I Lived

Several people have forwarded this video to me over the past few months but I never watched it, afraid of sadness or sappiness. But I'm working on an article for the Frontiersman about Respecting Life and thought there might be something I could use so I watched it.

It's perfect.

And it's true for everybody ~ "When the sun goes down through the joy and pain, until my moment comes I'll say, I lived."

Yes we will. Life is still good.
Love, Allison

The Mom's Hour

My routine has been the same for years: babies, toddlers, teenagers, homeschool, homemaking. Rinse and repeat. With seven children, there’s always someone, or several, in all those age brackets. Two kids have cystic fibrosis, so there are extra health chores daily and two-week hospitalizations occasionally that add to the mix. I have always been honored to be known as my husband’s wife and my children’s mother; it is not a loss of my identity but a flowering of it. So when feelings of discontent began whispering to me in my forty-fifth year, I was shaken and embarrassed. I wondered if I should get a job, complete a degree, or send the kids off to school. Am I boring? Am I useless? Am I fulfilled? I made a list of the pros and cons for each possibility and could not live with any of the cons. How to transform myself?

I spent a morning alone at a local cafe to relax and think, with an attractive, expensive cup of coffee and a delicious, tiny slice of biscotti. I decided to take baby

steps; or more accurately, one baby step: in the middle of the day, every single Howell at home was going to be silent for one hour. The small ones could rest and the older ones could read or draw. Separately was the key. I told them they were going to be alone with themselves. I promised myself not to clean or cook or help with lessons, but to simply be with me. I would use that hour to nap, read a book, learn to crochet, write a letter, or relearn how to play the piano -- something to stretch my mind and heart.



I'm pretty sure I see a positive boon for myself and our entire household order. It is both exciting and grounding. My next plan is to sign up for one college class online. We are getting used to Mom’s Hour and I am confident that some of those hours will be perfect for working through an anthropology or literature course.

 

I did not have to give up or reinvent what defines me --my home and family-- in order to fulfill something new welling up within me. A bit of balance is coming with one baby step, one hour, one day at a time. I look forward to my next year, one Mom’s Hour at a time.


Now to start filling out forms ...
Love, Allison



 

One Thought

I know it's Wednesday morning, but I had this thought before midnight (so it counts, right?) while walking around with congested, coughing Addie, who Would Not be put down:

Ma Ingalls did not have a village.


It made me feel better. Competent. Less jealous. More proud.

(Now I'm on my way to the city for her doctor's appointment; hoping the drive will afford me the opportunity to put together a Brilliant Blog Post from my scattered thoughts. Anything to help me remain awake on the highway...)


Love, A

*Post 2 (sort of) for 7 posts in 7 days.

Six Months with Addie

This past Valentine's Day, our seventh baby was born, a second girl we named Adah Marie, after our grandmothers in heaven that have been praying for us.  We call her Addie, and she has cystic fibrosis.

Like her eldest brother, she needs pulmonary therapy thrice daily (gentle patting on her chest and back to loosen thick mucus for coughing up), digestive enzymes before every nursing session, extra salt, probiotics, albuterol, and antibiotics.  She will never know differently unless a drug is discovered that targets the genetic defect (Let us pray...).

Even though I understood the genetics, thanks to great high school biology classes on Mendel's pea plants and I knew there was a 1:4 chance that CF could resurface, I nevertheless fought near constant nauseous panic the first few days and weeks as the symptoms became clear.  When the results of the genetic test returned Two copies of DF508 mutation.  Cystic Fibrosis Diagnosed, I cried.  Bawled, really, because this is where the theological truths of our Holy Faith crash against the anguish of heartbroken parents in a battle of weeping, fighting, swords, and clubs.  It felt like that, anyway.  I didn't want to visit friends with healthy children; maybe because I was jealous and maybe because I didn't want to be a downer.  I didn't want anyone else to hold her.  I told her I'm sorry a million times (I counted.).

But I've gone through these wranglings before and this time I have 2000 years of Church teaching and a Holy Mother to help.  Catholic theology holds that children are a gift, not a right; that suffering can bring us closer to Jesus; and that people are made for God.  Did I really believe what I'd been writing about on this blog for the past year and a half?  (Of course, thanks be to God and the prayers of Saint Therese!)  The Holy Spirit reminded me of the embarrassment of riches I have in our sacramental marriage blessed with so many children, and graces pouring upon me; so I picked myself up, made a morning offering of thanksgiving, called my friend over to tea, and proudly passed off my pretty daughter for auntie-ish snuggles.

We've figured out a good daily groove for Addie's care (Which basically means a chart for the others kids to keep track of who gets to do her therapy and squirt stuff into her mouth.) and we're delighting in the cuteness of our little girl; for CF chores and all, she is our own baby with her own personality ~

Spitting raspberries.

She slides down just enough to read the instruction stickers.

.

Loves to jam her hands into her mouth.

She especially digs her bouncy seat ~ see her feet in the air?

Quiets right down when Ken plays his guitar.

Clare and Addie ~ my girls!

Big Red is her friend.

Be still, my heart!





Happy six months, Adah Marie!  We are so thrilled and thankful for you!

Life Site News

Life Site News writer Pete Baklinski has written a delightful article telling our story, which I'm going to link to in the About page and the Helpful Links page.  It made me smile and cry; hope you will, too.

Warmly,
Allison

CF Makes Me Weird

I've adopted some weirdnesses over the years that can be credited to CF in the family ~



I say things like, Only two grams of fat?  No good; put it back.  Oh, this one has ten grams of fat; put six in the cart.  Great for the kids' weight but folks in the grocery store think I'm weird.  I kind of enjoy that.

Not enough fat and calories, of course, and you can't put gravy on fruit snacks.

Every time I read a story about someone with physical problems, I make an announcement.  Sometimes I preach.  The lady who contracted the flesh-eating bacteria?  We marvel at her fortitude.  The Florida bar with Tuesday night dances for differently-abled?  Watched the video twice.  This I do as an exposition of the amazing mysteries of life.  I think it's brilliant; my children think it's weird.

When I meet another lady with children with health problems, I want to be BFFs.  Weirds some people out probably, and I do try not to gush, but anyway How old are your kids and how are they doing and who's your doctor and we should definitely get together next week OK?

I 'm not actually this calm.

I am very calm hearing about or even watching medical procedures.  When friends relay to me surgery stories, there is no wincing or OMGs.  When I've had to take kids to the emergency room, I'm cool and helpful   (This has caused trouble for me, though, and a Big Accusation which is a story for another post and because of which I will need to fake faint or something should there be another ER visit.).  Most folks understand.  Some think it's weird.


The sacraments, songs, and prayers of the Church are so strongly meaningful to me, I sometimes feel that I must be the only one.  I am aware that theologically, the Good News is for all, but when you're clapping a coughing child in the middle of the night while swallowing the desire to run away screaming, words like. . .

Do you reject Satan and all his empty promises?
Shepherd me, O God, beyond my fears, from death into life,
Have mercy on us and on the whole world.

. . .console my sad soul and soften my less-than-holy thoughts.  Pure love.  Weird.


You can cease praying for my personality.


Laughing maniacally,
Allison                                                                            

Poetry, not Multiplication.

MY SHIP

By Clare A. Howell

My ship is a well-built ship;

She loves to take a dip.

When the sun's high, her masts reach up to the sky.

The wind fills them, those sheets of white;

The wind, with all its might

Pulls her away from the dock.

The water is her frock.

She lives for it; she was made for the water.

With a bluish light the ocean is lit.

When she plows through the wet sea, white waves wash up to meet her.

All this was simply meant to be.

Clare at work.  Don't ask; I have no idea.

This is my girl in our yard a few days ago, rejecting all other responsibilities because she had a poem idea, I imagine after our family visit to Seward.  Seeing her happily scribbling away confirmed to me that she does have a decent attention span and that she is certainly capable of focusing on a project.  As long as it is not long multiplication or division.  She is only half-way through the 4th grade math book (actually, 2 different ones), refusing to give the puzzle of organizing place-valued ciphers any mental energy lasting more than 5 seconds.  I have (mostly) given up the fight and I (usually) don't mind.  Peace in the home is paramount.  We're homeschoolers, after all, and I'm not supposed to care what the government system says a 10 year old should be able to master.  After all, look at the poems and artwork and photographs and stories she delights in creating.

She took this in B&W with our goofy camera and when I asked her why, shrugged.  "I could just tell it was the right way to do it."

Aren't we all like this?   I cannot manage a daily Rosary or the Divine Office, but I love participating in Holy Mass and beginning our days with family prayers.  My husband refuses to again attempt to read music, but is terrific at taking the kids out survival camping and tackling tough conversations.  Some families are good at fabulous field trips; others are good at evening story time; others are good at stimulating science projects.  If you do all of these things, don't talk to me. 

She is who she is, with talents and troubles.  So am I.  So are you.  Our beloved, now retired priest once told me in Confession, "Your personality was created by God and it is good.  No apologies.  Let's pray for the Holy Spirit to soften the sinful edges.  Still you, but more like Jesus."  God doesn't yell at me because of my concentration troubles and I mustn't yell at Clare because of her mathematical troubles. 

Instead, I publicly celebrate her talents right here on this blog and pray for the sinful edges to soften.  All for the glory of God!

Celebrating Poetry, not Multiplication ~

Love,

Allison

Such beauty; such composition; such . . . art!





Anniversary doodling for us.