Disappointment, Truth, And Chocolate Cake

October 6, 2014 / Julie / 1 Comment

Is it Monday yet?

Because I’m really, really done with last week. With the last fortnight, actually. (“Fortnight” – let’s bring back that word. Isn’t it delightful?)

In the last fortnight the members of our household have suffered: a (thankfully, minor) car accident, a decently bad fall, a fever, a mild stomach bug, an ear infection, a glass shattering high enough up that we needed to clean a fine dust of glass off half the kitchen, two thwarted birthday celebrations before we hit upon a successful one, enough internet connectivity issues to make me somewhat concerned for my mental health, and a pickle juice spill in the refrigerator. (You might think that last one’s silly, but you didn’t have to clean out the refrigerator.)

Lesson: Steer clear of our family right now. You don’t want to be standing next to us when whatever’s-coming-next happens.

Folded into that litany of woes were two great disappointments for yours truly: First, due to my boy’s little stomach bug, I had to miss Jen Fulwiler’s talk at the Catholic Information Center in DC. And second, what “should” have been a nice evening of board meeting/reception/birthday dinner/walk by the water/maybe-even-ice-cream turned into a sad, stressful, embarrassing couple of hours of trying to distract my boy from the intense pain in his ears. And stop him screaming. (Poor boy – he suffered all those ailments in the span of three days.)

However, as disappointments sometimes do, these gems helped me recognize a few truths:

1) It’s not so awful to miss out on a good thing when you do so for the sake of someone you love. I’m definitely an angsty, crying-over-spilled-milk type of person by nature, so I surprised myself a little last Monday evening when I wasn’t a whiny, resentful mess over missing Jen’s talk. In fact, once the decision to stay home was made, I relaxed. I gained some clarity. I left my dress laid out on the bed and took my freshly-made-up face downstairs to spend some time with my sickly boy. We snuggled on the sofa and read his brother’s new books. I don’t do that often enough – just sit with him on the sofa to read. It was a lovely silver lining to our disappointing change of plans and it felt so right and so good.

2) Small children don’t care as much about plans as grown-ups do. My middle son turned three last week. Because we had a commitment the evening of his birthday, I made a few days’ worth of birthday plans so we could fit in everything I thought necessary to “properly” celebrate the occasion. Then most everything went wrong.

On Sunday, when we were to have our birthday dinner as a family – spaghetti and “wochate cake”* and presents and all – our oldest son and Brennan’s mother were both unwell. They ended up half-way joining us for the meal, present but not entirely so. Most of the birthday boy’s gifts (all but the bedtime books) were put off for another day. We sang “Happy Birthday” tired and deflated and sad about the unwell grandma and the glassy-eyed, red-cheeked, somber little boy who just needed to go to bed. We ate just a little bit of cake.

When they don't eat their cake, you know they're sick.

You’ve got to be sick when you won’t eat your cake.

On Tuesday (the actual birthday), we were due to head to Annapolis. I was to attend a board meeting while Brennan watched the boys, then we were all to attend an informal little reception. Afterward we planned to walk toward the water for a pizza dinner, maybe some ice cream. But as soon as we arrived, (though he’d seemed perfectly fine all day) my oldest son mentioned that his ear hurt.

Soon, that little off-hand comment turned into full-on wailing. The poor child couldn’t stop moving; he seemed to be trying to walk away from the pain. He wandered around, screaming. “My ear huuurts! I want Daaaddy!” (Daddy had gone to the drug store for some Children’s Advil.) “I want to go hooome!” (Please understand that this might be the first time in his life that this child has ever uttered those words. Our little social butterfly would usually rather be anywhere but home.) I tried to help. I sat on some steps and tried to hold him, to comfort him, but he was beyond comforting. All he wanted from me was pain relief, but until Daddy arrived, I couldn’t provide any.

But the birthday boy? (Getting back to my point now – promise.) He was fine. I could wish that he’d had enough empathy to be concerned about his brother’s plight, but I’m really just glad he was fine. He followed us around wherever we walked, singing and performing and pretending that a formal little flourish to the concrete steps was a trophy he’d won racing back and forth across the lawn. He showed me how fast he could go. He threw himself down on the ground and rolled in the grass. He ate a little cupcake.

He didn’t care that we’d driven so far for a couple of hours of confusion and concern and wailing. He didn’t care that we never got the pizza or walked along the docks or ate the ice cream. He was fine with pretending to be a race car. He was fine with the mini cupcake. He was fine with the chicken tenders he ate on the way home. He was fine with the frazzled, grumpy parents on his birthday evening. He’d been fine, too, with his sad little birthday meal on Sunday night. He was fine.

The plans, as it turned out, were for me, not him. He had people who loved him and wished him a happy birthday. He had a couple of presents. He had a “wochate”* cake. He was a perfectly happy little boy.

*(When I’d asked him what kind of cake he wanted for his birthday, he answered, “wochate.” “A rocket cake?” I asked. “No, not wocket, wochate.” (They sound the same.) “Oh, you want a chocolate cake? We can do that! But what do you want it to look like?” “Wochate,” he repeated, “wiff eminems.”)

I obliged.

3) As hard as you try, as well as you mean, as much as you plan, sometimes taking your children out into the world is going to go horribly. I’m a very stubborn person. I tend to think I can just force something into place. I tend to think that if I’ve thought something through and tried very, very hard to achieve it, I will. And even though I know theoretically that everything can fall apart for reasons outside of my control, I really don’t expect them to.

So it’s not like I went into Tuesday’s meeting/reception/dinner plans thing on a whim. I usually don’t take my children with me to such events. (Or the mobile children, at least; I routinely bring my infants to meetings.) I’d arranged to have my husband meet me there to watch our boys during the meeting. I knew he’d enjoy chatting with some of the people at the reception anyway. I knew we’d be at a location where the boys could run and play with some freedom. I knew that my boys enjoy being around new people and that they’re generally well-behaved in public. I knew that we’d only be at the reception (i.e. my little people in the same space as all the grown-ups) for about an hour before we walked into the land of pizza and ice cream and water viewing. We weren’t there because of a thoughtless, “Hey, I want to do this thing! Let’s bring everybody, regardless of temperaments/accommodations/situation!” I’d thought it through.

But it didn’t matter! Just as small children don’t care about plans, neither do ear infections. My poor boy was caught unawares by a sudden onslaught of pain, and so were we.

I wish I could tell you that when my child was wandering around that beautiful place, wailing his sad little head off, he was my only concern. But he wasn’t. Though I felt horrible for him and hated how helpless I felt not being able to make him feel better, I was concerned about the other people at the reception too. I felt badly about our family creating such a distraction. I was embarrassed. (What a cliché we must have seemed: harried parents chasing after screaming children!) I was frustrated that I couldn’t force this situation back into place.

Just keep thinking about the cake.

This must sound like another cliché, but I feel like I learn something new from this motherhood gig all the time. And even when the something isn’t entirely new, it becomes more present in my mind or more relevant than I’d previously considered. So it was during this (wonderful! terrific! ha!) past fortnight. And like so much of what I learn, this fortnight’s truths can be boiled down to one simple message:

“Chill, Julie.”

Of Bugs And Crabs: One Hot Mess (Vol. 5)

June 21, 2014 / Julie / 3 Comments

After hosting two big parties and undergoing lots of drama – including snakes and jumping toilets – in the previous two weeks, this week I let out a big sigh of relief: onwards and upwards, turning a new page, and all that.

I had been cooking real meals and going on playdates and helping out friends, when allofasudden we were laid low by those two words that strike fear into the heart of every mother: Stomach. Bug.

Now, as I’ve mentioned before (and much more frequently to my unfortunate friends), vomit is my parenting cross. I am blessed with good sleepers and good teethers and not-so-bad eaters (even if I do hate feeding my children). But vomiting – boy oh boy, are my boys good at that. We went through at least two years of regular gagging-and-vomiting sequences, often multiple times per day.

But my boys had never had a stomach bug. And I knew it was only a matter of time.

Sure enough, on Thursday our time came due. It struck me first: I called Brennan to come home from work (like, now) and I handed off the screaming baby to my mother-in-law. A short while later, I called my newly-returned husband on my cell from upstairs (oh, don’t you love technology) and asked him to go buy some Gatorade.

That’s never a promising request.

(A cute aside: Brennan brought home Powerade instead, which my two-year-old insists on calling “Poweradorade.”)

Several hours later, I was exhausted and depleted and had pulled my neck muscles from the force of it all. Brennan headed downstairs to sleep on the sofa. Just in time for – you guessed it! – the two-year-old to wake up screaming and sick. Then just as we finished cleaning him up, it was the four-year-old’s turn.

It’s a good thing that vomit no longer holds any power over me.

So I spent the rest of the night “enjoying” a little sleepover with my boys, armed with bowls and wet washcloths and “Poweradorade” and Windex.

The next day, thank goodness, the boys were back to their usual wrestling lion cub antics, with a couple of extra naps thrown in to make up for the night before.

But I was a hot mess: weak and exhausted and dizzy, with an awful headache and a terrible pain in my neck. By the time Brennan got home from work, I could barely muster a “Hi. Good night.” before I dragged myself upstairs and into bed, not even bothering to change my clothes.

Oh, well. I knew it was bound to happen at some point. We’re all on the mend and (though I know I shouldn’t dare mention it!) we’re very lucky that the baby didn’t catch the bug.

Beautiful, healthy little thing.

But you know what really stinks? We missed out on crabs!

Brennan and I had lined up a sitter for Friday night. Because we were to go out. Without children. With family. For crabs!

Boo hoo.

Please let next week be kind of “normal.” Please?

Check out more, probably less pathetic Hot Messes over at Blythe’s!

7 Quick Takes Friday (Vol. 16)

September 27, 2013September 28, 2013 / Julie / 3 Comments

— 1 —

You see this cute little stinker?

He’s turning TWO in a few days. (Which, I have to admit, I’ll be kind of relieved to say. Just like his older brother, the kiddo looks about a year older than he is. I always feel a little awkward admitting to people that the child they took as three isn’t even two yet. You should see their eyes bulge when I point to my older son and say, “That one’s three.”)

Anyway, little guy’s birthday is approaching, so I’m entertaining all sorts of mushy thoughts about the swiftness of time’s passage, etc. Don’t worry – I’ll spare you.

Instead I’ll tell you that the kid’s been eating like a little piggy these days. (The last three times I served hot dogs, the child ate two and would’ve gone for a third if I’d let him. Yes, hot dogs. Yes, two. Go ahead and judge.) And I’ll tell you that I think there’s at least a little growth spurt of the brain going on, because he’s spurted out a bunch of new vocabulary in the past couple of days. My favorites have been “Chee Chee Boom Boom!” as in a request for the book “Chicka Chicka Boom Boom.” And also “eddy” (empty), as in: (While shaking his sippy cup) “My cup is empty! Get me some more milk, Mom!” or (while slapping his own little bottom) “No, I don’t have a poopy diaper! It’s empty!”

Genius, that kid is.

— 2 —

While I’m on the subject of my boys, I’ve got to share how pleased I am at some new signs of camaraderie around here. As much as toddlers tend to think first and foremost (only?) of themselves, these boys seem to increasingly see themselves as part of a two-man unit.

There’s all the whimpering and sulking from the little guy when we drop his big brother at school. There’s his delight when we return to pick up the big guy. And there seems to be a lot “we” in the three-year-old’s conversations lately. Last night when I asked the boys if they would like an apple, he answered, “We was sinkin’ about dat.” (sinkin’ = thinking)

The other day the little one came to me, held up his leg, and said, “Ot!” I had no idea what he was talking about. “Are you hurt?” I asked. He shook his head. “Are you hot?” No. “Are you sure your leg isn’t hurt?” No.

I was stumped. So my three-year-old came to my aid. He looked over nonchalantly and said, “He wants you to take his socks off.” The little one nodded vigorously.

“Do you understand everything your brother says?” I asked the big guy. “Umm… Yeah,” he said with a little shrug, as if to add, “Of course I do, Mom. Isn’t it obvious?”

Does this look like camaraderie to you?

— 3 —

I can’t tell you how excited I am to have this sitting before me:

Yes, a little ol’ cup of coffee. I love coffee, especially my husband’s freshly-roasted-at-home-every-other-day variety. (Seriously, once you’ve gotten used to home roasted, there’s no going back.) However, with this pregnancy, just like my first, I have had a strong aversion to the stuff. One day I’m savoring my morning cup, the next day the sight of it makes me want to be sick.

Unfortunately, the aversion eventually extended to my standard second: black tea with lots of lovely milk and sugar. And even hot cocoa wasn’t cutting it. Starbucks’ chai lattes were an acceptable replacement until yesterday, when I could no longer stomach even them.

But! All of a sudden, at precisely 12 weeks, coffee started to look more appealing to me. Thank you, 12 weeks! I’ve never had a pregnancy aversion expire with the first trimester, but this one seems to be (hopefully!) doing so. Wahoo! Off to the store to buy some half-and-half. I am so much happier with a warm cup of something in the morning.

— 4 —

The other day my three-year-old pointed up into these trees and said with delight, “Wook! Dare are fwowers in dose twees!” He’d noticed the uppermost leaves starting to turn. I smiled and shared in his delight and explained to him about leaves changing colors and falling to the ground. It was such a sweet moment.

Later that same day, I listened to this interview with Richard Dawkins on The Diane Rehm Show regarding his new memoir, “An Appetite for Wonder: The Making of a Scientist.” Now, I’m no fan of Mr. Dawkins, but the interview was mostly very interesting and pleasurable to listen to. (I have no problem listening to the ideas and experiences of people who rub me the wrong way. Most ideas interest me to some degree, even if I disagree with them. It’s a certain tone – i.e. hysterics or yelling – that I can’t stand and avoid whenever possible.)

Anyway, the interview included some interesting discussion on wonder, as you might guess from the book’s title. One caller suggested that children have heaps of it, but that adults have none at all, because they’ve been taught to repress it. Or something like that. I’ve heard lots of similar statements before and I’ve always been bewildered by them. Do the people who claim that adults are incapable of wonder really feel no wonder in their own lives? Do they not feel wonder when they stare at their newborn child? Do they not feel it when they take a drive into the mountains? When they see the ocean?

I’m continuously finding wonder in my own life. I may express my wonder differently than my three-year-old does, but I feel it all the same. I find wonder in nature, in my children, in a good read, in the kindness of strangers. When I encounter it, I ponder it and I say a prayer of thanksgiving. I may not shout, “Wow!” but my wonder counts all the same.

— 5 —

Okay, one more light thing before I get into a couple of serious items: I created a Facebook page for the blog yesterday. Hopefully this will turn out way better than my attempt at opening a Twitter account. Then, I (barely) figured out how to open the account, I got precisely three followers, and then I left town on vacation. I haven’t opened the stupid thing since.

I think this little social media push for the blog is likely to go more smoothly, because I at least understand how Facebook works. I use it, in fact. Like, (I won’t admit just how many) times per day. So if you’re on Facebook, I hope you’ll stop on by to “like” my page. I promise to actually use it.

And I’m sure someday I’ll decide to figure out how to use Twitter too. (My biggest hang-up might be that I don’t understand how to get URL’s to go all tiny-like so they fit into a Tweet. Tips, anybody?)

— 6 —

My friend Mary over at Quite Contrary has a great series going on c-sections right now. It’s called “Under the Knife, Under Control: Recovering From a C-Section.” Tuesday she posted an introduction to the series and a description of what it’s like to undergo the procedure. Thursday she posted on helpful preparations for a c-section. Next week she’ll post on logistics and food. If you’ve had a c-section or you’re about to, you’ll find Mary’s series very interesting and helpful.

I certainly found it very interesting, and I’ve never even had the procedure. (And by the way, a lot of Mary’s advice on preparations would be helpful even to those who expect to have a vaginal delivery. So if you’re pregnant, check that one out! I think I’ll be revisiting it around February or March.)

— 7 —

Nearly two months ago, I wrote a little about Nella, who blogs at Is There McDonald’s in Heaven? Nella discovered she had cancer around the same time she discovered she was pregnant with her sixth child. She underwent testing and treatments throughout her pregnancy and ended up delivering prematurely. Thankfully, the baby now seems to be doing well, but Nella’s treatments have continued and intensified since her delivery, and they seem to be catching up with her. Understandably, Nella is tired. On so many levels. In her most recent post, “Where the Rubber Meets the Road,” Nella asks for readers’ prayers.

So much about Nella’s posts are touching and sobering, but I found the following (in “So It Turns Out I Have Cancer”) to be particularly powerful:

You hear a lot about “battling cancer” and “fighting cancer” and I understand what people mean, but that can be a lot of pressure on a patient. A lot of the “fighting” and “battling” looks and feels like doing nothing. It’s hard to reconcile all that brawling everyone’s talking about with laying down and sleeping and watching Downton Abbey reruns and reading blogs but that’s really what it is. Sometimes the battle is really just the battle to sit down and let someone else do the dishes or pack the lunches. Sometimes the battle is telling yourself to sit down and accept help graciously.

I had never thought about this before. Do we do cancer patients a disservice when we talk about their “battle” or their “fight”? If I were in her position, I think I’d feel just like Nella. It would be hard for me to accept that I needed help. It would be hard for me to agree to let others inconvenience themselves for my sake. I’d try to do too much; I’d try to live my “battle” even in the mundane responsibilities of my life. I’m glad that it’s finally sunk in for Nella that her role in this “battle” is to rest and let her medicine and her body do its important work. I hope that I’d have the strength to do the same.

Please join me in praying for Nella – and for everyone else who’s engaged in that terrible “battle” with cancer. Let’s ask for their comfort and strength. Let’s ask for their patience and their humility to accept the help and the rest they need to heal. Let’s ask for guidance for their caregivers. And let’s all try to give the best support we possibly can to our own loved ones with cancer.

***

That’s enough for this Friday. Please stop on by Jen’s to check out the rest of the Quick Takes. Oh, and maybe wish us a little luck for the big two-year-old birthday party this weekend? The little guy is oddly averse to singing and the last couple of times he’s heard the “Happy Birthday” song, he’s completely flipped out. We’ll see how far we get into it on Sunday. It should be… interesting. Have a great weekend, everyone.

Monday Morning Miscellany (Vol. 6)

September 23, 2013 / Julie / 2 Comments

Once upon a time, not so very long ago, I promised myself that I would stick something, even if just a bunch of miscellany, on the blog every Monday morning. I like myself some fresh reading material on Monday mornings, when I’m working to recover from the weekend and gear myself up for the week ahead. I thought perhaps you good people would too.

But more Mondays than not lately, it seems, I’ve written nothing. I blame morning sickness. And boys. But mostly morning sickness. Now that that fog is (hopefully? please?) beginning to lift, I’m trying to get back into it. I’ll start with a couple of updates:

— 1 —

That whole fiery, electrical knives stabbing me in the side of the head thing? In case any of you (maybe as many as two or three?) were wondering, it’s been resolved. I gave in and took myself to the doctor’s on Friday, who diagnosed my usual nemesis: sinus infection. She said that the faulty sinus was probably pressing on a nerve, thus all the burning, shocking, stabbing pain. Three days into my five-day antibiotic, I’m feeling worlds better. What a relief!

— 2 —

I still haven’t read that America piece on the Pope. Maybe this afternoon? After I’m done I’ll have to read a handful of the reactions/explanations, to get a little lay of the land on the controversy. I’ve been holding off on these pieces until I take a look at the original. Which is, I think, a good thing to do. Except that by the time I finally get through it all, I’ll be a good week behind everybody else. Such is how I roll.

— 3 —

My three-year-old had a massive temper tantrum on Sunday – possibly his worst ever. It couldn’t help but make me think of Ana and her girls’ expert tantrum-throwing abilities. (My sympathies, Ana!) But I have to admit that, ugly as it was, I couldn’t help but find some humor in the whole thing. Mostly because of the underlying reason for this tantrum: he did not want to be home.

This kid never wants to be home; every time we’re out somewhere, whether a play date or the doctor’s office, he wants to stay. In fact, he has never once asked to go home. Ever since he was a baby, he has fussed and whined (or worse) as we drive into our neighborhood. He knows the signs: x scenery = almost home. Nooooo!

This Sunday’s tantrum started on our way home from church, when the little guy asked, “Can we get wunch on da way home?” He didn’t like our answer. So we heard variations of “Wunch! I wan wunch out! Not at home! Don’t go home! Picnic wunch! Wunch at park! Paaarrrk! Go back! Not home! Stop! Stop dwiving, Mommy!” (when I wasn’t even the one driving) punctuated with sobs, for our entire twenty minute drive. He grew absolutely desperate as we came up the driveway: “NO! STOP! DON’T! GO BACK!”

We had to wrestle him out of the car seat (he tried to stop us from unbuckling him) and drag him into the house while he tried to throw himself on the ground and/or escape down the driveway. It only got worse when we came inside. He was inconsolable: lots more shouting and sobbing and thrashing around on the floor and trying to get out of the house.

I suppose I’m fortunate in that tantrums have no power over me. I think I see them as something distinct and separate that (so long as no one is getting hurt), I can just ignore. I tend to just zone out and wait for them to end. But I could tell that this one was starting to get to my husband, so I tried to calm my boy down. I held him on my lap and did my sweetest best, but it was no good. I finally had to carry him upstairs and put him in his crib. (Yes, he’s still in a crib. Yes, he’s three. I like to keep them contained as long as possible.)

Anyway, to make a long story less long, I’ll just say that the crib only served to kick his tantrum up a notch. He went wild. I’ve never heard him scream like that: I thought he’d lose his voice. But he also began to tire himself out. So after a while, I was able to bring him downstairs and start feeding him his “wunch” and the tantrum finally, finally broke. Whew.

— 4 —

There were, however, two upshots to the tantrum. First, this:

They almost looked drugged, don’t they? My mom says it looks like I slipped something in their milk. But on my honor, I swear that it was nothing more than a missed nap on the little one’s part and The Big Tantrum on the big one’s.

— 5 —

But better than that short-break-because-the-boys-fell-asleep-on-the-sofa: we got a dinner invitation out of the tantrum! Woo-hoo! I complained about it on Facebook (of course) and one of my aunts commented something to the effect of: “Don’t make dinner tonight, Julie. Come over here. We’re eating at 5:30.”

Seriously? I complain about a tantrum and a boy who doesn’t want to be home and we get a dinner offer out of it? Yes, please! It was great: lots of yummy food, adult conversation, and lots of space and toys and cousins for my boys to run around with. I love this living-near-family thing. I did not grow up with it, but I feel oh so lucky to have it now. Thanks again, Aunt Barb!

— 6 —

To shift gears quite a bit here, what awful news we got this weekend from around the world, didn’t we? First (and still!) the attack on the mall in Nairobi, Kenya. And then yesterday, the attack on the Christian church in Peshawar, Pakistan. At least 60 people have been killed in the former, at least 80 were killed in the latter. Such horror. To suffer a shocking, sustained tragedy on what you thought would be a cheerful Saturday? It’s almost unimaginable. And worse yet, to be targeted in church, while you were worshipping God? It’s a special kind of horrible.

Do you know what I regret at this moment? I regret my reactions to these two terrible events. I normally feel such things acutely; they normally get to me regardless of how far away they seem. But this time, my reaction was muted. I said a few prayers, but mostly, I didn’t want to think about it. I was tired of tragedy. After Egypt and Syria and the anniversaries of September 11 and the 16^th Street Baptist Church bombing, after the Navy Yard shooting last week, after hearing of a few very sad local deaths and incidents, I guess I was just tired of grieving.

I don’t want to live like that. I don’t want to be numb to sad news and indifferent to others’ suffering. There’s quite a lot I need to work on right now, spiritually. I’ll be adding this one to the list.

Please, join me in praying for those affected by the awful attacks in Kenya and Pakistan.

— 7 —

Have a good week, everyone. I’m hopeful for a brightness, a lifting of my own mood. And I hope to be back in this space a few times in the coming days. ‘Till then, be well.

7 Quick Takes Friday (Vol. 15) / {pretty, happy, funny, real} (Vol. 2)

September 20, 2013September 20, 2013 / Julie / 1 Comment

— 1 —

I’ve got one complaint to get out of the way, and then I promise that the rest of this post will be kinder/gentler/sweeter. Probably somewhat mushy, but hopefully not altogether sappy. That’s the goal.

But first, the complaint: Between the morning sickness and a cold my three-year-old brought home last week, I’m feeling pretty awful at the moment. I keep telling myself that I shouldn’t be feeling so bad: “Buck up, Julie! You’ve got things to do, boys to care for! You’re almost done the first trimester anyway! Your hormones can’t be making you that sick anymore! And it’s just a silly cold! Get with it!” So I go forth and try to seize the day or something, and then I come home and collapse and I’m no good to anyone for 24 hours. Repeat.

Tuesday it was a board meeting/reception with the boys in tow. Thursday it was volunteering at my son’s preschool. Both times, I deluded myself into thinking it would be no big deal. Both times, I arrived back home overwhelmed, exhausted to the point of numbness, and pretty much unable to move.

The morning sickness would be bad enough, but this stupid cold/infection/whatever is pushing me over the edge: sneezing, blowing the heck out of my nose, sore throat, head congestion, and now this stabbing/burning/shocking pain all over the right side of my head. Woe is me.

Last week was a good week for the blog: Even through the morning sickness I was able to write four posts, that people liked. And people I don’t even know were stopping by to read my stuff. I should have capitalized on my temporary surge in numbers by writing several meaty posts this week. But given the fiery, electrical knives that were attacking the side of my head, the best I could muster most days was to lie on the sofa and plead with the boys to not wrestle on top of me. I’ll say it again: Woe is me.

— 2 —

Okay, I’m done now. I have enough perspective to know that (a) all of the above is temporary, (b) I could be feeling significantly better as soon as next week (I’m almost at 12 weeks! Woo-hoo!), and (c) my life is full of good things. The best things, like love and family and God’s blessings and security and friendship and hope and grubby little boy faces.

I think I might have had three days this week without any nausea – the first in over a month. So there’s a light at the end of the tunnel! I’m hoping that I’ll fully turn the corner next week. Not only am I just plain ol’ ready to be done with it, but I have a few serious blog posts in my head that I’m itching to get started on. I also want to tackle (i.e. carefully read) the America piece on Pope Francis that everyone’s talking about. Maybe nausea/fatigue/burning head aren’t the best reasons to not have read it yet, but I have a feeling that I’ll need to have some clarity of mind in order to take it on. So c’mon, good health and decent energy levels! I know you’re out there! Come to Mama!

— 3 —

As you see in this post’s title, I’m kind of cheating this week. I’d started writing my {pretty, happy, funny, real} Wednesday evening, but quickly found that I just couldn’t do it anymore: sleep beckoned. And it beckoned again Thursday afternoon, when I’d hoped to have time to finish the post.

And then Thursday evening, when I began thinking about what I’d write for my 7 Quick Takes, I kept coming back to contentment. As in,
{phfr} contentment. (Okay, okay: contentment and that one complaint in #1.) That evening as I watched my little boys play so well together on the playground, I mulled all the little signs lately of how deeply they love each other. Yes, they fight and wrestle and get angry, but they also seem to be each other’s greatest delight.

Witnessing my boys’ growing love for each other just wows me. I never imagined what a joy it could be. Talk about contentment.

So, enter {pretty, happy, funny, real} for Quick Takes 4 through 7:

— 4 {pretty} —

The boys and I were in Annapolis Tuesday evening for the aforementioned meeting and reception. We don’t get there too frequently these days, given what a hike it is for us, but each time we’re there, I’m struck with how pretty that place is. And how blessed we are to get to spend any time there at all.

— 5 {happy} —

I’m not sure that 2- and 3-year-olds are capable of experiencing elsewhere the unadulterated happiness they find on a playground.

— 6 {funny} —

We spent our time in Annapolis this week at the Charles Carroll House and Gardens, the Annapolis home of Charles Carroll of Carrollton, the only Catholic signer of the Declaration of Independence. Fittingly, the boys were gifted with a pair of tricorn hats and Revolutionary boy dolls. They were so funny running around with their hats and dolls. Of course they’re too little to have any concept of American history and what those gifts represented. Rather, by their cries of “Aargh!” as they ran around, I realized the boys thought those hats made them pirates.

— 7 {real} —

I have this dream of being a farmer, or at least a major gardener. But I (big time!) lack the knowledge base to get me there, and at this point in my life (that is, a chaser of small boys every time I’m outside), I don’t have much time to practice the little I do know. But I figured I could handle some tomato plants this summer, so I sweet-talked my hubby into planting six different and interesting varieties for me.

I did a decent job of tending them at first and I was overjoyed when they bore their first fruits. But then I was struck with a powerful, pregnancy-induced aversion to the things. I can hardly stand to look at the little beauties right now. Goodbye, dreams of tomatoes with fresh basil, fried tomatoes, BLT’s! Hello (because of both the aversion and the morning sickness), neglect and waste.

Which is why I now have a garden full of overgrown, collapsed tomato plants, full of fruit that will mostly go uneaten. (My husband has no great love for tomatoes and most of our local friends/family seem to have their own gardens.) Ah, well… maybe next year.

To end with a bit more contentment, though, let me give you a peek of the view from one side of my garden and another of the view from behind it. I have great hopes for this spot.

Have a great weekend, all! Please be sure to stop by Conversion Diary’s 7 Quick Takes Friday and Like Mother, Like Daughter’s {pretty, happy, funny, real} to see how everybody else is wrapping up their week!

These Walls

Sharing stories from within the walls of my home; encouraging discourse on the wider world outside them.

Sickness

Disappointment, Truth, And Chocolate Cake

Of Bugs And Crabs: One Hot Mess (Vol. 5)

7 Quick Takes Friday (Vol. 16)

Monday Morning Miscellany (Vol. 6)

7 Quick Takes Friday (Vol. 15) / {pretty, happy, funny, real} (Vol. 2)