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!

Precious Lord, Take My Hand

It’s been a long time since I’ve posted…right at a month, I believe. Yes, I’ve been busy, but that’s not really the reason for my absence. I try to never use “too busy” for an excuse for anything. I firmly believe that a person makes time for the things that she wants to make time for. It’s been more a lack of inspiration, than a lack of time.

Oh, there have been plenty of things I could write about, but nothing that I got excited enough to write about. And, I figure if it doesn’t interest me to write about, it probably doesn’t interest you to read about. Or if I did get excited enough to write about it, it was something that was beyond my boundary of comfortable sharing.

But today, my baby turned one, and it occurred to me if ever there is a day to document, it would be such a day. So, I’m taking the opportunity to document this day. And, I’m taking the opportunity to document this day one year ago, since the poor child still has no completed (or started) baby book. In fact, the closest I have gotten to documenting his growth progress is small scraps of paper tucked in the top drawer of my dresser.

So, let’s start at the beginning. May 2009. Surprise!

Me: (sobbing) “I’m pregnant” (I really don’t know what I said exactly, but I think this is an accurate paraphrase.)

Matt: (half-asleep) “What? You’re kidding!” (not sobbing)

Me: (uncontrollable dramatic wailing)

Matt: (clearly disappointed at my reaction)

Ladies, here’s a tip for you. It turns out it really doesn’t do a lot for a guy’s ego to have their wives throw such a fit over a surprise pregnancy. So, when faced with this situation, feign excitement, or at the very least, pretend you’re crying because of something sad you saw on Fox News.

There were a number of really good reasons I did not want to be pregnant just then.

(1)   John was still in therapy for his cancer, and we were not yet sure if more treatment would be necessary.

(2)  The chemo drug John was on was Accutane, which has been known to cause birth defects when the mother is exposed to the drug. We had to cut open the pills and squirt the contents into John’s mouth. (turns out, they don’t make Accutane in drop form)

(3)  We were exhausted. John, at 20 months, was a very demanding toddler. Almost entirely non-verbal and incapable/unwilling to entertain himself. Plus, there were a number of cancer-related worries that just tend to wear a person down. His daytime napping was non-existent, and his nighttime sleeping pretty much required a parent in bed with him.

(4)  I had started my own practice, and my first solo tax season would be January-April 2010. February would be my busiest month. My due date was February 15. If there is a worse day of the year for a tax preparer to have a baby, I don’t know what day it would be.

We did want another baby, but we had it planned for about 3-6 months later. But our plans were not God’s, and our reasons were not His.

Looking back, it seems that the timing of this baby was providential. Patrick was 8 months old when he lost his grandmother. What if he had been born three months later? Six months later? Three months prior to Patrick’s birth, it became obvious that mom was very sick. By the time he arrived, she had completed a cycle or chemo, or maybe two. But even while undergoing treatment, she was still able to hold him, love him, play with him, feed him, and sew a beautiful blankie for him. This would not have been possible just a few months later.

I think about this and remind myself that I am not in control. And that the One who is in control knows better than I do. This is knowledge is a source of comfort, not a source of anxiety. At least I try to remind myself that it should be.

²⁵ "Therefore I say to you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or what you will drink; nor about your body, what you will put on. Is not life more than food and the body more than clothing? ²⁶Look at the birds of the air, for they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns; yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not of more value than they?
  ²⁷Which of you by worrying can add one cubit to his stature?
  ²⁸"So why do you worry about clothing? Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow: they neither toil nor spin; ²⁹and yet I say to you that even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these. ³⁰Now if God so clothes the grass of the field, which today is, and tomorrow is thrown into the oven, will He not much more clothe you, O you of little faith?
  ³¹"Therefore do not worry, saying, "What shall we eat?' or "What shall we drink?' or "What shall we wear?' ³²For after all these things the Gentiles seek. For your heavenly Father knows that you need all these things. ³³But seek first the kingdom of God and His righteousness, and all these things shall be added to you. ³⁴Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about its own things. Sufficient for the day is its own trouble.

Matthew 6:25-34

The Big Day

A few weeks prior to Patrick’s birth, we had scheduled a labor induction for our due date. I was opposed to this in theory, but practicality won out. Knowing my labor history, i.e., lack of any spontaneous labor 10 days after John’s due date, it seemed likely we were in for a repeat. Had I had it my way, I would have definitely waited an extra week, possibly 10 days, and maybe even 2 full weeks past the due date waiting on Patrick to exit spontaneously. But the demands of the season (tax season was in full swing) meant that I needed to be able to precisely schedule my week of leave. I will admit this desire to “do it myself” had less to do with any health concerns for unborn baby Patrick and rather was simply my own pride.

Shortly before 8:00 a.m., Monday, February 15, 2010, we arrived for our amniotomy. Check Wikipedia if you don’t know what an amniotomy is. A few minutes after 8, the procedure had been done and we were waiting for something to happen. The Winter Olympics were on TV, but the picture was so staticky that it was fairly non-interesting. To me, that is. Apparently, when there’s labor going on, black-and-white ski jumping is riveting for other people in the room. Matt.

Finally around noon, things started, labor progressed, and at 4:50, the doctor told me I could start pushing. The song playing was “Precious Lord, Take my Hand,” and at 4:57 p.m., Patrick W Clark emerged, weighing 7 pounds, 9 ounces, and stretching out to 22.5 inches in length. The song playing was “Then” by Brad Paisley. Yes, ladies, that’s right it took only 2 songs, and I didn’t feel a thing. Quite a switch from my first labor experience with the, dare I say, non-effective (or at the very least used-up-by-the-time-it-came-time-to-push-for-over-an-hour-epidural). He was extremely skinny with droopy folds of skin bagging down from his knees to his ankles. Like John, he had dark eyes, though less hair and thinner, shorter eyelashes. We noticed immediately that he did possess the sweet, cuddly disposition that had not accompanied his older brother upon arrival 2.5 years earlier.

Ok, that’s it for tonight. I have to get up extremely early in the morning. I’ll talk about PW’s first birthday in a day or two. Promise.