To Bake Bread or Cookies . . .

Tonight, I chose the cookies.

Yesterday was a weird day. When people asked, I answered that it was good (after all, it was Mother's Day), and really, I didn't have much to complain about. Ben made me breakfast (a super yummy omelet with spinach, onion, pepper, and aged cheddar. mmmmmmmm), the kiddos got me a gorgeous hanging basket, and Treefrog made me a very cute plate in his pre-k. It was fine. Really.

Except, it wasn't.

Ben and I went to service for the first time in 2 (3?) months. We were out of town every weekend in March, I taught or helped in the third grade class throughout April, and then check outs happened. We were busy, is all I'm sayin'. Rewind to the previous times I had been to church. . . I had never once felt lacking in our service. I had never felt disconnected from those around me. I had never had the desire to stand up and scream about the lack of participation in the service. Never.

Until yesterday.

I sat in service and was struck by how I felt like I was watching a performance. I was put off by the people singing, or more like whispering, around me. I felt as though I was disconnected from those sitting in front, behind, and beside me. It put me in such a funk. I was restless. I was angry. I couldn't engage in the happenings, no matter how much I prayed for a connection.

Two months and the gathering that I have become a part of on Sunday evenings has completely flipped my world upside down without my knowledge. I was completely unprepared to realize that my church, my connection with other worshipers, the time where I feel I bring forth my gifts and offer them to God alongside others, was usurped by a gathering that, a year ago, I would have said I wouldn't have a place in.

I am still processing this - with Ben, with God, apparently here. I know I will be okay with this eventually. I think I will need to allow myself some time to mourn this loss. Does that sound silly?

Five Turns Around the Sun (now with pictures!)

Five years ago today, Papa and I woke at 5:30 am. We were scheduled to be at the Washington County Hospital in Washington, PA to induce labor. My blood pressure had been running really high for quite some time, so it was evident that you needed a little help in coming out. We arrived at the hospital just before 7 am and by 7:30 I was hooked up to pitocin. Nurses flitted in and out, which we thought was normal. Around 9:30, though, they shared with us that this was not normal. Your heart rate was very concerning and we needed to stop the labor and go in for a "very quick" c-section. We were scared. The nurses told us it was fine, probably just a reaction to the pitocin. I hyperventilated a bit, but had a nurse that grabbed me by the shoulders, looked me in the eye, and breathed with me while the anesthetist found the needed spot for the spinal. At 10:30 am on April 27, you were born. Amazing, beautiful, a gift from God.



Papa got to hold you for a bit before they wisked you away to clean you up. For reasons we are still not sure of, I did not get to hold you again until 6pm that night. Papa went out to the nurses and demanded you be brought back to us. Good ol' Papa:) You nursed well and everyone cuddled with you and cooed at you. Around 9pm, you were still sleepy, but I attempted to wake you to have you nurse again. You would latch on, but then promptly fall asleep. A nurse happened by and started "helping" me. Soon, she called in for assistance. Two nurses sat by my side, telling me to move this way, hold you a different way, watch that I didn't smother you, poke you to keep you awake . . . and on and on for three hours. At midnight, me in tears, we decided to supplement with a bottle. The nurses took you to the nursery for shift change and to try a bottle. Exhausted, Papa and I fell asleep.



At 1 am, I was awakened by a doctor. He came in to inform us that your heart rate was extremely high and you were not responding to the normal methods to get the rate to come down. They needed to life-flight you to Children's Hospital of Pittsburgh. We stayed as close to you as they would let us (me in a bed, Papa standing) for the next 15 minutes until the helicopter arrived. The nurses snapped a polariod of you before you were taken "just in case."
Papa left with Judga to go be with you at the hospital and Nana came up to be with me. We learned around 5:30 on April 28 that you were going to live, indeed thrive, with the right combination of medications and/or a simple surgery. There were still many questions, but much relief at hearing this. I wouldn't make it up to see you until April 30 as I was recovering from the c-section. Papa and you bonded over those three days as he held you (when he was allowed), talked to you, and read to you.



Five years later, you still keep us on our toes. You are a light in our lives. You love playing superheros (you are Spiderman or, your own invention, Super Kid and you designate Fish to be The Hulk), running, drawing, and playing Redwall. You would rather be outside playing than inside most of the time (unless drawing is involved!). You have an endless supply of questions. You hate to be interrupted. You love your brother and sister (and say so very often). You love Pre-K, Sunday School, YoungLives, and Thursday morning Bible study. Many people asked you as your birthday approached what you wanted. You always had the same answer, "Well, whatever I get!" My sweet, sweet boy. I cannot remember what life was like before you came to be. I love you, my five year old. You are my most favorite Treefrog.





Pictures (in order): 18 months, 2 years, 4 years, 2 years with baby brother Fish, just after "The Fall" 4 years old, today with his birthday pancake

A Wet Fish

Fish has decided to potty train himself. But, only when Ben is home. Aaaaaaand we are into RA selection season so Ben is rarely home. Oh, this child may just be the death of me.

Patience, Lord, patience.

On Sunday there is an "alternative worship service" at our church. We are attempting to fill a need that was spoken (5+?) years ago. I jumped on just before Christmas and have been trying to find my niche in the group. For the first couple of months, I felt like I left every meeting asking myself why I was doing this. I was satisfied with our "normal" church service . . . well, as satisfied as I can be as a Presbyterian attending a Quaker church. The changes I would make to the service would probably get me thrown out of the church, or at least whispered about:)

Anyway, I digress.

Recently I found my position. I may not be hip to all the young kids' music or be able to contribute significantly to the message or have the patience to hold kids in childcare, but I can make food. Hence, the baking of bread. Today was stock day. I made roughly 2 gallons of vegetable stock for a black bean soup. Again, I worshiped in my kitchen and it was good. It got me through the peeing off the chair (and onto bedroom carpet), the peeing on the couch during "rest time," and the nibbles my Pillbug takes whilst nursing.

God is good!

The To Do List, She keeps Growin'!

Well, Pillbug does indeed have something more serious: kidney reflux. Life is never dull, eh?

These days my list of things to get done just seems never ending. Especially when throwing in days of Fish taking A LOT of energy and a teething babe. Fish is sitting into his two-dom very nicely, thankyouverymuch. There are many tantrums throughout each day due to his stage in life. I respect that he is growing and developing. Really, I do. Somedays I just wish that growing and developing would happen a little more quietly is all.

I'm in the middle of baking bread for our alternative church service this weekend. I find baking (especially bread, but anything will do really) very centering. In many ways, baking and being in the kitchen is a time where I can meet God in ways that singing and being around a large group of people cannot provide. The time in my kitchen is so precious, so focused on the task at hand, so worshipful. Having my hands in bread dough or mixing batter of some sort brings me a sense of warmth. I provide nutrition for my family and/or friends as well as nutrition for my soul.

My prayer is that I can cling to these rare moments where I can be in the kitchen while the kids are occupied upstairs (or sleeping in her crib) and utilize the energy given to be a better, more patient Mama. Lord knows I need all the help I can get:)

Two

It is a simple number. Small, unobtrusive. I have good memories of the number two. Once there were just two of us in this family of ours. At another point, we had only two little guys sharing our space.

And then Pillbug entered the picture. "Two" took on a whole new meaning.

Two is:
the month in which we discovered a severe ear infection in her left ear.
the number of antibiotics we used to get rid of said ear infection
the number of kidneys my little girl has
the number of visits to her doctor this month to treat her tiny kidneys holding a very big infection
the number of shots of a strong antibiotic to get the infection under control
the number of antibiotics since then that she has had to take: one strong one for 10 days, another lesser, preventive one until . . .
the number of tests that need to be ran on Pillbug to see if she has something more serious going on in her urinary tract
the number of times I was peed upon in an attempt to get a urine sample to make sure the infection is gone

So, two? Doesn't seem so small anymore.