Muddy smiles

This post is a big, fat complaint.  Breakup has begun . . .

Snow, mud, slush

                                         Outside clothes in a wet, muddy heap                                       

What the little boys do for fun around here when their coats are wet and muddy : TP play

Every year at this time when the snow melts during the day causing pockets and puddles of deep mud that children and canines absolutely must frolic in, then freezes again in the evening, making morning commutes treacherous, I resolve to keep cool.  To not yell about mud and puddles and filthy small people and disgusting smelling dogs.  Each year I fail, even though I know that it lasts about a month and in May we get green.  Green!  Green!  It has arrived.  I will try again.  I will smile at their muddy joy.  I will try.  I will try.

Warmly  (Actually, Muddily),
Allison                                          

Well Done

One of my first despairing cries when the kindly young doctor told us of Rees' CF was, Oh dear God, my baby's going to die.  Indeed, it was all I could think of those first foggy days, weeks, and months  (Maybe even a year but I'm not sure I remember now.).  My baby's going to die.  My baby's going to die.  My baby . . .

And then he wasn't a baby any more.  He grew into a toddler like any other toddler.  He swallowed his enzyme-laden applesauce before snacks and meals.  He yelled, NO, NO, NO with all his might.  He watched Little Bear while being clapped.  He ran away from me naked and peed on the floor.  He occasionally was hospitalized with IVs.  He learned colors, letters, Mama, Daddy.  He was cute.  He was naughty.  He did need extra care to be healthy, but he certainly wasn't dead.

So slowly, I realized that I'd grown from merely giving intellectual assent to such ideals as

Each day is a gift.
No one is guaranteed tomorrow.
Viruses and car wrecks and accidents cause death, too.

Now I understood in my soul and I lived differently.  Finer.  Richer.  Deeper.  We had more babies and had more fun with them.  We saved less money and went out for more pizza.  It takes troubles to realize these truths but I am positive that people live more graciously with this knowing and that the world is a more excellent place with such understanding sorts.

Does this mean that I take my wisdom and float along with my smiles and tears, content in suffering?  H***, No.  I write letters requesting research monies.  I volunteer at fund raising events.  I sign up for walks and drug studies and surveys and questionnaires.  I talk.  Oh yes, I talk.  Love to talk!

We're all going to die, you know.  One way or another, CF or something else, our time here on our beautiful, fallen earth will be up.  I want to hear Well Done. . .  I want my children to hear Well Done. . .  I want my boy with CF to hear Well Done . . .

Blessing the wee ones

As a part of the season of Lent, we follow a schedule of "Pray, Fast, Give", where for each week we focus on a particular practice.  This week's has been active concern for those weaker  (in a family, this translates into someone younger), so our family prayers, fasting, and giving of ourselves has been along this vein.

Yesterday, Rees and John played with Legos for hours, sometimes without the younger kids they'd supposedly been "giving of themselves to bless".  Not sure it was much of a sacrifice!

Today, they led all the younger ones to the far end of our property to a frozen swamp to slide around.  Well.  We've had some days of above freezing temps and it's melted a bit.  Do you see where this is going?   Three small people waddled stiffly home dripping with icy, muddy snow pants, saturated boot liners, and frozen swamp stuff stuck to their chilly faces and hands, thrilled with the grossness of it all.  Was the trek a blessing to the wee ones  (as John calls anyone younger than he)?  Absolutely.  To me?  Absolutely!  A sentence that has revolutionized my motherly mood is ~

It will wash.

Looking forward to see how they show active concern for those weaker tomorrow  (I do hope it's not as messy, though!).

As we focus on pleasing Christ these 40 days with an eye toward life-changing habits,
Happy Half-way through Lent,
Allison

Sunday visitor

Before Christmas, Clare set up a bird watching station in the woods at the other end of the property from the barn  (And the Barn Cat, who catches birds with as much vigor as he catches mice).  She shoveled away the snow, painstakingly positioned lawn chairs  (comical at 20 below zero),  rolled logs to her spot  (From our wood pile but we pretended not to notice!), and sprinkled bird seed over them.  She has sat out there many an afternoon, drawing what she saw, then later, breathlessly regaling those of us unfortunate enough to have missed the avian festivities.

Today, though, it was John who disappeared for an hour, then burst into the house, warning me not to look at the computer, as he had some surprise photos that he was sure I would be very happy about.  Oh, yes.

                                       Cheerful black capped chickadee ; I do love these!

                                          Common red poll ; unafraid of John.

Clare swears this was not a chickadee, but as drawn, is not recognizable in our Backyard Birds pamphlet!

Although we still have several feet of snow ~

Happy flutterings of Spring,

Allison

                                          

Weekend Recipe : New England Clam Chowder

Since my husband and I both grew up in southeastern New England  (Him in East Providence, RI ; me in Somerset, MA), we're chowda snobs.  No flour.  Lots of milk, butter, potatoes, and clams  (One might think that last one is a "duh" item, but you'd be surprised at what we've seen called clam chowder!).  Here's what I make :

1/2 C diced onion
1/2 C diced celery
1/4 C butter
2 cans chopped clams  (or 1 C chopped, boiled quahogs if you're in MA or RI)
3 C chicken broth
1 C clam juice
1 C diced, unpeeled potatoes
2 C whole milk
Dash each ~ salt, pepper, thyme

Saute onion and celery in butter until soft.  Add broth, juice, and potatoes and simmer about 20 minutes.  Add clams, milk, and spices and simmer until hot  (not boiling).  Serve with oyster crackers or corn bread.

Clams have tons of minerals, including sodium, which foks with CF need extra amounts of.  And you can't beat milk and butter for calories, fat, and protein  (Well, peanut butter and cheese, but not in soup!).

Again, this is another acceptable meal for Lenten abstinence that does not seem like a sacrifice at all. . .

6 year old Ambrose catching up on his spiritual reading!

                                            
Warmly,
Allison

Full

This weekend, cleaning lost and hiking won.

                                                Rees, w/CF, waiting for sister Clare...   


This weekend, I read in my Magnificat Lenten Companion, "This goodness  (at being with Jesus Transfigured)  does not depend on the circumstances improving.  It depends on Jesus revealing Himself right here.  Right now.

One of my husband's favorite places to hike with the kids.

This weekend, we beheld the hand of the Creator and thanked God for blue skies, above zero temperatures, perfect snow, and light hearted children.  We walked, ran, slid, trudged.  We cleared, built, huddled, warmed.  We ate, drank, teased, laughed.

                                              John, the cameraman, is missing!


This weekend, our house remained cluttered but our hearts became strong and full of God.  Of love.  Of each other.  "Give us this day our daily bread," we pray.  Thank You for this day.  We are full.

                                                Teenaged boys who build shelters rock!


Warmly (ha ha!),
Allison

Down Syndrome Awareness Day

Third chromosome, 21st pair  (3-21 ~ today's date) : a day to learn about and love our brothers and sisters with Down Syndrome.  No better way to do this than to visit my internet friend, Kelle.

I've heard from people who question our hoping for more children before the loss of fertility, about Down Syndrome fears.  To which I reply, Pschhh!  People are people are blessings are life.  We all have issues.  I guess that's why some folks speak of the "gift of cancer."  And some folks sing "live like you were dying".  It is a mentality that those of us who have made peace with those issues embrace.  We suck the marrow out of life. 

Life is like music ; it must be composed by ear, feeling, and instinct, not by rule.
~G.K. Chesterton

Warmly,
Allison