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.

Winter Wonderland

When it's well below zero, as it was last week for most of the week, even the running rivers steam.

I grew up in a river community. The house that our family owned (and where my mom still lives) was only a block from the river bank. When I was small, across the street from the house there was a lumber yard. When the village was first settled, the loggers would float the logs from up north down the river to the mill, where the lumber workers would draw them out, plane them down, and stock and sell the lumber or ship it out on the train.

I remember the yard being sold when I was seven or eight years old, and the buildings being used for a controlled burn by the local fire department. The fire was so hot that we could feel it scorch our faces from about a hundred yards away as we watched from our front porch with dishes full of popcorn.

There's a bank there now.

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The river is always a great spectacle during the winter. When everything else is frozen solid and appearing to be completely devoid of all things living, the river teems with life. Though the ducks and geese have gone for the winter to warmer surroundings, the bald eagles have come in great numbers. They nest along the bluffs and soar high above the village, watching the river and its banks with their sharp eyes, waiting for a quick meal. With their wings wide open, they are the majestic kings of the sky.

Think of it! Think of a man, standing six feet tall or better, and then of a bird whose wings would outstretch his height. It never ceases to amaze me, pondering the variances of God's great creations: the smallest hummingbird would scarcely be visible next to the talloned foot of the great bald eagle. Yet each of them is perfectly designed, purposefully and beautifully created by the same God who created my soul and yours.

Astounding.

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I remember waking up at Gram's house when I was small. Her living room windows looked out on the river, and in January and February, it was always a sight to behold.

This time of year, the water is always warmer than the air. Because the river which flows past town never freezes, when it's bitter cold, the river lets off steam into the air above it.

And on frigid days, this steam clings to every single branch, every blade of marsh grass, every tiny leaf which has still managed to hang on...and it freezes there. The result is something out of CS Lewis' Narnia--a shining, sparkling wonderland of pure white hoarfrost.

While butterflies and violets delight the senses during the warm summer months, this gorgeous natural masterpiece is a blessing to the eyes of all who gaze upon it.

I'll have to take the camera out next time God graces us with the beauty of hoarfrost...

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And another delight?

My Pumpkin, my Snuggle Bug...she is two months old this very day.

And I am blessed.

BROWN

You are usually very straight-forward. You have a passive personality and enjoy nurturing those around you. You are very grounded and prefer to keep things simple and honest.

Find out your color at QuizMeme.com!

Seven Weeks

See what happens? A lovely creature comes to reside in my home and nestle close to my heart, and I completely ignore my blog. Can you blame me? And now I need to add that I began this post days ago and am only now coming back to finish it up. It's amazing how fast the time goes by, and how busy we've been......

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THE BAPTISM

It was on Monday. The 29th of December, for Pete's sake. And it was extraordinary.

The Godfather presided at Holy Mass. The beauty of the day made it more than Just Week Day Mass, for Pete's sake. While I had been saddened that my Little Bug wasn't going to be baptized at Sunday Mass like the rest of our babies had been, her baptism was so different from the others--so much more intimate and meaningful, if that's possible. There were about 60 people in attendance--all friends and family--and the participation during Mass was heartfelt and strong.

During the baptism, which followed the Mass, we found ourselves joined at the font by several children who wanted a better view--the closeness was stunning. My little Monkey rested his crossed arms upon the edge of the font, and then cradled his chin in his little hands.

All of us--me, My Darling, and the Dear Godparents--held the Little Bug as Msgr. poured the water over her head (and the monkey exclaimed, "Oh, she's a good girl to not cry!") and then anointed her little head with the Holy Chrism Oil.

A bit later, when My Darling lifted the Monkey up to see the baptismal candle being lit, his eyes were shining with joy. And then when the candle was given to us--handed by Monsignor to My Darling--the Monkey's little hand came out to receive it.

The feast which followed was a true celebration of life. We had turkey and stuffing, corn, carrots, tomatoes, peaches, and a dessert table which fairly bowed beneath the weight of its sweet bounty.

***I must take a moment to let you know that this is where I left off originally...and I think it may have had something to do with the difficulty I've had adding the pictures I want to share. Something about Photobucket putting in the originals, rather than the cropped versions which focus in on what I want them to, while making the pictures actually fit.

But I digress.

Things have been busy, but not so busy that I have forgotten the beauty of that Baptismal day. We made sure to rub the hood of her bunting on her little head, causing such a deposit of the sweet oil inside the hood that despite many baths since, she still manages to retain the smell of the Holy Chrism Oil. Hey, call it cheating if you want; all I know is that every time we get her out of her bunting, she smells wonderful...

She has also begun to smile and coo. Yesterday she turned eight weeks, and this is one of my very favorite ages of babyhood. A couple of her noises are little creaks or chirps, and my older girls have decided that her Official Family Nickname should be Cricket. It's cute enough, I suppose, but I'm not ready to make it official until I know it's going to stick the way Bug/Buggie has stuck. Her little words are so joyful sounding that they make the evenings much easier to bear.....

.....and the evenings need to be easier to bear. I don't think I would call her officially colicky at the moment, but she's getting awfully close. If she does end up with the colic going on, she'll be our Third Colicky Baby. As much as I prayed for a calm, easy-going baby, I am also beginning to settle my heart into the notion that she might not be.

Here's why.

I chatted with Fr. E., the Godfather, my dear friend. I said to him, "I am not suffering well. I am beginning to feel the resentment creep in. I do not want to feel resentful toward my beautiful baby girl." He said, "You need to suffer well. It is for souls. Perhaps even for mine."

Then I had a dream. In my dream, I was talking with C., my friend who lost her little boy just after my Snuggle Bug was born. In the dream, she was trying to discern what lesson God was teaching her through her mourning, and she said that the lesson was clearly to suffer well. When I woke up, I pondered this dream throughout the day.

She called me that afternoon. I told her about my dream. And you know, the amazing thing is that she told me that's the idea that's been on her heart lately.

God has really been placing this dear woman on my heart in prayer--and I mean constantly. As I cook supper, as I fold laundry, as I change diapers, and even as I dream at night. I told her this. I also told her about the talk that I had with Fr. E., and that over the couple of nights between my talk with him and my conversation with her, I had been offering every single fussy second for her. Because even if her baby were crying his little eyes out every minute of every day, I know she wouldn't care--just so long as he were in her arms.

But her arms are empty.

And we both cried.

And it's been more joyful since. The long hours of my Little Bug crying have been hard on my back, but not anymore on my spirit. It's always easier to go through a trial when you know it's being done with a good purpose.

Eight weeks....fifty-six days. Well, today it's fifty-seven. Nearly two months. It seems like an absolute age ago that I was frustrated at being on bed rest, and now I have this beautiful little girl who smiles at me and fills my arms and my heart.

God is good.

The True Gifts of Christmas

We decided this year to wait.

Now that I read that thought put into writing, I am overwhelmed by what that has meant over the past twelve months.

We waited through the storm of grief which followed losing Gabriel--a baby we never saw, never held, never heard cry...though we wait still and know that we will see our child in Heaven.

We waited during Holy Week and the three days of the Triduum for the joy of the Risen Christ--and that Easter Week found us discovering the knowledge of the miracle of another baby.

We waited and watched the addition take more definitive shape, with windows, roof, insulation, lights, and now plumbing--and we still wait for the day we will expand ourselves into the new part of our home.

We waited the nine long months, through discomforts and inconveniences until the joyous event of the birth of the Little Snuggle Bug.

We began the waiting for healing for such dear friends after the loss of their infant son...and we will continue to wait and pray with them for God's gift of peace and healing in their hearts.

And today we have come to the end of the waiting of Advent.

Up to now, these things were all circumstances beyond our control, timed by God.

Here we are now, and today has also marked the end of the waiting which we were able to choose ourselves--the waiting for our Christmas Tree. It sits before me with blinking lights (although...they're not supposed to be blinking.....hmmm...), and My Darling has gone on a reconnaissance mission to the basement to retrieve the box of ornaments. Our family tradition is to acquire a new ornament each year for each member of the family (with a few others added in here and there). The intention is that when each child moves away from home as an adult, he or she will have a collection of beloved ornaments with which to adorn their very own Christmas tree.

*******
Wait! Life just happened! Through the magic of cyberspace, we have just traveled nine hours in the span of three lines! Ah well; this happens when your author is the Mama of five children.

In the meantime, we completed decorating the tree.



My Darling was even clever enough to find alternative strands of lights which are in fact not blinking (and that's just dandy!). My job for the past three years has been to open the boxes containing the ornaments, to unwrap each ornament, and to give it to the owner thereof. My Darling hangs those designated as Mom and Daddy's, and the kids each hang their own, with the Frog, the Pickle and the Chicken helping the Monkey to find suitably strong branches when necessary. As you can imagine, this can result in that well-known phenomenon commonly referred to as "Ornament Clusters". In some families, these may be frosted and eaten. Around here, they are looked upon with much love and appreciation.



Underneath the tree, we place the most beautiful ornament, the most treasured gift...



We shared a sumptuous meal--a most delicious rib roast (sometimes called prime rib--spotted by My Darling at the local grocery store...they panicked and cut the price in half this afternoon!) with baked potatoes and au jous.

And now the house rests quietly, waiting for Mama to wake them to prepare for Midnight Mass. Around here, it's rare to find a church which still offers the Christmas Eve Mass actually at midnight. We are blessed to be members of one of the only parishes in the area which continues this sacred tradition.

It strikes me at this very moment that the thoughts which sent me to my keyboard earlier in the day have vanished completely from my mind, like so much steam wafting over a cup of hot coffee. The day was productive and full, and I am so thankful. What a cherished blessing it is to have our family all together tonight. Everyone is healthy, fed, warmly clothed, and comfortably ensconced in our modest home.

And now we wait again.



Merry, Blessed, Joyous Christmas to you and your family from me and mine.

The Carols--and the Lessons

Last night, we were treated to perhaps the Advent season's finest offering: Lessons and Carols.

Our whole family went, of course, and the Big Three were greeters. Their job was to smile, look pretty, and hand out the programs. They did it very well!

Lessons and Carols, for those of you who have not had the blessing of experiencing it, is an Advent worship service which incorporates Scriptural readings beginning in Genesis, with the story of the fall of man, coursing through Isaiah's prophesies, the Annunciation in the Gospel of Luke and ending with the beginning of the Gospel of John. In between the readings are various carols and the like, with most of them being performed by the choir, but the people joining in here and there. Kings College in England is the most famous for such a performance, with a rich history. Our own Diocesan Choir doesn't do too badly, either.

It was a wonderful experience to be sitting in the audience for the first time in years. (I'm on leave from the choir this semester because of the Bug, for Pete's sake.) I was able to meditate on the readings for a change, and to listen attentively to the music--some of it familiar, and some of it not.

The Gospel reading for yesterday was from the Gospel of Luke, chapter 1, vs. 26-38 . It never escapes me how quick Mary was to say her fiat to God, to trust His will even though it was such a huge unknown for her. Her example of obedience is truly one from which I pray daily to learn, and to which I aspire to attain. I have asked My Darling to pray for his wife to have a more obedient spirit and the humility and grace needed to accompany such a gift.

This same Gospel reading was repeated for us again at Lessons and Carols, and then again (however more abbreviated) in the Rosary last night (the Joyful Mysteries were prescribed for the day). It really seemed to me that God was again nudging my heart to more fully hear His words to me--words which were first spoken by our dear pastor, homilized by our dear bishop, read by a dear friend, sung of twice (both by the cathedral and the diocesan choirs), and then repeated by the first of the Joyful Mysteries.

Daily I find myself wondering how many times I have to repeat (fill in the blank here with whatever directive you can imagine for my kids--make your bed, brush your teeth, put away your laundry, do your math...). Why should I imagine that such a loving Father would not also repeat to the heart of His daughter that which He intends for me to hear?

At any rate, consider it heard. Consider it meditated upon. Consider me likely still needing reminders...regularly!

And in the mean time, I pray that the heart of this beautiful little child would be moved to obedience also. So far, she's doing alright.

23 Whole Days

I absolutely cannot believe she's 23 days old already. It seems like forever ago that my Little Snuggle Bug was born--and yet a mere three weeks and two days ago, she was just barely 10 minutes old.

From this:



to this:



Where in the world has the time gone?? And how did I miss it?

Of course, I look at the Frog, the Pickle, the Reepicheep and the Monkey and wonder those very same things.

Last night, we had a Mass and social with the boys' club that the Pickle and My Darling are part of. I watched the Frog walking to and fro with her friends, chatting, giggling and blushing, as twelve-year-old girls are wont to do. TWELVE! Is that even allowed? And at twelve, I'll have you know she stands better than an inch taller than I. And we can no longer share shoes, since she outsizes me by half.

The Pickle, I noticed, needs new pants. Not only does he not "need" his belt anymore, the bottoms of the cuffs are no where near the tops of his shoes...more like hovering somewhere around the altitude of an orbiting spacecraft! I guess the second-hand store will be seeing us again sooner than we thought.

The Reepicheep was treated to new Sunday shoes a couple of weeks ago, and we ended up buying shoes not one, but TWO full sizes bigger than her previous pair.

And the Monkey? I've had to pack away every pair of pants he wore last year, even though some of them were far too long for him back then. I always tear up when I box up the "too small" clothing.

I know in my heart that they will grow, for Pete's sake, and I'm happy that they are all healthy, thriving and growing! But it breaks my Mama Heart to know that they are getting bigger and older. It just always feels like they're getting a little bit farther away from home each time this reality makes itself known.

My Darling and I were looking at the Snuggle Bug last night as she slept between us in the Big Bed. We remembered each of the kids when they were the age and size that she is now...and we talked about the time passing and the possibilities of the future.

More babies? We hope so.

Our fears for our children? Lots.

Our hopes and dreams for them? Even more.

Our prayers for them? Endless.

But for now, I'm just prayerfully taking each day as it comes. With all the things we've been through, with our blessings--even our blessings which have fronted as challenges--I don't know any other way we could live.

I don't think I'd do it any other way....anyway.

"...and I'll fall asleep counting my blessings..."

I love the move "White Christmas." Love it. I remember waiting for it to come on every year as a child, and practically holding my breath until Judy and Betty appeared at the end in the gorgeous red satin dresses with the white fur trim. And the little ballerina girls would come out from the sides of the stage on their tippy toes and dance like little fairies, and then ever-so-delicately perch on the knees of the adoring little boys who raised their soprano voices in cherubic harmony.

Seriously--I am not joking--I would find a curtain, a table cloth, a bath towel...anything that could resemble a skirt if safety pinned around the waist, and dance around for the next several days, singing the theme song......"IIIIIIIIIIIII'm dreaming of a whiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiite (a white) Christmas........

And now I have the movie on DVD. I try not to watch it until at least Advent, but I almost always break down around mid-November and just have to watch it. Can you blame me? It's the one pre-season indulgence I allow myself, for Pete's sake. If that's the worst I can do, I think I'll be ok.

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I spoke with My Wonderful friend on Thursday....the Dear Friend who is missing her Dear Baby. She asked me how my little Snuggle Bug is doing. She sounded not sad--well maybe a little sad, but more wistful. I said that The Bug is doing very well....she's starting to fill out and look chubby around the neck and wrists.....and My Friend said to me, "Cherish it, please. Just love her and kiss her and look at her, and cherish her."

And I do.

And it didn't really strike me how deeply she meant that until we were gathered together last night after the First Friday events: our family, our three friends K., T., and V. and their families (we were at V.'s home) and three of our good priests, Frs. E., B., and L. We were talking after supper, and V. mentioned that she had spoken with Our Dear Friend. Our Friend mentioned that she just really misses holding her Little One and that his memory is fading so quickly and it was taking her by surprise.

And then I began to remember how it was after my dad died, and how I looked at his picture as often as I could so that I could see his face. And I plugged in the videos that we had taken regularly so that I could hear his voice. But there was nothing that could bring back how it felt to hold his hand or feel his arms around me in a hug. I could smell a shirt, but it wasn't truly him--it was the smell of the laundry. It scared me silly, because I couldn't believe how quickly I was beginning to forget him.

I remember buying tiles to fill out the floor in front of the fireplace, and how I knew I had found The Tile I Wanted when I ran my hand across it and it faintly felt like his hand. (And yes, I know how odd that sounds.) I felt like a child who sees a grown up for a while, and then not for a long time...and the next time you see that person they're so much different than how you remember them. I just wanted to always remember him just the way he was, and it was fading so rapidly.

My heart aches with such a raw wound for my friend, although I have the absolute luxury of being witness to her grief rather than being at the core of it. And while I know that right now, at the onset of her true grieving, her pain is growing steadily, mine is coasting and becoming familiar. And it just doesn't seem fair.

And still she ministers to everyone else with such love and wisdom and passion that she just continues to inspire everyone she knows. It's not always comfortable: her statement to V. was something like, "It was a SACRIFICE for us to have to give up our son. People have been asking what they can do to help us...they can sacrifice to make it to First Friday Vigil and spend time in prayer together."

We are on day 7 of our Rosary Novena for this good family. We have been praying for them each night, and last night it was with 20 children, 4 couples and 3 dear priests. We all sat together and prayed the Rosary for our friends. Somehow it didn't feel like the sacrifice that we ought to be making, but I know that God will use it for His purposes anyway.

But now, tonight, sitting by my beautiful baby's cradle, I find it all too easy to do as my friend exhorted me to do. I am cherishing, kissing, gazing upon my lovely child, and it is becoming easier, too, to allow the reality of this blessing sink in.

I will see my Dear Friend tomorrow at Mass. I know that she will come to me and we will hug. She will look at my baby and smile, and maybe cry a little. She'll touch her head and maybe kiss her a little, and her heart will just pour out the love that consumes her. And then she will remind me to cherish my beautiful children and to be thankful for every little blessing.

And I will.

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Please pray in this Season of Waiting for those who wait in Hope: for healing, for forgiveness, for love, for new life, and for new life in Him, that they may rejoice in God's Timing as He remains faithful to those who remain steadfast in their faith in Him.

Please pray for those in need, whether it be the need for food or shelter, for a job, for acceptance, for a softer heart, for Jesus in their lives, for the Sacraments--that they may accept the prudence of God's Timing.

Please also pray for all those who wait, trusting in God's Perfect Timing for their families, that their hearts would be blessed for being so open to His will for them.

And please continue to pray for My Dear Friends, who have been an amazing example of accepting God's Timing. Tonight marks two weeks since their infant son's death...and not quite one week since it's just been Their Family (all the visitors have gone back home)...and they are finally beginning to grieve here and there. Please pray for them to just trust God to catch them in His loving arms when they fall apart. Please especially pray for the Daddy and the sons in this family.

A continued Blessed Advent to all of you.....