Corn Fested

Yesterday was a big, giant, exhausting day. Matt & I hauled the boys into town and took part in that great tradition of rural America: the agricultural festival.

Here in Edina, we have the Knox County Corn Festival. And though yields are down and aflatoxin is up, the festivities seemed more festive than ever.

My day started early, as I walked in the annual Jerry Gudehus Memorial 5K. Thanks to the discovery of support hose, a couple weeks ago I decided I was up to running part of the race, perhaps 1/3 of it, even though I hadn't run for a few months. I've still continued a moderate exercise regimen, combined with my normal daily child-packing-and-chasing, so I figured I was up to it. But, a few days ago, I determined that something had changed and I feared running was not a great idea. My hint was the sharp stabbing pains in my lower abdomen that came on after less than two minutes of running. My goal was to start labor, not start a placental abruption.

So, I walked the entire 3.2 miles. Well, all but the last few yards. I ran those when I saw my mother-in-law standing at the finish line with her camera. I thought if I ran at the end and it got captured on camera, I might fool our child someday into thinking Mommy ran a 5K the morning of his or her birth. I did not, however, have a baby yesterday, or even come close. I wasn't really expecting it would happen, but, hey, a girl can dream of spontaneous labor, even after two non-eventfully-induced-labors.

Anyway, the "race" was fun, though not as much fun as running it, but there is next year for that. Plus, I got a t-shirt. The turnout for the race was awesome. It was great to see so many friends and neighbors have engaged in such a healthy habit.

Next was the world's longest parade with about a thousand antique tractors. My boys see tractors, antique and otherwise, everyday, but you wouldn't have known it by their reaction to the parade, particularly that of my younger one. They were impressed, to say the least. The parade was so long that my boys and pretty much all the other kids lost interest in picking up candy. I would have never thought I'd witness such a thing. John told me "Mom, I think I have enough candy now." And Patrick, who has the world's most insatiable sweet tooth decided his bag was full enough too.

I have always kept the existence of carnivals a secret from my boys. But this year, they noticed, as the carnival started setting up on Wednesday night, and we had to walk through it Wednesday and Friday to get into the Fitness Center. John quickly figured out that you could "ride in the machines", so that's what I heard about for three days. So, I told him we'd have to see how many ride tickets we could afford in our Carnival ride budget. Turns out for the bargain price of $25, you can buy 10 tickets, which is just enough to completely wear out 2 little boys (plus their cousin Levi, who had 5 tickets of his own), thanks to generous carnival operators that often let them ride twice for one ticket, and one entirely unsupervised maze/ball pit/tunnel slide attraction that required no tickets whatsoever.

John and Levi had been waiting all morning to ride the swings, but that ride hadn't been in operation, and I was hoping we would run out of tickets before it did because I really didn't think that my Patrick, at just two years of age, really needed to ride it, but I knew I wouldn't convince him otherwise if the big boys rode it. But, sure enough, just in time to use our last ticket, it was ready to go.

The two older boys were standing outside the fence dancing in fever-pitch anticipation of the ride on the "swing machine". I asked PW if he wanted to ride it too. He gave me that emphatic "is-the-Pope-Catholic?" type of yes that he does with a nod, completely nixing the idea of instead taking another turn on the previously-cool-but-suddenly-super-lame fire truck ride. (he uses this sort of "yes" to answer questions like "Do you want to go with Daddy?"; "Do you want a sucker?" "Do you want to read Family Reunion for Old Tractors for the eighteenth time today?")

So, against my better judgment, I relinquished my baby to the care of the carnival operator, who had just told me he didn't actually work for the carnival, was a local and was just filling in, as they were short-handed. (what I heard was he maybe was or maybe wasn't fully up-to-speed on the safety guidelines of the ride). He just asked me, "well, can he hold on?" And I was like, "He's two! Yes, he can, but I don't know if he will." The operator, who really was very, very nice assured me he'd stop the ride if Patrick started crying.

Ok, then, I said, and the ride started. It seemed like the longest 30 minutes of my life. I've never been so concerned for the safety of one of my children as I was then, and remember, I've willingly, even eagerly, consented to having my firstborn operated on surgically and later infused with multiple chemotherapeutic poisons. I suppose it was more like only 3-5 minutes, but it seemed like an eternity to me. But he held on with white knuckles and handled it just fine. When the ride was over, I picked him up and couldn't tell if he was exhausted from the carnival and relaxed from the swinging, or nauseous. We went to the shade of the 4-H pavilion to sit down, and he immediately insisted in laying down in the cool dirt under the table, just like the hogs that wallowed in that same spot during the fair earlier this summer.

After the 5K, the marathon parade, and two hours of carnival, I was ready to do the same thing. Though my feet and legs were swollen and exhausted, my uterus was completely oblivious to the stress, and there was no indication that this baby will ever willingly evacuate my body. Oh, well, the weather was perfect, and we all had a great time. The carnival wasn't nearly as miserable for the parents as I feared it might be, and the lemonade and caramel apples were delicious.

The afternoon ended perfectly when we took the boys to evening Mass and they were really, really good, which doesn't necessarily always happen.

We went back into the festival for supper, and things went south fast. Turns out, we found out just what their level of festival-tolerance is. A scraped elbow was our cue to leave, and we fled before anyone had to make yet another trip to the port-a-potty. It turns out the port-a-potty is a thrill to rival the carnival itself when you are two, four, or five, and I'm terribly afraid we've all contracted hepatitis as a result.

Happy Sunday!

First Day!

We just put our first baby bear on the big yellow school bus for the first time. It's a day that seemed so far off four years ago. A day I prayed we would see.

Some parents will tell you this day is bittersweet. Well, it wasn't at our house. It helps that John was beyond thrilled to be going to "the big school" and really did not appear one bit nervous until maybe the first step on the bus. And only then, maybe just a little; he didn't hesitate a bit.

he's complaining about being cold.

It wasn't bittersweet for Matt and me. It wasn't bittersweet because, let's be perfectly honest and tell it like it is: we're just glad he's not dead!

I counted maybe three tears that I cried as the bus drove off with my firstborn, while Matt smiled and we congratulated ourselves. They were happy, happy tears. 

Still cold, and now staring uncomfortably into the sun.
It's too bad mom isn't a better photographer!

The more time and distance John puts between him and Stage IV neuroblastoma, the happier we are. But I really don't think it's John's medical history alone that accounts for this feeling. I've never been a mom who has lamented the passage of time and the associated growing up of my babies. 

"They're only little for a little while," those older and wiser than me will say. And my reply? "Thank God!"

My career goal, as a mom, after all, is not to produce a gurgling infant, a potty-going toddler, or a chattering preschooler. My goal is to produce strong, faithful, confident, considerate, productive citizens of our community. Wishing they would stay babies does not advance this goal.

No, I'm not wishing their lives away, but I enjoyed parenthood more when John was a toddler than when he was an infant, and more as a preschooler than as a toddler. And, each day with PW is a little more tolerable than the one before. (sorry Patrick, I know you'll read this someday, but you are, my dear boy, a challenge of a whole different sort)

Related: for the first time in 5 years, diapers are not on our shopping list! At least not for a few more weeks. Thank you, P. Dub! (and thank you, daycare for helping me out with this project!)

Barely related: parents who are potty-training, I recommend Pampers Easy-Ups over Huggies pull-ups. They're much, much less expensive, and the sides don't velcro shut, which I prefer because after all, the idea is they're NOT diapers, so you don't want your kid to unfasten them like diapers. Better yet are reusable waterproof training pants. I've purchased several pair via Etsy.

And now...he has Mom & Dad all to himself...
at least for a few more weeks.

John will get off the bus at Kids R Us and eat lunch there before Matt picks him up at noon. I'm so jealous that his teachers there will get to hear all about his first day before I do.

PRAISE GOD!

The Proverbs 31 Woman & Some Other Stuff

Me & the Proverbs 31 Woman

Sometimes I like this passage of scripture. Sometimes I do not. The “Proverbs 31 Woman” inspires me on a good day, but she haunts me on a bad one. This scripture was in my head today (guilty conscience, I think) so I decided to read it tonight, and take inventory. What follows is part serious, part tongue-in-cheek, but all honest. (The scripture part is in italics, and Proverbs 31:10-31, The New American Bible)

When one finds a worthy wife,

Her value is far beyond pearls.

That’s why engagement rings have a diamond, not a pearl.

Her husband, entrusting his heart to her,

Has an unfailing prize.

She brings him good, and not evil,

All the days of her life.

Well, I try.

She obtains wool and flax,

And makes cloth with skillful hands.

I guess I should get a sheep.

Like merchant ships,

She secures her provisions from afar.

I secure my provisions from Sam’s Club. That’s afar.

She rises while it is still night,

And distributes food to her household.

I rise at dawn, so I can sneak out for a run, lest I get stuck having to fill someone’s sippy cup.

She picks out a field to purchase;

Out of her earnings, she plants a vineyard.

Matt picks out the fields. I planted a garden this year. It was a total failure.

She is girt about with strength,

And sturdy are her arms.

Because I pack children around all day. Able-bodied heavy children.

She enjoys the success of her dealings;

At night her lamp is undimmed.

I like it when people pay their bill. I like it when I sell stuff on Etsy. My lamp is undimmed because I’m blogging.

She puts her hands to the distaff,

And her fingers ply the spindle.

I don’t do this.

She reaches out her hands to the poor,

And extends her arms to the needy.

I help people minimize their income tax liability, thereby preventing them from becoming “the poor.”

She fears not the snow for her household;

All her charges are doubly clothed.

And they all have gum boots.

She makes her own coverlets;

Fine linen and purple are her clothing.

Fine sweatpants and paint-spattered are my clothing, though I have been known to make a blanket, or two.

Her husband is prominent at the city gates

As he sits with the elders of the land.

He talks with the guys at the auto parts store. And at the elevator.

She makes garments and sells them,

And stocks the merchants with belts.

I make aprons for sale on etsy.com.

She is clothed with strength and dignity,

And she laughs at the days to come.

Yes, strength, dignity, and sweatpants; I laugh because it’s better than crying.

She opens her mouth in wisdom,

And on her tongue is kindly counsel.

People pay me for tax advice. And, I’m pretty nice about it.

She watches the conduct of her household,

And eats not her food in idleness.

I enforce time-outs. And I sneak M&Ms during naptime.

Her children rise up and praise her;

“You’re the best ever mommy; the best mommy ever!”

“Good supper, mom.”

Her husband too, extols her:

“Many are the women of proven worth,

But you have excelled them all.”

Yep, that’s pretty much what Matt says.

Charm is deceptive and beauty fleeting;

The woman who fears the Lord is to be praised.

Give her a reward of her labors,

And let her works praise her at the city gates.

A full night of sleep would be nice, once in a while, too.

So, there you have it, a quick, very literal inventory of my womanly worth. 

Now, for a couple brief updates on what I haven't blogged since the last post:

Grandma Elizabeth fell in May and broke three ribs. After a week in the hospital, she's been in the nursing home since. Hopefully, she'll be able to live on her own again. At any rate, I really don't see the harm in letting her try, if that's what she prefers.

We lost our dog, Ernie, to kidney failure in May. He would have been 10 in November. My dog Maggie was Ernie's mother, and I gave him to Matt when I was a sophomore in college after we'd been dating a little over a year.

John had his routine CT and MIBG scans the last week of June. Both scans showed there is no active neuroblastoma in his body, which means he won't have another scan for a whole year, just a urine test in December. That's incredible to me. Three years ago this summer, I feared he would not see his first birthday, and now, he's nearly four years old, and cancer-free. John is healed, and I pray that he will stay healed.

He is healed, and I pray that I will be one day too. But I fear I will never be. I will never know normal. So much has changed since that summer he was diagnosed. I no longer carry a thermometer in my purse. Or EMLA cream. I don't have his oncology nurse-practitioner's pager number memorized. I don't panic if the gas tank gets below 1/2 full (we always kept it filled up in case we had to make a quick trip to Columbia). I don't pin a medal to John's shirt every morning, and I don't wear one that matches around my neck every day (mostly because PW would break the chain if I did.)

But a lot of stuff hasn't changed. I feel a twinge of panic when he tells me he has a tummyache. Or a cold sore. Or a bug bite. If he doesn't take a nap for a week, I panic because of his restlessness. If he naps faithfully everyday for a week, I panic because I worry about why he's so apparently exhausted. If he wakes up sweaty, I panic. If he feels a little warm, I whip out the thermometer, pronto. (Fevers and nightsweats can be tumor symptoms). 

When PW is unusually crabby and clingy, I fear that he has cancer and briefly toy with the idea of calling his pediatrician to have a urine study done to check for neuroblastoma. I did even do this once, and she agreed to it, bless her heart.

Enough of that. I guess my recovery will be a lifelong process.

What else?

Patrick has started talking...single words, unintelligible to all except his family. Like John at this age, "socks" and "hot" are among his first words. Recently he's added "boots"; and it really frustrates John when PW picks up a shoe or a sandal and calls it a "boot." He's very proficient at animal noises. He loves to watch TV, and Shrek is his favorite movie. I am ashamed of this fact. But he also really, really loves books. He even enjoys "reading" them on his own, not just being read to. And, what's even better, John likes to read to PW, and PW likes John to read to him. This is a wonderful thing in my life. I really find Patrick's love of books and TV/movies amusing, as John was indifferent to the television, and he downright loathed books of any kind until after his second birthday. Patrick is very fond of both Papa Larry and Papa Dennis. His favorite foods include grapes and dill pickles, and he has an insatiable sweet tooth that rivals my own. He's also trying to learn to jump off furniture, which makes my heart stop several times a day.

John never stops talking, and it's hard to believe that a little more than a year ago, he could barely express himself verbally. One of my favorite things to do is to eavesdrop on the conversations he has while he's playing. Invariably, the scenes he acts out with his cars or trains involve someone's birthday party. About a week ago, he told me, "Mom, I am very angry. I am very angry because Levi is having a baby sister, and her name is Car-wee, and you know that I want to have a baby sister. And I want one." This went on and on as I kept explaining to him that it's hard to get a baby sister and maybe it would be ok if he had another baby brother. And, clearly frustrated, he would again explain to me that he is very angry (specifically angry and me and not Levi or anyone else) and so on and so forth. Obviously, he thinks the only thing keeping him from having his very own baby sister is his own mother's stubborn unwillingness to get him one. (I am, by the way, not presently pregnant). John is unbelievably sweet and lovable, but also short-fused, independent, and bitterly determined against anything he decides to be bitterly determined against, including using scissors properly, eating scrambled eggs, and receiving any kind of assistance in getting into or out of a shopping cart.

Hopefully, I'll post again in less than 3 months!

bdc