Much ~

C o u g h i n g . . .

Taking forever

Monday evening saw the Husband, John, Clare, and I at our church's Lenten Reconciliation service, leaving Rees home with the 3 little boys.  His instructions were simple : don't let them hurt each other.  When we arrived home 2 hours later, Joseph was already sleeping in his crib while Luke and Ian were in their beds  (actually, both in Ian's bed, but that counts) quietly playing with small toys.  We were thrilled, properly gushed thank-you and turned to tackle the messy kitchen when Rees sheepishly divulged, I'd hoped to surprise you with a clean kitchen but it took forever to play one game of Camp, clean it up, get their teeth brushed and in bed oh man I forgot to have them tinkle hope no one wets the bed.

My sideways smirk to the Husband was interrupted as John piped up to Rees, No kidding, huh?  When you and Mom and Dad are at Shoshindo, it takes the whole 2 hours just to get them ready for bed and do one nice thing like a story or game.  Sheesh.

The two of them shrugged, shook their heads, and meandered together into the den.

Sheesh indeed!  The Husband and I shared a good chuckle and one of us  (probably me)  commented,  Boy if we had known That in the beginning of babies and toddlers . . .

Well.  Their wives will thank me someday.  Yup.


And in keeping with the theme of How excellent it is to have lots of kids, I offer these photos of bigger people doing nice things for smaller people, enabling me to eat chocolate and drink coffee while reading friendly blogs :

                                          Bubbles in the house?  Hey, it works!

                                          Who doesn't want to hold a newborn?!

                                     The littler one doesn't know that the bigger one can't read!

                                          Whatever they are doing, I love!

                                             Mini George Strait loves shoulder rides!


Our children do take forever ; thank God!
Warmly,
Allison

Middles

No more middle names ; I'm too scatter-brained to get it right.  I've adjusted the pictures on the sidebar and some of the pages at the top.  That's all for now.  One of these days when I've got a good hour to myself and nothing more pressing to accomplish, I'll go through and fix everything.

I can pretend.

Getting Real

One of the most refreshing things I've realized about running into a CF person  (family member or actual CFer)  is the immediate inquiring about their well-being and the honest answer, even if there's trouble.  No Fine, fine ; and how is Tilly?  nonsense  (Well, I guess it's not nonsense if everything is fine!).  If they're on the third hospitalization this year or picked up some egregious bug or became resistant to an effective antibiotic ~ it's said.  And we discus what the doc's plan is and how their mood is.  And no one squeals, Oh my God how do you handle that?  Or simpers, God must think you are so strong to give you this.  Or chirps,  You've got to pray believing in healing  (Sarcasm aside, we do indeed beg prayers and lift rejoicings for folks in need.).

But we are real  (Definition : genuine ; not artificial).  Even perfect, hot mama suburbanites get real when talking about their kids' CF issues.  No Christmas letter litanies of accomplishments only.  We nod and question and explain and share and learn.  We might tear up or shake our heads or curse.  We might chat about babies or teenagers or life or death or the stupid new rules at the hospital.  We get smarter and stronger.  Sometimes sadder.  Wiser because of our candid conversation.

Get real, I would snarl at my parents with a roll of my eyes, and I'm pretty sure they were thinking the same about snotty, know-it-all me!  I am, now.  At least, more real, which means growth, which means life.

"My mother had a slender, small body, but a large heart -- a heart so large that everybody's grief and everybody's joy found welcome in it, and hospitable accommodation."

                                                         Mark Twain


Warmly.  Really,
Allison

Good food

Nothing boosts self-esteem like knowing that the evening's comfort food . . .

                                         About to be mixed with lentils and spices.


. . . is because you did this :

                                          Rees (w/cf), Summer 09 ; no caribou last summer.



One year, he was admitted to the hospital immediately upon returning from the hunt ; one year, he got one ; last year, he 4-wheeled,  he hiked ~ no caribou.  This August, let's hope he feels fine enough to go and the caribou feel fine enough to migrate to where he is ~ because that was absolutely the last package in our freezer!

Enjoying a warm, delicious life together,
Allison

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 . . .