A Berry Good Day

Today was the perfect example of everything I missed about Pennsylvania when we lived in other, more southern parts of the country.

See, in Pennsylvania you have the distinct chance of weathering days and days of withering heat and oppressive humidity, only to wake up one morning and find it tantalizingly cool. The rest of the day will be sunny, but not humid, and breezy, with deep blue skies dotted with puffy white clouds. And the temperature will top out at 75. Nice.

As opposed to BLAST FURNACE, which seems to be the default setting for southern summers.

(And I am not knocking the south, I'm just saying that it is dang HOT below the Mason Dixon in the summer. But come and see me in February and I bet you'll find me begging to take a little drive south.)

I popped outside to put something in the car, and I knew right away that we must spend a significant amount of time out of the house. So I took the kids to our local zoo for a surprise picnic, and we had a ball.

Of course, in my haste to pack lunches, change diapers, send everyone to the bathroom to "just TRY!", feed the infant, and corral the toddler, and still manage to leave the house before 3 pm, I forgot the camera.

Ah well, something's gotta give, and I'm just glad it wasn't the lunches. There is nothing that makes my children hungrier than leaving our home. Except going to someone else's house. My children would make great hobos.

Upon our return, we were treated to two big buckets of fresh blueberries, picked and delivered by my mother. While my mom and I sorted out batches of berries to be frozen or used immediately, Sally just stood at the counter shoveling berries into her mouth. I can't blame her, they are so good.

Happily, the forecast calls for a few more days like today. This summer is turning out to be delicious, my friends.

Changing of the Guard

Let's move away from pictures of macerated fingers and dwell on this Lump of Deliciousness, shall we?:

She's such a doll, my friends, and that tiny dimple in her right cheek is too powerful for me to resist kissing. So I usually don't.

She had a big weekend, too, albeit much safer and less traumatic than her sister's. She moved out of the little crib in our room and into the newly vacated big crib in "the nursery."

Sally, after having spent all the nights of her life in the big crib, has finally moved in with Francie. And Mopsy, who has begun using her legs to scoot around her bed, was finding the mini-crib too confining. It was beyond time for a good game of musical beds.

Still, even though everyone is so much more comfortable and happy, I feel the growing pains.

The big crib is the family crib. It is the crib we bought with gift money for the first baby we brought home. It is the crib we dragged along with us in the military.

Fiver used to lay in this crib, so calmly and silently, until someone came to find him smiling up sweetly every morning.

I watch Mopsy stare in delighted amusement at the dangling mobile, and I can remember Bun doing the same thing. Wasn't that just yesterday?

Sally was just a little thing in that crib, but that was four years ago. Years, not days.

When I laid Francie in that crib nearly eleven years ago, I could never have imagined the sweet babies that would follow her. When I put away her outgrown clothes, I wondered if I'd ever have another daughter who would use them.

And now here she is, Mopsy, another daughter after another daughter after two sons, sleeping soundly on the dreams that her siblings have dreamed.

And She'll Have Fun, Fun, Fun, Til She Ends Up In The ER . . .

So, our summer has really gotten exciting. If your idea of excitement is going to a carnival and ending up in the emergency room, that is.

It looks like Francie, she of the tiny hands, will not be practicing piano any time soon, thanks to the injury she sustained this week. Of all my children to need an ER visit, I would have put Francie at the bottom of the list, but you never know when a freak accident will occur.

Her hand will eventually be fine, so I am sure that enables me to remain much more calm about the whole affair.

On Thursday night, the children and I headed down the highway to my parents' town and went to their annual parish festival. It's something we all look forward to, and since we missed it last year, we definitely wanted to squeeze it in this year.

It's about an hour's drive, so that meant Rob, who was on call, could not come with us, but I knew I'd have plenty of help once I got there, so we went ahead without him.

I should have known right then that I had just signed up for illness or injury, because it often seems to be the case that Rob is not with us when I have to handle blood or vomit. And it's a shame because he handles it so much better than me. He's a trained professional.

The night had been lovely, and right before it was time for us to go, Francie and I headed off to ride The Hanglider. The Hanglider is one of those rides where you sit in a car similar to a Ferris wheel, but the wheel moves fast and sideways and kind of flings your car out as you come around.

Francie and I love it, and we ride it every year that I'm not pregnant. So we haven't gotten to ride it much in the past few years.

We had our ride, and we were ready to get out of our car when The Incident (as Francie calls it) happened.

The ride operator (and I will not be mean, but he did not look like he had it all together) unlocked the bar across us and quickly flung it wide open so that it would not swing back and lock again. All standard procedure for his job.

What no one knew was that Francie had not cleared her hands yet, and the door swung back and crushed her middle finger on her left hand.

I saw her from the corner of my eye, and then I heard her scream. Not crying. SCREAMING.

She kept screaming as she held up her hand and blood poured down her arm. There was so much blood that I couldn't even see the injury. And that's when my adrenaline kicked in.

I jumped out of the car and picked her up. We ran past the ride operator, who didn't say anything. I don't even think he knew what had happened.

I held her hand up as blood kept pouring down her arm and then down my arm, and we ran past all the people waiting in line to ride. I'm sure we were very reassuring to them.

Luckily, I could see an EMS station right down the hill and so we ran -- me trying to put pressure on a wound I couldn't see, and Francie screaming her head off, calling for her father.

The EMTs were very nice, and as they tried to distract Francie I could hear them talking to each other about her finger possibly being crushed. They washed her wound very well, but I still couldn't see it because I had to keep Francie calm.

They put two band-aids on it and sent us on our way, but they were soaked through in about two seconds. This girl was bleeding. A LOT.

Both of my brothers were working at the festival, and thank God that my youngest brother saw us and applied a good pressure dressing to Francie's finger. By this point, she was ill from crying and the pain and I just hustled everyone to the car.

I called Rob on the way home and told him the whole story, and when we finally made it back home and put all the other children in bed, he sat Francie down to have a look.

Rob unwrapped my brother's pressure dressing, which was soaked with blood, and then peeled off the top band-aid. He didn't go any farther, he just said "Hmmm." That's not exactly what I like to hear from him. I knew that "hmmm" meant he was unhappy with the way it looked.

That "hmmm" meant "hospital" in Dad-Speak.

I finally got a peek at part of her injury and I'm not going to lie: it was ugly looking and I was afraid that she had really damaged the tendons in her fingers.

The tip of her finger was a dusky purple color and Rob could see the top of a cut that was deep. Or, as he said, "I can see subcutaneous fat. We need to get her checked."

My sister, God bless her heart, drove over to sit with the rest of the sleeping kids while we took Francie to the hospital.

We waited for a long while, and Francie, who was exhausted from pain, fell asleep. When the doctor finally saw her, he confirmed what Rob had suspected.

She had a deep laceration that would require stitches and there was blood collecting under her nail that was causing her a significant amount of pain. She would need some holes put in her nail to release the blood. He also wanted an xray to make sure she did not have a broken finger.

He asked us about pain medication, and that's when Francie rolled over, looked him in the eye, and said "YES!" She comes by that honestly.

Thankfully, after the xray came back, we saw that she did not have a crushed or broken finger. She just needed the blood under her nail drained and then have her cut stitched.

The doctor gave her a digital block, which means he injected pain medication into the nerves on either side of her finger, and then he set to work.

I was so proud of Francie in the ER. She, who usually has a fit of tears over a paper cut, was so brave and she did not cry. I've talked to several adults who have had a similar kind of crush injury, including my dad, and every single one of them have said that it is terribly painful.

My girl held up really well. She was afraid, but we were able to talk with her and distract her while the doctor worked on her finger.

By the time we were leaving the hospital, she was looking tired, but in much less pain. She keeps her stitches in for ten days, and she might lose her nail although that is looking less likely from the way she is healing. Compared to what could have happened, her injuries look minor. She could have easily had nerve or tendon damage, crushed the bone, or lost the tip of her finger.

But there is no follow-up care, other than keep your hands clear of the doors on carnival rides, of course. We are so thankful.

So, how's your summer going? Hopefully crush-free . . .

Warning: pictures of her hand from this evening's bandage change. I can't begin to tell you how much better her finger already looks.

The doctor made four small holes to drain the blood. It's a great sign that the nail is not black and you can actually see her cuticle.

This is the stitched tip of her finger where she had her deep laceration.

This is her finger pad, which got chewed up but didn't need stitching.

And This Is Why We Worry

Sally, with three little dolls and a small swimming pool playset, holds one (mostly naked) doll aloft and declares:

I'm the NAUGHTIEST one at the beach! Whee!

She, and her very pink cake, had a fine day.

And when I realized that we were singing Happy Birthday at precisely 7:07 pm, the very moment of her birth four years ago, I managed to NOT clutch her to my bosom, weeping at the swift passage of time.

But it was a close shave.

Sally. Fourth.

Sally, my lovely love. It's hard to believe that we first saw your sweet face only four years ago.

And yet, it's been a lifetime since that quiet, rainy Friday night. Your lifetime.


You are so dear to us, Sally girl, with your hair like honey and your eyes like sapphires.

With your seven hundred purses, full of lip gloss and Matchbox cars.

With your frilly dresses and dirty knees.

You are so much fun to be around, and I'll tell you a secret: you are the baby that made Daddy and me want to have a thousand more babies.

You've brought us so much joy.

You are the exact middle of our family, with a sister and brother before you and a sister and brother after you.

That's a pretty special spot, my love. It takes a strong girl to hold that position.

So today we will sing to you in your bed, while you are still warm with sleep.

We will let you apply as many coats of lip gloss as you want.

We will not object when you want to wear your Sunday best out in the dirt pile.

You will have your pink cake with pink frosting, and you will eat it, too.

And above all, we'll make sure you know that it's the center that holds.

We love you, Sally. Happy Birthday.

Dear Old Dad

This guy pictured here?

Well, he pretty much rocks our world. Daily.

The kids think he has all the answers in life, and most of the time they are correct. He is loving, cheerful, hardworking, prayerful, humble, tender, tough, merciful, and he always lets me have the remote.

I don't know if it gets better than that.

It's such a crying shame that our popular culture/media treats fathers the way they do: stupid, lazy, neglectful, or easily manipulated by smart, sassy wives and children. Either that, or they are absent altogether.

I'd just like to tell our culture that I've had so many good lessons from the fathers I've known and loved:

My grandfather taught me what it meant to suffer heroically, gracefully, and silently as he battled a disease that weakened him for over twenty years before he finally passed.

My husband has taught me that having a strong and loving father really does make a difference in a child's life. Every kind and chivalrous thing he does, he learned by watching his father.

But . . .

My father taught me what duty to your family means, even when you don't have the benefit of a sterling example from your own father. He is proof to me that you are never limited by your circumstances or doomed to repeat the past.

Dads rule. I'm just sayin'.

Happy Father's Day to all the dads out there. Forget the commercials and television shows - we love you and we can't do without you!

What's In A Name?

I read in a book once that a rose by any other name would smell as sweet,
but I've never been able to believe it. I don't believe a rose WOULD be as nice
if it was called a thistle or a skunk cabbage."

— from "Anne of Green
Gables," by L.M. Montgomery

I was talking with a friend recently, and somehow we got onto the subject of names and their meanings.

It's probably one of my favorite subjects to ponder, as evidenced by the multiple "name your baby" tomes I have lying around. (Unsolicited tip to first time parents: all the books have essentially the same names. And you can find them all on the internet for free.)

I love going through my baby name books to see which names we bandied about during all my different pregnancies. It's funny to realize that I am still attracted to all of the names we picked, but how obviously NOT RIGHT they were for the particular children I have.

Some unused names on the short list for my children?:

Girls: Isabel, Margaret, Charlotte, Lydia
Boys: Henry, Asher, Joseph, Charles

Maybe one day I'll get to use some more of these names, but anyone who knows my children in real life knows that these names just don't fit them.

For me, the meaning of the name is just as important as the way the name sounds. More than once, when faced with a choice between two equally lovely names, Rob and I have been completely won over by the meaning of the name we ultimately chose.

My own name, which as a child I thought sounded too "baby-ish" (whatever that means . . . I WAS a baby, for crying out loud!), has always been redeemed by its meaning.

Aimee means "beloved." Pretty awesome, right? I mean, in one little name, I get the gift of knowing that my parents thought me lovable from the get-go.

And I'm also pretty tickled with the fact that my name states right out: "beloved." It's just already there, built-in love. Bam.

Robert's name means "bright fame," and although I'm pretty sure his parents picked his name for family reasons, I think the meaning suits him.

I don't think of it as meaning famous in the way of a celebrity, but more of his character. He's such a good soul, that he is like a light to others. People naturally follow his example, especially my sons, which thrills me.

All of our children have very traditional names, many of which come from family and all of them are saints' names as well. A kid's got to have a go-to saint after all.

Francie's real name is Hebrew, and it originally meant "bitter," but there are other meanings for her name that I like better. Plus, she is named after the greatest woman EVER.

I won't say any more, but if you're feeling clever, you may have guessed it already. Besides, she goes strictly by a family nickname -- so much so, that most people don't even know her real name and are shocked to learn it.

Her middle name means "great one." That might seem hard to live up to, but so far she's got it in the bag.

I just love that Fiver's name means "little ears" or "he who hears," especially considering all of his early hearing trouble. I just like to think that was God's little way of making sure Fiver was only listening to love, to what really matters.

And his middle name means "God is gracious." You better believe it.

Sally's name couldn't be more perfect for her, even though we had a hard time deciding on it. Her first name means "full of grace," which is appropriate for our girl who spends her time dancing from place to place. Her middle name means "industrious," and once Sally is on a project, there is no way that project is not getting finished.

For Bun, we chose his name more for the way it sounded and the family connection than for its meaning. His name means "Supplanter," which is kind of weird when I think about it in terms of our family alone.

To supplant means to supersede or replace, usually in a dynastic context. Unfortunately, Bun was not born into royalty, so he'll have to muddle through somehow. Besides, he's a second son, so he would have been the one promised to the church. Maybe I'll just promise him to the church anyway.

And Mopsy's name means "God is my oath." How can you go wrong with God as your oath, right? And her middle name means "light," which she already is. She smiles so much that the kids call her Sunshine.

All of this name talk makes me interested to know about you, my friends. Do you like your own name and what it means? Is there another name you wish was your own, like Anne Shirley when she wished so hard to be called Cordelia by Marilla?

What about your children? Did you pick names based on sound, family history, meaning, a combo of all of the above? Are your children's names a perfect fit, or is there something you always wished you had named them and didn't?

Do tell!

Lucky 13

Well, I didn't mean to take a 12 day blogging break, but Life decided I should.

(Why is that last week of school about ten times busier than any other week of school during the year? They are only there for half-days, but they sure make those half-days count!)

And, if you can bear it, I must stay away for one more day. (I'm absolutely SURE you can bear it.)

I belong to my man today, who is home from work. We were married on this day, thirteen years ago, and it feels like the blink of an eye.

In my whole life, there is no decision of which I have been more sure than my decision to marry Rob. I don't even consider it a decision as much as an inevitability. It is the smartest thing I have ever done.

I've worried about school, jobs, homes, finances, and the children - oh Lord, I've worried about the children since I found out they were on their way! - but Robert? Never. Not once. Not even one tiny little bit.

I know what a gift that is, and it's not at all a bad way to start a marriage.

Oh, they say when you marry in June,
You're a bride all your life.
And the bridegroom who marries in June
Gets a sweetheart for a wife.
. . . .

By the light of the silvery moon
Home you ride, side by side
With the echo of Mendelssohn's tune
In your hearts as you ride

For they say when you marry in June,
You will always be a bride.

"June Bride," from "Seven Brides for Seven Brothers"

Two Months

Hmmm . . . why is my mother bothering me with the camera?

Oh well, I'll give her a kiss anyway!

Hey, what's up? Oh, I am!



Look deep into my eyes . . . you are getting sleepy . . . oh wait, you are always sleepy . . .