Found

       

I tossed and turned last night (a great feat for someone whose belly is not a thing to be tossed and turned lightly – or easily – if at all), my mind on things lost. As is the usual protocol for dealing with lost items, I traced and retraced our paths, our exact steps, the last time I remembered seeing them, holding them, making mental note of them.

  

It was our weekend for losing things…a credit card, a Very Special Necklace from a Very Special Aunt’s trip to Disney World, my husband’s maternal grandfather.

  

The credit card and the necklace are replaced easily enough. A call to the credit card company, a trip to the Disney Store (where perhaps a close enough likeness will work), careful thought to take care of these replacements.

  

But the grandfather? How awful if it were so simple to replace a man! My thoughts of him are vivid and stark in comparison to the vague, blurry recollections of the credit card and necklace. He wasn’t a person to be forgotten or to fade into the background.

  

My first meeting with him was 10 years ago, at Ethan’s college graduation (10 years ago? ACK!). It was December, and we celebrated an early Christmas with a poinsettia and candles in Ethan’s mother’s hotel room in Longview, Texas. Wayne (his grandfather) and Arvilla (his grandmother) expressed their pride in Ethan’s accomplishments: Wayne loudly and Arvilla softly. Each accolade seemed to be accompanied by a sly passing of a crisp dollar bill as Wayne shook his hand, or patted his knee, or squeezed his shoulder.

   

And at the actual graduation, as I sat next to Grandpa Wayne and turned to the right page in the program to sing the first hymn, I nearly jumped out of my skin. This was no meek, “I don’t know these people; I’ll just sing quietly and blend in” voice next to me. This was a loud, proud, exultant voice singing “How Great Thou Art” as if great Thou really wert. Two years later, he stood as the best man, my husband’s sole groomsman, at our wedding; and his firm handshake, intense blue eyes looking directly into mine, and strong words “It is a rare thing to find a good wife,” made my gaze watery as I considered the recent loss of his good wife.

   

I know there are lots of family members and friends who are today replaying their interactions with this man who was Grandpa Wayne. There are those who saw him in his last moments, in a coma. There are those who saw him for the two long days he was hospitalized with a brain hemorrhage. There are those who saw him marry Ethan’s grandmother, saw them both grieve the loss of a child, saw him grieve at his wife’s death, saw him rejoice again in the finding of new love just a few years ago. There are those who called him by other names: Friend, Brother, Swede, Dad, Love. And I know each of their memories differs drastically from mine. But for me, this granddaughter-in-law who is admittedly part of the outer circle who knew him not as intimately nor well, the unembellished memories can be encapsulated in two words: his voice.

  

I don’t know how to describe it clearly. It was a voice that said what it said loudly and plainly, but it said much more than that. You could tell he had had a hard life but was not going to let that keep him down. You knew from the way his large, muscular hands moved in coordination with his words that he had worked the land and worked large animals. And I’m almost sure that Henry Higgins would have pinpointed him as a Midwestern Swede in less than half a sentence.

  

He loved to sing and sing lustily and forcefully. This was a definite family trait, I realized as I listened to him join several of his brothers in chorus at the reception of his second wedding two years ago. There is something so joyous about hearing grown men sing at the top of their lungs, first in English, then in Swedish. Uninhibited by social convention or fear or whatever it is that makes the rest of us sing timidly and poorly, these men sang as if they had reason to sing. No mere congratulatory toast or prepared poem would suffice. This called for !!!SONG!!!

  

And so I realized, as I tossed and turned, searching in my mind’s eye the van seats (credit card?), the back yard (necklace?), and the unknown glories of heaven, that really we’d only lost two things this weekend. Grandpa is far from lost. We know where he is, and I know that he is absolutely reveling in the fact that all of the singing there is purposeful and strong and heartfelt.

  

And I was reminded this morning that not even his voice is lost, as I heard my almost 3-yr. old son (also a fraternal twin, like his great-grandfather) loudly proclaiming his usual morning chorus as he descended the stairs: “HOW-WAY-WOO-YAH! HOW-WAY-WOO-YAH!”

  

Hallelujah indeed.

   

(photo: Ethan, Grandpa Wayne, Grandma Irene, and our five last October)

   

Excitement

I'm still a little bit in shock, as I'm sure my husband is. After five (I think?) years of late nights filled with heavy books, theological treatises, and word-wrestling at the mercy of often combatant computers, it is finished. All of the final papers have been written, reworked, proofread, footnoted, and submitted. All of the final exams have been answered with the appropriate amount of head-holding.

   

Seminary is done.

  

I must admit I sniff a hint of superstition as I write that...a childhood fear that by saying it I might cause it not to be. That somehow there is a class that was frightfully overlooked or a requirement that was never met.

  

But I am going to ignore that fear and say it anyway. And loudly.

  

SEMINARY IS DONE!!!

  

I am insanely proud of my husband, a man who fathered five (one yet unborn) additional children, and fathers them well, in the midst of papers and preaching and presbytery meetings. I am constantly amazed when I hear him preach or teach a Sunday School...this man who went from wanting to be a pilot to a lawyer to anything that would let him work outside...then realized an undeniable calling to proclaim the Word of God. We listen to the same music, we watch the same movies, we deal with the same runny-nosed, whiny, exasperating, hilarious, wonderful children; and yet when I hear him teach I am blown away by the surety of his calling.

  

And in the middle of all this craziness...of kids and classes-via-live-time-video and work and church...he remains a steadfast husband and father who is head and shoulders above the crowd. When cashiers or postal workers or shocked co-shoppers count the young heads around me and ask, "How do you do it?" I explain that my husband is such an incredible father that lots of kids should have him for a dad.

      

I can't find the time to apply a temporary tattoo because there are two loads of laundry waiting to be folded; with numerous 20-page papers waiting to be written and several church meetings to attend, he can find the time to take lingering nature walks that involve goose intestines, snakes, hummingbird moths, and animal bones.

  

I told you he was good.

  

So now we shift from papers to preparations for Friday night's graduation, including getting the van serviced and loaded and the camper readied.

     

And these are welcome chores indeed.

   

(photo: Ethan and Abraham in 2006)

    

A Word to the Wise(r than I)

If you find yourself in the middle of an "I Think I'll Do a Spontaneous Fun Mom Thing" moment and this is uncharted territory for you, beware.

  

Especially beware if it involves dragging child-sized table and chairs onto the back deck and then loading the table with a bin containing the contents of three bags of dried beans and various kitchen utensils.

     

Before you unleash your children, take note of how big the cracks are in your deck. Smaller than the beans? Good. Bigger than the beans? Fine. The same size as the beans?

   

I would say, "Don't ask me how I know to do this," but we all know how I know. I should have stuck with, "Fifteen minutes cleaning your bedroom and then find something to do outside," but inspiration struck. Hard. (ouch!)

  

Zapped

My friend Kelly sent me a very kind and concerned email, worried that I was on bed rest or something since I haven't posted in a while.

      

Bed rest? Well, not officially. Does it count if you're so plumb tuckered it's all you can do to muster a feeble "Move over" before you flop on the couch for the fourth time in an hour? All right, all you gals who have been on bed rest, calm down. I know it doesn't count.

  

No, nothing's wrong. Nothing abnormal, anyway. I'm just too tired to be ... well, to be. My left leg is blue from veins that protest too much, my ankles are the same circumference as my thighs, and I no longer need eye shadow -- my eyelids are a deep plum color au naturale. My tone of voice is annoying, even to me, and my sense of humor has gone missing. It's probably hiding under the stacks (HA! that's a gracious word for the disorganized chaos) of winter coats, blankets, and boots that are waiting for me to sort through them. In the middle of the hallway. The downstairs hallway. The one to which the front door opens.

  

I've been in a funk, and I know part of it is due to the ... well, closeness of the due date (something like 7 weeks? I've lost count and am too tired to go to the calendar...see what I mean?). There's also the fact that Ethan graduates at the end of next week (oh, glorious day!). But first, there are papers and exams to be completed (and for some reason, I stress out about this way more than he does). And since we will be going to the graduation (two states away) and camping in our camper, there are lists to be made, swimsuits to be found, lotions to be packed, and food to be prepared. And since he will be graduating from seminary, we will be much more aggressively pursuing a call to a church. So there are decisions to be made, possessions to be de-possessed, and familial bonds to be stretched as we move away from family.

  

The last few weeks of pregnancy are sort of like the first for me -- I cry easily and often, although rarely in front of others, and I am better not seen nor heard. I always remind myself of that horse (or whatever it was) in the movie "The Never-Ending Story." I'm not even exactly sure of the scene, as it was the first movie I saw as a kid on our brand new (**Beta!**) VCR and I haven't seen it since, so pardon me if I butcher this...but they are travelling through some sort of slough or bog or quicksand or something and if they think sad thoughts, they just keep sinking deeper and deeper and deeper. So the trick is to think happy thoughts. But the horse (or whatever it is) can't think happy thoughts and ends up sinking.

  

My self-misery enjoys the entrapment, I think. I look at the hallway, and then the dishes, and then the boxed-up books, and then my puffy toes...and I just want to call it quits. That's when I am thankful for women who won't allow giving up...writers of sites like this and this and this. It's when I have to force myself to read God's Word, and not just to the children, but to myself...to see what the reality is. It's not in the mess or dirt or discomfort or anxiety of these things that will (YES, THEY WILL!!!!) pass away.

          

So, no, I'm not incapacitated or hampered (although, speaking of hampers, there are quite a few clothes that need folding...).

  

I've just been trying to figure out how to get out of this Sulky Susie get-up.

   

Anybody got an extra Wonder Woman outfit?

    

 

Recently Heard around Here...

Benjamin (6) came up with the idea of planning a "Family Fun Night." He decided that Wednesday was the day to buy the supplies (balloons) and Friday would be the night to have fun. Lily joined in with an additional idea ("Why don't we light that candle of mine?"). Ben agreed but on the condition that the fun night still be on Friday.

  

"I get to decide, because this was my idea."
  

"Yeah, and mine, too," said Lily.

  

"No, it wasn't! You don't even know what Family Fun Night means!" retorted Ben.

  

Lily: "Yes, I do! It's about loving your family, so LEAVE ME ALONE!!"

     

We're off to a good start.

   

A Rash Decision

Finally. A chance to pause.

  

After what seems like an unending series of colds, bumps, sleepless nights, gray days, and rashes, we are finally seeing sunshine, both literally and figuratively.

  

It all began about three weeks ago, when Abraham (2) decided to simultaneously cut his molars and come down with a miserable cold. Neither of my boys have ever done well teething. There are fevers (despite what the doctors say: "Babies don't get fevers when they teethe." HA!!! Hats off to Dr. William Sears for actually stating in a book of his that mothers prove otherwise). There are swollen cheeks, open mouths, and drool pools.

  

It's just gross.

  

So when Abraham refused to swallow or chew (**extremely** rare for him), we knew he was probably teething. A quick check in his breath of death mouth confirmed our suspicions. We Motrined and Tylenoled him, provided a bedside stack of thick cloth diapers at the ready to be tucked under his ever-drooling mouth as he fitfully slept, and pulled out a collection of new-to-us used videos.

  

And got ready to wait it out.

  

Only we waited, and waited, and waited. For days. And then Lily (4) started sneezing and coughing.

  

And then Miriam (2) knocked herself out. As it was a Saturday and our pediatrician's office was closed, I signed a paper saying I would take her in to be checked on Monday because I was declining the rescue squad's offer to take her to the emergency room.

  

Monday came. The weekend was long, with Lily still sneezing and coughing, and snorting and sniffling...and then SHE wouldn't swallow. Popsicles and iced drinks failed to entice.

  

Off to the doctor's office we went for Miriam's appointment. We did not see our regular pediatrician; and during her inspection, this new doctor said Miriam had an ear infection and prescribed Amoxycillin. "Has she been complaining about her ear? Tugging it? Acting fussy?"

  

"Not a bit," I said. "But this one over here..." and I pointed to Lily, who was sitting there with mouth open, eyes swollen, and cheeks flushed.

  

"Hmm. Well, I'm going to have Miriam take this Amoxycillin twice a day for ten days."

  

Irritated at her inability to take a hint, I said, "So what would you suggest I do for someone who won't swallow, has white spots on her throat, and can't sleep because of coughing?"

  

And....here it comes....she said, "Well, if you'd like to make an appointment, I'd tell you."

  

OH. MY. WORD. Now let me set something straight. If you know me personally, you know I HATE doctors. Not their person, but their, well, medical inexpertise. Give me a country farm vet anyday. We'd probably be a lot healthier. But anyway. Even a doctor-lover (is there such a thing?) would have to be unsettled by that ridiculous answer. I am sitting there with my five children. For almost two hours, my five children and I have been sitting in this tiny little doctor's office (not the large waiting room, mind you, but this itty bitty office with medical equipment everywhere), playing "I Spy" and reading Parenting magazines that you have laying around and trying not to touch anything. These two hours, and none of my children have broken anything or cried or wet their pants. And why have we been waiting these two hours? BECAUSE I MADE AN APPOINTMENT! Which, incidentally, was for TWO HOURS AGO!!!

  

And you're refusing to give me advice because it's on the sick kid and not the one you're here to look at?

  

Fast forward two days. Lily is still not swallowing. The breath of death is absolutely stifling. We drive the half hour to the pediatrician's again, only to have the same doctor, who I am sure has no children of her own. Before the doctor comes in, the nurse swabs Lily's throat for a strep test. The doctor comes in and says, "Her throat is the worst I've seen. Let's see if it's strep." This is your fault, I want to say. But I don't. I'm, you know, godly like that. (Ahem!)

  

The strep test comes back negative. She tells me to try popsicles and iced drinks. AAARGH! She says Lily does have a mild ear infection and prescribes Amoxycillin. "I'm going to prescribe enough that it will kill the throat infection, too." I ask, as guardedly as I can, "But that won't help any, because antibiotics don't do anything for viral infections." And then, to make this a proper question to the expert and not an outright denial of her knowledge, I add, "Right?"

  

"Oh, I know," she says. "Believe me, I am NOT one of those doctors who like to prescribe antibiotics just for the sake of prescribing them. But if there's any strep hiding (???!!!???), it'll kill it."

  

If that's the kind of doctor who DOESN'T like to prescribe antibiotics, I wonder what the kind of doctor is like who DOES? Are they prescribing Amoxycillin by the 2-liter?

  

So, two days after we picked up Miriam's drugs, we pick up Lily's.

  

And then I understand why people stop antibiotics early.

 

Because they do nasty, nasty things to the body. When the things the antibiotics do are worse than what the body was handling without them, you go with the lesser evil, right? And in our case(s), the "evil" was an ear infection, one of them being so painless that the child hadn't even noticed it. And after doing some research (which I must have been too sleep-deprived to do before), I found out that 80-90% of ear infections are self-resolving. It's true! This is not some Backwoods Magazine When You Don't Have a Doctor statistic. It's absolutely true. And not all ear infections are bacterial...doctors usually can't tell whether they are viral or bacterial. So antibiotics may not do a thing for them.

   

So I pull the antibiotics and become very militant about how many sips Lily must take every 5 minutes. She starts getting better.

   

A week later, Miriam breaks out with a rash and is complaining about her "mouth" hurting. I look everywhere online to try to figure out what the rash is, trying to rule out chicken pox or scarlet fever or measles or viral rash or allergy to dandelion jelly. I am leaning towards scarlet fever, figuring that maybe she did have strep (even though her rash didn't look like scarlet fever pictures). Finally, I talk to my friend Kendra, who during one sleepless winter became very well-acquainted with various maladies among her children. I describe Miriam's rash, and she assures me that it doesn't sound anything like scarlet fever.

  

And then, finally, finally, finally, I find a picture that looks exactly like Miriam's rash. And? It was a reaction to Amoxycillin, which can show up a week after the child has taken it.

  

Well, it's almost gone now. Her throat is no longer sore (despite her telling me, "Mama, my mouth hurts. I need popcorn." Your throat hurts, so you need some salty popcorn? "Yes.")

  

And I am exhausted. The sun is shining, the birds are singing, one of the cats is leaving gifts of dead voles on the back porch. Spring is here.

  

I think I'll go to sleep on the couch, right after watching a "House" episode. Because THAT is a doctor who knows doctors don't know anything. And even if that doesn't impress you, the fact that Hugh Laurie is really British just has to.

  

When Life (or the Yard) Gives You Dandelions...

  

. . . Make Dandelion Jelly.

 

It's surprisingly easy and a fun transformation for the kids to watch. Yesterday, in a moment of "I NEED TO GET AWAY FROM YOU!" desperation, I sent Ben (6) and Lily (4) outside to gather a bowl of dandelions (just yellow ones, thank you very much).

  

I used a combination of recipes found online, only to later flip to "dandelion jelly" in Carla Emery's The Encyclopedia of Country Living (one of my favorite books) and discover that the combination I so originally came up with was written in easy language in her book. So much for the Internet!

    

At first, the two children were a little disgusted at the thought of actually digesting something that they picked from the yard. But this gave us a chance to talk about other flowers that we eat (cauliflower, broccoli, cloves, artichokes -- well, OK, we don't eat those but SOME people do).

  

And come to think of it, some of the things I've seen my kids ingest are FAR more disgusting than a household weed. . .