Poor Rabbits / Poorer Babies

Mothers who savage their young ~ a phrase we were unfortunately introduced to this morning when Clare discovered that her longed-for baby rabbits had arrived, but were all dead.  Her joyous shouts quickly turned to screams of horror when she noticed severed body parts and five perfect kits huddled together, perfectly still.  Our books tell us that rabbit do eat their own kits ("savage their young") for several stress-related reasons : if their surroundings are too noisy, if they're immature, if their lactation is retarded, if the babies are weak or stillborn.  We are advised to dispose of the offending doe, as the chance of her repeating the repulsive act is too great.

Now that our household mood has quieted to sad brooding from wide-eyed freaking out  (I did attempt to find a better phrase but that's really what was happening here.), I've been turning things over in my mind.  I cannot help but draw parallels between a female rabbit savaging her young and a female human savaging her young  (abortion, of course) ~ from the stress-related reasons to the ripped up body parts.  Dead babies.  But in the animal world, the female is labeled brutal and heartless ; while in our world, the woman is called brave and pained.  Our society has so twisted the meaning of life and maturity that we are horrified at the nefarious rabbit ruled by instinct and applaud the frightened woman ruled by feelings  (instead of values).

Humanity is thus cheapened, lowered to an animalistic level. 

"What good is it, my brothers, if someone says he has faith but does not have works?  Faith of itself, if it does not have works, is dead."  James 2:14,17

So many souls lost . . . what are we doing?

Still brooding sadly over rabbits and babies,
Allison

Clare laid out the whole ones before burying them.  Poor kid.

Jokes

Not sure if I'm thrilled or mortified :

Rees relays to me that the first evening in the tents at ACYC  (Alaska Catholic Youth Conference), he told the guys, "Hey, I have to breathe in this stuff every night with a smoky machine and I brought my laptop with an entire season of Walker Texas Ranger to watch.  You can stay or go, but that's what I'm doing."  And they remained each night.  And they joked all week, winking, elbowing, and guffawing about Rees' legal marijuana and how excellent Chuck Norris is  (of course).
Well.

I know he will encounter prejudices and troubles when certain types of people learn of his CF, which is not immediately noticeable like Down Syndrome or cerebral palsy.  But thank God for these Catholic boys who shrug their shoulders, check out the machinery, declare it cool, and make jokes.  These same young men also labored behind the scenes for their youth pastor, waited in line for Confession  (tough to be too cool when you're in line to confess your sins...!), showed off for the girls, and prayed through many Masses with those same girls.

Rees is being grounded in his Most Holy Faith and his roots are strengthening for his unfolding future, which will undoubtedly include the Not Nice.  Right now though, he is surrounded and fortified by his family, his church, The Church, and his friends ~ faithful and loving.

Even if I don't like their marijuana jokes.

Smiling, but not exactly laughing,
Allison

What fairies may come...

Yesterday's excitement :

Drizzly day delights ~ complements of backyard twigs, pebbles, greens, and a glue gun.

We got the idea from this book, which is a nightmare for not-very-crafty sorts, but I swallowed my panicky desire to toss it in the trash and continued flipping until I found a page or two  (out of, like, 100)  that looked engaging and manageable.  In truth, it was Ian, Clare, John, and I who did the actual doing and gluing, but Luke and Joseph were right there with us, organizing, piling, and licking rocks, a Very Weird Thing that Luke enjoys.  Maybe he needs a better kids' vitamin?  Anyway.

Sprites and a porcupine.  I think.

Some may frown upon fairy play.  Some may associate them with anti-Christian paganism.  Bah.  A child's imagination is a beautiful thing.  It is within their fantastical stories that they make sense of and give value to all the goings-on and emotions of their world.  Nothing is trivial : what they do ; what happens to them ; how they feel ; even their faith.  Just listen.  It's rich, friends.   My only rule, thanks to this book, is that dragons and serpents must be evil.  Because some things just are.  Always.  Both in this world and the next.

Pretty ponies

So now we have a pile of charming woodland fairies, ponies, unidentifiable animals, furniture, and houses, ready to be played with.  Oh, and a hairy weed troll with his hairy weed dog made by me, thankyouverymuch.  Hopefully, Luke didn't roll over and snap the twig pony he insisted on sleeping with last night . . .  Who knows what the day will hold for them or what our yard will become?

                                                         Hairy weed troll and dog

Slumbering fairy with table and chair.

Playing and listening,
Allison

Sun! Warmth! Grass!

Rees and John are climbing Lazy Mt., their summer Fridays plan ~ with a camera.
Ken is hiking with a very large rifle 2 hours north of here, looking for black bear ~ with a camera.
The rest of us are spread out in the yard in 75 degree weather (in Alaska!) ~ without a camera.  Grumpf.

I decided to forget about scrubbing the bathrooms to spend the entire day outside  (I'm not lazy, just being present to my kids.  Loved that article.  Ahem.).  Took me half an hour to cart out tons of things because going back into the house is to be avoided at all costs.  Breaks some unwritten rule about hot Alaskan days.  And 75 degrees is hot for us.  Kids cry and everything.  Here's what I brought :



Big blue blanket accidently stolen from the hospital 13 years ago, stained with salsa, root beer, ice cream, and popsicle juice,

Tipsy travel mug of coffee that Joseph keeps snitching sips of  (Must be Ken's Norwegian blood),

Notebook and pen, because I am, as I've said before, lost in the 80's.

Diapers, although most of the time he takes them off and runs off in boots alone,

Water bottles that noone will use because they like to slurp from the hose but it makes me feel efficient,

Cookies whose chocolate chips will melt internally, rendering them Extra Good,

Rubbermaid full of plastic animals to be set up in scenes all around the yard, half of which will be forgotten, snowed upon in October, and acidentally rediscovered next April,

Bottle for the baby goat, impossibly cute as she bounces all around us,

Telephone in case Ken calls,

Small scissors for popsicles in the nearby freezer, because sometimes only a frozen chunk of sugar and chemicals will do.

(I think we'll have cheerios for supper. . .)



Simply a sensational day! 
Warmly, indeed,
Allison

Caprine Consolation

Oh no.  The black buckling has died.  Fine for three days, weak on Saturday, worse on Sunday, then no poos, convulsions, cries, last breath.  Ken held the little guy in his lap and Clare pet him until the end.  They buried him in the evening at the north end of our property.

We will, indeed, keep the white doeling now.  A bit of sweet consolation to remember her brother.

She was the first to hold him and the last to hold him.  Her passion is my consolation.  I love you, Clare.

Caprine Catch

She sat in the straw, hunched over with a towel pulled tightly around her shoulders, watching.  It had been almost two hours when I walked outside, mug of dessert coffee (decaf, lots of milk and sugar) in hand.  She unfolded herself, stood, yawned, stretched, and smiled at me.  I raised my eyebrows, half shrugged, and tipped my head to one side.  She pursed her lips, half shrugged, and shook her head.  I nodded and handed her the warm mug.  She nodded, smiled again, and returned to her focused hunch, while I tiptoed back to the house.  It seemed silly to tiptoe through (sort of, Alaskan spring) grass, but when your best dairy goat is in labor, you don't want any jarring noises that might give her cause to transfer to another birthing spot.  One not so easy for us to keep an eye on her and scoop up the babies immediately, like we do here.

About another hour passed with the rest of us more clamorous family members banished to the house, when a glance out the window rewarded me with a silent, frantic, jumping-jacking Clare.

Since I could be loud inside the house (!), I cheerfully shouted for the boys to get out to the barn for the birthing of the babies.  Rees was working and I swallowed a lump of resentment at the store for his absense and pushed more towels into John's arms, grateful that he'd grown responsible (Praise be.).  Ian opted to remain on the couch with Disney's old Swiss Family Robinson, a reward for completing the reading of a children's version ; the littlest boys trotted after John and me out the back door.

Have you ever heard a "whisper-scream"?  Clare has perfected this mode of communication and gave us the lowdown, her bright blue eyes blazing and her wiry arms flailing like a good Italian talker :

She has mucus dripping.
She hasn't gotten up in a long time.
Her sides are heaving.
I think I see the water sack coming.

Alrighty then.  I'll worry over existential issues and whatamIdoing later.
Small boys were instructed to stay by the fence with John, while Clare got into position, catching towel ready :

Caught.  No problem :

Another towel to mop up the sticky wood chips :

Next baby goes to Luke.  No catching picture, as I was assisting him :

And only two this time.
Mix up warm water, molasses, peanut butter and run it back out to Patches, then into the warmer house to clean off and exclaim over the kids :

So now we're bottle feeding one doeling and one buckling, cute as can be, and milking Patches again, who gives us half a gallon a day.  The children always beg to keep a baby  (We've only had 3 litters.) and we always sell them to offset feed cost, but maybe this time . . .

Must go get the bottle again,
Warmly,
Allison

Money

Sunday is our Great Strides Walk  (See the button on the sidebar?), the culmination of the past year's fundraisers and the biggest event of the CF Foundation.  We go, we walk, we eat, we visit, we laugh, we cry.  Then we throw a dessert party at our house afterwards to thank friends for coming out.  It's a Grand Day.

But it was not always so.  For many years, we had no desire to be involved with it, or anything else officially CF related  (Other than Rees' care and doctor visits, of course.).  Ken's take was that we "do" CF all the time ~ enough already.  I just did not want to be one of those mothers  (Whatever that means.  I was a little conceited back then.).

I suppose one year, my craving for connection won out over my aversion ; I probably had also resigned myself to the fact that no supernatural healing was going to occur  (See conversion story above.).  I promised to watch some old World War II movie that evening and Ken agreed to sign up.  And it wasn't bad.  Pretty good.  Fun, even.

In the years following, Great Strides has become important to us all, as we have many  (usually)  sunny hours to meet up with old friends and introduce ourselves to new, anxious parents.  The people not there are important, too.  Not there due to hospitalizations or due to passing away.  They are missed, talked about, remembered.  As it should be.   It's worthwhile for Rees and the other children to be around lots of other CF families, absorbing energetic, joyful support, then reflecting it back to their world.

There's an intensity present, also.  An intensity focused on raising research money for the CF Foundation, because as I understand it, they are the ones financing drug studies.  The more money they have, the more research they finance.  Simple.

So we attend Great Strides for relationships and for money.  And we will until there's no more need for research.  *From my mouth to God's ears!*

Walking,
Allison



P.S. ~ Nice doc explaining amazing drug study here!