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.

Thursday thoughts

I've found it rather refreshing to be away from the facebook thing over the past week.  Though it wasn't specifically asked of me by Fr. Eric, I decided that a fast from something I spent a lot of time looking at was a good idea.  I do miss the interaction with my friends.  Facebook connects Mamas like me, who are home all day to school and raise up our families, with the outside world.  The added factor of living a fair distance from the main action means that I frequently feel isolated and lonesome.  I know there are other Mamas out there who will know just what I mean.  Although I am surrounded by my babies, I long for the conversation and company of other adult people, mostly other women.  I need the connection of hearts and souls that comes with the bond between women.

It's more challenging than one might think.  Trading child-minding with other Mamas is a good idea, but it falls more difficult for me.  My anxiety sometimes makes it difficult for me to prepare to leave the house, even for things I ought to look forward to.  And if it's a flare day for my fibro pain or my back, leaving the house can sometimes prove nearly impossible.  Sounds like a lame couple of excuses, I know, but it's what's put before me.

I continue to pray for so many friends.  I also continue to pray about just how much I can truly write here.  There are things which have happened that need to be thought out carefully and processed fully in my heart, but they are things which affect other people.  It's not always up to me what I can put down in my little space here.  Please pray for me in this.

And today, we shall wash the diapers.

I make no promises of regularity, because I don't like to break promises, and I've already done so too many times in this place.

And I really do need to wash diapers.  But it's more like "tonight" than today.  The diapers don't know the difference though.

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It's been such an odd winter.  So little snow, so little cold, so few days where it looks or feels like winter then, and no help for it.  People keep muttering, "Yeah, but we'll get socked in the spring," but I don't think we will.  If we could get one good snowstorm this year, I'd be happy with that.  I think it's just a mild winter.  Ho-hum.  No snow-days.  No blizzards.  No hibernating.

Not like last year.

My Gingersnap has turned ONE.  She is a year old, plus a few weeks.  It's hard to believe, though I think back on what things were like around here a year ago, and I believe it all too well.  It's been a year of many refinements, through the grace of God.  It's awesome and wondrous and terrible and mystifying all wrapped up into a year's time.  Some of the lessons God intended for me, I believe I've come to terms with.  Others have remained as elusive as a cloud.

I still experience brief, unpredictable bursts of intense pain in my side where my blood clot was/is, though the scan I had over the summer showed no reason to be alarmed about it.  My vascular surgeon doctor was pleased with the progress.  She told me that with clots the size mine was, they expect about 80% reduction, but that there will always be something there.  I'm no longer on the blood thinner (which is such a funny name...it doesn't make the blood thinner, it makes it slippery--but they don't call it "blood slipperier".  Too bad, too.  I think it's funny.), thanks be to God.  That mess ended in July.  I was happy to see it go--no more fresh crop of bruises on a daily basis, just from existing.  No more avoiding a glass of wine, should the notion strike (which isn't frequent, but it does happen from time to time...).  Best of all, though, no more lab visits for blood draws for the INR test.  I was over that dog and pony show.  Pin cushion?  Yeah, that's a tool in my sewing box.  It no longer defines my arm.

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So the Gingersnap is ONE.  ONE!!!  ONE!!  I cannot even believe it!  She is an entire year old.  She crawls with amazing speed and agility.  She has a gorgeous sense of humor, and loves to see everyone around her laugh at her little antics.  She has a few words, and is learning new ones every day.  She gets very upset with me if I do not Give Her The Milkies Right NOW and tell her to sign "milk" to me.  She beats her little fist at my chest, tugs at my shirt, and whimpers like a sad puppy.  Is it wrong that I find this not only adorable, but amusing?

Cuppie is THREE.  But we don't say "three" around here.  We say "flee."  So Cuppie is FLEE.  She has become Little Miss Independent, deciding, thankyouverymuch, that she is over wearing diapers or pull-ups or anything other than Princess Panties on her little rumpy.  And that's all there is to that.  Yes, really.  She decided one day that she was going to wear panties, and so she did.  She is dry overnight, she is dry all day, and in the course of the past 5 weeks of wearing them, she has had exactly three--oops: flee--accidents with wetting.

With poo, it's not quite the same story.  That bit always takes a little longer.

I admit I am into bribery that way.  When she began, she would get five "white chips"--so-called because she refused to call them "white chocolate chips."  Everyone knows, after all, that there is not one iota of chocolate in white chocolate anyway.  It's vanilla.  So, white chips they are.  So she would trot herself to the loo, do her business, and after the loooooooooong hand-washing ritual, she would count out her white chips: "One, two, flee, four, five!" and eat them up.

Once I remembered (DUH!) and bought the Tootsie Rolls, well that was all the motivation she needed for the Number Two to become her new goal.  So she learned very quickly to run (RUN!) to the loo for poo, too, and the Tootsie Roll came out.  But------we don't call them Tootsie Rolls.  No.  They are "Twitsie Lolls"!!  (Of course they are!)

My Squash......he just turned SIX.  Saturday was his birthday, and he was beyond excited to be turning six.  I likened it to Winnie The Pooh--"And Now We Are Six"--and he was unimpressed.

He is reading.  He loves Dick and Jane, just like my big kids did at his age, and he loves that he can now sit down with his books, open them, and make sense of what he sees on the page.  It's one of my favorite things in the entire world--watching a little child decoding the written English language and realizing that the whole world has just shifted greatly in their favor....poetry, stories, ideas, Psalms--it's all of a sudden open to them, like the sunrise!  What a blessing!!

My Squash has such a beautiful spirit and such a loving heart.  He has a fondness for a girl named Annie.  Not long back, I said to him, "Are you going to marry that Annie girl?"  He said to me, "Probably."  And then he grew quiet and thoughtful.  After a minute or so, he said, "Well, unless I hear God tell me I need to be a priest.  Then I can't marry Annie.  But I could still see her."

I melted.  I completely melted.  This sweet boy knows that we need to be still and quiet and wait to hear what God has to tell us, what God wants from us, and what we need to do and be to fulfill His design for our lives.  Thanks be to God!!

Reepicheep.  Ahh.........Reepicheep.

She is twelve.  We're in the thick of it, she and I, in the part where it feels like she's running at a pace through the thick jungles of the Amazon, and I'm trying to keep sight of her, let alone keep up with her.  This age has so far been the most difficult for me to parent my children through--especially the girls.  I've found that when their bodies start to really take off and grow like crazy (at about 9) and through puberty, to the other side, it's fish or cut bait.  It's so difficult to keep up with the emotional challenges, the outbursts of frustration and anger and emotion, the desire for more freedom coupled with the resistance to responsibility are just a huge obstacle for me as a Mom.  I'm working my way through it--we're working our way through it--but it's a big jungle, and it's awfully darned hot in here.....I feel like the heroine of a movie, before she earns her heroine status.  I'm slogging through the jungle, all hot and sweaty, with hair falling out of my ponytail and sticking to my forehead and cheeks...legs all scratched up, machete feeling reeeeeaaaaaallllllllyyyyyy heavy about now, barely able to swing it to clear my path, and all kinds of venomous creatures lurking about, just waiting for me to have to stop to take a breath.

Yeah.  It's like that.

Now, having parented a girl through this already, I also know that I'm doing the right things, and that even though it's tremendously difficult, the rewards are even greater than the challenges.  I know that if I can help Reepicheep navigate through the puzzle of hormonal swings and moods and interior struggle, that she and I will both come out of this not unscathed, but definitely stronger, both emotionally and spiritually.  That is why I take a deep breath every morning before I wake her up, and continue to breathe as deeply as I can throughout the day.  I pray every time I know I need to correct her.  I search for reasons to praise her, no matter how small.  I remind her how blessed we both are, especially that we can come and go as we need to, that we can put food on our table at every meal, that we have plentiful choices in the way we dress our bodies that keep us modestly covered and comfortably warm, that we can attend Mass daily if we want to without much effort at all, save for driving, and that we have a snug, warm, FULL home to live in.  And I remind her that there are lots and lots of little extras that can be made to disappear if necessary (and sometimes, they do!).  :)

My Pickle is still thirteen; his birthday isn't until early spring.  He is absolutely thriving at the Fabulous Catholic School where we are blessed to send our children.  He struggled in the beginning, going from having been home schooled for four years to being in the classroom setting again, but he's been spending some time after school a couple of days each week with a tutor, and he is improving so greatly that it's actually astonishing!  He's found a really good groove of time-management, for the most part, and has learned through natural consequences that his school work is his responsibility.  I must say, it's an advantage sometimes to live 35 minutes from school.  If he forgets something, there is no way I'm packing up my three little ones and the Reepicheep to bring it to him!!  (I doubt I would if we lived in the same town as the school, anyway, but at least this way, there isn't even the temptation.)  He's looking so forward to next year's cross country season, and is already running a couple of times a week.  Because in this completely ODD winter, running is actually an option.

There was a family who used to belong to our Parish whose eldest son was the head server, and I think they've switched to a parish closer to their home now.  They've not been to Sunday Mass in a long time.  I'm not sure what to think about it, but I do know that it means that Pickle is one of the older senior servers now, and he's really doing a great job shepherding some of the younger boys.  I'm so proud of him!  He's showing a maturity that is very gratifying to witness in my own son.

Also, his voice is changing.  I am a little fragile, emotionally, about that fact.  I make him laugh at every possible opportunity, because I just cannot get enough of his ridiculous giggle, and I know that someday it will be gone.  *le sigh*

And the Frog.

The Frog will be sixteen in just a few days.  SIXTEEN!  SIXTEEN???!!!  WHAT?!

There are all kinds of things that barrage my head about this.  Sixteen is old enough to drive, when properly licensed.  (She won't be just yet.)  Sixteen is the age at which My Darling and I decided that, should a young man desire to court our daughter, and should he seek our permission--in person--and should we decide to grant him permission, we would allow her to be courted.  Chaperoned, of course.  In groups, of course.  One on one, not so much.

Sixteen is the age, it seems, when childhood is carefully folded, set into the Hope Chest, and looked back upon with wistful memories clouding the vision.

I remember holding her when she was tiny, combing her impossibly curly hair and pulling it into pig tails for the first time.  I remember her taking her first steps, in those old-fashioned white baby shoes--on her first birthday.  I remember singing with her, dancing with her, playing tea party with her, hearing her read her first book ("Go Dog, GO!"), and watching her the first time she walked to school with the Pickle (I never let her walk alone).

How, in Heaven's Name, can she be turning sixteen?  Now I'm watching her dance with young men (MAN, can they swing dance!!), hearing her sing in the choir with me and at her private voice lessons, watching her put her hair in any manner of elegant or fun or frilly arrangements, running cross country, baking or cooking anything she fancies, and reading to her younger siblings.

The lump in my throat is enormous.  It hardly bears mentioning that she is better than half way through her sophomore year......just a little over two years and she'll be-----------------

*sigh*    ~~and *sigh* again.

For now, she is my little Froggy, and she is here with me.

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I'm working on me.  Every day, every hour, I'm working on me.

I still don't know where my heart is on the things that happened after my little Gingersnap was born.  I have my moments when I am overwhelmed by the thought of being rushed to the hospital in agonizing pain, sure that I was going to die, and then learning how real a possibility that was.  Looking into the sweet face of my tiny, tiny baby girl, I was thinking, "Will I ever see your face again?  Will you grow up knowing me, or being told stories about what others remember about me?"  Even now, it's hard to reconcile it in my heart.

I had a lot of guilt to carry in the aftermath.  I felt guilty that it happened at all.  I felt guilty that I needed the help of others to do simple things for so long.  I felt guilty that My Darling had to ferry me about, because there was no one else to do it.  I felt guilty that my medication stifled my milk and forced me into choosing formula supplementation, even though it was only for a few months.  I felt guilty that I didn't get thank you notes written and sent out, or that I got some of them written and not others, or that I lost track of the ones I had written, so I just stopped, even though I never stopped being grateful for the people who helped me and my family, and I told them so every single time I saw them over the year since.  I felt guilty that I felt guilty about things that were completely out of my control, were not my choice, were not predicable or preventable, and will probably never happen again.  I felt guilty that I didn't think my faith was up to snuff when the chips were down.

Sometimes I still do feel guilty.

Part of my Lent will be to finish here.  To complete my story, to get it out, to hammer it until it's shiny and smooth instead of a lump in the pit of my gut.  I'm asking God to refine me and help me to stop hanging on to this albatross of guilt and shame.

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PRAYER REQUESTS, and the first one is urgent:

Dear friends of mine--a couple, V and C.  V is pregnant with their sixth baby, and has just made it to 23 weeks.  Twenty-three.  Barely over half-way.  Last week, she started bleeding and cramping, so they went to hospital.  They were sent home after a while, but returned soon after.  The scan showed fluid in Baby's abdomen.  She's been in hospital ever since, and today they induced her.  I've not heard an update yet.  She had lost a lot of blood, and very early this morning she was given a blood transfusion, finishing up about 9:00.  By this afternoon, she had lost another 2 units of blood, and between that and almost no amniotic fluid, they needed to deliver her.  They are in an amazing hospital, where other friends of ours delivered a baby at not quite 24 weeks--that baby's birthday is tomorrow, and he's turning three.  That is a tremendous factor in their favor.  The fluid, though, in V's baby's abdomen, is a factor not in their favor.  It decreases the odds of survival for the baby to under 10%.  So please pray--pray for God's will, for peace in their hearts, for the teams of doctors and nurses who are caring for this family, and for the children who are waiting at home for their Mama to return to them.

God's ways are the best ways, even when it hurts like heck.

*Pray for other friends of ours who were very uncertain about their pregnancy until the scan this morning showed things to be fine.  They suffered a miscarriage about 6 months ago, and so are understandably anxious about this little one.  Saint Padre Pio says, "Pray, Hope, and Don't Worry."  Well, he's the saint, so I reckon he knows.

So many prayers to lift up, and God knows what they are even when I don't.

*Pray for Rebekah, who is 6 and will be receiving a bone marrow transplant from her little sister, Theresa, who is 2.  Rebekah is BRAVE--her Mama says, "Broken, brave, and blessed."  Rebekah is the fourth of the five children in their family.  She's quite an inspiration!

Know of my prayers for your intentions, too.

Bloggy Wonderfulness

My dear friend Mama Midwife sent me a link to the most craftylicious, pretty, eye candy I've seen in a long time. And besides all that, it has a fabulous name!

I give you: The Angry Chicken! The category which is the feast for the eyes is this one, and I do encourage you to Ooh and Aah over it as I did. I squealed. I daydreamed. I planned.

My girls and I shall be whipping bunches of these up for Christmas presents...............now all I have to do is pick one to start with, for Pete's sake!

Buffer Zone

It's late. Really, I'd much rather be in bed, but My Darling took the Pudge up just a short while ago, and I need to give him time to get her to sleep.

Besides, I need time to get my thoughts in order, and this is where that happens. Please excuse any lack of cohesion, but this is where you, the reader, are captive audience to my thought-spew. Great visual, isn't it?

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Saturday.........what an absolutely glorious day! Indian Summer made its return to the Midwest, and we welcomed it with arms wide open. My Darling needed to take care of sighting in his gun for deer hunting, so he took Pickle, Reepicheep and Monkey with him up to Mama Midwife's house. Her husband and My Darling went out onto their land and, well, shot at things. Word has it they used a barrel for a target, and it only took 3 shots for him to get the job done. Pickle and Reepicheep each got to take one shot with a .22--under the watchful eyes of both men, mind you, one of whom is not only a county deputy, but also a hunter safety instructor. Pickle said it was awesome. Reepicheep said she's done. :) Atta girl!

While they were gone, the Frog, the Pudge and I were outside. Because when it's 75 degrees in November, you dang skippy better be outside! I've been waiting and waiting to plant my bulbs. I grabbed them several trips back at our second home the home improvement store, and finally it was pleasant enough outside to get my attention. When the wind came through some weeks ago, it brought this oppressive cold, grey sky with it, and it's been windy, cold and rainy ever since. This weekend began a lovely trend of fair weather that I would far prefer lasting into December....but I know it won't. At any rate, the Frog brought the Pudge outside, along with a blanket. The two of them sat and soaked up the Vitamin D, while I yanked the weeds out of a bed My Darling put in for me three years back.

I had originally intended this bed to be full of red and yellow flowers, and even planted seeds--but nothing ever came of it. So for the past two years, I've been working in compost and letting it go weedy--and then pulling everything out. I've mulched it and enriched it, so that this last time, there were some weeds, but not many by any stretch. On Saturday, I planted red and white parrot tulips, pink fringed tulips, red double late tulips, white hyacinths, and purple/yellow/white crocuses. I still need to get more mulch on top of them, but the weather is to be wonderfully fair for the rest of the week.

While I was working on planting the bulbs, the Pudge was working on planting her little eyelids shut. She ended up napping on the lawn (nestled in with her boppy pillow and blankie) for nearly two hours! The Frog stayed outside with her, and when I went in to clean up my hands and throw open every window in the house, I ended up sprawling across the bed and dozing off myself.

The afternoon brought the final lawn mowing of the year, with the Monkey riding on the tractor with My Darling, grinning that humongous grin that he gets around any motor. It was a truly fantastic Saturday afternoon.

Sunday began as usual--we shared breakfast together and prepared for Mass. My Darling drove us in to town, while I applied my make-up. I'm absolutely proficient at applying mascara whilst bouncing around at highway speeds! So we got to Mass, settled in our pews, the boys processed in with the Crucifix, incense, and candles. Monsignor censed the altar, we prayed, we sang the Gloria, we prayed some more..........and the fire alarm went off.

In a church where incense is used--heavily--every single Sunday, the usual routine has been to silence the alarm. But apparently there was a day last week when the company which services the alarm system had to come do some maintenance, and the thing hasn't worked right since.

The lector read the first reading, but there was no way the cantor could sing the Psalm with the incredibly loud noise beating in her ears. Not that I would know--by that time (about 5 minutes), those of us with little ones had gone outside to the front steps to protect our babies' ears. After what seemed an interminably long time, people began streaming through the doors and onto the sidewalk--Monsignor had dispensed everyone's Sunday obligation, encouraging them to attend the later Mass at the other church in our parish.

Whoa.

Now, I had been mulling over in my mind whether or not to receive the Eucharist, but for Pete's sake, to just have it not offered presented quite a shock to my spirit.

I've definitely been given a wake-up call as to just how blessed we are to live where we do, and have the luxury of just attending a later Mass--of having that option! What an amazing thing!! And how often do people take it for granted? How often does my family take for granted that we can just pop in to Mass any day of the week, at almost any hour we want?

Never again, My Lord, I promise.

We did go to the later Mass, thanks be to God.

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Between the Mass-that-wasn't and the Mass-that was, we were visiting with some friends. Our family and three others came together at another family's home. The dads and boys were going out with wagons collecting food for a local Catholic food pantry, so the moms, sisters and little ones got to stay back and have a nice afternoon. The older girls watched the little ones, and the in-betweens played outside. We women were left with our nurslings to discuss.

What did we discuss? Our Husbands, of course! We are all couples who take part in the diocesan Marriage Preparation ministry, and it was so awesome to talk with other women who strongly value our marriages, and know well how to keep things in perspective. It was so uplifting, and great to have honest feedback about things that we all experience in our marriages.

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I found out this morning that my grandma has been hospitalized with a heart ailment. She's in ICU again tonight, but they anticipate being able to move her to a regular room tomorrow sometime. They are switching her from an IV med to the same medication in pill form, and just want to be sure that she tolerates the change. God willing, she'll go home Wednesday. Please keep her in your prayers.

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Well, there it is. Sorry it's not more inspirational, more organized.....whatever. I'm just not up to it. The good news is--I think the Pudge is asleep.

Must Post

Has anyone seen this movie? My thanks to Monstrous Regiment for posting this trailer. Looks fantastic.

Mother Teresa Movie Trailer @ Yahoo!7 Video

Quiet? Here??

You must be kidding. It's not quiet here. It can't be quiet here. I have four extra children entrusted to my care, running from one end of the house to the other, chasing the dogs, testing the limits, and otherwise having a rousing good time. But believe it or not, it is actually rather quiet at this very moment.

These four children are the middle four of dear friends of ours who are currently traveling in Europe (they have the baby and the eldest with them). They were blessed to attend the ordination to the transitional deaconate for two of our diocesan seminarians in Rome on Tuesday, and, God willing, shall return home on Saturday. Other families have taken turns caring for the kids, and beginning yesterday, they are here for the last leg.

Here's what I love: I love that there is someone for everyone in my family to play with. I love that this family disciplines much the same way we do, so there is no guessing on their part--or on mine. I love that these parents have taught their children to respect adults, whether in their family or not. I love that even though there are NINE CHILDREN in this house at this very moment, three of them are sleeping, and the other six are in the basement making up plays and messing around with legos. I love that when I led the kids in the Angelus at lunchtime, everyone knew the prayers, and said them. I love that when we sat down for the Rosary last night, everyone settled in and prayed along.

I love thinking that someday down the road, when I say that there are nine children in this house, they might all be my children. :) Just sayin'.

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Since my last post, I have had yet another trip to the dentist. If I really tried, I could count them all up since July, but that will have to wait. This last trip was for the permanent crown on the lower right side. Now I have two. Two crowns ought to make me a double queen.....? Does that mean something special in a game of checkers or chess? Does it mean someone else will come in and do my laundry and mop my kitchen floor? No? Rats.

Ok. So the first trip was just a consult. The second was for a root canal. Then another root canal. Then some fillings and a temporary crown. Then more fillings and another temp. Then a permanent. Then a cleaning, and later that day Tooth Number Seven left the building. Then the current permanent. So that makes.....9 visits since July 1st. That's got to be some kind of record. It also means a whole lot of really (no, I mean it) great reflection time. And some really great nitrous oxide.

The next visit will be in December....and it will be the beginning of the end, for Pete's sake. On the next visit, which will be hours long, I will have a partial done which will cover teeth numbers six through nine, with a "dummy tooth" in place for number seven. Then they'll crown over two other front teeth to make them all nice and straight and pretty.

I've only wanted this done since I was ten years old. What's 25 years in the grand scheme?

My girls went to have their teeth cleaned this morning, and Reepicheep came back with a referral for the orthodontist. I love that our insurance will cover her braces.....I also love that when Pickle goes on Monday and brings home his referral, insurance will cover his, too.

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Here's hoping everything continues smoothly with our extra kiddos. Please keep their parents and their other traveling companions in your prayers for a safe return home to their family.

The New Element

Now that I look at that title, I realize it makes this post sound very scientific: "Attention everyone, your author has discovered a new element. Prepare to modify your Periodic Tables."

No, really, I am so not science savvy. It's just a new element here on my humble WebHome.

Scroll to the bottom to see it.

All the way. To the bottom of the page.

It's cute.

Little Girl

My friend is going through something that has broken her heart. I can't take this burden on for her, but I can give her small words of hope and encouragement as I find them. My spiritual reading lately has brought me back to Bishop Sheen. I found a wonderful book of his quotes (at a second hand store--for 99 cents!) which has become more and more worn as I page through it each night. I have been blessed to pray for my friend and the cross she finds herself carrying while I meditate on these truths.

And then there's this.

I've always found it far easier to relate to others through music, and this situation is no different....so this post is for you, H.

Crescat Poll

The Crescat has a poll running. Since I don't generally post things political, I'll just direct my faithful readers over there. Go vote!!

Allergy Season

The annual crop of ragweed has been spewing it's pollen into the late summer air, and my sinuses have been greedily ingesting all they can.

It's allergy season in the Midwest, big time.

Every afternoon, all year long, we have Quiet Time in this house. The Frog, the Pickle, and the Reepicheep are all expected to find something which will occupy their time until the little ones finish their snoozes. They can color, write, read, paint, knit, make collages, play with legos--whatever--as long as it does not involve conversation. I do permit the use of their MP3 players (the little $10 versions which store music, and do not do anything fancy like take pictures or show videos...), and if it's kept to a volume which cannot be heard past a closed door, I allow the Frog to listen to the local Christian radio station.

Last Thursday during Quiet Time, I really needed to snooze with the Monkey and the Bug. I'd been to the dentist in the morning and had a choir rehearsal in the evening, and I was feeling a bit under the weather. Following lunch, the big kids chose their afternoon activities (we had just hit the library, so there wasn't too much else they wanted to do besides grab one of their new books anyway), and the Bug, the Monkey and I settled into the Big Bed to snuggle and snooze.

I slept like a rock. That doesn't happen a lot. Ever since becoming a Mama, there have been fewer than a dozen times when my head has hit the pillow and I've slept so soundly that I am completely unaware of the goings on of the household. Usually, I am in a perpetual state of awakeness. If a feather floats to the floor, I know about it. If a mouse drops a crumb, I sense it. If one of my children blinks, I hear their eyelashes brush their cheeks. Thursday, though, was one of those days when I was so completely unconscious that I didn't even hear My Darling come home from work.

When I woke up from my nap, someone had already come and plucked my happily cooing Pudgy Bug from her little nest beside me. The Monkey was downstairs messing around with blocks. And my head pretty nearly burst from the pressure therein.

Good grief. Holy cats and marbles. I was so plugged up I could hear virtually nothing, and though I could breathe through my nose just fine, there was enough pressure in my sinuses to burst a fire hose. I could actually see the swelling in my face. My eyes watered enough to fill a rain barrel.

It's very interesting to sing in a choir rehearsal when you cannot hear those around you. I can feel in my voice whether or not I am in tune if I'm singing alone. To be able to blend and tune to others, though, generally requires a careful ear. Rats. The ladies on either side of me said I sounded fine. I trust their honesty, because even if I had sounded like an alley cat, I would have been entirely unaware.

Saturday morning, I peeked at the clock at a little past six. I thought, surely I can sleep in a little. I closed my eyes and drifted back into another sound sleep, only to reawaken at 10:30! Good gravy! I slogged downstairs, where My Darling took one look at me and said, "Oh for Pete's sake, you look absolutely miserable. Get back to bed." Sometimes, I have absolutely no trouble at all with obedience. ;)

My fever hovered around 101.5 all day. I tried to read a few times, but each page I managed to turn felt as though it weighed as much as a Mack truck. My eyes felt heavy and sticky. My lids pulled toward my cheeks with every word I tried to comprehend. I pretty much slept the day away.

Sunday, I was to cantor at Mass. I did, too. There are times when I stand behind the ambo and hear something come from my mouth, not knowing at all how it got there. The Holy Spirit uses my voice to proclaim the Psalms, and many times I am greatly surprised by what I hear. On Sunday, I sniffed my way through the Mass, and was so stuffed up I could barely hear myself pray through the petitions. But when I opened up to sing, there was the Holy Spirit, carrying my voice. I love that He does that. It's another reminder that I can do nothing at all without My Lord.

I am beginning to recover this week. I think. I'm less stuffed up than I was over the weekend. Now if this pesky cough would just go away...

Now how'd THAT get in THERE?

There are questions which should not be asked. There are questions which cannot be answered. Sometimes, both crop up at once. The result: Even if I knew what to ask, I don't think I'd want to know the answer........

It's a small frog. Apparently, it was tired, and a box fan seemed the best place for a nap. And there it stayed.

Closer? You want to see it closer? Well ok. You asked for it.

The times, they are a-changin'

Check my blogroll over there on the left sidebar...I've been adding like crazy today. I don't often "surf," since one never knows just what will come of it, for Pete's sake. I felt safe, though, linking from one blog to another--especially when I started out with Fr. Longenecker! There are some great new links to check out.

Have fun!

MishMash

It's been a week since I was here last. I think I see a few cobwebs in the corners of my little cyber home...so, housekeeping is on the docket.

Kathryn is home, praise God! I'll process that one in another entry. It'll be worth it.

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We found the camera. Seems that when the kiddos were playing in the addition, the camera was tucked safely out of the way, into a corner, behind the box which contains the tank for the laundry room/bathroom loo. Oops! It was a great hiding spot, obviously, as it maintained a high level of security until My Darling moved said box this afternoon in order to build the platform for the laundry appliances. At any rate--pictures of progress shall be forthcoming.

It's been an exceptionally busy week, not the least of which means I've gotten very little sleep. My mind has been racing at phenomenal speeds, and I have found myself more than once either reading or journaling into the wee hours. Tonight, My Darling and I were catching up on a web episode of one of our favorite shows, so the laptop is at hand. The hour is late, and yet here I am...I am bone weary, but until I empty my thoughts onto the screen, I know I won't sleep.

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Friday last was the final day of our satellite television service. We've had dozens of channels immediately available for about 5 years now, and recently we've watched less and less. I love this! We had locked out lots of networks--all of the music video channels, many of the "entertainment" special channels (like E!, Oxygen, Bravo--garbage, slop and bilge is more like it....), and most of our viewing was things like HGTV, TVLand (which has gone sordidly downhill since we first ordered satellite, for Pete's sake...what's happened to Mr. Ed? My Three Sons?? Gilligan's Island??? Gone, in favor of such rubbish as "The Cougar"--gag, puke!), TLC, and of course, EWTN.

About two months ago, the Pickle, good boy that he is, was using the yard stick to sweep things from under the TV cabinet. It's one of his chores--he gets things from beneath the living room furniture.


In the process of his sweep, the yardstick caught hold of the plug for the TV, rendering the poor thing impotent.

Ah! Blessed relief! The difference between quiet with a small bit of background noise which must be carefully monitored so that we don't miss hitting the mute button to block the ads, and Quiet--it's really quite astonishing.

I like Quiet. I think we'll save rather a lot of money, headache and squabbling without the Noisy Black Box going so often. I'd like to chuck it, really, but I don't mind the occasional video. Likely we'll assign it to a lovely corner, keep it mostly covered, and let it out on good behavior once a week or so. I think the curtains look nicer than a mute, blank screen.

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Things move along at a pace in the addition. As I mentioned above, My Darling is now in the process of building the platform for the laundry appliances to be moved to their new home. I am noticing two things. First, I am weary of laundry. Dare I give utterance to such a phrase?? Ah, but every housewife knows this fatigue! Matching little socks holds charm for only so long, for Pete's sake. Mind you, I do offer every task as a prayer. I do actually enjoy folding diapers, and I really don't mind doing things which sometimes seem menial. I love to serve my family. However, when the laundry piles up in the living room, it does, at times, take it's toll.

The appliances are to be moved from the main level, directly inside the back door (we so rarely use the front), to upstairs. Right round the corner from the laundry will be the Family Closet--and I cannot even begin to describe how this excites me. Ah, the steamy fantasies of a mother! Laundry on the same floor of the house where 95% of it is actually needed and used and stored?? Yes, Thank You!!! One central room for clothing storage within mere steps from the appliances?? Oh Certainly!!!

The second thing I notice is Just How Much Laundry We Have versus Just How Much We Really Need. As we transition from the current system--drawers, closets, each in his own room--typical of any American family, I think I shall also be paring down quite a bit. It will be far easier for me to manage the task of keeping track of who has what, who wears what, who needs what, and who can do without what. It's hard, I find, to keep myself from thinking that this, at last, will make me happy. But really, I think that it will go a long way toward keeping me at least a little happier--or at least more sane.

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Thursday, we gathered with many of our friends to celebrate the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass. Dear Fr. E. was there, as was my lovely friend Teresa--so together, we had both of the Bug's Godparents. The love was palpable!

We had Our Lord there on the Altar for us to adore; we had two beautiful priests available for confessions, and we had a lovely Mass, followed by the Litany of Jesus Christ, Priest and Victim. It was so beautiful, and my Little Bug was such a good girl that I only missed about 3 or 4 minutes.

After Mass, we all gathered for a meal together, which was long overdue! What a blessing to be together with dear friends and priests for good food and good conversation (two of my personal favorites...). It really was refreshing to be out and about, and with such a relaxed pace. God is good.

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My head is feeling much better, if not a bit emptier. I shall leave you with this delicious morsel I happened upon, thanks to Mr. H. E. Manning. (More information about Mr. Manning here.)

If the trials of many years were gathered into one, they would overwhelm us; therefore, in pity to our little strength, He sends first one, and then another, then removes both, and lays on a third, heavier, perhaps, than either; but all is so wisely measured to our strength that the bruised reed is never broken. We do not enough look at our trials in this continuous and successive view. Each one is sent to teach us something, and altogether they have a lesson which is beyond the power of any to teach alone.

(Click on this for your further enjoyment.)

Pray for the sanctification of priests!

Freezer Friday

Sounds catchy, doesn't it?

I'd love to have some kind of regular feature on this cyber-home of mine, but it's not too likely. I write as my mind goes, which is however the wind blows, for Pete's sake.

Freezer Friday. It's HOT. Steamy. Sauna. Humidwest. (Get it?) So I figure it's a great time to make cold stuff.

Mama Midwife and I received our strawberries, so it's time to make freezer jam. My Aunt M. has always made delicious freezer jam, so I e-mailed her to ask for her secret recipe. She said, "I just use the one on the SureJel package!" Easy enough! That will be tomorrow's task. I'm waiting for the heat to take a break before I fire up the stove.

So yesterday, needing something cold and sweet and different, I threw together a Lemonade Pie. I saw the recipe somewhere online. Upon searching for "lemonade pie," google gave me plenty of options, and they were all just about the same. I have no idea where it originated, but man is it good!!

Here's the dealio:

2 cans frozen concentrated lemonade, completely thawed (which took absolutely no time at all in my sauna on my kitchen table)
2 - 14 oz. cans sweetened condensed milk
1 - 16 oz, tub frozen non-dairy whipped topping (like Cool Whip), thawed in the fridge
3 - 9 inch graham cracker pie crusts

Now, all the recipes I saw said to fold the ingredients together. Baloney. I used my hand mixer on low. Folding is what you do with laundry. So. Mix ingredients together and pour as-equal-as-you-can amounts into each pie crust. Cover and freeze until set--about 4-5 hours.

I came to the amounts by accident. I like full pies, and the one-can-of-this and half-a-tub-of-that didn't quite yield two pies. So I doubled the cans and emptied the tub and I ended up with three nicely filled pies. Also, we took two of them with us to a meeting after they'd only been in the freezer for a couple of hours, and they were about the consistency of thick pudding. It was still really yummy, but probably would have been easier to serve if it had been a little more firm.

Anyway, this delicious treat is absolutely just the thing on a smotheringly hot day. It takes no baking, very little effort, and is a great combination of sweet and sour...not to mention, it's frozen!

What's your favorite cold treat on sticky days??

By golly, it's just been too darn hot.

Too hot to do much but sit, breathe, and take the occasional sip of my favorite beverage--water with lemon wedges. I'm particular about my water. I like it cold, but not with ice. I like three lemon wedges, squeezed into the glass, thunked into the bottom, and then the water on top. Filtered. From the fridge door. And then, upon refilling, I like one lemon wedge added to what's already there, squeezed, thunked, filled. Repeat. Repeat.

Then, when there are too many lemon wedges to leave room for much water, I dump the peels into the garbage disposal and run it with super hot water. Freshens up the disposal, makes the kitchen smell yummy, and makes room in my glass for more lemon water.

Yep.

When it's this bloody hot, there's just not much energy. We have three window air conditioners, one of which is on its last leg. Many fans are blowing in all different directions, doing their best to distribute what cool, dry air we can muster with our artifact, museum-worthy window units, which isn't much.

Delicious on a day like this? Watermelon. Hot dogs. Especially hot dogs with tomato wedges, diced vidalia onion, ketchup and celery salt. Oh, trust me. Try it--you'll like it.

Also delicious? The three pounds of fresh strawberries, picked by the Yoder family and sent via my dear friend Mama Midwife.

Kathryn remains in the hospital. It's probably ok, because in this heat, surely one so pure would just plain melt.

Keep praying.

My day among the Amish

My friend Mama Midwife caught a baby.

Two weeks ago, she called me, breathless with excitement, and told me the story of Kathryn, a little Amish baby. She is the eleventh child in the family. Though the Amish women do not talk about their pregnancies around their children, I had the sense that Kathryn was eagerly anticipated and greatly loved by her siblings.

Her birth was "routine"--if any birth could ever be described this way. There were no complications, nothing out of the ordinary. About an hour after Kathryn was born, though, the primary midwife (my midwife, too--Chris) said quietly, "Kathryn has Down's Syndrome."

Things were going well for the first few days. Kathryn ate well, and seemed to be doing fine. The midwives checked on her often--perhaps more often than they normally would. On Saturday, they took her to the children's hospital. Mama Midwife drove them.

Kathryn was very fussy, wouldn't eat, had horrible diarrhea, and was becoming limp and lethargic.

She had surgery yesterday morning, and she'll need another surgery in about six weeks.

This is the first time the parents have been away from their children for so long. They were worried about them, wanted to see them, wanted them to come see Kathryn. They were worried about what it would cost to hire a driver. It's about 80 miles from their house to the hospital.

Sometimes when the Lord speaks, it's plain. He spoke plainly yesterday.

We left here at about 4:30, meaning to arrive at the Yoders' farm at about 5:20. Leaving town is always calming for me. I love the transition into the hills of farmland, where the neatly laid-out fields sprawl and the shadows of clouds make large undefined shapes on the rows of corn and alfalfa and wheat. I love looking across the landscape, seeing the glow of the rays of sunshine beaming down through the dust of the earth to touch the distant treetops. The farther we go from town, the more narrow lanes can be seen peeking out through the trees. Sometimes you can see wheel tracks from the buggies turning in and quietly leaving our world and entering theirs.

We slowed and turned along the network of country roads, finally coming to the farm. The large house with its narrow black trim and clean, shining windows stood at the head of the drive. Two tall posts bearing purple martin houses cheerfully welcomed us. The hitch chains at their posts swung in the soft breeze. The sign over the mailbox saying "Brown Eggs for Sale" had been neatly covered with a plastic bag. The eleven cows, having been milked by the children's hands, were already put to pasture for the afternoon, and the horses had been fed and watered. The dog barked a greeting to us, the English drivers who had come to take the children to their sister's bedside.

We knocked on the screen door and walked into a spacious kitchen. A long table with equally long benches stretched before us. A large wood stove sat on a metal plate. The only light in the room was from the big windows on three sides, leaving no want for a lamp. There was no sign of meals having been eaten; everything had already been cleaned up. It smelled good. To the left, an even bigger room, mostly barren, but not lonesomely so. It was comfortably quiet, with the sound of hurried steps to get braids tucked into nets, under black scarves, and into black bonnets. The eldest girl checked her reflection in a small mirror above a sink in the kitchen. She has the straightest, whitest teeth in the most dazzling smile I have ever seen. She radiates joy and youthful exuberance.

One, two, three red heads with hundreds of freckles. A few blond heads with soft, green eyes. A couple of dark heads, with hair conformed to the shape of a hat. Bright blues, greens, gentle browns and greys. The black stockings and shoes usually reserved for Sundays.

Two-year-old Wilma scurried about from one room to another, peeking shyly around the corner, catching my eye and then tucking out of sight. She did not understand my English, but she understood my smile. She grinned back at me and stole my heart, possibly forever.

"We're almost ready," said the eldest daughter. "The boys are lagging upstairs. I think they're looking for their socks."

The girls each carried something--several plastic ice cream buckets with lids, a paper sack, one with a plastic bag. One of the buckets is decorated with dark red velvet hearts and flowers. The top says "Lydia Mae." They talked quietly amongst themselves in their low German, deciding who would ride in which van. They saw that there was a baby in each, and a 13-year-old English girl in mine. The choices were made, then, and they climbed into the vans.

Some had been on the long ride to the city before, but not all of them. I could hear whispers, but could understand very little. Every now and then, a few words were spoken in English.

I have a Mama Mirror on my dashboard--I can angle it to keep an eye on my kids. Yesterday, I saw the black bonnets and hats and big eyes of the children riding in my van. As the country roads gave way to the county road, then the state highway, and eventually the interstate, their eyes grew larger and brighter. Their heads turned in unison as we whizzed past other cars, buses, semis. One truck was carrying mushrooms, and said so. I heard the word, "Mushrooms!" exclaimed, along with the German I couldn't understand. I wondered at their thoughts. Imagine never having seen an entire truck full of just one kind of food--enough of that kind of food to feed your entire community several times over, and then go bad for lack of wanting more!

They stared at all the stores. The gigantic, over-filled buildings of stuff. Such an excess that there is a store amidst the stores where people take the things they do not need and no longer want, so that others can buy them. For children who have only the things they need, how can I explain this concept to them?

We exited from the Interstate onto the freeway which bypasses the city, with roads intersecting like the veins from the stem of a great leaf. For a time, we drove near a truck with a sound system blasting so loud it hurt my ears. They couldn't not stare. When the truck mercifully exited, there were sighs of relief from the back. "Imagine how loud it must be in his truck!" I said. The bigger ones laughed and told the joke to the little ones. I hoped they were distracted from the billboard advertising "Whole Body Hair Removal!" I was glad the Frog had brought along a book and didn't see it, either.

We exited the freeway, and began our trek into the center of the city. We passed apartment buildings, houses, shops, restaurants. We passed people riding bikes, people walking, people jogging, people walking dogs, people waiting at the bus stop, people going home from work, people carrying groceries. The children craned their necks to see the variety of the English.

You and I live in a world where everyone tries so hard to be different. My hair is longer than yours. Your shirt is a groovy cut. Man, those pants are cute. Hey, look at that pretty dress. Where on earth did you get your shoes? We describe one another by what we last saw each other wearing. "Mary is the one in the cute pink top and the short black skirt with the bow in her hair."

The Amish live in a world which draws attention because they do not draw attention. Their clothes are the same. The girls begin wearing the long dress with the long apron and the white bonnet the very first time they are dressed. The boys wear the button-up shirt, pants and suspenders the very first time they are dressed. Their eyes, their smiles, their voices--these are things which distinguish one from the other. "Mary is the one with the green eyes and the lower voice."

Here I was with a van full of children who have never seen the city, and their eyes surely had a feast. A woman jogging wearing shorts, a sports bra, an iPod on her arm, movie star sunglasses, and her hair in a swinging pony tail. A man sauntering along carrying a backpack, his dread locks coming nearly to his waist. Two women talking animatedly, one with a sack of groceries, one with a big dog on a leash. Everyone seems to be in a hurry, but no one seems to be doing anything.

We pulled up to the hospital, only to find that my gigantic van would not fit into the ramp--I got to park in front. We went in and got our visitor bracelets, which made us look like a group wearing way too much clothing at a water park. The younger children looked tentative at allowing an English woman with a whole lot of makeup put a weird thing around their wrist. The older children went first, showing their bracelets to their little brothers and sisters, telling them it was alright.

Our children's hospital is new. There is a lot to see, even for someone who isn't Amish. We all crowded into one elevator, Mama Midwife and I joking that we were hopefully under the 3500 pound weight limit. When we got to the fourth floor, where Kathryn was, we disembarked next to some large windows. The children made a bee-line for the windows, marveling at how high up we were. "Look at the trees! Look at the little houses! Look how far you can see!"

We moved from the windows to the security door which led to Kathryn's PICU room. A nurse on her way out of the ward asked us, "Are you guys all here to see the same person?" We told her we were. "Okay, the family waiting room is there to the left. Only two at the bedside."

We ignored her.

As we wound around the nurses station, about fifty pairs of eyes fell on our little parade. They all knew who we would be coming to see. There was only one Amish patient on the floor. No one else told us where the family waiting room was. We walked slowly toward Kathryn's room.

Mama Midwife and I told the children to go ahead of us into the room. The girls placed their ice cream buckets on top of a cart in the room, and began shedding their black bonnets and scarves, immediately taking their white bonnets from the buckets and popping them over their hair, loosely tying them under their chins, the older ones helping the younger ones. The boys took off their hats.

When the flurry of activity settled, Rachel and Ervin went to each child in turn, taking the faces of their children in their hands. Their greeting to each was quiet German. It was affectionate, but not overtly.

Wilma clung to her mother's skirt and her father's trousers.

In a room designed to hold two hospital beds, there was only one. Besides that, there were two couches, a wagon, two chairs, Kathryn's bed, her IV pump, two medical carts, and a laundry bin. Still, there was so much excess floor space, that we could all comfortably mill about without bumping into one another. The children all spend a good amount of time just looking at little Kathryn. She is so tiny, so plainly beautiful, and has a mop of hair that is almost unimaginable on such a small baby. It covers her ears.

Ervin and his eldest son, who is 20, sat next to one another and spoke at length in German. Their faces were peaceful, but serious. I imagined their conversation. "Things are fine at home. The cows have been milked and fed, and the horses. The fields look good. There's talk of rain this week. The cow that calved last night is doing well. Her calf is healthy and taking a good amount of milk. We put a bag over the sign advertising our eggs so we don't have strangers coming to the door." I could be completely off, but if I were a father who had left my son home to be the man of the house and watch over the farm, those are the things I'd want to know.

Rachel and Ervin sat on the couch nearest Kathryn's bed, and though there was so much empty space in the room, their ten children sat so near one another that they only took up about 20 square feet. The room was so peacefully quiet, with whispers and low voices here and there. Each time a nurse came into the room, one or two would stand near and watch what they were doing with Kathryn. Mama Midwife asked lots of questions and translated the answers for Rachel and Ervin. The three youngest girls took turns looking out the window of the room door, watching the high-tech, hurried world of the English. They smiled, but did not wave, at the people who rushed past.

At one point, Rachel wanted to show the hospital to her children. "It's something new. Most of them have never seen a hospital." The eldest daughter had seen one, once.

They went up into the elevator to see the fifth floor, marveling again at the view.

I am afraid of heights. I stayed on the fourth floor, well away from the window.

When it was time to go, the bustle began again, with the girls trading their white home bonnets for the black scarves and bonnets usually reserved for Sundays. The boys put their hats back on. We were to leave one of the older girls with Rachel and bring Ervin home with us.

We again loaded into the vans. As we headed down the hill toward the main road, I said, "We're going to stop for something to eat. Do you like cheeseburgers?" Ervin said, "We'll never turn that down!"

I ordered double cheeseburgers for everyone, and a large orange soda for them to share. I asked if they wanted fries. Ervin was almost too shy, and said the cheeseburgers would be a great plenty.

As darkness pressed on, Ervin softly played his harmonica to soothe Wilma. I recognized "Mary had a little lamb."

We passed through town and stopped at home to drop off the Frog and the Bug. Ervin saw our project. He said, "You remodeling your house?" I told him no, that we were adding on. "Adding on?" he asked. "Why didn't you just build it the size you wanted in the first place?" he joked. We had a good laugh about it. I told him we were nearly three years into our addition, and that My Darling is doing it all pretty much by himself. He seemed to appreciate that fact, though I wondered if he thought it strange. The Amish come together to help one another get things done when they need to get done. We live so much closer to our neighbors than they, and yet we exist so much farther apart....

It was late when we got home. The stars were bright and low, and their light was enough to see the steps to the house.

Ervin asked us what we wanted in return for bringing their family together for the evening. Mama Midwife and I had already discussed it and quickly came to the conclusion that we would take no payment. We didn't want to insult Ervin, though, and said, "Maybe some eggs or a pie." He grew quiet. He said, haltingly, "You don't know what this has meant to us."

I said, "What kindness is there in the world, if no one ever goes to trouble for someone else?"

He said, "Well, that's the truth then."

Mama Midwife spoke with Rachel this afternoon. Kathryn has been moved from the PICU to the regular peds floor. She's doing well. Hopefully she'll be home very soon, to be held and loved on by her family. They miss her terribly.

We're to be paid in strawberries.

And the Award goes to........

Jenni, over at One Thing! She rocks my socks. She enchants my eyes. She tickles my funny bone. She's a fabulous writer, and I'm so glad she's back! Here's to you, Jenni!

Coffee? Please?? Another cup, perhaps???

I have absolutely nothing profound to say today. How can I? How could I? The entire night went like this:

Put the Bug in her bed. Cover her, tuck her, pat her, fall into bed.

Hope that she will stay asleep. Listen to her grunt and flop her head from side to side. Realize that she is not, in fact asleep.

Pick her up before she wakes Sleeping Beauty My Darling. Bring her into the bed. Latch her on and fall asleep while she nurses fitfully. Sort of.

Wake up to a sleeping baby and a cramped shoulder. Put her gently back into her bed. Cover her, tuck her, pat her, fall into bed.

Lather.

Rinse.

Repeat.

It's not that I do not want to sleep with my little Buggie. Rather, putting her into her own little nest stems from the need for actual sleep, rather than the pseudo-slumber which results from trying eighty-three positions, none of which are comfortable, all of which result in the cramping of muscles I thought I had lost long ago. It all adds up to one tired, sore, cranky Mama, for whom there is not enough coffee in the world! (Also, we have a smallish bed, in which three bodies just do not fit....) And on most nights, my Buggie sleeps very well in her little bed, which is a mere 18 inches from my own pillow.

Now, upon Waking For Good this morning, I totally realize that last night's shenanigans happened because she needed to ignite a Bug Bomb. (For laypeople, this translates to "fill her diaper with toxic substances capable of leveling Daddies of all dispositions.) Since my Buggie only does this once or twice a week, it really is quite the production. Broadway would be stunned. The drama is intense, and it literally draws the entire family into its thickening plot.

She nearly-never poops when her Daddy is home, a fact which never ceases to delight him! Last night, though, as we had settled into our Rosary and My Darling snuggled with his smallest girl, he glanced at me with rather an odd look about his sweet, handsome face. He got up quietly and went to the changing table. Upon removing the Bun (so-named because we use these), he encountered the Bug Bomb. They are stealth, my friend! You cannot smell the horrors therein when they are encased in the Bun....it's pretty much a big ol' surprise party just waiting for the Guest of Honor! .....Which turned out to be My Darling last night.

Now, I know that we should be focused in our prayer. Really, I do. And though we strive for this as our goal, there are times when it is just not possible. When the Bug Bomb continues to explode even after the "shell casing" has been removed, concentration is not possible when there are other children around. The giggles erupted like so much baking soda and vinegar. Think Coke--"Shaken, not stirred."

It was plentiful.

It was stinky.

It was HILARIOUS!

And apparently, it was the first of two such weapons to be deployed.

And so, Dear Reader, you are witness to an entry devoted entirely to dirty diapers and the treasures to be found therein.

BUT! Oh yes, the sliver--if not fleecy--lining to this would be the joy of clean diapers, mine to fold, soft on the rump roast and the reason her little tushie is so adorable in baby jeans......

We are a cloth diapering family, and my goal in this small area is to keep the basket next to the changing pad stocked and ready for action, making the changing of the guard an easy prospect, and one that indeed even a child can engage in!

I DID get to fold diapers this morning. This occurs every other day or so, after they've been washed clean. They come down from the drying rack smelling faintly of the lavender oil that I put into the final rinse (along with white vinegar and tea tree oil to help balance the pH and add a bit of antibac to it all).

I am one of those weirdos who actually doesn't mind folding laundry (save the sorting and pairing of socks--this is drudgery meant for minions who masquerade as children!). I like to see the neatly organized stacks of folded garments, ready to be put neatly into the proper drawers tossed carelessly about the room, only to wind up back in the hamper.

Diapers are another category all together. I am the only one who folds them, because I am rather particular about them in the end. "Do it right, do it once," I tell my brood! Well, in the case of diapers, that means I am the only one who does it at all. (This enables me to be the kind Mama I strive to be, rather than the grumbling Mama I turn into all too often.)

Ah....the wrestling boys who have engaged one another since midway through my blogging have run out of steam--but only because one of them is now in tears. My attention is needed.

And it's library day.