A Pictorial

This is for all those who clamored for a picture of "The Phoenix." I know the pictures are small, and they whiz by in slideshow format, but Blogger photo uploader is having some kind of emotional breakdown. I can't get it to upload photos in anything less than an ice age, so I turned to Picasa.

In other news, the Wandering Physician returns tonight -- and there was much rejoicing. He is returning just in time to witness the complete collapse of civilization in this house. He is so lucky.

The Plans of Mice and Men and Moms

A continuation of the Saga of the Rainy Halloween. I didn't intend to serialize the story, but I felt like I should let you know that my children were not deprived of some Halloween fun. I especially need to let the Wandering Physician know, since he e-mailed me and told me that he had saved up enough goats to barter for a dial-up card only to read that his kids' Halloween was a bust. He nearly cried, and not just because he has apparently eaten something that has caused a mutiny in the old GI tract. So now he can take his Cipro and read up on how some wild animals saved Halloween. And no, I'm not talking about myself and my mother. Well, at least not about my mother . . .



While I was busy storming around the house getting the children ready for bed on Friday night, I overheard my mother trying to soothe their hurt feelings and disappointment. The balm she chose to apply was to tell them that God has a plan for everything and for everyone, even though a rained-out Halloween might seem a little small scope for Him right now. She told them that although their night seemed ruined, and indeed it was to them, they didn't know God's plan for them. They didn't know what would come out of this night, and they may never know it (gulp!), but this was how the night had panned out. Fiver and Francie took it pretty well, considering that it seemed to them that God's plan was to deprive them of candy and taunt them with other kids whose parents had allowed them to go out. Surprisingly, they took it on the chin, and they didn't cry. I also knew that they were silently pinning their hopes on going to the neighboring town for their trick-or-treat night on Saturday.

After they were all in bed, I listened to the rain beating down on the house and I, too, wondered about God's plan. I've always trusted that He has a plan, but I've never been good at the need-to-know basis of it all. I always feel like I should be on the list of those who need to know. I'm nosy, I'm bossy, I'm a scheduler. I don't do The Unexpected very well. I suspect that's the primary reason I acquiesced to Rob's request for the gender of our unborn children to remain a secret until birth. It is all a grand lesson in restraint and uncertainty for me. But it sucks sometimes. In that spirit, I tried to shrug off the drama of the evening and remain very que sera sera about the whole thing. Lots of leftover candy and the Masterpiece Theater version of Jane Eyre didn't hurt the effort.

The next morning came and it was still pouring. The sky was leaden and as I looked out on the deck, sheets of water were cascading over the lip of the picnic table. Things did not look promising. The children, however, woke up very chipper. It seemed that they had almost forgotten about the previous night. Almost. I overheard Francie hyping up the possibility of trick-or-treating that evening and I knew that hope was springing eternal, as always. I pulled Francie aside and I gave it to her straight. I told her that if the weather was still bad, we were not going anywhere. I would let them dress up in their costumes and then I would let them parade around the house and I would throw the leftover candy into their buckets. I also told her that I was counting on her to have the stiff upper lip this time. If she could keep it together, so would Fiver and Sally. I wasn't trying to minimize her feelings, but I did try to put things in perspective for her. She nodded, but didn't say a word.

It continued to rain all through the morning and into the early afternoon. The kids played cards with my mom, while I paid bills and made up a grocery list, certain that I would be shopping in the rain after the kids were in bed. I was just finishing my list when I noticed that I didn't hear anything. I looked out the window and saw that although the sky was still gray, the rain had stopped. Huge puddles were everywhere and the lawn was covered in a thatch of sodden leaves, but no new rain was falling. Could this be a break?


I was still reluctant to drive into a different town for trick-or-treating, but I didn't say anything to the children. I was hoping that they could be placated with the in-house costume party. I started piling up the sections of the newspaper for recycling when I saw a little corner ad for something called "Boo at the Zoo." It was a fall festival at the local game preserve, and children were welcome to dress in their costumes and come around to see the animals, play games, and trick-or-treat with the zookeepers. It was being held all weekend, and it was open until four. It was already two and I made a quick call to the zoo to make sure they were still hosting it despite the foul weather. They were. My heart beat a little faster.

After years of living with my children, I knew that it would be best not to say anything to them. My mother rounded them up while I surreptitiously threw their costumes in the back of the van. The sky was still menacing, but I was taking any chance I could.

As we made the scenic drive towards the zoo, my mother pointed out that the sky seemed to be clearing. The sun was streaming through holes in the blanketing gray clouds until it finally over powered the clouds altogether. By the time we reached the gates of the zoo, it was sunny. The leaves were glistening and a gentle breeze was blowing across the valley. Idyllic would be the best word for the whole scene.

The children were beside themselves with excitement. Francie and Fiver kept yelling that they were finally going to wear their costumes, so Sally just squawked along with them. We got to the zoo with an hour to spare, which was more than enough time for us. Fiver usually has a solid half hour of focused behavior in him before he starts to become overwhelmed by all the extra stimuli.

Once inside the front gate, we saw tables set up all along the main path. Tables full of candy. Free candy. And the volunteers were giving away handfuls to each child. I think my children thought we had just passed through the Pearly Gates; I don't know if their eyes could get any wider. The Phoenix and The Battery trotted up to each table, and, to my surprise, started singing for their candy. Think of these lyrics set to the tune of "In the Hall of the Mountain King" by Edvard Grieg:

We are here to trick or treat, trick or treat, trick or treat. We are
here to trick or treat, O Happy Halloween!

They got rave reviews from the staff of the zoo, so that naturally compelled them to sing much louder at each successive table. It was cute the first seventy jillion times, but then the charm started to wear off. By the time the afternoon was over, I was humming the tune myself and I haven't stopped.

The children moved on to pumpkin painting, the ring toss, bowling with mini-pumpkins, and all kinds of other fun stuff that their mother never lets them do. Then, as we toured the rest of the zoo, we fed the ducks and camels, waved at the kangaroos and big-horn sheep, marveled at the size of the Golden eagle's nest, and even caught a glimpse of the elusive Arctic wolves. Just as Fiver started to become scattered and started to stim, we realized we were at the end of the tour.

As we walked out to the car, I was mulling over the fact that we seldom have such perfect timing in anything we try to do, when my mother turned to the children and said, See what God had planned for you? You thought that your Halloween was ruined, and look how much better this was than going around to houses in the pouring rain!

The children nodded solemnly before bursting out with a heated discussion over whether this was the best Halloween of their lives or if one was coming that would be better. It was unanimously agreed by Francie and Fiver that we would come back and tour the zoo next year, and there was even a little speculation about possible costume ideas. Their happy chatter continued all the way home, and it was a van full of light hearts that pulled into our driveway.

For my part, I couldn't believe that I had had so little faith in God's plan again. I had resigned myself to the disappointment and the exhaustion without considering that there might be a different outcome in store for us. I'm not saying that things always work out perfectly, and they rarely work out the way I think they should. There are always disappointments, there is always exhaustion and sadness, there is always the constant flux of life. Above it all, though, there is a greater design, a more perfect plan. We may not always see it, we may never in this life know why some things happen, but The Plan is there and it's working just the same.

From My Lips to God's Ears

As I sat in my church's cry room with the girls (Fiver was in the parish hall for "church school"), I tried to focus on the readings and the homily. The girls' behavior was not really the problem, although Sally was getting a little over zealous with her singing and hymnal banging. The problem is that the cry room is little more than an airless box with a window. You can fit about six people total inside, and it is tucked away upstairs behind the choir loft. Rob calls it the "Holy Trinity Sky Box." There is a speaker inside that is supposed to pipe the priest's words right in to you, but it may or may not work depending on the weather, the time of day, or the phase of the moon. Getting to hear Mass is dicey, is what I'm saying.

We also had another family squeezed in there with us, and their little guy was even more vocal than my little girl. And he was more verbal, which is always more fun. He kept asking his mom if they were going apple picking when they were done, and if Jesus would be there. I hear Jesus loves Him some apples.

Between Sally being moved by the Spirit, and the ongoing debate regarding Jesus' schedule and whether or not it permits apple picking, I was having a hard time hearing anything, let alone paying attention and getting some valuable life lessons for the week. I did hear most of the Gospel, but the homily was getting away from me and I started resigning myself to contemplating the readings at home when the kids were asleep.

And then God spoke right into my ear. He sounded a lot like our priest, Fr. Scott, but I know He was talking to me. The speaker reception was crystal clear, Sally stopped singing, and our little friend stopped wondering about meeting up with Jesus at the orchard. This is what I heard:

If the only thing that you can do is to come humbly before your
God and admit that you do not have it all
together, then you are doing the right
thing.

I almost started crying, because I most certainly do not have it all together. I get bits and pieces of it together, but never ever at the same time. To know that God doesn't expect me to have it all together is a huge relief. Especially this week.

As soon as those words were out, the speaker started crackling and Sally started singing again. I lost most of the rest of the homily, but I know I got the part that was meant for me.

But the tax collector stood off at a distance and would not even raise his
eyes to heaven but beat his breast and prayed, 'O God, be merciful to me a
sinner.' I tell you, the latter went home justified, not the former; for whoever
exalts himself will be humbled, and the one who humbles himself will be
exalted. Luke 18:9-14

Water Torture

Bet you didn't know that "Halloween" is actually Old English for Death by Bitter Disappointment, did you? Well, that's what my kids found out this year, and it ain't pretty, my friends.


The first disappointment was the fact that they have a pregnant and tired mother who declined to carve pumpkins while her abdominal muscles screamed in pain from supporting the human she is growing. After being a classroom helper for Francie's school party, it was a kindness to say I was dragging. When every single person you encounter tells you that you look tired, you might just have to face the music and slow it down a little. The pumpkins were the first Halloween tradition to bite it.


The second blow came when it started raining at four o'clock. Not just a little rain, but a nice steady, thrumming kind of downpour. And it was cold. Normally this wouldn't be a problem, seeing as how this isn't actually Halloween and all, but the supervisors of our township, in their Infinite Infiniteness, have messed around with the calendar. After a fun and formative childhood of trick-or-treating on the 31ST, no matter what day of the week that happened to be, my children get to trick-or-treat on the Friday closest to, but not after, October 31st. On some years you might get lucky and get to go out on the real day, but that hasn't happened yet in the four years that we've lived here. Every town in this area does this, and I have no idea why. I've asked, and no one ever has a good reason, unless Well, that's the way we've always done it counts as a reason.

I made the brutal call to not go out when the wind started gusting and the rain was blowing sideways. You would have thought that I had just told the children to eat ground glass. Their eyes were wide with shock, and then the sobbing began. All of this was compounded by a handful of my neighbors who decided that they would drive their children into each and every driveway so that their princesses and ninjas could dash to the front door with minimal exposure. Their children were met at the door by my children, who dropped candy in their bags and choked out Happy Halloween in between sobs. I wanted to just throw it all on the lawn and let them find it in the lagoon that was our yard (except the peanut butter cups. They're mine). Bleak House indeed.

Mom and I tried to cheer the kids, until cheering them became too exhausting. At some point I think I made a heartless comment about knowing hope to cope with the disappointments that come into each life. It doesn't help that Halloween gets paraded in front of them from the end of August until October, but come on, kids! It's not like we cancelled Christmas. We played cards and made very tentative plans to try and go trick-or-treating the next night in a neighboring town, although the weather was supposed to be just as dreadful.

Then Fiver managed to slam the front door on Sally's hand after a round of damp Halloweenies. It was accidental, but I still managed to overreact in a fine way. You all would have been so proud. I know I was.

Then I did what I do best, and sent them to bed miserable.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have a little cache of peanut butter cups that has my name on it. Trick or Treat!

The Eagle Has Landed

I got a call late last night from the Wandering Physician, and he has made it safely to downtown Dushanbe. (While I was getting into bed on Wednesday night, it was almost 7 am Thursday for him.) The connection was not so great, and he sounded like he was calling me on a tin can. Maybe he was. I think he said the hotel has a business center that may or may not have internet access. I guess it depends on what kind of business you need to do. I don't imagine you need a modem to do a little light goat bartering, but who knows?

I managed to ask him how the flights were, and I got a response that was something like: Long. Very long. There were irate vegetarians, and salmon on their plates, and people were flinging salmon, and I got salmon on my sleeve. And it was long. Apparently the Salmon Debacle made a great impression, maybe because it is Rob's favorite fish and he hates to see it go to waste. Or maybe because he had to lick it off his sleeve. I'm not sure. Just keep all that in mind the next time you need to fly Turkish Airlines.

At any rate, I may or may not be getting emails from him, depending on the fickle whims of the business center, and I'm pretty sure I won't be getting any more calls. He starts his work today, although as I am posting this, his day is done and he is probably going to bed. (It's strange to think that he is already finished with a day I am just starting. Lucky dog.)

All I have to do now is make a phoenix costume and carve some pumpkins, since our township sets a separate date for trick-or-treating and I need to be ready by tomorrow. Apparently, our township supervisors have decided the actual date of Halloween is not really feasible after decades of service. That's another story for another time, my friends.

Thanks for the prayers and well-wishes, and for all the compliments on Fiver's costume. I am thinking you may be seriously underwhelmed by The Phoenix.

Battery Powered

Today is the perfect kind of day - gray, rainy, and suitable for curling up with a good book. There's none of the pressure inherent in sunny days; pressure to be doing something productive. I'd like to be napping, but I have found that this is also the perfect kind of day to make this:

Hmm? What's that? Not exactly sure what this is? It's Fiver's Halloween costume, of course. He chose to be a AA battery this year, in honor of his most beloved obsession. And since there is no such site as "autismspectrumbehaviorsespeciallyobsessivetendencieshalloweencostumes.com", I came up with the template myself. If you could call wandering around JoAnn Fabrics, picking up random supplies, and praying for inspiration to strike a template.


I finished most of it last night, and when Fiver came downstairs this morning, I fitted it to him and adjusted the shoulder straps. He is not a big fan of the black hat, which is supposed to be the positive terminal of the battery. He sort of fingers the edge and chants to himself, This is part of my costume. Quite frankly, I'm surprised he is wearing this at all, and I think the only thing that makes it bearable for him is the fact that I made it according to all of his specifications. Including the fact that I wrote "AA" on the costume, because, to hear him tell it, that's the most important part. He can't be walking around having anyone thinking he's a "C" or a "D", no self-respecting battery would tolerate those kinds of shenanigans.

Now I just need to make a phoenix costume for Francie. I guess I can't complain about their lack of imagination.

East Bound and Down **

It's that time of year again. Leaves are falling, pumpkins are glowing, and Rob is off on a medical mission overseas. And lots of land. Whole continents even. He is going far this time, my friends, all the way to Dushanbe, Tajikistan. (That's in Central Asia, for those who aren't sure and who don't have time to click on the link.)


To be honest, I don't mind saying that I'm a little nervous about this trip. It's no secret that Tajikistan is not in a particularly stable part of the world. It sits above Afghanistan and, all things considered, it's not terribly far from Pakistan. And did I mention that Rob has his layovers in Istanbul? As in Istanbul (not Constantinople) Turkey? And there are a few Turks who are not really feelin' the Americans right now, if you know what I mean. Rob says he thought, in passing, about using his Really Campy Scottish Accent while traveling - the one that makes his Scottish mother, who has a beautiful real accent, shake her head - but he decided to wear a shirt with the Canadian flag instead. I jest. A little.


And let's not forget that I get to be the pregnant and exhausted Go To Parent for two weeks. Let the whining commence. Two weeks is not a long time, and we've been apart for much longer, but it's long enough to make me consider tranquilizers if I dwell on the whole thing.


But of course, it's not all bad. Rob gets to take lots of fun things into Tajikistan for children in an orphanage that his delegation is helping, and he will try to bring us something cool and exotic from Istanbul and Dushanbe. Even more anticipated than souvenirs, is the fact that my mom will be able to help me out on several days while Rob is gone. I am particularly grateful for her help during Francie's school Halloween party, where it is considered bad form if your mom falls asleep in the spooky punch bowl while serving your classmates. Whatever. I could totally pass for a zombie right about now anyway.


Posting may be sporadic or, even worse, all rant, all the time. I can tell that you are looking forward to that kind of thing. Hang with me, though -- if I know you are listening, I might be encouraged to curb my bad attitude. Then again, I might not. It's all one big crap shoot, my friends.


** Supreme bragging rights go to the person who can name the movie in which this song plays.

Scales of Justice

Francie and Fiver were playing happily together after church this morning, and Rob and I, in true don't-look-a-gift-horse-in-the-mouth fashion, left them to their own devices. As we were sitting in the living room, we started to listen to their conversation. It went a little something like this:

Fiver, you get to be the judge of the crime scene.

( Fiver speaking to the toys): I am the JUDGE of this town, and I say you get out. GET OUT!

No Fiver, you are the judge of the crime scene. You say whether someone is guilty or innocent, but you can't just tell people to get out of town.

Um, I'm talking now and the judge says GET OUT.


Crime scenes? Obstreperous judges? The only thing missing is the pack of vigilantes. It's only a matter of time . . .

Re-Naming

Remember the post I wrote about giving the kids new pseudonyms? This one, written way back here. Well, I haven't forgotten about the new names, and I did take many of your comments into consideration. I also discussed this topic at length with Rob, and I will admit that I have spent far too much time on the whole thing. Finding the perfect fake name is harder than it would seem, especially when it needs to be chosen by a person with a particularly strong perfectionist streak (that her children are daily doing their best to destroy).

I am happy to say that the children finally have their new names, and I can wash my hands of the whole thing - at least until Bun is born and grows a little and I have to think of a new fake name for him/her. As if finding him/her a new real name wasn't difficult enough.

Anyway.

I was able to run with my original intention of naming the children after some of my favorite characters from literature, with the exception of Baby Girl, who got hers from a comic strip. But it's a really good comic strip. Without further ado:

Older Girl's new nickname will be Francie. I chose Francie from A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, and the more I flip through my well-worn copy and peruse articles on the internet, the more perfect the name becomes. Francie is a bright child, and a dreamer, who idolizes her father and always seems to be at odds with her mother. She is observant and sensitive, and the little material pleasures of life always seem to bring her joy. She writes her stories about the people in her neighborhood, and her introspective nature does not lend itself to making friends quickly or easily. She is also lovable and dependable, and although she always stays a dreamer like her father, she becomes a hard-working, capable woman like her mother.

The Boy's new name, Fiver, comes from the book Watership Down, one of Rob's favorites. Fiver is the smaller, more awkward brother of the rabbits' leader, Hazel. Fiver has a sixth sense about many things in store for the rabbits, and he always gives good direction to Hazel, even while taking care not to undermine his brother's authority. The other rabbits know to listen to Fiver because he sees things that others cannot. I thought this description sounded like The Boy in a couple of ways: while it's true that he is smaller and a little awkward, he often sees the real heart of people very clearly. Plus, bunnies are cute and so is The Boy.

Baby Girl's name comes from our favorite comic strip, Peanuts. Baby Girl will be Sally, lovable little sister of Charlie Brown and Linus' number one admirer. Sally is sweet and vivacious, precocious and even a little wild, and she remains undeterred in things that she truly wants, despite the advice and actions of all the older children. Sounds just like Baby Girl to me.

The Bun in the Oven shall remain the Bun until he or she is born, and probably for a good while thereafter. It's hard to give a new baby a pseudonym until you can see some of their personality. Besides, let's face it, I'm not too proud to admit that Bun may stay Bun forever out of sheer exhaustion.

Now the real trick will be for me to remember to actually use these hard-won name alternatives!

A Good Man is Hard to Find

Flannery O'Connor was right: a good man is hard to find, but I have one and here is the meme to prove it!



The Man Meme (h/t to T)


1. Who is your man? Rob

2. How long have you been together? Counting dating, we have been together for 13 1/2 years.

3. How long did you date? 3 years

4. How old is your man? Funny story: I first saw a picture of Rob in his sister's dorm room, and she said, Oh, that's my older brother, Rob. I knew she had two older brothers and I just assumed was Rob was the oldest because he was wearing his Navy uniform in the picture and he was looking very serious. I thought he was 35. He was actually 20. My bad. When I met him in person, it was very obvious he was not 35. He thought the whole thing was hilarious and he still laughs about it. Especially since he is now 35, and he doesn't look a day older!

5. Who eats more? In one sitting, hands down it's Rob, but in overall grazing throughout the day, I'm betting it's me.

6. Who said “I love you” first? I did. In a letter. Because I'm brave and klassy.


7. Who is taller? Definitely Rob. At 6'4" he's taller than almost everyone we know.

8. Who sings better? Me, although his voice ain't too shabby.


9. Who is smarter? Rob, all the way. He would disagree, and say that we each have our strengths, and he would be correct, but in overall knowledge retention Rob is the winner and still champeen. Forget about calculus - I can't even remember what I ate for dinner last night!

10. Whose temper is worse? Oh baby is it ever me.

11. Who does the laundry? Me, but not because Rob won't do it. I like to do the laundry (except for the putting away part), so Rob leaves me to one of the few chores I enjoy.

12. Who takes out the trash? That's him - for now. When the kids get old enough to maneuver our big trash container, then he will abdicate his authority.


13. Who sleeps on the right hand side of the bed? Rob.

14. Who pays the bills? Me. He brings home the paycheck, but I am the one who keeps the books.

15. Who is better with the computer? Rob. He uses it more at work than I ever do at home, but if he can't figure something out we always call my brother JB. He's our awesome one man tech support.

16. Who mows the lawn? Rob. He enjoys it and I hate it, end of discussion.

17. Who cooks dinner? Me. Rob can assemble a dinner in a pinch, and he actually cooked quite a bit for himself in bachelorhood, but his menu variety left a little something to be desired.


18. Who drives when you are together? I would say we split it fairly evenly. Since we are always with the kids, we drive around in the van. I am fairly particular about my seat position and Rob has to move it since his legs are nine miles long (see #7), so sometimes I drive just to preserve my seat settings. If we are going on a long trip, Rob usually starts and we switch off during the trip.

19. Who pays when you go out? For dinner, he usually pulls out the check card, but for all other kinds of shopping it's usually me. It all comes from the same account anyway.


20. Who is most stubborn? Hmmm . . . I am going to say Rob for this one, but I'm a pretty close second. I am stubborn, but I have been known to be swayed by persuasive arguments from time to time. Rob is very laid back, but once he decides for or against something he rarely, if ever, changes his mind.

21. Who is the first to admit when they are wrong? We're both pretty good at it because we hate fighting with each other.


22. Whose parents do you see the most? Mine, since they are a shorter trip, but we try to get up to NY to see the rest of the gang as often as possible.

23. Who kissed who first? I totally made the first move.


24. Who asked who out? We didn't date - at least not traditionally. We spent our entire courtship in different states, and before we were married we didn't spend more than twelve consecutive days together. It was great preparation for military life.

25. Who proposed? Rob, on his favorite holiday, Thanksgiving.

26. Who is more sensitive? I guess me, since I'm the one who's always blubbering and getting teary.


27. Who has more friends? Umm - I have no idea! I'm more chatty, but I wouldn't say I have more friends than Rob because he is very well-liked. (Honestly, it's pretty hard not to like him. It's annoying. Especially when I'm trying to be mad at him). I would say that we have a small group of good friends in common.

28. Who has more siblings? We both come from families of four - two boys, two girls.


29. Who wears the pants in the family? Whoever gets to the laundry basket first? But I wear pants all the time, and he has a well-known love for his kilt, so really, I guess we wear the same things!

Want to do this one? Consider yourself tagged!

They Sure Put the "Ultra" in Ultrasound

It's official: There is definitely something to the blip that the radiologist saw on my first ultrasound.

Rob and I spent an hour and a half getting scans of the Bun yesterday, and even to my (very) untrained eye, I could plainly see what the doctors were seeing. Of course, it helps that the ultrasound was so hi-def that I could practically see the baby's fingerprints. We were up close and personal, to say the least.

The Bun and I have something called SUA - Single Umbilical Artery. It is also referred to as "two vessel cord." You can follow the link, and check it out with Dr. Google (Rob's sworn enemy, at least where worriers like myself are concerned), but it's a pretty straightforward kind of defect. The umbilical cord is supposed to have two arteries and one vein, and Bun's cord only has one artery and one vein. The problem with SUA is that it seems to go hand in hand with other, more serious birth defects of the heart and spine. Plus, there is a greater risk that the baby might suffer from intrauterine growth restriction, due to the decreased amounts of good stuff coming through the cord. This also raises my risk for pre-term labor.

All that scary stuff aside, here is the really good news: The rest of Bun's scan was crystal clear. No other birth defects, no strange shadows casting doubt on Bun's health. We must have gotten twenty different shots of the heart, all of them normal and pumping away like a good heart should. I lost count of how many times the doctor and the tech said Beautiful! while they were doing the scans. Bun is measuring exactly as he/she should, and weighs in at a whopping one pound and four ounces (approximately). It sure made this mother's heart feel better.

Some more good news? An isolated case of SUA usually makes little difference in a pregnancy. The key word is isolated. If there are no other defects noted and the mother has a good health history, then the doctors are much more relaxed about all of the possible complications. I will be getting the usual standard of care in cases of SUA, which includes ultrasounds every month to make sure that Bun is growing properly and a fetal echocardiogram to make sure Bun's heart is thumping away as it should. However, my perinatologist was so happy with the pictures of Bun's heart that he isn't rushing us off to the specialists next week. We'll have one sometime before January. In the Big Book of Bad Pregnancy MoJo, isolated SUA does not rate very high on the panic scale.

But the brightest side to all of this, as far as I'm concerned, is that we got to stare at our baby for an hour and a half! We got to see Bun swallowing and making little breathing movements; we saw Bun snuggling up to the placenta for a cuddle and then, two seconds later, rolling over to kick back next to some other organs. We saw all of the tiny bones in Bun's fingers and feet, so small and birdlike and yet already performing the movements for which they were created. It's amazing and humbling to know that I have very little to do with Bun's development, other than providing a good support system by taking care of myself. Everything else is by the grace of God.

So that's the whole deal. So far Bun is healthy and I am healthy, but if you have an extra prayer floating around, please send one up for Bun. I think the real test may come later, as Bun gets bigger and needs more from the cord. Everything looks well now, and we are happy and grateful, but an extra prayer or two never hurt anyone. Thanks, my friends.

When Life Gives You Apples . . . Make Something!

And, boy do we ever have some apples around here. After dragging my children, my sick mother, my "but-I'm-on-my-way-to-work" sister, and my pregnant self to the apple orchard teeming with people in ninety degree heat (which is just wrong in October in PA), I was tempted to bag the whole trip and buy the already picked apples from the farm store. But the children wanted to see some apples on the actual trees. Naturally.

They also wanted to do the hay ride, walk through the hay maze, feed the chickens, and paint some pumpkins, but I was too tired and too cheap to pay for it all. Luckily they had GeeGee there to take the sting away from my constant and resounding NO!s. Of course, it also helps that they washed all those "no"s down with apple cider and mounds of ice cream. Because that's how GeeGee rolls.

We managed to straggle up the hill to let the children have at the trees, but I took the truck up the hill and drove everyone back down. Because did I mention it was so hot? So. hot.
(And I know you folks in the South are just laughing at me and thinking: Hot? She wouldn't know hot if it burned her face off! But remember that I have lived in parts south of the Mason-Dixon Line, and I purposely moved back to the Northeast for that cooling off period we call Fall and Winter. The part we seem to be missing this year.)

So now I have a giant Home Despot bucket full of apples sitting in the garage, and I am faced with the mission of turning them into something else. As much as we love apples, we will never be able to eat them all before one bad one spoils the bunch. I managed to wrest the family's secret applesauce recipe from my father, which is not so much a secret as lost. We have all the important cooking steps accounted for, but the secret combination of apple varieties that my father discovered has been lost to the ages it seems. But that's all right for me: I only let the kids pick one kind of apple before I called it quits and threw them all back into the truck.

My Dad's Recipe for Applesauce
(adapted from The Ball Blue Book Guide to Canning and Freezing, copyright 1983)

1. Get fresh apples
2. Wash apples, peel if desired, core and slice. (Dad does not desire to peel. Peeling is for sissies. He cooks the apples with the skins and strains them out at the end. This makes the applesauce a rosy pink color, which just looks so pretty on the table)
3. To each quart (950 mL) of apples, add 1/3 cup of water and 1/4 teaspoon of ascorbic acid (found in most grocery stores, in the home canning section)
4. Cook apples over medium-low heat until tender (watch them! they burn like me at the beach. Don't walk away from them thinking that it will be no problem to make applesauce and read blogs at the same time. Hypothetical situation, of course)
5. The book says to puree the apples. Pureeing is also for sissies. The apples are so tender that Dad just uses a ladle to push them through a fine strainer and it works just as well. Plus, straining them catches any stray seeds and the peels that you left on, because peeling is for . . . well, see Step #2)
6. Now, while the apples are hot, you add the sugar. Dad typically uses a smidgen more than 1/4 cup of sugar for each quart of apples. (we're getting very technical here, my friends) It depends on the sweetness of the apples with which you started. Start with 1/4 a cup and then add more if you like. Because - and say it with me now - You can always add more, but you can never take it out.
7. Don't freak if you find out that you have more applesauce than you can eat in one sitting (at least in good health and in good conscience). You want to have enough so that you can save some to perk up a dreary mid-winter meal. This is how we save it in our family: we freeze it.
8. Let the applesauce cool for a while. (It will take some time, so this is really the perfect time for blog reading. Not during the cooking.)
9. We like to use the heavy duty quart size freezer bags. Dad takes a wide mouth canning funnel, gathers the freezer bag around the funnel with one hand, and ladles the applesauce into the bag with the other. (This is even easier when you have someone to do all the holding so you can do all the ladling. Tell them there's free applesauce in it for them.)
10. He fills it pretty full, but not all the way up to the zipper part, and then sort of tries to flatten it out a little so that he can squeeze out the excess air before he seals it. (Again with the technicality.)
11. Dad likes to lay them out flat on a cookie sheet and freeze them. When they are frozen, he takes them and either stacks them in the freezer or makes a row (like a row of books). They are pretty flat, so whichever way works best for your freezer.
12. Don't forget to label them! -- if your freezer is anything like mine, you may not be able to identify them come late February.

And that's it. It's time consuming, but pretty simple, and I'm telling you that it's worth the effort. Oh, and two more tips: The applesauce does take a little while to defrost, so be sure to keep a bag in your fridge for instant gratification. And don't add any spices (like cinnamon. or cinnamon and sugar, for some. ahem.) until you are ready to eat the applesauce. The spices lose a little something in the freezing process.

Now it's your turn to share! Any favorite apple recipes that we might enjoy?

**PS: This is for Tara, who lives near my parents, and anyone else who might be in that area and interested. This is the orchard we go to, and they have all kinds of fruit for summer and fall picking. They used to be our little secret, until hoards of people discovered what a sweet place it is. Their prices have gone up in recent years, and they have expanded lots of features (see: hay maze & tractor rides), but we still go there. And in June, their Early Gold strawberries will change your life. I'm not even kidding.

An Offer She Can't Refuse

The following is a true story, and an excellent illustration of how crazy we are:


This morning I was awoken by the panicky voice of Older Girl.

Mom, this is the first morning of winter uniform and I don't have any winter gym uniform pants! I only have shorts!

I stumbled out of bed, sure that she must have a pair of navy blue sweatpants with the school logo on them somewhere in her room.

No dice. As I was rifling through her drawers, it occurred to me that we had given her old gym pants away and when we had gone to get her new ones they were out of her size. It wouldn't have been a problem if I had actually gone back to the store later as I had originally intended.

But I never made it back to the store and now she was pant-less. Crap.

So as she was hyperventilating in the hallway, I told her to put on her gym shorts and I would send a note to her teacher explaining the problem. I assured her it would be fine.

After everyone was seated at the table eating breakfast, Rob and I had this conversation:

Honey, [OG] has no gym pants and it is the first day of winter uniform, so could you bring me my purse from the van?

[Rob comes in with purse]

Why do you need your purse?

My notepad is in here and I need to write a note to Mrs. C. about the uniform.

Oh, good. Because I thought you were going to just offer her a bribe.

What?

You know, like - "Dear Mrs. C., Maybe we can just make this little misunderstanding go away. Love, Mrs. L."

Honey, I only have three dollars in my wallet for God's sake.

She's a Catholic school teacher! How much can she make?! All I'm saying is that she might be willing to let a lot of things slide for the price of a hot lunch.

Absence Makes the Heart Grow Fonder

Our family van is not old by any stretch of the imagination, and although it has that lived-in look (read: every single child has puked in it more than once. Wanna ride?) and over 100,000 miles on the odometer, I feel pretty certain that we have at least a few more years with the old gal. All that being said, I do have a weakness for new things. Especially new shiny things. When I see all the new makes and models out on the road, I will admit to a certain amount of wishing that ours was newer or shinier. The problem is that my wishing can easily turn to coveting if I don't watch out. And we all know what the Big Man says about coveting: Thou shalt not.


I am happy to say that I have discovered an easy cure for my slippery slide into covetousness: Just have someone smash into the front of the van, making sure that the van sustains enough damage for a mandatory three week stay at the body shop on the insurance company's dime. It seems to work like a charm!

While the van was "getting surgery," we were given a rental car through the insurance company. It was a big van-truck hybrid kind of thing, and it was a 2008 model. When we drove it off the lot it had 200 miles on it. 200. Our van hasn't seen that few miles since the first week we owned it. This rental truck was gleaming; it was as brand-spanking new as you can get, and I climbed in with a little thrill of excitement at the prospect of driving something shiny around for a few weeks. The Boy and I drank in the new car smell, and reveled in the radio that got more than one station. We bounced on the plush seats, we discovered all the cup holders and other hidden nooks and crannies. The newness was so fun, so attractive.

But the honeymoon was short-lived, and it was the first trip to the gas pump that killed it. So used to pumping gas into our van, I held the hose, watched the numbers whizz by, and prepared to feel the thunk of the handle right around the usual cut-off amount. Except that thunk didn't come until the numbers whizzed by the fifty-five dollar mark. Fifty-five dollars! When it cost me more than half of a hundred dollars to fill a car that does not get better mileage than my aged van, I knew that I had some breaking up to do. Unfortunately, that was almost three weeks ago. In those three weeks, we discovered that although we had a new car, it was the bare-bones model. There were none of the worn little comforts of our old van, and there was the added pressure of not doing anything to mar its glossy coat.

When we went to pick up our van today, it was a scene straight out of some kind of Walton family reunion. The Boy skipped up to the desk and happily announced that we were here to pick up Silver Van! Because you fixed it! And the hood is not smashed anymore! And we missed it! And it will live in our garage! And where is it, please?! I don't know that Tom, our "Body Shop Guy", has ever seen a more joyful customer. The Boy was panting. Even Baby Girl, who had no idea what was happening, was shouting Wanna! Wanna! Wanna! as I secured her car seat in the van. She clapped when I strapped her into the van and closed the door. The Boy, who had been holding both sets of keys for me while I rearranged all the car seats, practically threw the rental car keys onto the desk as we were leaving. Here you go! We don't need that truck anymore!

We are happy to be back in old Silver Van, stains and chips and all. They even washed and waxed it, so it will be shiny for a little while, and that's perfect for us.

An Apple A Day

I know I've been scarce around the old HomeFront Corp these days, and today will be no different. I am taking the employees on a field trip to their grandparents' house and to the apple orchard. (Despite the fact that it is still nine hundred degrees outside, I will endure the sweating to let them have some fresh air and even fresher produce. I live to serve.)

And I am coming home with my Dad's recipe for homemade applesauce, which I may even decide to share with you, my friends. This applesauce is so tasty that it will make you want to disavow all knowledge of commercially bottled applesauce. Mott's, you are dead to me! There is nothing better than some of this fresh, sweet applesauce in the dead of winter, when nothing is looking too fresh or sweet.

I will see you later, and hopefully something blog-worthy will happen at the orchard so I can break my meme-streak. Keep your fingers crossed!

The Name Game

Thanks to Barb, I have been able to follow doctor's orders. I was told to sit down and relax, and I'm pretty sure that sitting and relaxing can include meme-ing, right?



1. YOUR ROCK STAR NAME: (first pet & current car) Pebbles Odyssey - an awesome Rock Star name!

2.YOUR GANGSTA NAME: (fave ice cream flavor, favorite cookie) Butterscotch Double Fudge - a little less gansta-ish and a little more ho*ker-ish than I would have thought, but I like it!

3. YOUR “FLY Guy/Girl” NAME:(first letter of first name, first three letters of last name)
A-Lan

4. YOUR DETECTIVE NAME: (favorite color, favorite animal) Purple Bobcat - really good at sneaking up on people, not so good at the camouflage

5. YOUR SOAP OPERA NAME: (middle name, city where you were born) Catherine Abington - wait, wasn't she on Dynasty or Falcon Crest or something?

6. YOUR STAR WARS NAME: (the first 3 letters of your last name, first 2 letters of your first)
Lanai - this is one Star Wars name that actually sounds cool. I mean, besides Han Solo of course. No one is cooler than Han Solo.

7. SUPERHERO NAME: (”The” + 2nd favorite color, favorite drink) The Blue Coffee - and my super power would be what? To scald and stain with abandon?

8. NASCAR NAME: (the first names of your grandfathers) Joe Carmen

10.WITNESS PROTECTION NAME: (mother’s & father’s middle names ) Magdalene Joseph

11. TV WEATHER ANCHOR NAME: (Your 5th grade teacher’s last name, a major city that starts with the same letter) Iwanowski Ipanema

12. SPY NAME: (your favorite season/holiday, flower) Thanksgiving Lily de la Valley - sounds like an exotic double agent from a Bond film

13. CARTOON NAME: (favorite fruit, article of clothing you’re wearing right now + “ie” or “y”)
Strawberry Maternity - the most awesome pregnant cartoon character you'll ever meet!

14. HIPPIE NAME: (What you ate for breakfast, your favorite tree) Egg McMuffin Cherry
a Celtic hippie, apparently



15. YOUR ROCKSTAR TOUR NAME: (”The” + Your fave hobby/craft, fave weather element + “Tour”) The Baking Blizzard Tour - mmmm . . . baking . . .


Want to do this one? Consider yourself tagged!

Hey, Hey Baby

Just a little preview of Bun in Oven. It was a long ultrasound, for many reasons, and I need to go in next week for an even more in-depth ultrasound due to a possible complication (vague enough for you?) So far, except for that one little (possible) blip, everything looks good - and pretty darn cute, if I do say so myself. Say a little prayer that I don't freak out too much before I get to the perinatologists next week -- because we all know the levels of freak-out of which I am capable!

Special Request

I've been known to link to good causes in the past, and I am linking to another one right now. I have been following Jenn's heartbreaking posts over at Serving the Queens, and she has asked for a favor.

A young man in her family, Sgt. Matthew Blaskowski, was recently killed in Afghanistan and his funeral is this Thursday. Jenn has posted some beautiful and moving pictures on her site, and she wants to compile all of the comments and condolences on this post into a sympathy card for Matt's parents, Terry and Cheryl Blaskowski.

If you have just a spare minute, please click over and tell this young man's parents how much the country appreciates his, and their, sacrifices. This is not a political statement on the war, and comments will be monitored. This is a way to say we're sorry for your loss and thank you; won't you please consider a few words of support and prayer for a grieving family?

An Open Letter to My Hormones **UPDATED

Dear Hormones,

First, just let me say that you girls are doing a great job. Seriously. I know you catch a lot of flack for being out of control, raging even, but I am pretty pleased with our relationship so far.

Especially right now, with the baby and everything.

Progesterone, you have been awesome at keeping my endometrium thick and cushy for the baby, and I can't believe how well you have been maintaining the placenta. You are like the road crew for the band - the whole show would fall apart if you weren't there to set the stage. Thumbs up on that one!

And Estrogen? Well, let's just give credit where credit is due. You are one little powerhouse of a hormone, my dear. You have been responsible for overseeing all the vital growth and organ development of our newest member, and, from what modern science can tell me so far, you have done a stellar job. And suffice it to say that no one around here is complaining about my... uhhm... well-endowedness of late. My cups runneth over indeed. And how can I forget about the silky, thick hair? And the nails that I need a hacksaw to trim? Yes, I am a walking commercial for hair and nail products, and believe me, that Breck girl hair will be sorely missed after I have the baby and it all goes down the drain. Literally. That's why I am taking time to enjoy it now - gather ye rosebuds while ye may, and all that, right?

But since I am here having this little heart to heart, there are a few things that have been, how shall I put it?, less than optimal in the side effects department. Again, I'm not trying to criticize, (I totally love you girls!), I'm just saying that these are a few of my less-favorite things.

P . . . I could really do without the stuffy nose and the breathlessness. See, the stuffy nose goes a long way toward creating breathlessness on its own, so the one-two punch of nose and breathlessness really makes lugging a squirming 25 pound 15 month old sort of impossible. We both know I am only going to get bigger, so I need all the breath I can get.

And we have got to talk about the bathroom habits you have created. I need to spend both more and less time in the bathroom these days; I need less time doing one thing and more time doing another, if you catch my drift. Considering that I rarely got private bathroom privileges before I was pregnant, I am getting a little weary of all the foot traffic through des toilettes these days.

E . . . I don't want you to overreact, you know how I feel about what a great job you are doing. It's just that sometimes you seem to make me a little touchy to certain things. Like shower curtains being open instead of closed. Or the blinds on the bedroom windows being at uneven heights. Or the sound of Rob breathing at night. I think my family may suspect that I've become a werewolf, what with the howling, my changeable moods, and all that hair, but I know it's just you and me working out some kinks. I'm wishing we could catch a little break from the emotional roller coaster.

And while we're talking about breaks, let's jump right to the break-outs. You had to know I was going to bring this up, given the amount of time I spend inspecting my pores at the bathroom mirror (since I'm already in there forty times a day, right P?) I just want to let you know how disheartening it is to buy acne cream and anti-wrinkle cream, and not just because evil cosmetics corporations charge desperately wrinkly, pimply women exorbitant amounts of money for creams that don't deliver what they promise. Let me just say that at some point, after she has turned thirty, a woman kind of starts to expect that she won't have to walk around looking like a 15 year old actress wearing age makeup. She starts to pin her hopes on the clear skin of adulthood, and she may even start to look forward to using rich night creams and other things that don't make her eyes water with salicylic acid. Then, when she sees that she is still breaking out and she is past thirty and she now has little wrinkles on top of the acne, well, she might start to weep into the bathroom sink. I'm just saying.

I know I've said it before, but I know you are just doing your jobs, and I want you to do your jobs. And really, your hands are kind of tied anyway, since you are busy keeping the baby healthy, which is the most important thing to me anyway. I guess I just needed to get some things off my chest, and maybe to let you know that, as long as the baby is staying healthy and all other things being equal, I could probably do without some of the other side effects. So I'm looking forward to a future of a new baby and breathing and less bathroom time and clear skin - I know you will come through!

Love ya, girls!

Aim

**If you have ever, even once, wondered where I came from or how I got to be the way I am, then take a little detour and click on my comment box. Read the comment from Anonymous, also known as my mother, and all will become clear to you. I found this comment to be exceedingly hilarious, but maybe that's just because I know and love her. The apple doesn't fall far, my friends . . . .