that they always go to on Monday, and someone was very upset about that. Never mind that Pickle is vaccinated and boostered. He cannot carry measles. But whoever was upset about it started The Panic. The Panic spread, the rumors began, the gossip flowed like cheap wine from a box, and the phone began ringing off the hook.

Oh wait--actually, it didn't.

On Sunday, My Darling let a couple of people know that Pudge had the measles, and I received one e-mail from a very lovely woman asking how Pudge fared, and would we like her to send a meal along with her husband and sons to give to My Darling on Monday evening? God bless her!!

The next day, our whole home school group received an e-mail stating that measles was "making the rounds"--because, you know, one child in one family equals "making the rounds." Someone heard about this and passed it on and passed it on and passed it on (because sometimes we women........well, sometimes we talk.). And someone threatened to call a doctor whom they knew who kept track of infectious diseases. And someone called someone else and said that we were using this as an excuse to drop our home school group like a hot potato because we wanted to participate in a different one. And someone called someone else and said that they heard that our daughter said to someone else's daughter that we might not be homeschooling all the way to high school anyway, so what did it matter?

Yes, really.

Everything kind of happened behind closed doors and spilled onto keyboards and screens.

Now, I love e-mail. I use it all the time and think it's groovy that I can send quick updates and notes to my Grams, and print off menus for Mass when I'm scheduled to cantor. But when something like this happens, I truly wish that all e-mail service in the 100 miles surrounding us would crash. People grew not only afraid of measles, but of the phone.

Some of the e-mails we received were near threats--"Don't show up to First Friday Mass!" Some of them were piggybacks of gossip--"We hear MamaMidwife's Lovey and Flower have measles, too--we're praying for them!" (.....except that they didn't have them....not that anyone bothered to call her to find this out.......) Some of them were directed to MamaMidwife, and were Just Plain Hurtful--"Don't come to this event because I'm terrified that you'll give measles to others there!" (.....even though she's vaccinated and cannot carry measles.....)

The fear, I tell you, was palpable.

The worst e-mail--the kindest, but the worst--was the one from our beloved Monsignor. Someone had called or e-mailed him very, very late on Saturday evening, the night before the Second Sunday of Advent. We had already made the decision that the big three were going to Mass with My Darling and the little ones would stay home with me. And at 11:00 at night, I received an e-mail letting our family know that we had all been dispensed of our obligation to attend Holy Mass, the Holy Mass celebrating Immaculate Conception, and all Masses until we were confident that the risk of exposure had passed.

Yes, really.

And what was the risk?

The risk was that because the Monkey, who has not been vaccinated, lives with his dear sister the Pudge, he might carry the measles and hand it off to some unsuspecting unvaccinated child.

Not that we could arrange to not have him at First Friday Mass. Not that we could make sure he stayed--literally--within our arms at Sunday Mass, and in the back of the church, or on the side where very few people ever sit because the lighting is horrible. Not that we were out to expose the families whom we know and love like our own families, for Pete's sake, wishing them all to suffer the wrath of the measles!

And how long was this a risk? Well gosh, I don't know. It probably still is, because here it is, December 17th, and he has yet to get the fever, the Koplik's spots, the rash, the goopy eyes, the sore throat, the headache, the diarrhea, or for pity's sake, the anything associated with measles. But, you know, it could happen at any time.

This Sunday, Gaudete Sunday, REJOICE Sunday, we went to Mass as a family, in the parish to which we belong.

Not the First Sunday of Advent. Not First Friday. Not the Feast of the Immaculate Conception. Not the Second Sunday of Advent. And Heaven knows, none of the daily Masses in between.

And as a result of the fear, gossip, panic and lack of communication, we are now considering leaving the home school group with which we'd felt such a strong bond. We hadn't considered it before this whole thing erupted. But having been on the receiving end of a lot of muck being slung about, we're not sure it's really the place we want to nurture our children. (Our children, who, by the way, were witness to their mother reading e-mail after e-mail, talking with friends and those whom she thought to be friends, trying to sort out and assure that we were not trying to infect people with some deadly disease, and for Pete's sake, would they please ask us what our plans for our family are, rather than relying on what someone's daughter said that our daughter said months ago??!! Yes, REALLY!)

A lot of damage can be done when people allow fear to take hold. With the refusal to ask questions, research anything, talk with any doctor who actually deals with measles, rather than studying it from a book, so much has been accomplished on the side of evil--hurt feelings, motives questioned, friendships destroyed, faithful people alienated.....

So it's been a strange Advent.

I'm trying so to keep it all in perspective, to focus on the joy of this season. It's been mighty difficult. There's so much other crud going on that Mass has been all I've had to look forward to...and when you're told not to come to Mass, it's like a stab to the very soul, with a twist of the blade for good measure.

Thanks be to God, my Pudge is well. Thanks be to God, the Monkey is, too. Thanks be to God we can now fully focus on Advent, on preparing our hearts to welcome the Lord Jesus, the Infant King, Emmanuel, God with us.

Nearing the end?

Chris will come today. Maybe she will take one look at me and take great pity and tell me that she will give me something to get labor really and truly going.

Ok, likely not, but I needed to say it.

I've gotten to the point in pregnancy when I can be up and around, doing what needs to be done--just in time, of course, for that point in pregnancy when it hurts to be up and around, doing what needs to be done. Not complaining; just being honest.

It's the point when I really want to whine and cry and whinge to no end about how uncomfortable I am, how much it hurts to walk, how it's difficult to sleep, how flipping from one side to the other in the bed is really time-consuming and painful, how I have to use the loo every fourteen seconds and yield practically nothing....and the thing is, all of it is true, but I'm trying so hard to keep things in perspective--so most times I just keep my trap shut.

I know that all of this is part of what brings about the new life in our family. I know that this physical discomfort is fleeting--it will absolutely not last, and when it's gone I'll have forgotten it nearly immediately anyway. I know that suffering is part of being human, and that so little is asked of me when seen in the shadow of the Cross.

I know that in a matter of days, I will be holding a sweet bundle of wriggly love, smooching little cheeks and smelling a sweet head, marveling at the velvety softness of brand new little feeties, and falling absolutely in love with another small soul.

Yesterday was a bad day. Yesterday found me all too human, breaking down emotionally, and taking my frustrations out on my family. Of course, I thought to myself, everyone is conspiring against Mom to make things as miserable as possible. The children cannot (or will not, for Pete's sake) stop their squabbles long enough to remember that they love each other. My Darling husband thinks it's cute when I waddle (can you believe the nerve?!) rather than noticing that every step is painful. All these things added up for a rather explosive temper fit on my part. There were tears, there was blowing of the nose, there may have been a raised voice and harsh verbiage. Never mind the part where everyone has been sacrificing around me to make things happen in our home--the kids are just kids, for Pete's sake, and have really been doing their best (mostly) to get their chores done. And of course, My Darling has been grocery shopping and cooking, in addition to keeping on with the addition, working full-time to support and provide for our family, and still he is loving and supportive of me emotionally and just takes everything in and copes with it.

I am well blessed.

Still, yesterday Perspective was nowhere to be found. Completely MIA.

And today, alas, is shaping up much the same way, although it looks like it might get better.

We have Mass tonight with our dear Bishop, followed by a dinner of appreciation for the couples involved in the Marriage Preparation ministry.

I hope there's Confession offered before Mass......

Holding steady

Well, we seem to be in a holding pattern, thanks be to God. While some things remain a bit tedious (contractions and bed rest combined with the intense urge to NEST, for Pete's sake!!), my hypoglycemia issue has apparently been assuaged by small, frequent infusions of high protein. Meatloaf, eggs, nuts, cheese...everything helps. Oh, and yogurt, too...but I only tolerate the taste of yogurt when it's mixed into a smoothie. Mmmmm!!

Saturday brought a crew of helping hands to the house, and boy did they get a lot done! Thanks be to God for good friends, decent weather, and a fruitful day.

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Missing Mass yesterday was hard. Aside from the intense longing just to be at Mass, our dear friends were having their precious baby boy baptized (thank goodness the Frog took her camera and captured some beautiful images for me...), and there was a prayer service following Mass to support our wonderful priests (yesterday was Priesthood Sunday).

When my family returned home, My Darling removed his sweater and handed it to me, knowing exactly what I would do with it: I covered my face with it and deeply inhaled the sweet, holy fragrance of incense. I still have it near my pillow so that I can grab it from time to time and smell one of my favorite scents in the entire earthly world...

And, of course, My Darling brought me Communion in our pyx. It is so comforting to know that I can read and reflect on the readings in my Magnificat, watch Mass on EWTN or one of our local stations (one of them broadcasts Mass every Sunday for those unable to attend), and then My Darling can bring me Jesus. It's so not even close to being there and experiencing the Mass, but it'll do for the next couple of weeks. I can do this for two more weeks. Really. I can. Philippians Four-Thirteen, for Pete's sake!!

I have been finding it a little easier to keep in mind that whatever sacrifices He asks of me, God intends for either the betterment of my own soul, or for someone else. Two weeks really is not so long.

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Some ladies are coming tomorrow night for what our home school group has dubbed "Maternity Moms' Night Out." There is a regular "Moms' Night Out," which always involves going out to eat as a group and recently has included karaoke. But one of the moms decided that with all of the pregnant Mamas in our group, we needed to do something specifically for the expecting Mamas.

Most of us are having our fourth, fifth, sixth--even seventh babies. Sadly, so many of our family and friends outside our home school group or parish families just don't seem to recognize the miracle that each life is! I remember having a shower for the Pickle, but nothing for Reepicheep or Monkey. And with Monkey, we really could have used one! We had given all of our baby items away, after four years of secondary infertility and having been told that we would likely never conceive again. We ended up having to buy everything all over again, from the car seat to the crib and high chair. A few of the special clothes had been set aside, so that each of our children could have something from their babyhood down the road, but most of them had been given away long ago.

More than a shower, though, it was the support that we really found hurtfully lacking. There were a very few of our family members who came to visit after the Monkey was born (some of them never even called or acknowledged his birth at all!), and only a fraction of them were in attendance at his baptism. And forget the notion of bringing a meal or tossing in a load of laundry, or giving a hand with household chores. I think there were perhaps two people who filled that role, and the rest of it fell to My Darling. Do people think that if it's your fourth or fifth baby, you bounce back faster physically??

And the announcement that we were pregnant *again* was met with just plain eye-rolling disdain on some parts--not just with this Little Pumpkin, but even with the Monkey. Hey, we happen to have planned this baby, and by the grace of God, we were blessed! And we happen to realize that every single baby conceived and brought into a family is a miracle, whether they are the first, the third, the fifth or the tenth!! Every soul is new, every new life ordained by God Himself. It saddens me that so many fail to recognize this.

Well, this happens to be an issue faced by many of the families with whom we are friends. So rather than having a shower for each baby, we Mamas gather together with the expectant Mum and treat her at her favorite restaurant. We talk and share our pregnancy and birth experience stories over good food. Some people bring small token gifts--a crib medal, perhaps, or a baby Rosary--but most just come for the fellowship.

Since I am on bed rest, the Mamas are coming here and bringing potluck. We shall play board games and laugh and visit, and most of all, they will bring love and support for this sweet Little Pumpkin! I am so looking forward to the company of my dear friends; it almost makes the next two weeks seem even more bearable!

If my prayers come to fruition, the birth of this baby will be celebrated with joyful thanksgiving, prayer, and love from all sides. I pray for everyone who knows us to welcome this child as heartily and enthusiastically as they did our first and second and third. And I pray for hearts to be softened to know that children are such precious gifts, that families can have more than two or three, and that no matter what number in the mix they are, each dear child is cherished and loved.

And hey, a helping hand wouldn't hurt, either. :)

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The Forty Days for Life campaign is coming to a close on November 2nd. Please continue to keep in your prayers all those whose lives are adversely affected by this tragedy; may God have mercy on them and on all of us.

Let your light so shine....

Last week was chock full. We had the funeral for My Darling's uncle (finally--and it was beautiful, thanks be to God), followed by a First Communion Mass and celebration (on the same day as the funeral, for Pete's sake), then the annual family camping weekend for My Darling's gigantic family (which ran from Thursday until Sunday but we were only there Friday and Saturday), and then on Sunday we took the Big Three to camp for the week. Shwew!

Quite honestly, I was dreading most of the weekend. Although My Darling comes from a large family, most of them don't understand the Big Family mentality and pretty much turn their noses up at the joyful acceptance of fertility and the gift of children. This means that each time a pregnancy is announced, there are shamelessly lewd comments made about the bedroom habits of the expecting couple, along with remarks like, "What's the matter, you haven't heard of birth control?" (well....like Bishop Sheen once said, those who use birth control use it because they don't want to give birth or they don't want to exercise self control...we choose to use NFP when we want to avoid a pregnancy, and each of our pregnancies--from the Reepicheep on--are absolutely intended) "So are you done yet?" (as though it's a project) and, "So are you going to get fixed this time?" (as if something were broken) and, "Boy, you just can't keep your legs closed, huh?" (I won't even dignify this one...)

When the Pickle was born, we heard lots of comments (even from complete strangers) about how now we had our boy and our girl--The Perfect Family!--so we could be done now. These types of comments irk me for so many reasons, not the least of which is that our family is perfect no matter how many children we have, no matter how "evenly divided" they are between boys and girls. Is this to say that our friends who have four boys and one girl--and are expecting their fifth boy--is not a perfect family? Or that my sisters-in-law, each with two children (one with two boys, one with two girls) don't have perfect families? However many children God intends for our family, no matter the number of each gender, no matter how many in heaven or on earth, is the perfect family in our eyes.

The questions dealing with, "Gee, can you really afford another one?" get me, too. "Gee, is that really any of your business?" It kills me how intent our society is on stressing material goods and objectifying our children, as though they are burdens. No, we can't afford to budget in luxuries like expensive vacations or boats or going to the movies every week. We shop at Aldi's, St. Vincent de Paul stores and garage sales. We camp when we want a getaway. We didn't hire a contractor to build our addition. We budget very carefully, seldom indulge in things that are costly (except things like appliances....), and we teach our children that the things they have are to be treated with care, and that if they choose to attend college they need to work hard to earn scholarships (and money). Somehow, this has not made our lives miserable or lacking in any way--it's actually brought us joy in the little things!

We've had run-ins with so many friends and relatives about our family, and it makes me sad...and it's largely why I dreaded the majority of this weekend. We would love for just one announcement of new life to be met with joy rather than skepticism. We would relish not having to defend our faith and our family, to not be attacked for the way we are raising up our children. I suppose most of all, we would like our families to just love and support us rather than questioning every decision we make: our homeschooling, our strict adherence to the Church and her teachings, our traditional marriage (complete with Honor and Obey, for Pete's sake!), the number of children we have, the way we discipline them, the activities we allow them to participate in (or not), etc. ad nauseum.....

I so did not intend for this to be a ranting post, but sometimes you just have to let off a little steam. Now that everyone in the family knows about this beautiful baby--who is, at this very moment, bouncing around like Tigger!--I am feeling somewhat relieved. No more, "What will Aunt So-and-so say when she finds out?" It's not that I really care what other people think; I just dread confrontations with people that I love.

Lastly, stemming from a rather unpleasant conversation we had with one relative this weekend, I would ask you to pray for the Church as a whole: those who follow the teaching of the Church, those who don't, those who are learning more about their faith through a desire to seek the truth, who are searching and studying to deepen their love of God, those in formation for the priesthood, and of course, our dear bishops and priests...all of them. It is hurtful to know so very many wonderful priests who lovingly guide us and teach us, and then to have people we know and love malign these good men for their steadfast adherence to the truth and their unwavering mission to preach the Word of God and bring us closer to Jesus Christ.

[Edit: I have to, at this point, add a video link. This is an amazing vocations video that My Darling saw on a men's retreat, and it definitely stirred his heart...not that he is called to the priesthood, for Pete's sake, but that we more fully support the men who are--maybe, in the future, even our own sons. Added Tuesday, July 8, 2008, at 7:27 PM.]

Now my promise: My next post will be far more light-hearted.