Quick update on The Sickness: It appears both Connor and Natalie have nothing more severe than the influenza. And despite the ill-fated incident with Connor and the couch yesterday, this is not the flu of the intestinal variety. He just throws up the first day of every phlegm-filled infection -- a trend line I noticed for the first time yesterday. Something about the quantities of slime in his stomach, I guess.
Thanks to Corey's freakish DNA (maybe he's part zombie), we're already on the mend. One more day of napping and Noggin, and we'll be ready to go again. Thanks for your well wishes.
Coming soon: A post that doesn't mention vomit. Teyla will be eight weeks old tomorrow. I'm breaking out the video.
Must ... Not ... Inhale
The fact that I just Googled "how to clean vomit off couch" really tells you all you need to know.
But hello? This is me. I always tell you more than what you need to know. Heck, I tell you more than you want to know. It's my personal motto.
You're welcome.
Let's start at the beginning, shall we? I was all set to write a post this morning about how Natalie is sick with a fever-cough thing. (Could be a cold or could be the flu according to Internet diagnosis engines. And yes, I agree that I am entirely too cozy with Google.) (Random question of the week: Why do we say a cold and the flu? We all know there is more than one strain of influenza. Yet it somehow retains the formal proposition of "the." Like it's The Queen or The President of The Brangelina. Weird.)
Anyway.
The Sickness is noteworthy because its the first illness we've had in our family in about a year. That's right. Twelve months without so much as a runny nose.
I don't know how we got so lucky. Maybe it's Corey's alien DNA. (For the uninitiated: My husband is adopted, and we know nothing about his genetic background. However, many external signs point to a Vulcan father. Something about the pointy ears.) Maybe it's because I let the kids eat food out of the garbage can to build their immunity. Maybe it's because I'm still nursing my six- and four-year-old, and we all know mother's milk strengthens immunity.
(JOKING! Oh, I'm so sorry about that last one. But I just cleaned vomit off my couch. I'm entitled to some dark humor, don't you think?)
Whatever the reason, we've managed to fight off all viruses and bacteria (minus the mastitis, which doesn't count in my book) until this weekend.
And I think I know what turned the tide.
I was getting smug. A little cocky. A tad too confident in our family's extraordinary germ-fighting immunity.
Pride cometh before the vomit.
So Saturday, when Natalie started to say, "I don't feel good, Mommy," I knew what was coming. After all, most of the blogs I read and many of my real-life friends have been, "The whole family is sick, I have vomit in my hair and in my bed, I hate February" for the last six weeks.
I took her temperature -- 101.2 -- and dished out some bubble-gum-flavored Tylenol and made her a nest of blankets on the couch where she could watch Noggin to her heart's content.
This morning, Connor joined in on the "I don't feel good, Mommy" chorus. At first, I thought he was faking it to get some of the great medicine Natalie's getting. (We get sick so infrequently, the kids think medicine is an elusive treat, a grape nectar of the gods.) But when he wouldn't eat breakfast -- and this child often out-eats me at breakfast, which is saying something -- I knew he was for real.
And the vomit said child just spewed onto my couch? Also very real.
Excuse me while I dry heave. Because -- trivia -- the smell of vomit is my Kryptonite. I try my darnedest not to breathe through my nose while I'm cleaning up the mess, but I rarely succeed. And it only takes one wiff for me to start compulsively gagging.
So if anyone's looking for us, this is where we'll be. Sitting on the couch, avoiding the spots soaked with Febreeze and marinating in Noggin. (Except for Yo Gabba Gabba, if I can help it. Seriously, is that not the American answer to Boohbah? Bizarre! Naturally, my kids love it.)
Oh, and Jon? What night this week would you like to come over for dinner? We can't wait to see you.
But hello? This is me. I always tell you more than what you need to know. Heck, I tell you more than you want to know. It's my personal motto.
You're welcome.
Let's start at the beginning, shall we? I was all set to write a post this morning about how Natalie is sick with a fever-cough thing. (Could be a cold or could be the flu according to Internet diagnosis engines. And yes, I agree that I am entirely too cozy with Google.) (Random question of the week: Why do we say a cold and the flu? We all know there is more than one strain of influenza. Yet it somehow retains the formal proposition of "the." Like it's The Queen or The President of The Brangelina. Weird.)
Anyway.
The Sickness is noteworthy because its the first illness we've had in our family in about a year. That's right. Twelve months without so much as a runny nose.
I don't know how we got so lucky. Maybe it's Corey's alien DNA. (For the uninitiated: My husband is adopted, and we know nothing about his genetic background. However, many external signs point to a Vulcan father. Something about the pointy ears.) Maybe it's because I let the kids eat food out of the garbage can to build their immunity. Maybe it's because I'm still nursing my six- and four-year-old, and we all know mother's milk strengthens immunity.
(JOKING! Oh, I'm so sorry about that last one. But I just cleaned vomit off my couch. I'm entitled to some dark humor, don't you think?)
Whatever the reason, we've managed to fight off all viruses and bacteria (minus the mastitis, which doesn't count in my book) until this weekend.
And I think I know what turned the tide.
I was getting smug. A little cocky. A tad too confident in our family's extraordinary germ-fighting immunity.
Pride cometh before the vomit.
So Saturday, when Natalie started to say, "I don't feel good, Mommy," I knew what was coming. After all, most of the blogs I read and many of my real-life friends have been, "The whole family is sick, I have vomit in my hair and in my bed, I hate February" for the last six weeks.
I took her temperature -- 101.2 -- and dished out some bubble-gum-flavored Tylenol and made her a nest of blankets on the couch where she could watch Noggin to her heart's content.
This morning, Connor joined in on the "I don't feel good, Mommy" chorus. At first, I thought he was faking it to get some of the great medicine Natalie's getting. (We get sick so infrequently, the kids think medicine is an elusive treat, a grape nectar of the gods.) But when he wouldn't eat breakfast -- and this child often out-eats me at breakfast, which is saying something -- I knew he was for real.
And the vomit said child just spewed onto my couch? Also very real.
Excuse me while I dry heave. Because -- trivia -- the smell of vomit is my Kryptonite. I try my darnedest not to breathe through my nose while I'm cleaning up the mess, but I rarely succeed. And it only takes one wiff for me to start compulsively gagging.
So if anyone's looking for us, this is where we'll be. Sitting on the couch, avoiding the spots soaked with Febreeze and marinating in Noggin. (Except for Yo Gabba Gabba, if I can help it. Seriously, is that not the American answer to Boohbah? Bizarre! Naturally, my kids love it.)
Oh, and Jon? What night this week would you like to come over for dinner? We can't wait to see you.
Things Like This Should Be Outlawed
Did anyone else see the story on CNN about the new torture device being used at Guantanamo Bay? It looks something like this.
I hear it can break a prisoner in less than one minute. It's that painful. Even if they were sleeping peacefully before they were strapped in.
Rumor says, it's even worse than the stuff they pass off as "food." (This is a old photo; I'm not sure they're doing this to the new prisoners at this point.)
Cruel, cruel world. But what do you expect from people who think this is funny?
Parents. Sadists.
I smell a Congressional hearing.
I hear it can break a prisoner in less than one minute. It's that painful. Even if they were sleeping peacefully before they were strapped in.
Rumor says, it's even worse than the stuff they pass off as "food." (This is a old photo; I'm not sure they're doing this to the new prisoners at this point.)
Cruel, cruel world. But what do you expect from people who think this is funny?
I smell a Congressional hearing.
These are the last deep thoughts I'll have this week, I promise
I have to admit -- yesterday's post made me nervous. Really nervous. Butterflies-in-the-stomach nervous. All night long, I wrestled with the urge to run to my computer and delete the post. Of course, since I would have had to get out of my warm and cozy bed to do that, I managed to hold myself in check.
But still -- I was still nervous. (And lazy. What a combination.) I wondered how my reminiscing would be received, if it would be too melancholy for readers who might stop by looking for their daily dose of funny.
And then I started getting your comments. Thank you. They made the vulnerability worth it.
One of my favorite bloggers wrote about miscarriage recently, saying it's a right of passage no one tells you about, an almost universal step on the road of motherhood.
So true. Many of us have walked this path.
Still, I want to make clear -- this is my story. I wanted to share it because Monday was a tender day between me and my Jesus. But I would die a thousand deaths inside if it in any way caused you to doubt your own journey through loss.
For example, when I said I wasn't mad at God, I want you to know it's perfectly fine if you were -- or are. That's just where I was at that point. The four years previous to the miscarriage were the hardest, most devastating years of my life. I had already raged at God, pounded my fist on His chest and demanded to know why He allowed horrible pain in my life. Frankly, I was too tired to do it again -- especially after He so gently led me along the path to healing the time before.
I also know my loss at 12 weeks doesn't compare to the agony some of my friends have lived through. Losing a baby in the first trimester isn't like losing a baby at 20 weeks. Or 35 weeks. Or after birth. For me, it was the loss of a possibility, the end of a precious dream. As I wrote in my journal last year, I hadn't gotten the chance to know that little one yet. That changed the way I grieved. A few weeks after the miscarriage, I was ready to move on. God lifted my head and filled me with hope.
But for some people, a miscarriage is profoundly life-altering, and it takes months or even years to grieve that loss. If this is you, please know -- that's OK too. God makes all kinds of different people, and He can use each story. If you are still in the valley of the shadow? I can only point you toward Jesus. He knows your name. He sees your tears. And I believe He knows what He's doing -- even when we can't see it, even when we don't like it.
Yesterday, as I studied Teyla's sweet face -- which is covered with baby acne, poor pitiful little girl -- I marveled at God's mystery. His ways are higher than mine -- and wonderfully so. I don't know how He manages to redeem the heartbreak. I don't understand how He grows something beautiful out of our tears when we sow them in Him.
I just know He does. Always.
But still -- I was still nervous. (And lazy. What a combination.) I wondered how my reminiscing would be received, if it would be too melancholy for readers who might stop by looking for their daily dose of funny.
And then I started getting your comments. Thank you. They made the vulnerability worth it.
One of my favorite bloggers wrote about miscarriage recently, saying it's a right of passage no one tells you about, an almost universal step on the road of motherhood.
So true. Many of us have walked this path.
Still, I want to make clear -- this is my story. I wanted to share it because Monday was a tender day between me and my Jesus. But I would die a thousand deaths inside if it in any way caused you to doubt your own journey through loss.
For example, when I said I wasn't mad at God, I want you to know it's perfectly fine if you were -- or are. That's just where I was at that point. The four years previous to the miscarriage were the hardest, most devastating years of my life. I had already raged at God, pounded my fist on His chest and demanded to know why He allowed horrible pain in my life. Frankly, I was too tired to do it again -- especially after He so gently led me along the path to healing the time before.
I also know my loss at 12 weeks doesn't compare to the agony some of my friends have lived through. Losing a baby in the first trimester isn't like losing a baby at 20 weeks. Or 35 weeks. Or after birth. For me, it was the loss of a possibility, the end of a precious dream. As I wrote in my journal last year, I hadn't gotten the chance to know that little one yet. That changed the way I grieved. A few weeks after the miscarriage, I was ready to move on. God lifted my head and filled me with hope.
But for some people, a miscarriage is profoundly life-altering, and it takes months or even years to grieve that loss. If this is you, please know -- that's OK too. God makes all kinds of different people, and He can use each story. If you are still in the valley of the shadow? I can only point you toward Jesus. He knows your name. He sees your tears. And I believe He knows what He's doing -- even when we can't see it, even when we don't like it.
Yesterday, as I studied Teyla's sweet face -- which is covered with baby acne, poor pitiful little girl -- I marveled at God's mystery. His ways are higher than mine -- and wonderfully so. I don't know how He manages to redeem the heartbreak. I don't understand how He grows something beautiful out of our tears when we sow them in Him.
I just know He does. Always.
A Year Ago Today
A year ago today, I woke up to a bad dream. The spotting and cramping that had begun the night before -- "Surely, this is just residual spotting from my 11-week OB check on Friday," I reassured myself -- had not gone away. In fact, the cramps were getting worse.
I called my OB -- she was on call that weekend -- and she suggested we head to the ER, if we could make it out of the house. It was a big if. A wicked blizzard had blown through the previous 24 hours, with a one-two punch of freezing rain followed by wet snow. Our garage doors were literally encased in ice and frozen to the ground. It took my husband a couple of hours to chip the door loose, but once we were free, we loaded up the kids and thanked God for a four-wheel-drive vehicle that was able to navigate the treacherous roads.
By the time we got to the ER, I had a sinking feeling in my heart. And by the time we got into our own room, I knew. I wasn't just cramping anymore. I was miscarrying. I was in mini-labor, with regular and amazingly painful contractions.
(My sweet nurse offered to get me something for the pain. "That's probably a good idea," I reluctantly agreed. She returned with a needle that was at least ten inches long. "Ummm, it's not that bad!" I backpedaled. I'm a notorious needle wimp. But five more minutes of consistent cramping, and I was ready for the shot.)
They drew blood to check my HGC levels. They weren't where they should be. And within an hour, it was all over. In the ultrasound room, my body shed the tiny baby -- still in its amniotic sac -- and sent his or her soul to live with Jesus.
My OB was unspeakably kind. The ER staff was extraordinary. (They even took charge of our two older kids -- who didn't know I was pregnant in the first place -- and entertained them in an ambulance when it became apparent that it was going to get messy in our little ER space. To this day, Natalie has the stuffed kitten the EMTs gave her from their stash of toys. She thought our trip to the ER was awesome.) Corey, the perfect mix of strength and tenderness, didn't leave my side for days.
And me? Well, I was in shock. How does your heart comprehend that your hopes and dreams for the future have irrevocably changed? How does your mind grasp the sudden emptiness, the unfulfilled promise of a baby lost?
I wasn't mad at God, really. We had grown so close the past few years. I trusted Him.
But I was sad. Unspeakably sad. My heart was so heavy.
The next morning, I woke up and hoped it was all a nightmare. Instead, it was my new reality. As I wrote in a post a few days later, "Some of the sparkle has left my world."
I got into the shower and wept, leaning my head on the slick plastic wall, letting my tears mingle with the water's flow. I poured out my broken soul to the One Who Knows.
But a year ago today? I didn't know how this twist in my life's journey would play out. I only knew that I had a Father-God who cradled me while I cried, who spoke hope to my bruised heart. When I needed Him to hear the cry of this bleeding and broken girl, He was small enough.
What would I do without You, Lord? You are my tender rock and redeemer. My hope is forevermore in You.
I called my OB -- she was on call that weekend -- and she suggested we head to the ER, if we could make it out of the house. It was a big if. A wicked blizzard had blown through the previous 24 hours, with a one-two punch of freezing rain followed by wet snow. Our garage doors were literally encased in ice and frozen to the ground. It took my husband a couple of hours to chip the door loose, but once we were free, we loaded up the kids and thanked God for a four-wheel-drive vehicle that was able to navigate the treacherous roads.
By the time we got to the ER, I had a sinking feeling in my heart. And by the time we got into our own room, I knew. I wasn't just cramping anymore. I was miscarrying. I was in mini-labor, with regular and amazingly painful contractions.
(My sweet nurse offered to get me something for the pain. "That's probably a good idea," I reluctantly agreed. She returned with a needle that was at least ten inches long. "Ummm, it's not that bad!" I backpedaled. I'm a notorious needle wimp. But five more minutes of consistent cramping, and I was ready for the shot.)
They drew blood to check my HGC levels. They weren't where they should be. And within an hour, it was all over. In the ultrasound room, my body shed the tiny baby -- still in its amniotic sac -- and sent his or her soul to live with Jesus.
My OB was unspeakably kind. The ER staff was extraordinary. (They even took charge of our two older kids -- who didn't know I was pregnant in the first place -- and entertained them in an ambulance when it became apparent that it was going to get messy in our little ER space. To this day, Natalie has the stuffed kitten the EMTs gave her from their stash of toys. She thought our trip to the ER was awesome.) Corey, the perfect mix of strength and tenderness, didn't leave my side for days.
And me? Well, I was in shock. How does your heart comprehend that your hopes and dreams for the future have irrevocably changed? How does your mind grasp the sudden emptiness, the unfulfilled promise of a baby lost?
I wasn't mad at God, really. We had grown so close the past few years. I trusted Him.
But I was sad. Unspeakably sad. My heart was so heavy.
The next morning, I woke up and hoped it was all a nightmare. Instead, it was my new reality. As I wrote in a post a few days later, "Some of the sparkle has left my world."
I got into the shower and wept, leaning my head on the slick plastic wall, letting my tears mingle with the water's flow. I poured out my broken soul to the One Who Knows.
Oh great GodOf course, if you're a regular reader here at all, you know know the end to the story -- and it's full of God's grace and mystery. Just two months later -- before my body had even gotten back to normal -- Teyla Jenet was conceived. She is a tangible reminder to me today of God's goodness and His providence.
Be small enough to hear me now
There were times when I was crying
From the dark of Daniel's den
And I have asked you once or twice
If you would part the sea again
But tonight I do not need a fiery pillar in the sky
Just wanna know you're gonna hold me
If I start to cry
Oh Great God
Be small enough to hear me now
But a year ago today? I didn't know how this twist in my life's journey would play out. I only knew that I had a Father-God who cradled me while I cried, who spoke hope to my bruised heart. When I needed Him to hear the cry of this bleeding and broken girl, He was small enough.
What would I do without You, Lord? You are my tender rock and redeemer. My hope is forevermore in You.
I know you could leave writing on the wall that's just for me
Or send wisdom while I'm sleeping like in Solomon's sweet dreams
But I don't need the strength of Samson or a chariot, in the end
Just want to know that you still know how many hairs on my head
Oh Great God
Be small enough to hear me now
("Small Enough," by Nichole Nordeman)
He Gives and Takes Away
Like Job, I can only say, "The LORD gave [chikin] and the LORD has taken away [chikin]; may the name of the LORD be praised."
For lo, I have eaten of the Chick-fil-A, and I have left it behind. And verily, I did not taste of the Chick-n-Minis for the cursed hours of the breakfast menu I did miss by score and ten minutes.
Sigh.
But I'm over it now. Because I know I'll get another chance. According to CFA's website, they have locations in Kansas City, and I'll be traveling there in April for a cousin's wedding. God's mercies really are new every morning, aren't they? And you can bet I'll be up earlier next time to appreciate those mercies.
Plus, I'm back in Minnesota today. The sun is shining, the snow is glistening, ice crystals are forming in my bronchi passages. I'm positively giddy! Our high today is 14 (after a low of -6 last night), and we're eagerly expecting 20 to appear on our thermometers tomorrow . Break out the lawn chairs and sunscreen!
And yes, that would be sarcasm pooling on your screen. Better wipe it up before it freezes.
My feelings may be summed up best by this poem my husband sent me last week. (Author unknown; I would guess hypothermia did them in.)
Or maybe "Minnesotans for Chick-fil-A."
Because if we're going to freeze, we should at least die happy.
For lo, I have eaten of the Chick-fil-A, and I have left it behind. And verily, I did not taste of the Chick-n-Minis for the cursed hours of the breakfast menu I did miss by score and ten minutes.
Sigh.
But I'm over it now. Because I know I'll get another chance. According to CFA's website, they have locations in Kansas City, and I'll be traveling there in April for a cousin's wedding. God's mercies really are new every morning, aren't they? And you can bet I'll be up earlier next time to appreciate those mercies.
Plus, I'm back in Minnesota today. The sun is shining, the snow is glistening, ice crystals are forming in my bronchi passages. I'm positively giddy! Our high today is 14 (after a low of -6 last night), and we're eagerly expecting 20 to appear on our thermometers tomorrow . Break out the lawn chairs and sunscreen!
And yes, that would be sarcasm pooling on your screen. Better wipe it up before it freezes.
My feelings may be summed up best by this poem my husband sent me last week. (Author unknown; I would guess hypothermia did them in.)
It's winter in MinnesotaI think I'm going to start a petition: "Minnesotans for Global Warming."
And the gentle breezes blow
At fifty miles an hour
And thirty-five below.
Oh, how I love Minnesota
When the snow's up to your butt
You take a breath of winter
And you nose gets frozen shut.
Yes, the weather here is wonderful
So I guess I'll hang around
I could never leave Minnesota
'Cause I'm frozen to the ground!
Or maybe "Minnesotans for Chick-fil-A."
Because if we're going to freeze, we should at least die happy.
Guess Where I Went Today For The First Time
Holy cow chikin.
I can't believe I've lived 36 years of my life as a Chick-Fil-A virgin.
And yes, that is one of the worst pictures of me ever taken. But I'm posting it anyway, because I'm still high from the crack that is the Original Chicken Sandwich accompanied by waffle fries and sweet tea. If I wasn't holding the baby, I would have been double-fisting.
I have no pride now. Only grief. Because in 18 hours, I return to a world devoid of Chick-Fil-A.
So here's what I need to know: How many visits do you think I can fit in between then and now without appearing unseemly? And do you think I can eat breakfast there twice if I: a. visit two separate restaurants on the way to the airport and b. claim to be part Hobbit?
I can't believe I've lived 36 years of my life as a Chick-Fil-A virgin.
And yes, that is one of the worst pictures of me ever taken. But I'm posting it anyway, because I'm still high from the crack that is the Original Chicken Sandwich accompanied by waffle fries and sweet tea. If I wasn't holding the baby, I would have been double-fisting.
I have no pride now. Only grief. Because in 18 hours, I return to a world devoid of Chick-Fil-A.
So here's what I need to know: How many visits do you think I can fit in between then and now without appearing unseemly? And do you think I can eat breakfast there twice if I: a. visit two separate restaurants on the way to the airport and b. claim to be part Hobbit?
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