The next stage, like it or not

My youngest turned 5 the other day. I still think of him as my baby, and I might always. After all, he is my baby, the youngest of my brood.

It's easier in many ways, this stage of our family. It's easier to find a sitter without a baby in the house, there's no one peeing on the floor, I don't have to arrange my life around breastfeeding breaks. Yet my arms ache. There is a sense of completeness missing when I look at our family. I wonder how much of it is the one baby, the one who would be my youngest, the one I never got to hold. Am I missing him when I see our family? Do other women who've miscarried feel this way?

I talk to Aaron about it, and he isn't with me in the missing. He is happy to be "done" with toddlers. I wonder how that impacts our dreams of adoption? I still stop by Reece's Rainbow often, looking at the photos, dreaming of bringing one of them home. Sadness strikes - dozens of countries won't allow us to adopt because of my history of depression. Anger creeps in - do they really think those babies are better lying in cribs, malnourished, unheld, eventually to "age out" of the orphanage and die in a mental institution just because they are physically or mentally disabled? Would I be that horrible of a mother to those children?

I try to make peace with my youngest being 5. I hold him, and he stretches well over half my body length. He is getting so big, and so not a baby any longer.

I pray for peace, too. All those orphans have a father - the Father of the fatherless (Psalm 68:5). Try to turn the lament to praise for what God has given, however incomplete it feels.

And may you have the power to understand, as all God’s people should, how wide, how long, how high, and how deep his love is. May you experience the love of Christ, though it is too great to understand fully. Then you will be made complete with all the fullness of life and power that comes from God. Now all glory to God, who is able, through his mighty power at work within us, to accomplish infinitely more than we might ask or think. (Ephesians 3:18-20)

My lonely heart is made for two

It beats too slowly without you

Tonight the sky is burning blue

Horizon cuts right into you

You'll be the moon I'll be the sea

And you can shine your light on me

I'm calling your name

But you won't listen

Tonight was made for two

But there's one heart missing

One heart missing

~One Heart Missing, Grace Potter & the Nocturnals~

How about you? Do you struggle to feel your family is complete? Do you long for another baby? Does your husband feel the same, or is he relieved to be progressing to "the next stage" of parenthood?

The moments in between

We are home from the ER. Frustrated, a little scared, but home. So far a very similar experience as the early stages of Amy's encephalitis in 2009 - but we are very hopeful it will not develop like that situation did and that Caleb will improve instead of getting progressively worse. The doctors basically don't have an answer for why Caleb is having throat swelling and trouble breathing, so they advised home treatment with Benadryl and ibuprofen, rest and plenty of fluids. His chest x-ray and rapid strep culture were negative (not a big surprise, as we are probably looking for an immune reactive process, not a bacterial or viral infection).

Caleb is sleeping in our bedroom again tonight so we can keep close tabs on him. Please keep praying that, if this is a reaction, it will be short and limited and he will recover quickly with no further worsening or complications. And for swift and wise medical treatment and decisiveness on our parts as parents if he does get worse. It is so hard to know when to go to a larger medical center - but that is what we will have to do if he ends up as sick as Amy did in 2009.

We have gotten so good at fitting normal life in between crises, as a family. In between my ER visit Friday night and brief hospital stay into Saturday afternoon and Caleb's events of Sunday, we had a wonderful 24 hour period celebrating Aaron and Katy's birthdays with our St. Cloud family. I think it is this ability to rapidly shift gears from the "survival mode" demanded by crisis situations to the "thriving mode" you use in times of calm and peace that has allowed our family to continue to flourish despite a lot of hard times and high pressure over the past four years. It also helps that our kids have learned from our example to have a sense of humor about the curveballs of life! Upon learning Caleb was headed back to the ER tonight, Katy burst into a little song to the tune of "Back in the Saddle Again": "Back to the ER again, oh, it's back to the ER again, friends..." which had the girls, Caleb and I all giggling. Whoever said it first was right..."you might as well laugh or else you'll cry."

Please pray for my son Caleb

My 4 year old son Caleb had a really rough day yesterday. He had a serious head injury in the afternoon, running full tilt with his eyes closed into a large steel pole at a splash pad and knocking himself out. Later in the afternoon, he stepped on a very old (as in 1930's) rusty roofing nail, about 1 1/2" long, which went through his Croc and half way through his foot. It seems to have slid right along the ankle bone without piercing it, according to x-rays in the ER, which we were thrilled with, as it eliminated the immediate need for surgery on his foot. Because of Amy's vaccine-related encephalitis, Caleb is not immunized and can't be until we get more answers about whether the vaccine reaction is hereditary and shared by our other children. Caleb received tetanus immune globulin instead of a standard vaccine, which has a lower chance of side effects. However, today he is turning blue off and on, and his foot looks angry and red, swollen and sore. We are headed back to the ER shortly with him for more treatment of what may be either a reaction to the shot they gave him, or an infection in the puncture wound in his foot. We would really appreciate your prayers for his healing and safety.

My boy-child

Easter 2008, Caleb at 2 weeks old

Four years ago, you made your entrance in a slam-bam-thank-you-Ma'am birth that took my breath away with it's suddenness and beauty. You, perfect skin, blond little faux hawk hair, that look of consternation you wore as a newborn. My one and only son, the child for whom I prayed as Hannah did Samuel, yet my arms held lock-tight where her's gave way in obedience. My favorite boy in the whole world - I have whispered this line of love into your ear from the time it was tiny as a seashell. You were never overshadowed by the cancer diagnosed when you were six weeks old. You shone like a star in the dark night of that 2008 year that was filled with suffering, bad news, and separation.

I remember handing you to my mother, your grandma, in the hour before I swallowed my radioactive iodine pill, remember the tears stinging as I ached to nurse you and longed to hold you over those two long weeks I didn't see you at all. What if you didn't remember? What if the powerful bond we'd shared since your birth was shattered by the distance and time when Mama wasn't there to comfort you?

You are a boy now, not a baby any longer. My last baby grown tall and lean, strong and funny. I feed you cookies and chocolates to replace the year of breastmilk that you missed out on. You shower me with your kisses and my heart is soothed. You didn't forget. You are still my son.  I read of Samuel, the story of Isaac at the alter on the mount, and I can't do this. I had to lay you aside for those weeks of radiation. I can't imagine ever putting you down again.

Happy 4th birthday, my sweet Caleb! You are loved more than you may ever know.

Adventures and non-adventures

I woke up at 4:30 a.m. {I know. I really should be napping right now.} By 7:30, my kids were out snowboarding in the sub-zero frigid January. At 8:30 we left for urgent care with a very sore Rosalie in tow. A few x-rays later, we learned her arm doesn't seem to be broken (there is a small area in question, but it would be a green stick fracture and wouldn't need a cast, so we came home anyway). She is pretty thrilled, with swimming lessons starting in 3 weeks. While at the doctor, she kept praying aloud, "Pleeeease God, don't let my arm be broken! I promise I'll never snowboard again!" She has decided to do her annual 4-H safety poster on elbow pads and other safety gear for snowboarding.

Speaking of 4-H, the girls went with Aaron last night and Caleb and I had a little time alone at home together. And this is what we did. I still get the giggles as I scroll through these!

Behold, children are a gift of the LORD, The fruit of the womb is a reward. (Psalm 127:3)

Who's disobeying?

I plod to the bedroom for what feels like the 100th time and I'm counting slowly, all the way to ten, taking the edge off my biting tongue. SLEEP, child. Again and again I go in, explain, discipline, explain, lie the child back down. It seems endless. He could go on like this for hours (although I cannot). 

It is hard to know, especially with the psychological scars my children bear since my cancer, heart, and now PTSD problems have ripped me away from them to sit in a solitary hospital bed. It's hard to know if it's a real need or a child's disobedience.

There's an easy way to check. As you pull that crying child close, and he melts into your arms, and he asks between sobs for you to cuddle him, try it. Just try laying down and cuddling. My child immediately sucks in the sobs and gives me a wet-cheeked smile. I lay there for 5 minutes, and he is asleep.

Was he being disobedient? After all, he didn't obey my instructions. Or perhaps I was being disobedient in being harsh, unloving, and unwilling to change my naptime plans to lay with my son who was irking me to the core. This is the thought that changes everything. It means a messier house and sometimes meals get on late, but when a need arises, I have to tend to it. That is what makes recovery so hard at home. I have to lay myself down for the sake of Christ (and this family). He gives no caveat in the verses that tell me to take up my cross, or lay myself down as He did. He doesn't say, "Well, this doesn't count because you have an anxiety problem and this is obviously making your problem worse. I'll give you a pass this time. God ahead and be selfish". No. Instead He tugs at my heartstrings, softens my heart, and teaches me more about grace through parenting with each passing year.

No matter what: Faith, hope, love. And the greatest of these is LOVE. (I Corinthians 13:13)

The baby is not so "baby" anymore

His birth was fast and crazy and downright shocking.

I remember my friend crying on the phone because we had a boy at last.

They came to get me for my tubal just 2 hours after he was born.

I just couldn't leave him, and there was a niggling doubt somewhere,

deep in my subconscious: was he meant to be our last?

Six weeks later, I had the surgery anyway.

A month after that, I was diagnosed with cancer.

And we praised God for His direction 

as I couldn't get pregnant while in treatment.

After my first clean cancer scan in March, 2009, Aaron came to me with an adoption dream. From what I read, it's unusual for the husband to be the one dreaming of adoption instead of the wife. We started paperwork and announced our plans to our friends and family.

But cancer came back, and paperwork stalled, and adoption 

is a far distant dream instead of one that will be realized quickly.

And in the autumn of 2009, I prayed for that next baby, 

Caleb's little brother or sister,and God answered in crazy ways, 

and I got pregnant, even after the sterilization.

I gave in, heart and soul, to the dream of another baby. 

It didn't feel like a dream at all, because it was so God-sent.

But it withered, and died, and I had 3 surgeries, and no baby to hold.

My abdomen filled with blood and my heart filled with grief.

We buried our baby, all 14 weeks of him, on the hillside in a silver urn.

The kids still count Theodore when people ask them how many siblings they have. I feel embarrassed. Who grieves a baby one never met? Yet another thing in my life I should "just get over".

Two more years pass, and I still have cancer.

No adoption.

And I don't have any more babies.

He is still my "baby".

Our family is growing up, and new vistas open before us.

An overnight date this weekend with my husband

(can't do that with a nursling).

Trips are easier to take.

Little hands learn chores and daily life gets easier.

We revel in new stages, having little readers,

children who play outside for hours.

Happy birthday, my sweet baby boy.

(February 21st, I'm a little late with this)

I don't know what the future holds,

whether or not you will ever have a baby brother,

but for this moment, I love whispering in your ear,

"You are my favorite boy in the whole world."

The afflicted shall eat and be satisfied;

those who seek him shall praise the Lord.

Psalm 22:26

The pain of natural consequences

This morning my son grabbed my teapot, full of water at a full boil, off the stove in a willful bear-hug while I was in the bathroom for a few minutes. The scream brought me running, the kind of scream that only comes when there is true pain. I was reminded of the day he wandered down to the road and nearly got run over by the truck, as I held him tight and forced him to put those burned forearms under the cold tap water for a full 10 minutes. He has a large, bubbly burn (about 2 inches long) and a larger scalded area on one arm. The other arm and hands seem fine.

A verse that makes me wince to read - but has become more meaningful now that there is a boy in this house - is Proverbs 19:18. Here it is, in two different version. How important training is, to teach them safety and moderation!

Discipline your son, for in that there is hope; do not be a willing party to his death. (NIV)

Chasten thy son while there is hope, and let not thy soul spare for his crying. (KJV)


And so, this timely repost from the archives:

Around my feet and tugging at my pant legs at any given moment of every day...four little ones who will grow up and perhaps change the course of history. I am one person. I can't do much to change the world. But I can direct the development of four more minds, and that, perhaps, will change the world we live in. With that in mind, I found these six rules in Nightlight for Parents, a book I never really like while I am reading it, but return to again and again. These six guidelines capture the spirit of how I hope to mother, and have aided me many times as I muddle through what to expect of my children and how to teach them so:

1. Define the boundaries clearly and in advance. If you haven't spelled them out, don't try to enforce them!
2. Once a child understands what is expected, hold him accountable. This may lead to a contest of wills - be sure to win those confrontations when they occur.
3. Distinguish between willful defiance and childish irresponsibility. Forgetting, losing, and spilling things are not challenges to adult leadership.
4. Reassure and teach as soon as a time of confrontation is over. By all means, hold your child close and explain lovingly what has just occurred.
5. Avoid impossible demands. Be sure that your child is capable of delivering what you require.
6. Let love be your guide! You will make mistakes with your child, but a relationship characterized by affection and grounded in God's love is certain to be healthy and successful.

Kind of like thinking about earth rather than thinking about heaven, isn't it? If I focus only on myself, I've limited my resources to one life span. But if I direct my energy outward, to others - my children included - I have exponentially increased the impact my life has. Think global. Think eternal. I want to do something that matters each and every day - and that probably doesn't mean "looking out for number 1"!

What has been will be again, what has been done will be done again; there is nothing new under the sun. (Ecclesiastes 1:9)

Succumbed

I finally fell victim to the Campylobacter overnight. It is exactly 7 days since my dear son baptized me in his river of vomit, and the incubation period for the bacteria is 2-10 days. So that's about right. I've been racking my brain to find a time in the past 3 weeks that would have been better, because this timing is really awful - I have three papers due in the next 4 days, one due tomorrow. Writing has been nearly impossible today. But, as angry as I felt at the timing as the initial tremors of the illness began to sweep over me, I wasn't able to come up with an option that would have been better (during my presentation in Kansas City? While I was tending Aaron and Caleb in the hospital? Right when I had two funerals to attend??).

Here I am, on my knees asking for divine strength again. That is, after all, the point of all this suffering He has allowed. Please, God, help me write these papers and stay upright long enough to accomplish my work. Please God, heal my son's pancreas, so he is not diabetic or unable to digest food without help.

Caleb's lipase (pancreas digestive enzyme) continues to be persistently high in the 350's (normal for his age is less than 50). He developed a large hematoma (blood clot under the skin) and phlebitis (pain and inflammation in the walls of a vein) after his last blood draw, which was attempted even though he is one solid bruise from elbow to wrist at the moment from all the pokes in the hospital. Poor sweet boy - screaming, "NO POKE CALEB!" as loudly as possible while he held still to allow them to draw blood. It breaks my heart to think of holding him through that again on Monday and every few days afterward. Please keep praying for that silly old pancreas! Who ever thought the things we take so totally for granted could cause us so much pain?

Union Station in citrus

Kansas City was followed by our week in the hospital, and the photos were still sitting on the memory card when I went to edit some close-ups today. Here is the "boy day" that followed our girl day - Union Station, where orange is surprisingly prevalent.

Main terminal.

Trains dissect the heart of downtown.

Historic engine.

Whizzing past beneath the foot bridge.

Onlookers - apparently coordinating??

Abandoned rail cars.

Rusty tracks.

Going home?

I think we are springing the coop in a few hours if Caleb has no more bloody stool. Caleb was up from 11 p.m. to 5:30 a.m. screaming in pain last night. The lab work investigating his pancreas function shows why: the values have doubled since he started eating yesterday. Pancreatitis causes severe pain, especially during digestion. However, the pediatrician doesn't feel it is necessary to start an IV and take him off oral intake at the moment, so we are going to just take him home and attempt to treat his pain and limit his oral intake to just liquids there. I am frustrated with the situation, as usual, and also excited to be going home, where I have more resources to deal with these sorts of things.

Day 6: We're getting bored!

The first four pictures capture our day. We've been laying around, Caleb's complaining of tummy pain and eye pain and a headache. We're back to forcing fluids because he won't drink. I told the nurse I was willing to sit with a syringe and put it down 10 cc's at a time before we stick him for an I.V. again!

And this last one is just for kicks. Caleb has learned the unique boy-joy of going shirtless now that warmer days are here, and I thought he looked like an absolute corndog walking around with thumb in his belt, his cowboy hat on, and no shirt. What a goof-ball!