Who's calling?

Looking at my blog, it seems that of late I have been depressed and obsessed with bodily functions. In an effort to steer myself in a new direction, I thought I would quickly post an event that made me smile.

My daughter is obsessed with the phone. It is almost a daily occurrence to have her pick up the phone and say, "I want to talk to someone." (I'm starting to fear her teen years.) Friday we were looking at the post about my mother. Emmalouise saw the picture and asked who it was. I told her it was Nana. "I want to call Nana." "We can't call Nana," I replied, "she's with Jesus." My daughter's response? "I want to call Jesus." I explained to her that she can talk to Jesus any time she wants to but she can't use the phone; she has to pray. She mulled this over as I dialed my sister-in-law's number so that Lulu would have someone to talk to. I handed her the phone. Meg heard it ringing and immediately lit up and says, "Jesus!!"

Ah, the faith of a three year old and her strong conviction that Mom can provide whatever she seeks.

My Mother

Maybe I’m just trying to delay my day or procrastinate doing anything of real import. Maybe I’m just too doggone tired to move more than just my fingers. But I feel like writing. I have been thinking more and more of my mom but I’m not sure how to talk about her with other people. I long so much to do a "remember when..." but to whom should I talk? Many of my friends don’t know her or remember her at all. In particular I have been thinking of the last few weeks and days before she died.

I remember hugging her and snuggling her. I remember that last back scratch – so good! No one could scratch a back like my mom. I remember reading Harry Potter VI to her. I remember her crying over King Benjamin’s discussion of the sufferings of our Savior. I remember Dad and Robert carrying her up the stairs after what was to be her last dialysis session. I remember her delight and joy over all the phone calls and visits from family and friends, particularly those she had not seen in a long time. I remember "dancing" our way to the bathroom as I helped her walk across the floor. I remember sorting all of her pills into morning and night and trying to ensure she got the proper medication. I remember having to sort all those pills back into their proper bottles when they were no longer needed. I remember giving her a sponge bath and struggling with my feelings of, I shouldn’t be doing this but being comforted by the love and gratitude in her eyes and knowing that it was a service. I remember rubbing her feet and putting lotion on her dry legs. I remember her getting up early to say good-bye to my children and to Robert. I remember when she went speedily downhill and the constant thoughts of, "Is she going to go now?" I remember her labored breathing. I remember sleeping on a terribly uncomfortable couch that Monday night, feeling like I was on death watch. I remember lying with her in the wee hours of the morning as Dad attended to other things. I remember holding her hand and just rubbing her fingers with my thumb, feeling her paper flesh and desperately wanting, needing a close physical connection to my mother who was about to leave me for the rest of my life. I remember being torn – wanting to stay with Mom but her sisters were all around her and wanting to be with Dad who was alone at work. Choosing to go to work with Dad, I am so grateful that she called us back when it was her time. I remember standing there and watching, almost out of my body, as she tried to breathe and to talk with Dad. I remember Dad speaking with her telling her it was okay to go. I remember when she died – we all stood around wondering, "Is she really gone?" I remember Dad crying out, "Oh my love," and holding her one last time. I remember that the real time of death was 2:30pm and not 2:45pm as "officially" recorded. I remember Aunt Judy stating, "I wonder what it’s like." I remember trying to close her jaw so she wouldn’t by open mouthed in death. I remember her cold hands. I remember strangers carrying her away and the emptiness of her bed afterward.

I remember dressing her for the funeral. It was joyful with many aunties and my sisters-in-law. I remember that it was hard for me to look at her because it wasn’t my mom. There was no smile and no animation. I remember her cold hands. I remember embalming fluid coming out of her nose when we jostled her too hard. It looked like blood and for one brief moment I thought, "This is all a trick and she’s still alive." I remember having to leave her there in that room. I remember turning to say, "Come on Mom, time to go," before I remembered that she couldn’t leave with us.

I remember going to Aunt Judy’s house and seeing all the aunties busy – busy arranging flowers, lots of Alaskan wildflowers – for Mom’s funeral; busy attaching tatted lace to handkerchiefs and embroidering Mom’s initials and death date on the corner of the hankie; busy helping each other and loving each other.

I remember the viewing. I wanted so badly to be the one to lower her veil but I knew that was Dad’s right. Contradictorily, I didn’t want to go near her because the dead body creeped me out. Zombies scare me and what was left seemed closer to a zombie than my mom.

I remember the funeral. I loved all the words, the pictures. I loved people discovering in full how amazing my mom was and thinking, "Yep, she was amazing and she was MY mom!" I remember the good food and how it didn’t really taste like much to me. I remember hugs and pictures, laughter and chatter. I remember Dad leaving with Mom, taking that last walk/drive to the crematorium.

I remember crying and crying and crying and crying until I couldn’t breathe. I remember lying in bed trying to sleep only to have thousands of memories crowing in my mind until I was crying and crying. I remember taking sleeping pills to try to sleep and running from God who had taken my mom. I remember missing her – missing her smile, her laugh, her gentleness and her love.

I remember coming home and feeling like this was a strange place. I remember having to struggle to remember to be a mom myself and to take care of my family. I remember sitting in church and hearing, "I love you," distinctly in my ear and being unsure if it was my Savior or my mother but knowing that it didn’t matter which.

I remember speaking to my mother when I was in the celestial room and pouring out my concern and thoughts about my new step-mother. I remember her assuring me all was well, that she loved me and that I needed to support and love my father. I remember feeling her close and just wishing I could see her and hold her.

I remember the memories becoming more vague. I remember looking at a picture of my mom and me, taken eight months before she died, and thinking, "Was she real? Did she really do all these things?" I remember my mother beginning to feel further and further away, less and less a part of my reality. And yet I miss her still.

Most days I have a great spirit of peace about her passing and I am grateful to my Lord that she went home. But there are days still when I miss her with such an intensity, when I cry and I ache for my mother. Every time I have a crisis in my life, I seem to wonder around my house at loose ends trying to find my mother and the comfort and love only she can bring.

I wish my children could have known her more. I wish she was still here to grant me her wisdom. I wish time didn’t seem to pass so slowly on this side of the veil. And yet I know that my time to see her is inching its way closer. I feel a need to ensure that my life has been well spent so that when I see her again she will be pleased with me.

I remember that I love my mother. I remember that she is mine and I am hers. I remember that God has allowed us to be an eternal family. I am grateful for Him and grateful that He gave me her, for whatever time I had.

Restroom #486

There are moments I look around me and wonder how did I get here. I'm being very literal. Today I looked around the back working innards of a butcher's shop and wondered, "How did I get here?" The answer was found in my little blonde and not quite 4-year-old daughter who had to pee. I find this to be a typical situation for me. Some people have children who will only use bathrooms which they have investigated thoroughly and have been approved by the local health department. Even then, they may hesitate if this bathroom is not actually located in their home. My children, on the other hand, view every new bathroom as a life-fulfilling adventure; in moments like these I loathe their strong sense of independence.

A couple of years ago I boarded a plane bound for Alaska with a 18-month old lap child in diapers (really, they may as well just give her my seat), a 4 1/2 year old who was potty trained and a 6 1/2 year old who was well versed in all things bathroom. I made sure that we went to the bathroom before loading the plane. However, Quinn's eyes lit up the moment he realized there was a toilet on the plane. "Really?" Taking a child to the bathroom in an airplane lavatory is exceeded in difficulty only by trying to change a diaper in said lavatory; I speak from experience on both matters.

Net result, I have been to airplane bathrooms with small children. I have been into women's bathrooms, family bathrooms and yes, on occasion, men's bathrooms (the joys of having sons). I have been in more port-a-potties than I can count. (The port-a-potties made for the handicapped are nice and roomy but I wouldn't recommend the port-a-potties located at ball fields during the last game of the season; the sights and smells continue to haunt my nightmares.) We are intimately acquainted with every bathroom in countless friends' homes, our in-laws', two local elementary schools, our favorite park, our local library, our church, our stake center in Eugene, our local...no, two...three...FOUR grocery stores and Walmart. We have passing reference to the bathrooms in a few area churches, every rest stop between here and Hwy 18 in Tacoma, Washington (no hyperbole used here), the South Lane Rural Fire Department as well as every inch of local roadway and the vast wooded areas of Western Oregon (okay, slight hyperbole on that last bit).

Today, I add Custom Meats to that list. I had never before seen a real hanging side of beef. Check that one off my list. I turned the door handle to open the bathroom door and came away with a booger sized piece of raw meat. *Sigh* "Do you really have to pee?" "I can't hold it." The toilet was clean, the soap dispenser filled and paper supplied. (I suppose I should be grateful to the know that the sanitary facilities in a meat packing place are so well maintained as there will be no traces of urine in my ground round.) I will also always be grateful that there seems to be no end to the number of strangers who will allow someone to use their restroom facilities when they see this person accompanied by a small person dancing and clutching her crotch in front of them.

But this topic is far too narrow because right behind the "How did I get here" question is the "What am I doing here" question. Again, this is completely literal. There are moments when I look at myself in these assorted bathrooms and, as if having an out of body experience, wonder who that weirdo over there is and what the heck is she doing?! I have made "hand puppet" shows over the tops of bathroom stall doors, encouraging my little proteges to pee. I have, of necessity, used the bathroom while my children were present at some point in each of their lives. I have sung songs to them. I have said things like, "You really don't need to get naked to poop," and "Please don't touch that" with a touch of hysteria in my voice. I have reminded to wipe, to flush and to wash hands. I have cautioned against "sword fighting" with streams of pee. I have asked boys to aim better and ensure that all the urine ends up in the toilet. I have placed Cheerios in the toilet for floating targets; a peanut M&M as proof that the dolly went poop, why don't you? I have told stories about poop wanting to go down the water slide and how much fun this was for their poop. I have disinfected children after they finished exploring port-a-potties.

Ultimately, "How did I get here?" and "What am I doing here?" can both be answered quite deftly with the living fact of children and all their idiosyncrasies and, of course, the glue that holds the universe together: poop and pee. And my strong desire to have to touch as little of that glue as possible.

867-5309

I am continually amazed with the changes of life. We work so hard to plan, prepare and forecast the future only to have "acts of God" suddenly breeze into life and turn everything up onto its tail. I find that this happens with many of my blessings in life as well as trials. I had been thinking about my family's struggles a few months ago when Robert and I watched The Nativity Story for the first time. I have read this story countless times in my life, but new things always pop out at me in God's timing. This time I was impressed with the visit of the wise men bearing gifts of great riches. Here was this impoverished little family who was allowed a short pause in a stable to give birth and enjoy those first tender moments with their new son. In only a few more moments they would be traveling to Egypt to escape the cruel narcissism of Herod. It had been everything they could do to make the trek to Bethlehem and now they were going to have to travel further with very little in the way of material support. In walks these wise men from the East, whom Mary and Joseph wouldn't even have guessed were on the way, with gifts of great wealth. God provided for His son. I have no doubt that these gifts helped sustain them on the journey to Egypt and even beyond. I think about this in my own life. More times than I can count the solutions to my dilemmas have come not necessarily from my own planning or the solutions I designed, but from some God breeze that I never saw coming. His tendermercies humble me and remind me that I am not in control, no matter how much I try to delude myself. Such a reminder came this weekend in the form of a tiny kitten.

I got a call from my neighbor Saturday morning. She had something to show me. I came over and there was this tiny orange tabby cat softly mewing in her kitchen. The cat had been left behind at a meeting she attended, discarded by her owner. My friend had brought her home thinking to keep her. I walked the cat across the street to show her to my kids. Next thing I know, my neighbor can't keep her, but could I? Hmmm....I've been wanting a cat but this is terrible timing. We're cash poor for the next few months while Robert transitions to his new job, holidays, birthdays and buying a pig and half a cow. But where would this kitty go? To the humane society?! If ever there was a misnomer, I think that association counts! Heart strings pulled, we decide to keep the kitty but I am in severe denial. The whole while I'm looking at this kitten and wondering if this is one of those acts of God, a blessing momentarily disguised as a trial. I'm still up in the air on this. The kitten, Jenny we named her, is covered in fleas. My friend gave her a flea bath the night before she took her home and I just gave her another tonight. My husband oh so patiently picked out each flea after her bath, no small feat given that she is a long-haired cat. My husband also set up a little bed for her after her bath on a heating pad. Jenny sleeps right now in seventh heaven. I have to call the vet tomorrow. One of her eye's is goopy and may have a cold in it. There will be shots and now a litter box to clean as we get the kitten house broke. Let's not forget that we are leaving town this weekend and she will have to stay somewhere else. (Thank goodness for in-laws!)

But in all of this there is still that something in me that keeps thinking this will end up being a blessing for my family and for me even though now it is a monstrous burden wrapped up in a few ounces of orange fluff. Right now, Jenny has shown me the marshmallow heart of my husband, an avowed cat hater, who has tenderly cared for the kitten even to the point of letting it curl up with him as he tried to take a Sunday afternoon nap. "She wouldn't stop meowing so I had to do something," he gruffly states to defend his actions. Right now, Jenny is giving me hope that as I tend this kitten, so to will my Father tend me. If we, being evil, can care for her with such immediate tenderness and love, how much more will my Father, who has known me since before my birth, take care of me? Right now, Jenny is proof of love and goodness and somehow, odd as it may sound, a wisp of my mother. Right now, Jenny is the balm of Gilead for my heart. Who knows what tomorrow may bring and if I may still feel weepy eyed over this kitten, who will undoubtedly claw at my furniture, defecate in inappropriate places, meow all night giving us no sleep, require time, attention and money we don't have, but right now, there is a feeling in my soul that this is the right choice.

Gifts of the Plague

It all started so innocently. I went to take a short nap after my boys had arrived home from school. I had been horizontal for a few moments when the boys came in (they still do not understand the concept that emergency means someone gushing blood or the house literally being on fire). "Lulu's tired and needs a nap." Good enough. Emmalouise comes in and snuggles up with me. I'm thinking, "Bonus!" Now I can get some extra sleep minutes as I will have to stay with my daughter to ensure she gets a good nap. Five minutes after she falls asleep, my father-in-law calls. He has just had the cows killed and I need to come pick up the livers and cheeks. Yea. Do I have to go now? Absolutely. OK. . . .

I let Lulu sleep for fifteen minutes (power napping is good even for 3 year old) and off we go. Cow pieces are loaded in the van and Lulu and I sit visiting with Grandma. Lulu won't get off my lap. She's feeling warmer and warmer; by golly, she has a fever! Grandma had open heart surgery four months ago. Time to go.

We head home and Emmalou doesn't want me to leave her -- not very conducive to getting dinner prepared. Suddenly, Quinn is feeling warmer . . . and warmer. Next thing I know, I am snuggled up with two feverish children who both desperately need Mom. Dinner was a hasty, Dad prepared meal of grilled cheese sandwiches. We administer ibuprofen all around and put the littles to bed. Whew. Sigh of relief. We are sure they will be markedly better by morning. Ah, it is good to have moments of blissful ignorance! Phase two hits: the croupy cough.

They hack all night long and by morning my 3 year old baby girl sounds like an alto-ranged, two packs-a-day, piano bar singer. We make it through the morning by the grace of ibuprofen administered at 6am. Then afternoon hits -- happily they nap, so peaceful. Who knew two hours could last only two seconds? They're awake and miserable. "Mommy, I need you." "I'll sit with you for two minutes." "Okay." "Alright, I need to go start dinner. Can I go now?" "No, not yet," says my girl. Again, Dad makes an ad-hoc dinner which is actually quite tasty (I highly recommend marrying a chef). Again with the ibuprofen. We put the kids to bed in my bed with lots of pillows hoping to have them sleeping at an angle to aide in breathing. I head off to Walmart for chicken noodle soup, cough suppressant and milk and bread. Get in the car after shopping and drive out of the parking lot only to realize that I've forgotten the milk and bread. Back to Walmart. Back to the car. Back to remembering something I've forgotten but decide, "To heck with it, I'm going home." I arrive home only to discover that my children are going ape and are having a great time running around now that their fevers have been artificially reduced and their sore throats aren't quite so sore. Why was ibuprofen a good idea?

They finally settle down and fall asleep. A few hours later I smoosh in between the two to catch my own zzz's. You'd think after being a mom for almost 9 years I would understand a few things. You'd think I would realize that sleeping with one sick child is difficult, therefore sleeping with two sick children is impossible. No. In my momentary insanity brought on by love for my children and concern with their well being (it's nerve racking when you hear them struggling to breathe), I throw all previous knowledge to the wind and sleep between my two sick children. Sleep here being as accurate a description as the word slumber in the phrase "slumber party." They hack and cough and twist and turn and kick and wake up and whine and cry ALL NIGHT LONG. They are thoughtful enough to do this in shifts so that I only have to deal with one child at a time. My only thought is of Thomas Paine: "These are the times that try men's souls." Most people think he was speaking of the Revolutionary War but I know he was actually discussing his own personal experiences with his sick children.

Friday passes fairly uneventfully. I am able to make dinner without being pulled at by octopus tentacles. Quinn and Lulu go to sleep, propped up in their own beds, slathered with Vicks Vaporub. Saturday moves along and I see the light at the end of the tunnel. By Sunday evening the quarantine has been lifted and we are no longer the house of death. Hooray!

Seriously, it does feel good to leave the house again. The first time I wondered out in the day light after four days of being sequestered I had a momentary feeling of disorientation. "Is this what the outside really looks like?" I wondered. It had been so long. It does feel good to no longer hear the breath rattling around in your child's chest and to hear a normal voice come from your three-year-old's mouth. (Although Lulu would have been better off keeping the cracking/whispering voice as Robert and I could hardly deny her anything when she used it; it was the perfect blend of patheticness and innocence.) And it does feel good to sleep all night long without interruptions from hacking coughs or children's whines.

In the middle of illness, whether it's a cold or the bubonic plague, it is amazing how important the simplest things become. Perhaps this is one of God's ways of reminding us of the myriad of blessing we take for granted. I breathe hundreds of times each day without a second thought, but the moment that breath becomes labored, I remember what a gift each breath is. My children fight, argue, disobey and exasperate me hundreds of times each day. But the moment their existence becomes a question, I realize how precious they are to me and how readily and happily I would relinquish countless nights of sleep for their continued well being. How grateful I am to my God for my three marvelous children and the gifts they bring me each day just by the fact they are alive.

The Case of the Missing Poop

I read a friend's blog about an adventurous evening trying to bathe both of her children which, unfortunately for her, involved poop. The story inspired me and I began to recall some of my own humorous poop stories. I don’t know a mother alive (or dead) who doesn’t have their share of poop stories.

There was the time when Rhys was about 3 ½ when we were over at a friend's house/farm. They went out to check on the horses in the barn. Rhys had to go so he dropped his drawers and pooped right there in the middle of the barn. In three year old reasoning, the barn was where poop belonged and he had to go. I think, frankly, that when you’re three and you have to go, that poop really belongs anywhere – even on the front porch. (Quinn left me that present when he was three.)

Of course, this same house was also where Rhys’ education was displayed as woefully inadequate, according to our friend, Trent. Trent had just finished breeding two of his border collies and was placing each of them in their own kennel. Rhys asked Trent why he was putting the dogs away. Trent said, “They were just bred.” Rhys asked, “Why do they want bread?” Bread has so many more meanings when you are living on a farm then living in a small lot in town where the only breeding is done by snails (and parents, but generally after dark when little children are unaware that anyone would need bread.) But I digress; this is about poop.

Quinn had the happy fortune of being my bath pooper. I remember as a child one of my small cousins (I imagine around three; that seems to be a magical age for poop discoveries) pooped in the bathtub and ensuing chaos (and laughter by those of us uninvolved). I remember being appalled and so grateful that I was not the one who had to clean it up. How would you get poop out of the tub without touching it? Eeew…yuck! Then I had Quinn. It seems that the warm water would relax his bowels and he would poop. It was just an occurrence the first time (Rhys had done it once or twice), frustrating the second, hair pulling the third and eventually all baths were banned for Quinn at a relatively young age (2). (Incidentally, I learned that you can’t get poop out of the tub without touching it as the amount of water involved means that toilet paper melts into little more than white ooze, really, just poop in an earlier stage.) After months and months of showers I decided the boys should have a bath as a treat. Into the tub they went. They were playing with their toys. All was well. I walked away for a brief moment. I left happy boys and returned to hollering. Quinn had pooped. I whipped them out, scoured the tub and disinfected the toys. I figured since the pooping had occurred that we were safe and as the boys still needed a good cleaning, I ran another bath I placed both boys in it, scrubbed them clean and let them play. It was then I learned that it is indeed possible to receive the same gift twice in one night. That was the end of baths for Quinn for the next year.

I currently babysit a little boy by the name of Jeremiah. He was four at the time of this event (about a month ago). Now Jeremiah is a bit of a picky eater. Not quite as bad as Quinn but certainly not the easy going, I’ll-try-anything eater that Rhys and Emmalouise are. Jeremiah, however, loves fruit. During the summer I have scads of fruit from our trees, my in-laws trees, my neighbors’ trees, fruit I have bought at the store and fruit I have bought from the Funny Farm. This time in particular I had a lot of pears, peaches and plums. The magic p’s. One early afternoon Jeremiah had to go poop. He went to the bathroom and did his thing. As a side, Jeremiah is a bit like an old man. He will sit there, elbows on knees and face in hands, for hours. At least it seems that long when you only have one bathroom and someone else is waiting to use it. (Other people dream of homes with a bedroom for every child, a man cave for the man, a media room and a sewing/scrapbook room for the woman; I dream of two bathrooms.) Anyway, the point is, he takes his time and ensures that everything is eliminated. He finished, I cleaned him up and he went on his way to play. A few minutes later he comes tearing into the house. “I have to go poop again,” he yells on the way to the toilet. I go to check on him and he is back to doing his thing. “Cool,” I think, “He’s self-managing the toilet thing and I will have less messes to clean up.” I clean him up and start to help him pull up his underwear. “No,” he hollers, “there’s poop in there.” I look down. Sure enough, the fruit eating had its consequences and his underwear, as well as the toilet, was full of the soft brown stuff. We carefully removed the pants and underwear so as to avoid streaks down the legs or smooshes on the feet or plops onto the floor. As I’m rinsing everything out and cleaning up Jeremiah, Lulu comes running in. “I have to use the potty.” “Well, darling,” I say, “you’re going to have to wait a few minutes.” (Again with the dreaming about two bathrooms.) She runs back outside and I figure that she probably doesn’t really have to go and has distracted herself with outdoor play. Next thing I know Rhys and Quinn are running in to tell me that Lulu is now pooping in the front yard. I’m still up to my elbows in Jeremiah poop and have no energy or patience to deal with Lulu poop. By the time I finish in the bathroom, Lulu is done and her pile is lying neatly in the front yard. And I am done dealing with poop. The dog poops outside and it sits; Lulu’s poop can sit.

Fast forward to the next afternoon. The boys are responsible for picking up Carbon’s poop on a daily basis. Done everyday, it is a fairly easy, while admittedly unpleasant, chore. Today is Quinn’s day and he immediately begins to protest, “I don’t want to pick up Lulu’s poop.” Oh yeah. I forgot that was out there. “Well,” I say, “it’s just poop, just like Carbon’s poop. Just scoop it up and dump in the garbage bag and throw it away.” Quinn sucks up his courage and leaves to go and do. What a good kid! He walks back in the door, “Mom, Lulu’s poop is gone!” Sure enough, no pile. “The flies must have eaten it,” says Quinn. Not likely. What happened to the poop? “Or Carbon ate it,” posits Rhys. I think we have a winner. Eeew…yucky! Not thinking about what most likely happened to said pile of poop, and feeling quite grateful that I don’t let Carbon lick my face, I say, “Well Quinn, just get Carbon’s poop picked up.” He does and we speak no more of the Case of the Missing Poop.

So far, that’s all I can recall of poop stories. (I was so sure there were more!) Gratefully we have reached the end of our potty training days and soon even our three-year old stages will be but a distant memory and with it, God willing, our poop stories as well. Of course my fear is that in years that pass far too quickly, I will be elderly and it will be my children blogging about my poop stories. Perhaps I shouldn’t post this. . . .