spring memories

Dear Mr. and Mrs. Goldfinch,

My son, and the rest of us too, love you!  Please "get married" (as Peter refers to mating), build your nest here and have your babies.  Right here, in our yard.  It would make my boy's year.  If you could be so kind?

Love,

Peter's Momma

P.S. And Mr. Goldfinch, I'm sorry that you accidentally flew into our large window, stunning yourself.  I'm sorry my husband was so affected, that he tried to catch you and take you to a bird sanctuary for treatment.  Thank you for flying away and showing us that our prayers worked.  Glad you're okay!

The squirrels won't leave Peter's new plexiglass birdfeeder alone.  They jump onto it, pretty brave like.  I think we should all conduct ourselves with this same bold confidence--knowing who we are in Christ.  Can I get an Amen on that?

The weather was windy, cold and dreadfully wet.  We did the egg dyeing and the egg hunt wearing coats.  Asking excited children to wait for a nicer day, is just plain torture.  Better to get the thing done so normalcy can return.  Excited children can give me a headache, I'm sad to say.  Peeling them off the walls is no fun.

Don't get me wrong, I love their joy and I even do things to purposely bring it on.

Dear Mr. and Mrs. Robin,

Thank you for choosing our yard for your twice yearly nests.  We love you and your bright blue eggs!  And we love watching your babes learn to fly. Thank you, thank you, thank you!  Watching you let go helps me to do the same.  I just don't want to emulate the whole wormy-meal thing.  Can we still be friends?

Love,

The Other Momma Around Here

hopelessness

10:30 AM.  We pile the children into the van for the five minute drive to my aunt's house.  We haven't seen my aunt and uncle (from my dad's side) since early December.  They've spent the last two winters in the Florida trailer they purchased.

They are happy to see the children and remark how they've grown.  We settle in, and my kids play with the decades-old Lincoln Logs and other classic toys my aunt keeps in her closet.

Peter tells about his new love for birds and details all the things he's been doing to attract them.  My aunt listens politely, admitting she knows nothing about birds.  Miss Mary, my four year old, then pipes up and says she knows a lot about birds.  That makes me smile.

Yes, Peter's constant bird rattle has made a bird lover out of my Mary, too.  She can identify every bird that comes to our yard, which is quite a list.

Paul, my game lover, makes words from a foam alphabet puzzle, then asks to play Uno with my aunt.  Mary asks to go outside, though no one wants to go with her.

My cousin's dog, Tyson, is dropped off and Peter, my pet lover, only has eyes for the dog.

Miss Beth sits in uncle's lap, listening to bluegrass music.  She is surprisingly content and quite still, as she studies her new surroundings. We don't go visiting much, so this is quite a treat.  

Mary, my independent one, goes outside by herself, exploring the vast, marshy yard.

An hour and a half passes. We take the offered Florida grapefruits on our way out the door--grapefruits my husband later pronounces the best he's ever tasted.

As we head for home, my aunt and uncle prepare to leave on a trip to Amish country with their son (my cousin Rick) and his wife. Travelling an hour to get there, once a month they buy Amish cheese and other foodstuff--walking through the different shops, visiting their Amish friends.

Arriving home, we unload the van and the children.  A rush ensues as we prepare for husband's work departure--putting his dinner together, his various keys for the jobs, his work shirts, cell phone, work boots, wallet, glasses.

He leaves.  

I look around the house.  Instead of doing routine chores that morning, I'd rushed into a batch of homemade apple muffins for my aunt, whose birthday we missed while she was away.

Remnants of baking clutter the counters, the sink.  Pajamas--tossed aside by children preparing for an outing--litter the hallway, the living room, the playroom.  Spring clothes from the shed, still to be washed, sit in storage boxes, further cluttering the living room.  Another storage box of clothes stored inside the house need a dryer fluffing and hanging.

Breakfast dishes, still on the dining room table, scream at me.  The left over cinnamon toast will surely draw the carpenter ants I've seen in the past week.  There aren't enough to worry me--just enough to warrant a sweeping after every meal.

I walk down the hall.  The bathroom is full of husband's night clothes, my night clothes, used towels and washclothes. Beds sit, dishevelled, with favourite stuffed animals littering the floors.

All I want to do is cry.  Truly.

I push away nagging feelings--feelings I usually escape because I'm so busy.  We never go anywhere.  There's just this house and its shocking messes.  The contrast of me coming home to this, and my aunt taking a leisurely day in Amish country, gets to me.  

If I had to list the hardest things about being low income, not having anything to look forward to would top the list.  The working poor--a term I use to refer to those working long hours for low pay--make up a good portion of the impoverished in this country.  They usually have enough food if they plan well, choose carefully, and know how to cook.  But everything else is questionable--the repairs, the utilities, the fuel, the miscellaneous.  Staying above water takes every ounce of energy, and they're always fearful of the next car repair, the next appliance repair, the next pair of shoes to wear out. There's little time for true leisure.  There's little money or time for things that take the edge off.

Life can seem unbearable at times.  We rush around for errands and appointments, due to sharing a vehicle.  Every time I get into that van, I'm on a strict deadline.  Every time I walk through the grocery store, I'm on the clock.  No time to waste.  Even a trip to the park is rushed because of husband's schedule, and I end up grocery shopping after dropping the family at the park.  There's just too little time to do both.

My mind wanders, as it often does now, to the low-income students I taught for nine years.  They represented single-parent families, most of them. They were worse off than we are, with most not having vehicles or phone service. I remember that we teachers judged these impoverished parents for spending money--even foodstamp money--on candy.  Why accept free breakfast and lunch for their children, at the school, if they had money for candy?

Do you know what the last two years have shown me?  Those children had nothing to look forward to.  Nothing but more stress.  Candy was the one thing Mom could do to make them smile.  

As I tackled some of the messes around here, God tackled my heart.  I want you to know what true hopelessness feels like.  I want you to be able to put your arms around the poor, to comfort them in their sorrow--not judge them in their circumstances. 


I have the Lord to lift me in my sorrow, to remind me of my blessings. Those families didn't.  Some drank, used drugs.  We teachers judged that, too, I remember.  Now I know why they abused substances.  They were in pain all the time.  All around them, life was good for others.  They saw families out for dinner, families out for a movie, families in nice vehicles, families buying whatever food they wanted, families buying whatever housewares they wanted, families going on vacations.

They, on the other hand, went home to yucky apartments they were about to be evicted from--again.

The Lord says we will always have the poor.  Social programs designed to give the poor a chance simply can't reach everybody.  We're out of money even, as a country.  Even those we can reach often don't have reliable transportation to take advantage of opportunities. Or they don't have neat and clean clothes, or an ounce of confidence, or an ounce of hope, or a stable place to live, or the electricity and water needed to look good for the interview.  On so many levels their situations are hopeless.

I remember all the lice my students got.  Now I know why the same families got lice over and over.  They couldn't afford the quarters needed to wash all the bedding, the clothes, the toys.  They couldn't afford the lice shampoo and lice spray.  They couldn't get ahead of it, in addition to all the other serious problems they encountered.

What I write here is really hard to fathom if you've never been down on your luck.  It's so easy to judge, but unless you've lived it, you're blind.

I don't know why God allows some to have so much, and others get nothing but misery.  Why doesn't He give salvation to every one of the poor, so they at least have the Lord's comfort?

I don't know the answer, of course.  I don't need to know.

I just have to trust in Him, for my own sake, and for all those families living worse off.

Enter His Gates With thanksgiving

Psalm 100:1-5
Shout for joy to the LORD, all the earth.
Worship the LORD with gladness;
come before him with joyful songs.
Know that the LORD is God.
It is he who made us, and we are his;
we are his people, the sheep of his pasture.
Enter his gates with thanksgiving
and his courts with praise;
give thanks to him and praise his name. 
For the LORD is good and his love endures forever; 
his faithfulness continues through all generations.



Thursday Gratitude

- Miss Beth sharing her goldfish with Barney

- a brisk walk in fully sunny, 65-degree weather (my two girls in the double stroller and my two boys on their bikes)

- Jack the hamster calming my Peter

- Miss Beth asking for the same book three times in a row (How Do Dinosaurs Eat Their Food?)

- homemade apple muffins

- Miss Beth carrying Barney around in a backpack

- Miss Beth pushing Barney's tummy to hear the I Love You, You Love Me song, then coming up to hug and kiss Momma.

- Paul's soft cheeks, sweet for kisses

- Miss Beth and Miss Mary carrying around backpacks and telling me, "Bye, bye", before leaving for their "camping" trip.

- My girls thinking of their stuffed animals as family members.  Mousie was supposed to go on the camping trip so they walked all around the house, calling his name.  "Mousie, Mousie, where are you?"

- Miss Beth pushing around her shopping cart, looking for food to take on the camping trip.

- The Internet went down but it was a neighbourhood AT & T problem.  I can't tell you how good it felt to have someone else responsible for fixing and paying for a repair.  Our main toilet needs a repair and I sure wish we were renters right about now.

- Two baskets of unfolded clothes and Maple tree seeds on my carpet and driveway, reminding me of how much I'm needed around here.

- Online friends--you are such an encouragement to me.  Thank you!

- Knowing God refines us and we bear fruit just from our faith in Him; we don't have to earn His love or faithfulness!

that mother-daughter thing

You know that mother-daughter thing?  Those negative vibes some mother-daughter pairs can't get away from?  A post has been swirling in my head for weeks about this, and I think tonight is release night.

You've probably surmised if you've read here long that I have this problem with my own mother?  If the answer is yes, then I've not honoured my mother the way I should--the way the Bible commands me to.  Let me say then that my mother is a very sensitive, nice person, and she loves me unconditionally.  She was a good mother, doing her best with what she knew--ultimately leaving me with a legacy of love.

Now, about that mother-daughter thing......which we certainly suffer from. What in the world is it?  Can you put your finger on it in your own life, exactly?

I can offer a well-remembered example, to try and illustrate:

My body was at its roundest in high school.  I remember seeing a perpetual lump at the top of my outer thigh, where my legs were meatiest.

Growing up I lived in San Diego off and on, including during my high school years. Once while our family enjoyed a day at Mission Bay, my mother responded to my weight concerns as follows:

"Except for a little weight at the top of your thighs, your body is fine--not fat."

I was probably sixteen at the time.  Around the age of twenty my body thinned and my thighs stopped haunting me....that is, until the varicose veins of pregnancy took up permanent residence on my right inner thigh--but let's not go there.  I'll just say that I hope to get a vein stripping done someday, since there is pain involved on a cyclical basis with this type of varicose vein.  I think my husband secretly hopes I get it stripped, too.

But I digress...horrifying you, I'm sure.

I'm forty-five years old now, but I still remember that day at the Bay.  My mother was right, of course.  That was my only fat spot.  She wasn't being mean-spirited.  So, why was I bothered?  Why so hurt?  And why do I still remember it?

A few weeks ago I bathed my girls for evening church, and then laid out Mary's clothes with instructions, while I continued getting Beth ready.

As we were entering the church building that night I noticed Mary had on her brown leather shoes, instead of her black leather--the black leather being perfect for her outfit.  It was an accident, brought on by her excitement over a visitor we had in the house while we prepared for church.  Mary just forgot my instructions when it was time to get shoes on.  I didn't notice because my husband put her in the car.

Not thinking, I said, "Mary, those shoes don't look right with that dress! They look awful!  Why didn't you put on the black ones--the ones I laid out?"

She skipped to her class, hearing me, but only mildly fazed--which is a good thing.

I take great pains to dress my kids nicely, and I was more put out than I'd like to admit.  I mean, the shoes clashed horribly!

The Holy Spirit halted me, however; I said nothing more.  In fact, later that night as I tucked her in, I apologized for saying her shoes looked awful.

The Holy Spirit really spoke to me that night.

Be careful!  That's how it starts, was the whisper.  Little comments like that....don't poison your relationship with unnecessary commentary on her appearance.  Say something nice, or say nothing. 


My daughters both have naturally curly hair that looks beautiful right out of the bath, and on humid days.  But in the morning after a night of sleep, the curls are mostly gone, leaving a slight wave, and sometimes a stringy, unruly look.  I've tried different things to revive them, but nothing works, short of wetting the hair in the shower again--something I don't have time for, though they love the shower and would be happy to do it.

The Holy Spirit has spoken to me, again, about this appearance issue--this time in relation to hair.  I never say their hair doesn't look as nice in the mornings.  But I mess with it, eyeing it critically as I work--sometimes asking them back for another try, if it's a particularly bad hair day.

And why?  What's the purpose?  Who cares what a little girl's hair looks like, as long as it's not knotty or dirty?

Oh, I'm sure some girls do care and want Mom to work on it....but not my girls.  They don't want anything in their hair and they can hardly stand still for a hairbrush.

Am I kidding myself that they don't know my feelings about their morning hair?  Of course they do!  And shame on me!  I should be telling them how perfectly God made them.....not critically fussing with their hair every morning.

Mary wears traditional pajamas at night, or cotton pieces I've tossed into her pajama drawer because I was unable to get a stain out of them.  As long as they're soft enough, I recycle stained pieces as PJ's.

Well, Mary loves the comfort of cotton pants, and loves to put them on during the day, instead of a jean ensemble or other outfit I've laid out.  She doesn't care whether pieces match or not; comfort is everything.  She'll wear what I chose for outings, but at home, she wants her way.

At first I fought this laissez faire attitude of hers.....if someone came to the door, I didn't want her looking like a ragamuffin.

Is my false pride screaming at you now?

Ugly, isn't it?

After a month or so, I let it all go, at the Holy Spirit's prompting.  This was His message to me:

You like clothing ensembles and neatness.  She likes comfort.  Don't try to make her your clone.  Let her be who I've created her to be.  She's mine.  Be her cheerleader, not her critic.

The Holy Spirit isn't done with me on this mother-daughter thing.  And honestly,  I'm so grateful!  This is just the beginning of His whispers, for He knows the desire of my heart....of my daughters' hearts.  We want wholeness in our relationship--never brokenness.  I want to guide Mary and Beth in who He wants them to be...all the while being their most loyal, enthusiastic cheerleader.  I want to build them up, pouring out unconditional love.


The Holy Spirit will do the hard work of refining, just as he does with me.  I need not chisel away at my daughters' perceived, or actual, flaws.  I can pray, and trust in His heart miracles.

My daughters--my children, for that matter--aren't my projects.  They're my blessings!

OME and acute ear infections - a mother's guide

I continue to pray about and research ear infections and their treatments.  It turns out that breastfeeding can provide protection for years, which may be why my boys are just now getting ear infections, at ages 7 and 9.  Of course, ear anatomy and heredity also contribute, so not all breastfed babies escape infections.

I found two particularly good articles--both worth bookmarking if you can't read them now.

One discusses in detail otitis media with effusion (fluid behind the eardrum, but no infection).  This is what Paul has.  His ENT appointment is next Thursday, and at that time I also hope to get help with Paul's excessive ear wax problem, which also affects his hearing.

Paul does have environmental allergies--as well as his dad, grandpa, aunt, and cousin.  I've always been reluctant to treat him with a daily allergy medicine.  He has never complained much about allergy symptoms, except during the last two springs.  Allergies can keep the Eustachian tubes blocked (the same with cold viruses), which can then cause fluid to build up behind the eardrums, as well as make it more difficult to drain, once it's there.

So, I am now treating Paul's allergies with a once daily teaspoon of loratadine children's syrup.  It's not as effective as Benadryl, but it doesn't cause drowsiness, and it lasts for 24 hours, supposedly.  Paul does experience itchy eyes again at bedtime, so I think it really only lasts about 12 hours.  Splashing water on his face before bed seems to help clear away some pollen.  He should probably also do this every time he comes in from the outdoors.  Maybe this has a psychological affect?  I don't really know.

Another article, also from medline plus, discusses common acute ear infection, which involves infected fluid behind the eardrum.

Peter, diagnosed with an ear infection nearly two weeks ago, continues to be symptom free.  His cold symptoms went away quickly; I still haven't filled the antibiotic prescription.  If Paul's ENT suggests it, I'll take Peter in for a check up on that ear soon.