Wednesday, November 27, 2013

Stupid Cookie

Do you think it does any good to yell at a one-and-a-half-year-old to eat the stupid cookie because if she doesn't get back up to her growth curve, she'll have a feeding tube placed in January?

Probably not. But I did it anyway.

Here's what we're looking at.  She's on antibiotics again and refusing anything but drinks; add that to all the coughing and she's been dropping for the past three months. It's going to be a long six weeks...

Eat, Addie, eat (Although she seems to be as maddeningly stubborn as her sister, so I don't see it happening.).

January 15th, I already hate you.

Tuesday, November 19, 2013

Happy Birthday Luke

Luke is seven, our chubby bunny turned skinny minny whom we try to fatten up by allowing CF kid food!

How can he stand that drool drop right on the edge of his chin?

Even though he eats like a bird (with CF, that is), he must be growing, as evidenced by the high-water  jeans.

My favorite thing you've ever said was to your godfather visiting the hospital after Joseph was born: "Come see Baby Jophus; he's all pushed out!"

It was a wonderful birthday, Honey.
We love you!

Thursday, November 14, 2013

Jerkhood Forgiven

I am a judgmental jerk. For all the progress I thought I'd made here on the world wide web learning to double check my posts and comments, making sure that they are true to who I am and what I believe while being polite to others, the realization of jerkhood hit me twice yesterday. Once by an apology and once by a story.

I was embroiled in a mommy conversation debating television, parking lots, and potato chips where I was certain of my total right-ness and irritated with my typing opponents' arrogance. I left the conversation because I'd said my piece and because the vegetables were burning and I had to get back to suppertime prep. I told and retold the story to my poor husband and a non-FB-addicted friend with far too much glee over my wisdom and verbal prowess.

Then I received an apology.

I stared at the words for many minutes, finally clicking away without responding. A day went by with several uncomfortable reminders of it. I knew that I should respond (Peggy Post politeness and all) but I seemed to be paralyzed. It took two days for me to realize that I didn't want to kiss and make up. That I liked my high horse. That it was easier to keep my nose in the air. That forgiveness, even on a small FB scale, is harder. Well, I did write back and became filled with affection for the good lady who took the time to write to me and with humiliation for my prideful hesitations.

I am also distant FB friends with a perfect couple. You probably know the type: gorgeous, great house, beautiful children, no problems, too too. I hardly took them seriously because really, if you don't have kids with chronic, serious illness and don't have tight finances, then your talk about loving God and carrying crosses and being a SAHM don't carry much weight with me. Then they told their story. And I cried all day. I cried for their pain; I cried for my gaping prideful sin; I cried for them again. What I jerk I'd been.

I hope and pray for forgiveness from these strangers. I hope and pray that this will have burned a permanent, unhealed hole in my heart as a reminder to love first. Because even immovable rules like Church doctrine are spokes of a wheel that are centered on the Gospel: tough truth, yes, but it begins with God's Love. "Love God; love others; upon these two rest all the law and prophets (Matthew 22:36-40). We're talking about created, loved people here. I think this is what Pope Francis meant.

I haven't decided if I should take a break from FB yet; I'm thinking of it for Advent, like a Lenten preparation...

Love to all,

Monday, November 4, 2013

May I Have Your Attention, Please?

We are pleased to announce ~

The Summer of the Garage is over.

Stuff's hooked up and works and there's room for a vehicle.

Winter of the Apartment has begun! What happened to Autumn, you may ask? Me too.

Rees wants to move out there just as badly as Ken and I want to move back into our room and as John wants to move into the den, getting out of the bunkbed room full of little brothers (although he leaves just as many legos and clothes on the floor as they do!).

I'd like to take this opportunity to encourage families in small houses: it works. Don't be afraid to downsize to save money, work less, and gain time together. It's easy to trash a small house but it's quick to get it all put back together. It's fun to see the teens roll their eyes when Ken and I feign impatience (kind of) to get a real bedroom back. It's charming to shuffle around in the early morning and see that kids have migrated into each other's beds or the couch or the living room floor. It's nice to be able to swing through a drive-through and have an extra $20 to surprise them with a hot chocolate or ice cream cone. And it's quietly exhilarating to live with something you built yourself because there's not that much extra money to hire someone.

On trashing and cleaning, Ken and I had a long talk this weekend about cleaning ~ the mother's yelling/hand-wringing/fainting about the children's cleaning/distraction/disobedience. He reminded me that all they know is the here-and-now and that it stinks to drift off to sleep after getting in trouble. So I promised that the last word they will hear from me will be the story I read and to calm down about most of their work and give them a focus for a few important parts like dirty clothing coming downstairs and small toys off the floor (Lordy, they'll probably tuck stuff under the beds ... but I promised to be cool.).

Oh, and this is what became of the hall space emptied by the washer and dryer:

Pretty doors broken off another closet by the naughty fairies.

Where laundry lives now (Not in their drawers upstairs, which those naughty fairies tossed around and mixed up in the costume box or dirty pile). The kids aged 1 to 12 come downstairs in their PJs so it's easier to grab outfits here.

Here's to a new week and a quieter mother in the evenings!
Love, Allison