Full Circle Room

Five years ago, Ken and I moved out of our downstairs bedroom and into the den, pulling out the futon for ourselves every evening (And putting it back together most mornings.). Rees moved into our old room. He was fourteen and wanted some privacy from the quadruple boys' bedroom in the handling of his lung chores ~ certainly everyday stuff like nebulizers and flutter valves, but also occasional IV medication pumps and the exacerbations that kept him up coughing all night. Those were bittersweet times, for I would always awaken to bring him popsicles and warm honey-lemon drinks and we would watch DVDs on his computer in the middle of the night.

This past weekend, he moved into the garage apartment and Ken and I got our room back. This is good. Mostly. I'd been getting comfortable with missing him this past year already, due to classes, work, and friends keeping him away, but this is different. Little things over the past few days have unnerved me, like I don't know if he did his saline rinse because the bottle isn't drying on the bathroom counter because he has his own bathroom counter now. Like in my morning routine, I can't grab his nebulizers to dismantle and boil because it isn't his room anymore and the nebulizers aren't there and how do I know if he took care of them himself and if they're growing creepy germs? See? Unnerving. Of course, I do have a key and can go check if I want (!).

Rees roofing his place (and our garage).

Doesn't he still look like this?

I'm so glad we gave him that space. It was truly a pleasure for us to pull out that futon and give him the gift of his own room for those important years. Having it back to ourselves is wonderful, but not in a frantic, Oh thank God that's over, way. The timing is perfect; the gift has come full circle; the home is at peace. Not all parenting has such obviously perfect outcomes, but this one has, for all the years involved.

(Now I'm going over there to take apart that nebulizer to dry out...)

Happy weekend, friends,
Allison

A Good Catholic?

Over the past few months, I have been told that a Good Catholic:


Would never vaccinate her children.
Must vaccinate her children.

Would never hold hands during the Our Father during Mass.
Would never even attend an ordinary Mass (only Latin).

Would never wear pants.
Must wear a veil.

Would never receive Holy Communion in the hand.
Would only receive Holy Communion on her knees.

Would never stay home from church with naughty children.
Must stay home from church with naughty children.

Would feed her children only the GAPS diet.
Would feed her children Ramen in order to send more to charity.

Would never purchase health insurance.
Must purchase health insurance.

Would be an organ donor.
Would never be an organ donor.

Would never vote Republican.
Would never vote Democrat.

Would never color her hair because that is disrespectful to age-wisdom.
Must color her hair to be a good witness.

Would never write about God's Love because it sounds too liberal.
Must only write about God's Love because rules are icky.

Would never give money to go see Noah.
Would never even like Noah.



 It's nice for us to have different shticks but not nice at all to peddle your shtick as The Real Way to be a Good Catholic. As long as we believe and affirm all the Church teaches to be true, we're Catholic.

Now let's have a nice week, everyone!
Love, Allison



P.S. ~ I loved the Noah movie and am having a hard time putting my facts and emotions to paper. It'll come...

A Fine Answer

Theme Thursday at Clan Donaldson has called for the word ANSWER.

I have decided that to answer aggressive, argumentative children with, "Because I said so" is perfectly fine. Calm, explained (I wrote "expletive" first and realized that wasn't right...) reasoning is not necessary for every blessed directive around here. There's a time and a place for explaining; after all, I reject the Pearl's and the Ezzo's forced scenarios that promote fear and uncertainty. Life is full of opportunities for teaching both trust and obedience organically.  I'm the parent. Obey your mother. I do promise it's for a good reason but I'm not reading the rule book eleventy billion times a day. It's my house and I run it according to my principles. You children have to learn how to be fairly decent people, maximizing your talents and softening your troubles and all that good earth-child stuff. You also just have to obey sometimes. Your parents, yes. Also your teachers, policemen, bosses, GOD, etc.

What a weight off my "I'm not doing it like our grandparent" shoulders. They were right. Sometimes a mommy can say, "Because I said so," and it's a fine answer.



For a wonderful devotional post on answer, go read this. at the Clan. It'll bless you!

Have a great weekend, you guys. Because I said so!
Love, Allison

Extreme Mothering

Raising children with CF drives me to extremes:

* I want people to treat them just like anyone else.
* I want people to treat them with kid gloves.

* I'm comfortable in the hospital.
* I want to burn down the hospital.

* I thank God for the extra gifts in caring for kids with health problems.
* I can barely speak to God.

* I am capable and strong.
* I am weak and sad.

* I'm just like any mom.
* I don't want to be around anyone with healthy children.

* I could kiss the researchers as they work for the good of humanity.
* I could slap the researchers if it would hasten a cure.

* My kids are just like yours.
* My kids are better than yours.
* My kids are worse than yours.

* I believe that suffering can bring us closer to Jesus.
* I don't want to be closer to Jesus.


I'm a little bit of all of this, often every day. It is easy to be tossed about with all the passion and lose sight of what is true, good, and beautiful:

Our lives,
Our loves,
Our Lord.

And while I will happily give up any gifts for a cure, today they are still my gifts. Today I will live well. Extremely.

Wrong with Me

I whined at my husband yesterday, asking him, "What's wrong with me?" He hesitated, "Can you rephrase that, please?" So I said it louder. Apparently, that wasn't what he meant because there was a longer hesitation until he said evenly, "How about no nap for the little ones so we can put them to bed earlier, drink a pot of tea, and you can tell me what's going on. I'll be home soon." Yes, I said this on the telephone while he was at work.

See, the past few weeks have handed out some tragedies: two little boys and a young mother, all with CF, passed away, and our beloved Holy Father has resigned, leaving the seat of Peter empty. Other ladies I know are typing out expressive, passionate posts of drama and beauty and anger and fear and I just feel . . . quiet. A general melancholy, like I have no energy. "Do you think I'm cold-hearted?" I'm pretty sure I saw the corner of his mouth twitch, suppressing a smile, but Ken assured me that I was not; indeed, that nothing was wrong with me. "You don't have CF shock anymore. You have more of a tough sadness; not that you don't feel, but that you don't fall apart easily."

Well, that was a thoughtful explanation and all, but in the wee quiet hours with Addie, I wondered why. How did I get to be this way?

When Rees was first diagnosed, we had just moved 5000 miles away from the east coast: I was all alone, with no family and only a few new friends. There was no one to cry to or yell at or study with; no one to help with clapping or medications or nebulizers (There were two couples that were priceless angels for us during hospitalizations, thanks be to God and all the saints.).

Also, we were part of a church denomination that believed in divine health, so any inklings of doubt or fright or weakness were shushed. Don't speak it, they pronounced. The slightest shimmer of a tear was waved away. You must verbally claim Rees' healing, they commanded. This sort offers help by coming over and taking hold of the child and parents, praying with much shaking and shouting and demanding of disease demons to be cast into the pit of hell. Even in the solitude of our home I was terrified to let any negative emotions spill out, for fear that God would know how small my faith was, thus thwarting a healing. I didn't vent much to Ken for the same reason (I only recall two times in 9 years.). So I kept steeled and quiet and wondered what was wrong with me.

When Rees was around two years old, I happened upon some books written by a mother who lost her children to CF in the 70s, Turn it into Glory and Following Joey Home; I read them over and over, stifling sobs and physical sickness. Ken wondered why I would read such things and I remember telling him, "I have to. That's it."  The author, Meg Woodson, was the only CF Mama connection I had, as we would not have a home computer for years still, and Facebook groups hadn't been invented yet. So I kept sad and quiet and wondered what was wrong with me.

I think that being solitary and overwhelmed with a scary diagnosis involving extra work and hospitalizations; a false gospel turning us against each other, our own selves, and God; and immersing myself in Meg's aching books is how I got to be this way. What's wrong with me, is that sadness doesn't shock me because it's deep inside me and always present.

I write this post for three reasons: (1) catharsis, (2) solidarity with similar others, and (3) understanding for friends of similar others (Go easy; they're probably not cold-hearted, either.).

I'm so terribly sad for the sufferings of cystic fibrosis and the suffering of the loved ones left behind and I will miss my Church Papa very much.  This thoughtful, well-footnoted article explains the Church's teachings on redemptive suffering, which brought me back from the theological cliffs of despair; a lively Facebook group of CF Mamas offers plenty of tears, laughter, and understanding to make up for all the lonely years; and smart, loyal, loving friends walking beside me on our journey ~ these are good gifts. Praiseworthy gifts.

What's wrong with me? Nothing that the Communion of Saints can't help. And a really nice husband.

Can I get an Amen?
Love,
Allison