Ick. Ick. Ick.

Today is just one of those days I would rather was over. And it's hardly even started.

  

Or maybe it started late last night, and that's why I'm ready for it to be over.

  

Whichever.

 

We got back late last night from a four-day expedition to a church where Ethan is candidating. On the way home, I said, "I think everyone's coming down with something. Miriam told me her 'mouth hurts really far deep,' I've been wiping everyone's noses, my throat is scratchy, and I could hear yours was too when you were preaching tonight." The children were already in their pajamas, so we got their pillows out of the car and got them situated in their beds and started the laundry going. Ethan found something online to watch to help unwind from a weekend of meeting and greeting and preaching, and we watched that and then stumbled to bed.

 

And then it all started. Jonathan started crying so Ethan went to check him out. Turns out he had thrown up all over his playpen. So I plopped him in the tub, Ethan stripped the playpen, and we got him some medicine. We stuck him back in bed. Thirty minutes later he was crying again. I went and got him and he had thrown up again. I stripped the playpen and his shirt, cleaned him up, rocked him for a while, got him back in bed.

  

Then it was Miriam (4). Not throwing up, just sneezing. Constantly - as in every two seconds. So I got her up, got her some medicine, a box of tissues and a trashcan, propped her pillow up, and tucked her back in.

  

Then Eden (2). She was coughing hoarsely and crying, so she got warm tea with wild raw honey.

  

Then Lily (6). She, too, was coughing and her throat was sore, so she was medicined up and tucked back in.

  

Then I finally went back to bed (3 AM). Eden started crying again. I asked Ethan, "Can you get her?" and I doubt he even really heard me because he said, "No." So I got up and got her situated and then switched the laundry over (again) and then decided to sleep on the couch. Honestly, it was much more comfortable. I'm 31 weeks pregnant with twins, and the couch supports my back better than the bed does, especially if I'm trying not to accidentally kick a husband as I situate. Yesterday was a bad day for being pregnant with twins. I ended up standing with Jonathan during the entire church service because he refused to be quiet if I sat. My legs are so swollen I honestly cannot feel my feet. I was hoping for a good night of rest for the swelling to go down, but that has not happened.

  

And then it was time to get up again and get Jonathan, who woke early. His brothers got up shortly thereafter (thank the Lord they required nothing from me last night!), and the four of us have been puttering around. At least Jon is helping me out a little bit by turning grey and saying, "Oweee Oweee Oweee" right before he spews, which gives me enough time to grab the bowl (although I only had enough time to run him to the kitchen about an hour ago - but cleaning up vinyl is better than carpet!).

  

We have friends who are in Virginia for the week, and we very badly want to see them. But I know today is not the day.

 

And I'm ready for "today" to be over.

  

Trying to focus on sunnier days:

  

   

   

   

      

    

    

     

     

    

   

Perhaps a good nap will be forthcoming.

   

Snow Day

I periodically check the forecast for 59634, because that was our zip code in Montana. I'll read what the day's weather is going to be like, and the children will groan at all of the snow they're missing. I'll groan, too, because I miss Montana and because, against everything I would have predicted, I loved winter there.

  

It is very harsh and it is very cold and it is very snowy. But when you're all bundled up and wearing good boots and the night is quiet and the only sounds you can hear are the crunching of your boots and the panting of the dog ... I don't even know a word that describes that kind of comforting peace.  And when you live on the side of a mountain, and you can walk a mile down and see the lights of the city below melding with the stars above - stars that are doing that special shine that they do only when the air is bitingly cold - it is indescribably awesome.

     

But yesterday I checked our own forecast, for our current zip code. And snow was in the forecast. Now this may not seem like much to the rest of the world, but for us to be getting snow ... at all, let alone this early ... well, there was some excitement in the house. It was cautious, reserved excitement, because snow in the forecast here could just mean you see something whitish occasionally float down from above. Ethan left at a little after 7 AM for his presbytery meeting, and the children and I continued decorating and hoping the rain would turn to snow.

   

We were not disappointed.

   

    

Maverick was thrilled. He is our Montana mutt, and he has always loved snow. (He's the one running at breakneck speed on the left side of the picture.) While this snow was much less than he's used to, it was still cold and wet and he was happy.

   

So were some others.

  

     

      

     

    

Ben and Lily continued trying to catch snowflakes on their tongues while the littles napped, and then they decided to come inside for a warm drink and some crafting.

  

But even with the fun distraction, the day seemed long without Papa. It wasn't long before they were at the windows, watching for the van to return.

   

     

    

     

It proved to be a longer wait than they expected, so they snuggled in with the littles to finish a movie, and left only the bird to stand watch.

   

      

Proof to My Children

  

that we do, in fact, go on field trips.

  

And to be quite honest, you have been on some really extravagant ones . . . Montana, our friends shoeing their Clydesdales (and then logging with them), a rodeo, the Oregon Coast, Ripley's Believe It or Not Museum, the Undersea Watergardens, and the Tillamook Cheese Factory, just to name a few.

  

And even here, since we've been back in Virginia, we have field-tripped.

  

This time, it was to the Virginia Discovery Museum in Charlottesville. It was free, due to our being ASTC members, but that does not lessen the . . . lessons.

  

Remember how much fun it was to listen to Elijah of Buxton on the audiobook on the way there? (A book to which we have not yet finished listening but are thoroughly enjoying. Oh, AND, {{I whisper}} it's EDUCATIONAL!!!) And then remember how much fun it was to listen to Papa and Mama trying to find a parking space? Good times.

    

But then the good times got even better.

  

      

    

    

    

Remember how Papa laughed until he cried when he made Mama stand sideways in front of the wavy mirror? Remember how this was mean and unacceptable behavior? Remember how Mama couldn't stop laughing when she was yelling at him, and remember how mad that makes her?

  

    

     

     

             

     

    

 

    

There was so much more . . . but I was too engrossed in trying to find the queen in the beehive, watching Miriam be the newscaster on the TV show, listening to Lily play the guitar, and trying to find comfortable seating that I neglected to take pictures of all of it. But trust me, it happened. So there you have it. We field tripped. We were trippin'.

   

 

At Play on a Sunny Fall Day

    

   

     

     

With an uncle:

   

    

With Grandma:

   

    

With a cousin:

  

     

    

    

And then the sun set. We headed to the market for rhubarb jam (sans strawberry or raspberry or any other fruity companion - just the rhubarb thankyouverymuch) and unsweetened apple butter and headed home.

  

     

 

Negligence

I realize we have lived here, in Virginia, for over a month now, and I’ve said little.

 

Let me rephrase that. I realize I’ve blogged little. I’ve said plenty, mostly in the way of how annoying the insane amount of traffic here is, how annoying it is when people refuse to pick up after themselves, and how annoying it is when you can’t recruit anyone to give a decent backrub. There’s been a good deal of moaning and groaning every time I try to hoist myself off the couch or up the stairs, and yesterday’s ultrasound had the perinatologist telling me how “huge” my 29-week-old unborn twins are at 3 ½ pounds each. Humph. By my calculations, then, each placenta weighs about 40 pounds.

 

At least it feels that way. And, doggone it, looks that way.

 

So there are probably a lot of things I could post about, but I’m sticking with a story that happened soon after we arrived.

 

We were staying with my parents until the moving truck came. One day, we decided to drive out to our old house. We loved this house. We had rented it dirt-cheap, and the river ran close by and a plantation butted up against it. What it lacked in electrical fortitude (you could only plug in about 2 things at a time), it more than made up in character. Built in 1774, its wide plank pine floors, tall ceilings, hand-carved baseboards and walnut railing, deep windowsills, and large center hallways hearkened back to a different time. My husband put a month’s worth of work into it, re-plastering (that’s real horse hair in there) and painting and ripping up carpet and sanding floors. When we moved in, we had two small children and two five-month olds, and when we moved out, we had five small children and a one-month old. We loved the openness of the land around us, the huge magnolia that overshadowed the porch and was alive when George Washington was, and the fact that we knew its history.

 

But as we drove down the route near the house that day, I had a foreboding feeling. The magnolia was clearly visible, but the house? Where was the house?

   

 

    

“Did they tear the house down?” I whispered. “Ethan, this is going to be traumatic for the kids if they tore the house down.”

 

Shortly before we moved, a developer had purchased the house and the surrounding land. His intention, he announced, was to turn the land into a public park and renovate the house, turning it into a clubhouse.

 

We saw no clubhouse.

 

    

    

   

The children, all but two of them, piled out of the van. Most of them were amazingly un-traumatized, fascinated by the piles of brick and siding and the felled giant sycamore and grateful for the chance to get out and stretch.

 

     

   

    

   

 

Two of them did this:

    

 

And my oldest? Well, he is partly my boy after all. As soon as he saw the remains of the house, he started tearing up. “WHAT?” he choked out hoarsely. “They tore it down? It was the most wonderful house in the world, and they just tore it down?”

   

 

   

I was swallowing my own lump. I know the house was old and in sore need of lots of money and attention. But the wonderful memories it held for me! I remember wondering so many times how many generations of women had hung their clothes out on the line as I hung mine; how many generations of children joined mine in climbing the magnolia, running (and riding) down the large hallways and exploring the outlying fields for groundhogs and beehives and wildflowers for mamas; how many men had looked at this house and sighed with relief that they were HOME; how many other families had carved their names into the beech tree.

 

But Ethan is not one to let emotionality and sentimentality fester, and he quickly turned these heaps of brick and roofing into a lesson about the inevitable decay and death of all things of this world and how we are to store up treasures in heaven.

 

Benjamin was listening. He stopped mumbling about the terrible things he would do with his b.b. gun to the President (yes, of the United States) for letting this happen and starting asking questions about the Highest Authority. “I know God is good, and I’m not saying I don’t believe that, but if God is good, why does He let bad stuff like this happen?”

 

Oh, child. God IS good, and how thankful I am that He was good enough to give you the papa He gave you who can answer your questions, which go beyond your eight years, with answers that fit your eight years.

 

When we pulled away, he still looked like this:

 

   

  

but was no longer threatening national security. He was no longer angry, just sad.

 

However . . . .

That very night, Ethan’s live trap caught a raccoon in my parents’ attic. We woke Ben up to see the raccoon before Ethan hauled it the requisite 10 miles away. And you know what lies about 10 miles away from my parents’ house? The perfect raccoon house, with felled trees and crannies and holes to climb into and the river just a hop, skip, and jump away.

 

    

 (Can you see the raccoon? It's to the left of the yellow oar and down a little. Look for the striped tail.)

In the morning, we told Benjamin that our torn-down house was a house once more. He smiled, and then giggled and started listing things a raccoon would LOVE about living there.

 

And I betcha that raccoon does love it, too.

  

It better.