Ready, Set...

WAIT! Good grief, Lord! What IS this? Tuesday evening and Wednesday were looking great as far as having the baby. Good contractions, they even started to fall into a nice pattern on our way to the OB office. If the baby drops any lower it's going to be in one of my legs. The exam showed that I'd made good progress, actually 1 cm more than I had hoped, head down. The doc "stirred things up" a little, and by the time we drove down the road a mile for lunch, I thought I'd drop the baby in the Olive Garden. Very intense stuff. I called Mom, told her things looked favorable (She came out on the train the next day), called my inner circle of pregnancy friends and told them things looked like they would be done soon. And then the signs began to fade into nothingness. I had a silent night, got great sleep, and awoke ready for the show. Thursday morning had a few highlights, but then it settled down. I thought maybe subconsciously I was waiting for my mom to come. Her train arrived at 1:53p. And the rest of the day remained quiet. Late Thursday night after Mom and the kids were in bed, Matt and I went for a long, wonderful walk. We got home about midnight, and I "lost something" and had quite a "show". From 1-2a Friday morning I had great contractions 9 minutes apart... and then nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing!!!! In the morning I went in for a labor check with the same doc who had seen me Wednesday. Exam essentially unchanged. She offered to admit me, but said that I may just end up going home if things didn't progress - and that's really unacceptable to me. So home we came. This time I had absolutely no activity as a result of the exam. Nothing to report. Nothing to do but wait... it's either got to be mind-numbing contractions or my water breaking that will prove I've made the leap to real labor.

Why, Lord? Why did Wednesday look SO good and then everything stopped? I was the most sure I've ever been that that was real labor, but it ceased. So here I sit with my mom while the minutes tick away. She's having a great time with the kids, and is such a huge help. No one knows me as well as Mom. But we look at each other as if to say, where's this baby!?!? The caregivers back in Michigan are getting a real run for their money by 97 year-old Grandma, who has a propensity to misbehave while Mom's gone. She's very fragile and child-like... and stubborn. So Mom bears the stress of that end of things too.

I've done everything I know to do. To be very honest, I don't think the wait has anything to do with "doing the right thing." I think it's just about the wait. I've always been control-challenged, and waiting room experiences really bring that out in me. Instead of relaxing, I become more insistent about peddling my agenda. There's a desperation I feel now, an inability to be happy with the current settings. I struggle with a view of God as an irritated father, one that mocks me as I struggle in limbo. I always find it interesting that I'm so opposed to stillness. In the absence of direction I want to go forward. In the absence of progress I want to make things happen, even if it's the wrong thing. In the absence of hearing God's voice I turn up the sound so that I'll at least hear something. And while I'm being lured gently into the desert by the One who loves me, where I've spent a majority of the last three and a half years, I drag my feet and whine to go back to what I know. Essentially less of Him, and more of myself.

Jesus, help me cherish the wait. Give me your peace. Solder my feet that I will not run from your presence, and may that alone be more than enough.

Pressure

The end of pregnancy brings one word to mind:

~ pressure in my lower back and belly so strong that some days I think I'll about split. Libby did this dance for two weeks. I know it can take awhile...

~ pressure to have the baby when it will be most convenient for the help that's involved. After this week is up, there's no telling when my mom will be able to come out to help. We haven't seen her since May, before that, January. The running joke with Matt is always "Don't have it on this date, I have a meeting," or "After service on Sunday would be fine." He's always joking, but I do take to heart his schedule and it's demands. My batting average has been pretty good the last two time, avoiding the opening weekend of our new worship center, and a massive men's conference that Matt was involved in.

~ pressure created by high and low weather systems that move through the area. Rainstorms bring on the false labor like you wouldn't believe. My water broke with Izak during an October storm. There's a big front coming through tomorrow...

~ pressure to not say (or even entertain) half of what I think

~ pressure to keep on routine with my children when some days I'd just like to quit and go away

~ pressure to remember "control issues" and submit to God's plan, not mine

~ pressure to remind God that my plan makes a whole lot more sense

~ pressure to keep a stiff upper lip when, each day, I think about my girlfriends back in Buffalo and remember that this time will stretch my dependence on God... great... pressure AND stretching...

~ pressure to not cry... much

~ pressure to learn and change because of what I've learned, not merely whine about what the problems are

~ pressure to reach out

So for me, it's hard to avoid pressure at the end of pregnancy. It strikes at the very heart of my "wanting things just so." I marvel at the thought that God, and only God knows the exact moment when this baby will be born. He knows the lessons that He wants me to pull from this time. He knows where this particular path leads. It's easy for me to look back and say with a small degree of confidence, "If this had never happened to me, I can see what I might have become...", but there is no way to say, "And in the future I can imagine that these events will lead to...". It's a good thing to learn to relax in the knowledge that God is the only one in the future, and there's absolutely no pressure in that.

The Power of Observation

Izak was out on our back patio the other day. Through the open slider I heard him excitedly exclaiming, "A frog! A frog! It's a frog!" We had seen a brown frog or two over the past few weeks, so I walked out to see if it was a returning visitor, one who obviously had no fear of toddlers.

I saw Izak crouched over the pavement, studying, tracking, but nothing that resembled a frog. "No, it's not a frog, Buddy."

Then with the same pitch of excitement he cried out, "A spider! It's a spider! Look at it! A spider! A spider!" Looking closer I answered, "No, I don't see a spider either."

He was quiet for a second and then he asked, "What is it?"

"Well, Z, that's an ant."

"An ant. Hi, Ant."

The Moon

Izak is fascinated, fascinated with the sky. He can name it all - blue sky, night sky, stars, shooting stars, helicopter, airplanes, birds, geese, clouds (black, rain, white), rainbows, rain, hail, snow. But his favorite feature is the moon. He has a wonderful memory, so I've been teaching him the subtleties between the different types of moon. White moon, circle, crescent, wolf moon, blue moon, and the newest fascination, a harvest moon. His bedroom is on the east side of the house, with windows facing the perfect direction for a moon gazer. Since going to his big bed, I've had to grow used to the notion that just because he's in his room doesn't mean he's asleep. He loves to fiddle around with his CD player, listening to various discs that I've burned for him. (Had to take away Andrea Bocelli last week... Ave Maria being sung at full-force by a toddler is just not conducive to quiet moments.) When he's finally ready to turn in, he will turn of his CD player and quietly fall asleep. Just like that. He's a terrific boy.

Tonight Matt is out for the evening at a meeting. I put both kids down by 7:30p. I've been noticing that the moon is very full and bright the last few nights, and this has been of particular interest to Z. Once or twice I would open his door to see if he was asleep because his room was quiet, only to find him tucked under the shade and blinds, nose pressed to the glass. When he hears me enter he begins to explain, "See it? There's the moon. The big white moon. See it?"

Tonight I thought I would give him a treat and leave his shade and blinds up so he could watch the rise of the moon... but to my surprise, there was no moon to be seen at 7:30p. More to my disappointment than his, I'm afraid. I told him, "You can watch for it, but stay on your bed and listen to music." At 8:30p I went to check his quiet room. He was curled up at the head of the bed, fanny in the air, winding down to dreamland. From the angle I was standing at, I spied the coveted night prize rising behind a young maple in our neighbor's yard. "There it is! There's the moon! Look, Izak!" And I lifted him up to a stand to see the top of the moon in the east. "See? It was coming up, just later than Mommy thought." He began to whisper, "See it? There it is. The moon. A harvest moon." Sure enough, tonight had a beautiful orange sphere, slightly lop-sided, but rising to her place for my son to admire her. "You can watch the moon rise, just please stay on your bed. You may have to stand to see it, and hold the headboard like this (demonstrating), but don't fall. Enjoy, Buddy. I'll be back later."

At 9p I went up the stairs, expecting to find my little star gazer planted at his window sill. A harvest moon. What a temptation! Instead, the room was dark. He had drawn his blind down, and was curled up, sleeping. Too much light? Naw. But tonight Mommy was more excited about the night sky than he was. And that's when it dawned on me that time is passing, and my little one is growing out of babyhood. I covered him with the comforter and thanked God for my kind, gentle boy. For the gift of innocence that he readily shares with me. For his simplicity. For his winsomeness. And yes, for the moon.

Naysayers and Advisors

This part of my pregnancy is always mentally hard. My body has had the last two babies early. I sort of see it as a gift from God to help encourage me because the nausea and vomiting always kicks up at the end. I've been pushing up my Zofran doses to try to control the sickness, which looms around the clock. So here are the two questions I get: 1.) When's the baby due? 2.) How are you feeling? Here are my new answers. 1.) Soon. 2.) Fine. Any other answer than these usually brings on a conversation that makes me want to cry. I hear about the "you usually don't go until two weeks after your due date" rule, despite the fact that I know my body, this is my THIRD baby, and my ultrasound placed the due date almost one week earlier than the calendar date. If I mention that the n/v is worsening I get to hear about (DEAR GOD) crackers, taking it easy, menu choices, other women's cravings during their pregnancies and whatnot. It can actually be such a discouraging time that I don't want company, other than tried and true friends, the majority of whom are in Buffalo and scattered around the country. It's a time that if I want to talk about the pregnancy, I want to be heard, not responded to, unless it's kind words of encouragement and optimism. I've translated this into how I talk with pregnant women, and when a woman says she's 38 weeks, I chirp, "How fun! You go right ahead and have that baby then!" Their faces light right up and they usually laugh. It's a refreshing thing to have a conversation with someone who wants it to end for you too, and doesn't go down the pain/suffering/overdue scenario. I'm a registered nurse, I'm an intelligent lady. I paid a lot of money to learn about pregnancy and childbirth, so I do know the rules, and oh, and have I mentioned that I have two babies already?!? I know what can be, and what is is very challenging right now.

Yesterday I spent the whole day at Loyola University Medical Center orienting through my agency to work there. It was awesome. The day was long and physically tough. It's the most sprawling campus that I've ever seen, and we traversed the length of it... twice. My belly was SO tight, and the contractions (though false labor, I'll grant you that) were brutal. It was fun thinking about my career again. Matt was home having Daddy Day, the kids were having a blast! I felt like a grown-up again. I also plan on knocking off two more hospitals (Northwestern and Sherman) so that I can just start working after the baby's born and not have to waste a day or two orienting. If I only get out of the house two days a month to work, I want to work! There were about 13 of us in the class, other agency and traveling nurses. During a quiet moment when we were all standing somewhere waiting, someone asked, "So, when are you due?" (Everyone stops and looks.) "Soon." "Is this your first?" "No, my third..." And then the best, nicest, most encouraging thing I've heard in a long, long time... "Wow, you look fantastic!" (People smiling, heads nodding.) "Thanks."

Naps

Naps in our house are a funny thing lately. Libby needs 'em. Izak could use them, but does okay without them, and I don't get one unless Libby and Izak and baby #3 are having one. It can add a certain amount of desperation to a day. Take today, for instance. I heard Izak awaken at 5:45a, crying. My guess is it was a bad dream. But once my little morning bird is up... he's UP. Yesterday his nap fell from 1-4p. Since I was out of the house for a meeting I wasn't able to roll him out earlier, thus creating at least a 10 o'clock bedtime (he was froggin' around from 8p on). And you can almost put money on the fact that when he's up late, he will also be up unusually early. Oy vay.

Liberty sometimes has a hard time with nap placement. Occasionally she absolutely wipes out mid-morning, and goes down for the count (her typical 3-hour tour). Which brings her up about the same time her brother goes into his room for quiet time - that tactic is called "tag team." The lovely part is it allows me one-on-one time with each kid, the horrendous part is I get zippo downtime, and by the time Matt gets home I'm not looking so good... .

Several people have offered to help, but I never quite know how the day is going to roll out. And unless baby #3 is in the mood to sleep, laying down to rest becomes futile. Another funny thought I had the other day was that I project my fatigue on all other adults. People ask, "Can I help?" and I think, "Why in the world would you offer help when you're so tired?" I see everyone as feeling as exhausted as me. They look pretty good, but they must be dying of fatigue! I had to laugh when I put those pieces together. The tricks of the pregnant brain! It's hard to fight the feeling when it arises from a cellular level.

Only a few more weeks. And then the dynamics shift dramatically. My encouragement is that since it's my third I know that eventually... eventually... things even out. Thank God!

The Middle Name

We all know there's a mystical power contained in one's middle name. When it's strung together with one's formal first name it generally implies, "Look out! Trouble ahead!"

Today Libby was on the go. She's discovered the power button on the TV and enjoys flicking the set on and off and on and off and on, etc.. Izak has taken to shouting her name when she interrupts his video viewing, "Yibby!!! NO!!!" To which Libby usually begin to cry. Neither one of my children respond well to yelling. To thwart the tear/frustration fest that spirals out of said difficulties I've begun to do two things:
1) I try to redirect Libby's behavior by encouraging her to turn the set back on. "Liberty Kathryn, turn the TV on." Said firmly, without yelling, but clear instructions (which she sometimes gets and sometimes ignores). This is also to benefit her brother so he can model the phrase back to her. "Yibby, turn it on!"
2) I try to address the heightened tone of his voice by getting his attention, "Izak... we don't yell at sister. Izak..." This phrase is issued with a foreboding tone, one which could land you in a time-out if you don't pick up on the seriousness of the message. But today the conversation took a slightly different spin.

Click. (TV is turned off.)

(Mommy, firmly) "Libby... Liberty Kathryn, turn the TV on, please."

(Izak, hollering from the couch) "Yibby! YIBBY!!! NO!!!"

(Libby looks over her should at brother, chin quivers, tears well up.)

(Mommy, warning) "Izak..."

(Izak, echoing tone) "Izak Kathryn..."


I think he got the point.

Katrina Touches my Home

I never had a blood brother. The Bennetts were a band of women, save Dad. Christopher lived over the fence. He was the same age as us, and we were his secondary home. Every day of junior high and high school he rode to school with us. Many mornings, while Kat and I were putting on our makeup, he'd be sitting with us, telling us about football or swim team practice. After 10 years of being neighbors, he became my brother.

After high school, Chris went into the Coast Guard. He's a fantastic swimmer, and has been part of the search and rescue teams on the helicopters.

Kat wrote today to tell me that he was stationed/living in New Orleans. His wedding is at the end of this month back in Michigan - it's being postponed. His home is under water, everything lost.

Chris is one of the guys working day and night to rescue people off rooftops, and out of other precarious situations. He called home for the first time a few days ago. He's emotionally and physically wrung out. He's seen hurricanes and rescues before, but nothing as massive as this.

Please pray for my adopted brother, Chris, and his family. For his safety, stamina, and own personal recovery from Katrina.

Liberty Kathyrn at 15 months 

You know you're in your third trimester when...

You know you're in the third trimester when...

1) You lean over to pick something up and you can't bend any greater than 30-degrees.

2) You know exactly how many steps you climb each day - today, 128 and counting.

3) Walking to the bakery and buying a cupcake for your toddler's lunch is acceptable.

4) You're scheduling OB visits with the doctor who has the smallest glove size.

5) Any flirtatious comment from your husband receives your response of, "That's what got me in this condition in the first place."

6) You know the exact mileage to the hospital.

7) You are imagining how big the baby is every time you feel it move.

8) You note that it seems bigger every time you feel it move.

9) You consider naming the baby after your favorite chef at Benihana's.

10) It takes you two days to give yourself a pedicure.

11) At least three or four times a day you find yourself curled up in a corner crying, "Dear God, what have I done?!?!"

;)

Keeping Watch

My sophomore year in nursing started out with a chapel organized by the nursing profs at IWU. Teresa Smith did a devotion on the scripture of Christ in Gesthemene. He was requesting his closest friends to keep watch with him... stay awake, pray, be attentive, but please, just keep watch with me... I can't exactly recall her reflections, but that talk slowly awakened something within me that I came to know as one of my mercy gifts - keeping watch with those who are suffering. Over my nursing career I've had the privilege of being in the presence of those who are about to pass into the next life; The challenge is learning how to quiet myself, and allowing the emptiness/uselessness that I feel to be filled with the Spirit of Jesus. I never would've thought that this would be the area of life in which I felt the most used by God. In nursing school I wanted to rescue people or die trying. I wanted ER, trauma flight, high-octane experiences. My philosophy was that God was indeed the ultimate giver and taker of life, so no matter how many machines we applied to a patient, when it was their time to go they'd go. It didn't take long before I saw that machines, while good in many ways, stripped away the moments that letting go and honoring the patient's wishes provided. I didn't really keep watch during those days. I kept busy.

After carrying a caseload of oncology patients in Boston, I began to learn how to be present with a person who was dying without panicking. How sometimes there are no answers. How sometimes there is nothing else that can be done. How to respect silences. How to listen. How to beat back the need to talk about myself. How to get out of the way and be Christ's presence.

I still love working in the ICU. I love trying to turn the tide in a patient's favor and give them another chance. But now my gut knows when the end is near, and I find great satisfaction in helping both the patient and their loved ones find meaning and memories during the watch. It's a sacred time.

My dear friend, Jean, lost her 2-1/2 year battle with pancreatic cancer Saturday evening. Jean was a life-long model to me. Jean was also my mother's best friend. Jean made time for me to come and visit the last time I was home, and readily opened her heart to me when I asked, "What have you been learning? What has God shown you?" She touched many with her honesty and wit. She blessed her family by intentionally investing in them during the 2-1/2 year watch. She was surrounded by friends and family when she left behind her earthly shell and passed into eternity. I believe that, though it was a bitter battle at the end, Jesus was honored by those who kept watch with her. Jesus was present in those who kept watch with her. And now God will be present to her family by blessing them with another line of watchkeepers. Godspeed, Jean.

"With delivery before me and pregnancy behind..."

...I press on towards the goal!! Almost 33 weeks along, with a big, busy belly. This baby feels the most active of the three. Most of the time I still feel it's a boy in there, but then again, I was consistently wrong with the other two. I delivered a week early with Izak, labor precipitated by my water breaking. With Liberty's pregnancy I was dilated to three and 80% effaced at my 36 week visit. My midwife laughingly said, "I guess I'll see you this weekend." But labor pains, 5-8 minutes apart, only came for a few hours every night, and would disappear when I fell asleep. At 37 weeks I was 4 cm and ready, but no baby! (How do you know the difference between false labor and real labor? Real labor ends with a baby in your arms!) The midwives shook their heads, not sure how I was still hanging in there, but every night labor would come and go. At the end of 37 weeks I was actually at 5 and so ready to go. Libby came at week 38, her labor so furious and fast I was stunned for a day or two. This third baby... well, I think it will be earlier still. Braxton-Hicks are a frequent part of my days, sometimes being so intense that I have to stop and catch my breath. SO, so tight! But then it's off and running again, since there's no rest with two little ones, especially since Izak decided to crawl out of his crib for naptime yesterday. A first.

I need to start pulling out my boxes and going through what I have and what I need to get. I donated a bunch of things to a friend in Buffalo who was in need, thinking that I was done with babies. She had a little boy. But I think I can salvage some things from Libby's early stuff... and what do you really need, other than Onesies, for the first few months? If this child is as big as I think it will be, then I should be able to use 6-month outfits soon enough. First baby 8# 8oz, second 8# 14oz, my guess is it will clear the 9# marker.

I need to start assembling the Call List for labor, which feels very overwhelming to me. I wish my mom were a given to be here, but she's 6-hours away, caring for elderly MIL and my handicapped sister. She's miraculously been at the other children's births, don't ask me how, but this one doesn't have a good feel to it. Heck, she could get mostly here but be stuck in Chicago traffic for three hours. Oh well, God knows, God knows.... I keep telling myself that. This is a time in which I feel very courageous for the actual labor, but so frightened for the kids and what will happen with them. They're so little, and though I know they'll survive, I worry how it will roll out. Will it be a sudden onset? Will there be lots of time to arrange and communicate? How will this impact Matt? His roll is so different now, and I know he's planning accordingly, but there's only so much you can do before the wait begins. I feel as if we're already in "the wait."

Exhaustion is a daunting reality from day to day, but I rest in the comfort of knowing how awesome I feel after the baby's out. I never feel more weak, vulnerable, and tapped out than when I'm pregnant. After birth it's as if I've been brought back from the dead, a kind of resurrection I suppose. How will it work with three, three and under? Not sure, but the encouraging word that I've been receiving is that two to three is not as big of an adjustment as one to two. If you have experienced otherwise, please keep it to yourself. I have to have hope at this point.

There is a narrowing that I experience towards the end of my pregnancy, as if the walls were closing in and I am being pushed into a corner. It is a place where I am very, very alone, about to embark on an adventure in which no one can really come to my aid. Labor is an alone place, and I find myself already making that mental shift. It's different than being lonely, that's a state of being in which you can be surrounded by thousands, but connect with no one. Being alone is a reality. Other than God and the new life about to emerge, no one can go to the place of labor with me. My husband, who is amazing in delivery, can only come so close, he still stands at a distance in a sense. He is watching and coaching me from afar. I can see him and hear him, but I can't go to him. Matt has been my hero in the delivery room, and after birthing two children I know and love him in ways I never imagined possible... . He protects me and "keeps watch" while I work very, very hard to let labor have it's way with me. He makes the process safe by his presence. He won't let anyone distract me. He is my guard. One more time, Matt.

So 3 weeks could be a week 36 delivery, 5 weeks could be the 38 week delivery... we'll see. It's a secret only God knows, and He ain't tellin! :)

"... As Long as It's Healthy."

This blog might sound on the rant-ish side, because it's something that I've felt very passionate about for a very long time. It's a response to a cultural cliche'. Case and point: Matt and I were out for a wonderful dinner at my favorite restaurant, Benihana's. We were sitting at a table with 5 other people that we've never met. The mother of the family sat next to me, and very pleasantly asked how far I was along. (Not really something that I can avoid these days. The big belly is quite the conversation starter.) Eight months, I replied. And the next question that always, always follows is "Do you know if it's a boy or a girl?" I reply, No, we didn't find out. Well, this nice mom was so tickled and proceeded to tell me that she didn't find out either because they didn't have good ultrasound machines back then, yadda, yadda, and then the comment that cuts me every time: "It really doesn't matter if it's a boy or a girl, as long as it's healthy."

I know that this statement is supposed to be an appropriate, encouraging, cheerful way to end talking with an expectant mom. It has an unspoken good-luck quality, as if one were giving you a charm or shaking salt over their shoulder. Honestly, it's all I can do to keep my big mouth shut and not say something like, "Really??? Is that ultimate the goal here? Is that how I'll know if I've "made it", when I have a healthy, whole child? And what then would you say to all those women, of whom my mother is one, who deliver babies that have obviously not met that standard? Babies that are not perfect, not healthy?!?"

I especially feel like believers could re-examine the use of this trite statement. What if I have a baby that has abnormalities? We would all agree that God loves this baby, God created this baby, God knows this baby. But it doesn't fit the "healthy" description. Did I not pray enough? Did I not have faith enough that this baby would be whole? Did I sin (remember the old Bible stories)? I know all of the answers are "no." So what in the world can we do with a statement like that? In the process of working towards a mother's heart I have come to the point of wanting to please God by joyfully accepting every child He gives me. While I, of course, desire a healthy child, my heart's cry is to be an obedient servant, even if it means that my baby (babies) might not be healthy. Even if it means that God takes me down a different path to do something in me that only a child with disabilities could do... if I could love and trust Him that much... whatever it would take, I would do it.

I personally like this: It doesn't matter if it's a boy or a girl, it will be loved no matter what.

I realize this may come off very b*tchy, perhaps finger-shaking-shame on-you; it's not my intent. People close to me and far from me have made this statement. But can I be honest with the universe? I'm never prepared for the "healthy" statement when I hear it. I often think about moms who have what appears to be a healthy baby, but instead the little one has or develops unseen problems. Hearing, sight, autism, learning disabled, and the list continues. Then heap on top of it the problem that they seem to be a healthy looking child... but a mom's heart is secretly breaking. I have no doubt that growing up in a home with a handicapped older sister is the seedbed of my thinking. It's a way in which having a disabled sibling has irrevocably changed my perspective.

Okay, there's downloading for you. Hope it wasn't too harsh.

Defeat - the tool of Motherhood continued

At a very young age I took this scripture to heart, "Be holy as I am holy, says the Lord your God." "Mom, what's holy mean?" "Perfect." Be perfect as I am perfect... and that became one of my mortal flaws from my earliest memories. I've always wanted to get it right, be correct, not corrected, be on target or even ahead of the game. Rebuke brings humiliation, correction is shame. I have always jokingly used this to my advantage, "Don't you want a nurse who is a perfectionist?!? Or would you rather have someone who sometimes gets things right?" God knew this seed would be constant battle for me, so He lovingly uses the tool of Motherhood to dig it out of me. Motherhood is a spade. Motherhood gets at the heart of control, image, and the need to be right. Motherhood lays her silver blade at the base of Perfection and cuts down deep to the root of the problem.

From time to time I find myself uptight about parenting issues. Discipline. Speech. Potty training. Walking/crawling. I look at the problem from every angle I can find, ask millions of questions, read every article and board I can find, make every comparison possible... not to necessarily know how to best serve my son or daughter (though that's a part of it), but to find out if I'm right. It becomes more about the feelings of inadequacy and failure that I am feeling, than about the normal, timely process it takes for some things to take hold in my child's life. I worry more about whether I'm measuring up in other people's eyes, than whether I'm being kind and loving to my child in their time of transition. I came to the conclusion early on that I wouldn't post about struggles with my children because of their right to a private life, their chance to develop without me throwing up my blogging hands at their failures. I don't think this is an image game. But in my deepest heart, when I feel anger and resentment boil up when he/she doesn't seem to be "getting it," I've learned to step back and say, "What's the REAL issue here? Is it because I can't control this situation? Is it because I feel the pressure to check one more thing off my parental list? Is it because I can't be perfect?" These thoughts are a sign to me of the Holy Spirit's tender work in me, for nothing is more defeating to a perfectionist than knowing that to be perfectly human is to be imperfect, and to strive for anything else is vanity.

Lord, fill me with your kindness today towards my children... and as I feel my limitations, may I also repent and receive your kindness for myself.

Shake, shake, shake... shake your bootie!

Tonight I had the privilege of helping put on a dance for the mentally challenged members of the Center for Enriched Living, a day program in Lake County. As a church we sponsored their summer dance, "A Night in Las Vegas." One of their board members, Laine, attends our church and helped dove-tail this event into our vision of outreach. This was our first community contact since Matt became the lead pastor. We provided food, drinks, decorations, and chaperones for a 2-hour dance. It was a blast! I haven't danced that hard for that long... ever.

I've mentioned in the past that I have a mentally and physically handicapped older sister. Every dance she's gone to she's been the prom queen because she's one of the most gregarious, bubbly people that you've ever met - and she can shake her bootie!!! I think she would've been proud of me tonight, because I was able to hang in there for almost two hours, 8-months pregnant, sweat and all. (Two cups of coffee and a bag of chocolate cookies helped boost my resolve.) Thankfully, the DJ had choreographers to follow, so I was able to look better than I actually am. Many, many times during the dance I thought, "If my sister were at a dance I would want someone to treat her with joy and excitement." So it helped me overcome being shy, and taking a member by the hand to help them swing their arms to the beat. I thought, "This man is someone's son, someone's baby boy," and it helped me overcome feelings of awkwardness in order to slow dance with him as he sat in his wheelchair.

The marginalized, the "least of these", is who Christ commanded us to love. It was truly a joy to do the electric slide and hokey-pokey with a group of individuals that didn't need my presence tonight nearly as much as I needed theirs.

The boy, happy at home. 

A run down

I'm not really about blogging on events, but lately that seems to be the crux of things. So I suppose it's fair to do a bit of reporting. For the record, I haven't ever been as busy as I have been for the past month. I pride myself in quiet, cozy schedules that focus around home routine and childcare. It's just been downright nuts lately.

Upon returning home from Buffalo I spent a few days getting my bearings back, and preparing for the next feat of events upcoming. Being about eight months pregnant has made the "bounce back" factor much slower than I'm used to. If I think about it, I've spent the entire time I've lived in Chicagoland battling the delayed return of energy and homeostasis since I was technically pregnant when we moved. I can only imagine what it will be like to not be pregnant in a few weeks... yipee!! Saturday afternoon we had wonderful friends stop and visit. We met the Spauldings in undergrad, Brad was one of Matt's groomsmen, Laura is a fellow nursing student. We're godparents to Adam and Hannah. It was a terrific visit. I'm amazed how some friendships seem timeless and deep, and some friendships, though closer in proximity and exposure, struggle to maintain relational depth and intensity. I was so encouraged and undergirded by their visit. They went to church with us Sunday morning and enjoyed Family Day. Brad said, "Hey, if I lived closer I'd love to come to your church!" Good words of encouragement for me.

Sunday afternoon we packed up and headed to West Michigan to meet our former small group friends from Buffalo. We stayed at my sister-in-law's huge country home that was only minutes from Lake Michigan. It was a great, but stunningly tiring, time. Six adults, five kids ages four and under. Two dogs (our former Newfoundland lives there), two kittens (read escape artists), about 10 chickens, a rooster, and a cage full of finches. A literal zoo. We enjoyed the gorgeous beach, white sand that squeaks when you walk on it, clear blue water. It was awesome, and a little scary for me. In my pediatrics rotation I cared for a baby who was drowned in the bathtub by her brother... I never thought about it again until I had a little boy and a little girl, and then it all came flooding back. I'm not necessarily trying to sound like the most neurotic mother you know, but it gives you a little context, I guess. I kept both eyes plastered on the kids at the beach. They did wonderfully. Lots of laughing and playing. We have a beach just up the road form us here in Lake County, and of course Izak asks for it constantly, even more so now. It was great to be in the same space with our dearest friends, though there wasn't a lot of time for heart-to-hearts. By the time we left the kids with sitters and went out for dinner Tuesday night we were all about asleep in our plates. It was hard to say goodbye, not knowing when we'll see each other again. My guess is it will be soon.

On our way out of West Michigan we stopped by and saw Aunt Suzy, the cousins, and G'ma G'pa Hilson. We navigated Chicago's traffic very well and got home in four hours. The kids have been so tired all day... but Izak INSISTS on potty-training himself. I've been practically discouraging him, but he runs to the bathroom and crawls up on the potty to do it anyway. For more information than you might want about our training adventures, feel free to click on my husband's blog link.

It's late. I'm tired. I'll talk to you all soon.

I ran away... but I came back

This last weekend I ran away to Buffalo for approximately 48 hours. It was a trip to surprise my friend, Barb, for her baby shower on Sunday afternoon. I just couldn't miss it. Barb and her husband, PJ, had tried for years and years to have a baby. Barb and I were so excited to be pregnant together at the same time last year. We were green and growing when a bomb fell on them. The official diagnosis is "incompetent cervix." She went into early labor, unbeknownst to her, around 22 weeks. She was hospitalized to try to stop the labor. After a week they couldn't hold it back any longer, her water broke, and she delivered her baby. In the process Hannah died. Barb and PJ had called Matt and I for support and counsel during the heartbreaking decisions and stages. We were good friends prior to that... this experience fused us. I was with Barb during the beginning of her labor, Matt visited the next morning and was one of the few people to see little Hannah. Matt took care of the memorial service a few days later, I sang and played the piano. It was a guilt that almost choked me as I stood before them singing songs of comfort with my belly round and active. It seemed so wrong. When Matt told them that we were moving to Chicago they were blown away, and through Barb's tears she cried, "You were the only one who saw Hannah." There are some things you will never forget...

Shortly after we moved, Barb called and surprised me with the wonderful news that they were pregnant!!! I surprised them back by telling them that I was too!!! Once again we are weeks apart with our due dates. She has been closely monitored by her medical team, and all is well! And she's no longer considered high-risk! In a few weeks she'll have a green flag to have that little baby whenever she can! I was hiding in the kitchen when she arrived at the shower a few minutes early. It was soooo much fun to see her reaction, and then, of course, we two pregnant women had a nice little cry together. I said, " We've wept together... now it's time to celebrate!" It was worth every mile to bless her, pray over her, and encourage her. I'm so proud of them. They've remained faithful in the face of devastation, and clung to the promises of God because their very lives have depended on it.

Just for fun I bet Barb that I'll beat her to the delivery room. We'll see... but I wouldn't bet against me. LOL

Seeing my old home was a striking experience. It was as if I'd never left. The fields were greener, and the trees bigger than I remembered. I called Matt from Carrie's and said, "I'm not coming back." I saw precious few friends, as I knew too many would put me in an emotional tailspin. I didn't go to church Sunday because I'm not ready to face 2000 people yet. I only had a little relational margin left. It was so cozy to sit down with old soulmates and share at a deep, meaningful level. I surprised the McGarrys and showed up on their doorstep for coffee. Jennifer, Chuck, and the kids met me at Uncle Joes for breakfast. Aud and I had dinner at Buffalo Street Grill, and Carrie and I sat on the deck while the kids ran in the sprinkler. Deep conversations, insightful questions, revealing answers, an occasional cry. It was almost like a dream... I awoke one morning and clearly thought, "I had the weirdest dream. I had moved to Chicago and Matt got his own church, and we left everything behind... Hey, why am I on the floor in Gavin's room?" It was really, really good to be back.

The best part was that Matt was home with the little ones while I was away, and he did a wonderful job. The slept well, napped well, and were happy when I returned home. He's awesome anyways, but to insist that I go for a weekend by myself was one of the greatest gifts. He's so selfless. So brave. And so thoughtful.

So there. I did run away... but I'm back.

Blessing me

God's been blessing me the past two days. My heart feels it, recognizes it... a sign of the thaw of the shock.

Yesterday I received two huge boxes of beautiful girl clothes from the Mother of Four Girls, Cheri Fox, back in Buffalo. Her friendship is steady. Her blessings are always dead-on, the exact thing that I need at the exact time. All these lovely clothes... makes me so pleased to have a little girl, perhaps two...

Yesterday Leslie called from Buffalo to ask some medical advice. It was like I had only been in her presence the day before. Beautiful, strong friend. Miles, yes, distance, no. She told me that she keeps up with me through my blog, but didn't want to intrude by leaving a comment. Sensitive to the heart-work of the move. Makes me hope that I never forget the (bitter)sweetness of the move, the eternal treasures that are emerging, the bonds of womanhood that I have been stumbling by for the past 6 months I am now beginning to grab onto...

Yesterday I talked with my friend here. And Sara told me that she thought I was very brave for moving here. And I could receive those words knowing that the light was coming at the tunnel's end. The angst and pain of wondering how I will survive each day has lessened, the ability to see the opportunities emerging is returning, the "hope of a future".

My beautiful children bless me with their soft, sweet skin, little eyes which peer into my soul. And my husband is always the jewel of my life with his kindness, humor, and handsome strength...

Just blessing after blessing.

Safe?

A funny thing has happened since moving to Chicagoland's suburban sprawl. I worry about my kids' safety in ways I never have before. I worry about them being snatched out of our fenced-in backyard. I worry about people breaking into their second-story bedrooms, through locked windows, and taking them in the night. I worry about car-jackings when they're in their car seats and I'm loading groceries, or abductions from the cart when I'm not looking. It's a curious thing that I think is founded in my sense of relative isolation. Hamburg was a smaller community, we lived more country, and didn't even lock our doors at night. I lived on the cusp of farmland that could've swallowed my toddler up in moments without a sign. But I felt like I knew, and was known by, the town. It was hard to go anywhere and not see a familiar face. I had an unspoken feeling that people were watching out for me. Here I think they watch me, but wouldn't necessarily intervene. In my heart I know that's not the truth. Midwesterners are known for good-heartedness, and I would step up to help anyone I saw in need. It just must be a weak spot that the Enemy knows to hit.

One late night I was wandering around the house, and I noticed that my computer wasn't closed. As I shut the lid the streetlight from behind me illuminated an outline on the dining room wall. There was someone in my house, right in front of my eyes! Intruder! But before I screamed I figured out that it was actually MY shadow that the streetlight had created. I don't think I've ever been that spooked. I promptly went into the bathroom and threw up.

I spend a lot of time offering this issue up to God in prayer, not so much asking to feel safe as much as taking comfort that He is ever-present. If anything devastating were to occur, would I rest assured that He had not turned His back? Would I know beyond a doubt that His gaze had never left me or my children? His promises are true, I believe that now in the face of security, but would I be faithful to that in the face of devastation? I have begun to think about people in two groups: either my children are safer because of your existence, or they're more endangered because you're in the world. That's fearful thinking, not one that puts forward the truth of God's promises. Lord, help the Enemy to not prevail in this block in my heart. Help me to surrender my children to you everyday, every moment, and know fully that you are the ultimate protector.

HA!

I DID IT! Have my ACLS card! Not bad for a SAHM. Thank you to those of you who prayed and encouraged me. Endless thanks to my awesome, capable husband who took care of my little ones while I did a 12-hour day away. The house was so peaceful and pleasant when I arrived home. Thank you to Charlotte who gave me loads of free hours to study while she filled my house with the happy laughter of my children playing and having fun. I feel like a million bucks.

Back to the Books

I'm spending the rest of this week studying my ACLS Provider Manual. I have about 150 pages to go. Saturday I'm taking an all day course to receive my ACLS (Advanced Cardiac Life Support) certification. It's the next step above CPR, intended to use while coding a patient. I've worked in ICUs all of these years, but was never thought to need it bad enough to send for training. I anticipate returning to work a few days a month around Christmas, so I wanted to have the ACLS cert. under my belt. I found a company who teaches it, paid for it myself, and am preparing to perform it. A wee bit nervous...

I was telling Matt last night that the vocabulary alone takes me back to the days when I had a career. Automaticity. Adrenergic agent. Laryngoscopy. Ah, Latin. Words that I haven't heard in forever, it seems. I love the medical terms that concisely describe a situation. One big word is sometimes worth a whole paragraph. But the deluge of words taxes my mental power. By the end of my readings I'm struggling to remember what CPR stands for. LOL

So I hope to report later that I received my ACLS without difficulty. It's a matter of professional pride at this time. I've toyed with going back to medical school... then we moved from Boston to Buffalo. I flirted with going back for a graduate degree as Nurse Practitioner... and then I started having babies. This small step is the most I can currently do to prove to myself that I'm still a good nurse with brain-power to boot. I know I'm going to need that confidence when I have to restart my career again after almost a year off in an entirely new health system and state.

This evening I am looking forward to welcoming Aunt Lo (Laura Goble) and her entourage (mom Louise and friend Amber) into our home. Lo is starting her graduate degree at Wheaton. She was my husband's administrative assistant while we lived in Buffalo, though she's actually more like family. I can't wait!

Lady Liberty stands 

Silence

Sorry for the silence. Last week I was working hard at keeping the wheels on the household as Matt was away for some recuperation from Monday to Friday. Thankfully my best babysitter from Buffalo timed her trip out here for a visit to overlap with his absence, which was to only way I survived it. THANK YOU, RACHE!! It's cute, Rache (pronounced Ray-chee) is not her real name, it's Rachel. Nor has that ever been an acceptable nick-name either, she tells me, until our family adopted it for her. But it's the only name that folks here in Chicago refer to her by. "Where's Rache?" "Did Rache come out to visit?" She's a great sport.

Matt came home looking refreshed and a bit renewed. We'd had long discussions about how to best get a vacation this year, and concluded that 1) he needed it more since his job requires a clear head, and 2) he wasn't going to get it with the three of us in tow. So we split up. I'm weary in a way that even time on vacation will not correct. Pregnancy takes it's toll, that's for sure, especially 3 in 3 years. I feel like I can go a bit longer without absolutely frying...

Next week I enter my third trimester. Baby is kicking and turning, nausea is only a problem in the afternoon, and a little Zofran corrects it. My due date is October 18th, two days after Izak's third birthday. I bet I'll go end of September, early October.

Our neighbor has started driving his Harley motorcycle to work every morning. The problem is that when he starts it, Izak automatically wakes up. So rising times have been between 530 and 6a again. Poor kid. And yes, poor me! Most mornings he awakens so loudly that it's poor Bibby too. Alas... dear God, please bring snow! Liberty is down to one nap, and Z has mostly dropped his, which isn't a big deal when rising is at 7a. But when it's so early, we're all off a bit. Today he's finally napping, and was kind enough to coordinate it with Libby and myself. Just a few precious minutes of quiet. That's my vacation!

I've noticed a funny thing since moving and becoming pregnant. Probably at least five times, people find out about our third baby on the way and say gingerly, "Congratulations or condolences?" Why can't anyone fathom that this might be a very intentionally-timed spacing of children? Why do people assume it's a mistake? Can anyone else out there see how important it is for us to stabilize our household and get the whole pack moving forward by generating the next baby now rather than later? Being a nurse I specialize in caregiving, and having 3 3 and under really works with my strengths. Diaper changes, line 'em up and let's go. Lunchtime, lock them in their seat and let's start dishing. It's kind of like rounding on an assignment of patients on a hospital floor. Be organized, have a plan, and execute that plan to the best of your ability. There are precious few people who have been genuinely encouraging. For the most part people think we're nuts. But my little brood will be sleeping through the night together sooner, able to ride the rollercoaster rides sooner, be potty trained in a shorter span of time, and big enough to carry their own backpacks when we hike sooner. In essence, the Furrs get to fun times together sooner by packing the kids together. This has always been the plan, and I feel God has been directing in the plan since the beginning. Hard work? Of course. Any type of spacing is. But intentional? You bet.

I have a lot more thoughts about adding a third baby to our family. I'll share it another time.

Need to go roll the boy out before he naps the day away and parties all night... and then gets up early again.

Blessings.

I Love July Fourth!

I am a closeted patriot. It seems as I get older, the country becomes more divided, rhetoric becomes more divisive, and very few people are found weeping out of thankfulness when the national anthem is played (I generally fall in that last camp year-round.). July Fourth gives us permission to actually admit that there's a remote possibility that America may be okay, if just for today. As I've said in the past, I am aware that America is not perfect, nor is she God's favorite. But she has been blessed by His hand. There are people that I've known that find great joy in beating up each administration as they lead, partisan and bitter. To this day I'm still trying to find my own response to certain administrations' weaknesses, but it doesn't mean that I throw away my love of this nation when man fails. I have to work really hard to think about political issues, maybe I fall short in reaching "proper" conclusions. I do see the subtle ways that the media seeks to destroy patriotic hearts like mine, but just because the country's occasionally (painfully) on the wrong side of the issues doesn't diminish my appreciativeness.

I tried to enlist in the service twice in high school and once during college. Unfortunately I have asthma that cannot be lied about. Five minutes in basic training and I'd be dead meat, my childhood physician told me as much, not to mention I would want to be healthy and strong in every way to serve. I have a deep admiration for men and women in uniform. I love to listen to stories from people who have been on tour during war-time. In high school I was adopted by the local vets as a bugler for their funerals and memorial services. Many times I'd be sitting in class and an elderly man in khakis and badges would peek in the door and motion me to come with him. Memorial day was a long morning full of short services all over Bay County. Between services the men and women liked to stop by a bar for a cold drink, and that's where the stories would unfold. Fighter pilots, medics, sailors, nurses would recount tale after tale for me about what they experienced. Some still cried when they talked, though well into their 70's. Some got a far away stare, others laughed nervously and sucked on their cigarettes. That was the age that I really began to grasp what had been given for my freedom. And it grew within me a thankful, humbled heart.

I hope to pass my patriotism on to my children. It may take some doing because I'm not really sure Matt and I see completely eye-to-eye on this. Can you be a true Christ-follower and be deeply patriotic? I would think that there are lessons about sacrifice and freedom that Christ embodied that would serve to undergird a love of America without eclipsing the gospel. Do I want automaton children that never question the government or the leaders? No, but I am committed to raising kids who are respectful, and I think many lessons of gratitude come from the men and women who gave, and continue to give us freedom. If your an armchair general or a wanna-be politician, don't waste your breath on me. Next to my thankfulness for the freedom I find in Christ is my love of my country. To spit in the face of a country's sacrifice... well, I can't even finish the sentence.

Liberty's namesake speaks to two of my favorite realities: the freedom of life we enjoy in a great country, and the everlasting, life-saving liberation of the soul.

Privacy

Thanks to the family that lived here before us, the entire neighborhood knew before we moved in that Matt's a pastor, making me "the pastor's wife." I actually look forward to new neighbors coming in that don't know our real identities. (Sorta feels like the Incredibles.) You're not allowed to raise your voice at one another while outside, or be too gruff with the toddler, or listen to anything but satellite hymns-r-us radio... not that I would do anything other than that. LOL A very nice lady and her two little girls stopped by selling raffle tickets. I try to buy something from all the little entrepreneurs to make a connection with them (except magazines, NO MORE MAGAZINES!!). Then the mom engages me, "We haven't met. I live at that house, yadda, yadda, yadda... so you're a pastor's wife?" And I wanted to say, "You know, it's really none of your !@$^%! business!" I'm giggling as I write this because I'm having visions of my supressed altar-ego on the loose! This is why I don't drink, people! You WANT me surpressed. Being back in the Midwest brings with it an increased percentage of protestants. With that increased demographic comes an increased number of impressions and expectations of said pastor's wives because of increased exposure. Not to mention my own memories of the "pastor's wife" from my childhood years aren't fond or fuzzy. So I get this twitch in my left eye at the very term. ("Jaws" theme in background.) I smile, grit my teeth and say, "Yes, that's right." Remember, I swore that I'd never marry a pastor. Enter Matthew, stage left.

You know, I put my huge maternity shorts on one leg at a time, and I like to listen to the latest R and B music. I have a problem with wicked thoughts sometimes, and must restrain myself while disciplining my son. I bite my tongue when I stub my toe though I think a variety of descriptive words, and I don't drink because I don't want to, not because it's been put upon me. I get grouchy in the evenings and whine when I'm tired. What you may think a pastor's home is like and the reality of it may be two different things, but it's not my job to try to re-establish people's preconceived notions of the "parsonage." It's also not my job to play the piano and lead Sunday school (a hearkening back to the earlier model of the "wife".) My main job right now is primarily taking great care of my husband, who happens to be the pastor, our children, and protecting my home, just like any other wife would. So there. LOL And I want friends and relationships like any other woman, preferrably not based on what my husband does or doesn't do.

So as for my not-so-secret identity, well, that's mostly between me and God. Btw, Lord, you're funny. Real funny.

Out of Practice

I've noticed something about myself since becoming a stay-at-home mom (SAHM). Being a good listener doesn't come as easily to me as it used to. Any other moms out there feel it too? I find myself exhibiting, in my opinion, very poor skills. My freshman year in college I was hanging out with an upper classman that I really admired. We were sitting in front of the dining hall one evening talking. At one point he looked straight at me and said, "Heidi, you're a bad listener." I about died, but the more I grew (matured), and the more I learned about the ebb and flow of communication, the more I saw he was pretty much right. Heck, I even took a class in college, Interpersonal Communication, to teach me what good listening was. I got an "A", but lately I'd give myself a C at best.

For me, being the listener takes discipline. Areas where I know I struggle: good eye contact and body position, not interrupting or talking over the speaker, asking good follow-up questions, not daydreaming about what I'm going to say next, and sometimes just plain staying interested in what's being said. When I initiate the subject then chances are I care about the topic enough to stay engaged, but when it begins to drift another direction it takes effort for me to focus. Perhaps it's because I travel in more unfamiliar territory now with people I don't have conversational history with. So much of establishing new friendships is about getting information needed in order to ask better questions, the heart questions. I think A LOT of it has to do with my daily interfacing with my little ones. They're not conversational geniuses yet, so I'm sloppy, and a bit unprepared when interacting with grown-ups. Big people have different needs than little people, and those needs pull on different muscles in me. Needing to do more listening than sharing also triggers different feelings in me too: Am I being heard? Am I understood? Am I liked because I am or am not understood? Good listeners are such an inspiration to me. They hear the underlying feelings and address them, sometimes very directly. I like to be concise with information, so a lot of times I leave out the feelings in the conversation to save on time. But good listeners come back around and say, "You're a good mom." "You're a good friend." "You can survive this period of time." "You're not screwing up." What a blessing it is to be heard. What skill it takes to be a good listener. (BTW, my husband is a really great listener.)

I've been in and out of the book of James lately. The quintessential book on controlling the tongue. A book that's easy to read, but hard to hear. Maybe that's why I keep putting it down and re-reading it over again the next day. I've got to get back in practice, get those muscles back, and take listening seriously again.

Correction: It comes in fours.

I took delivery on our new fridge last weekend. You guessed it, the old one was gasping, and rather than lose $100 of food, I struck first. Found a great appliance company in up in Zion, family-owned, Lucy's Appliances. Just fantastic people. And since my other three appliance should be going on the fritz I'll keep their number in speed-dial. Let's hope when the stove dies it doesn't burn down my kitchen...

We got word Monday that friends of ours back in Hamburg are being put through the mill. John, the youth pastor, and Becci have been friends of Matt's since he was a junior high-er. In fact, he was Matt's youth pastor. They have four kids. Ariel, the second born, was in an ATV accident, Mercy-flighted to Children's Hospital where they determined she broke a leg and dislocated her wrist. She was complaining of stomach pain (never good), and they found she tore her aorta. She was in surgery from 1-630 a.m. and it was worse than they initially thought. They had to graft part of the aorta, she lost a lot of blood, but was stable last I heard. Being far away when friends are walking through deep water is really hard. The blessing of just being present is such a gift (to the ones who chose to be present and the ones struggling). If thoughts and prayers count, then they're never truly far away at all.

Gardening and Prayer

So I don't forget, I will tell you about how gardening has become a time of mediation for me. I'm sure it doesn't take rocket scientist to figure out that when you're kneeling with your eyes down you see precious little of the world around you. Normally this doesn't directly lead me to a prayerful heart. Three, maybe four springtimes ago I was putting in annuals around my back door. It had been brought to my attention (by my MIL) that you can't just dig a whole and plop a flower in it. The ground needs to be "cultivated." Ah. See? I had no idea. She showed me how you get a shovel and work the entire area to maximize the soil's effectiveness, and then you use a fertilizer or hummus, etc... This seemed like a lot of energy for a little plunk of a plant, but okay, if you say so... The next day I was kneeling at the back step, working at removing the weeds from the turned-up soil, and the phone rang. It was Matt with a devastating prayer request. A young family, who had just retired from the military, had moved to our town to be near their best friends; actually, they were neighbors. They had been in town perhaps a month. That afternoon the youngest boy wandered off for only a moment, I believe he was 1-1/2 years. When they found him he was face down in a shallow, decorative pond, unresponsive. The best-friend mom began CPR, rescuers were called, he was raced to the hospital and placed on life-support. This was the call. And I was stunned. Normally this information didn't disrupt me much since I was an ICU nurse and not a mom at the time, but I was absolutely sickened. How could God allow this?! It was boggling to think of how new they were, no family, only loosely known at our church, how could this happen?!? I was still on my knees in the dirt. At that moment, I began to dig and weed and cry out to the Lord with a voice I'd never used before. I think it was the Mother-heart that God was beginning to create in me. I sobbed and groaned, and really lost my dignity there in my backyard. Mud smeared on my face, nose running, I told God that He MUST save that little boy. That I had not told Him what to do in critical circumstances before this, so just this once I was asking for a real miracle. That other situations I could accept, but not this one. That this was unjust. That this was wrong. That this was very un-God. And I begged with all my heart that the little boy would be made whole.

The outcome was the worst you can imagine. And a family experienced a grief that I think I would absolutely die from.

The next Spring I was out on a sunny day, shovel in hand, gloves on, turning up soil. And for some reason, the smell of the ground, the kneeling for weeds, rubbing my hands in the dirt, I was abruptly taken back to the year before. And again, my heart cried out for this young family. They had weathered the first year of loss. They had stayed in tact and even become active in the grief support group at church. And they were expecting another baby. I went inside and wrote them a little note to tell them that whenever I gardened I was driven to prayer for them. To this day I pray for them when I work in the dirt. And then I pray for others. There's just something about the physical posture that leads me to a time of earnest petitioning before God. I'm not much of an asker. Never have been. It is one of my spiritual blind spots, I admit it. I never bothered my earthly father for anything unless I absolutely couldn't avoid it, and that directly transferred to my Heavenly Father. But the humble position of gardening brings my soul to a vulnerable, honest place. "Lord, could you... ? God, I know you know, but would you mind... ? I don't know what your plan is, but there's this need... ."

Just like the earth needs the Creator's touch in order to produce, I need to bow and ask in order to see His hand at work. So the moments in the dirt... well, friend, to me that's just really, really precious.

Jacob's Ladder

I have a perennial addiction that I've had to curb this year. The lovely acreage that I enjoyed in Buffalo was a pallet that I enjoyed learning on. When Matt wasn't looking I'd run off to the Eckhart Road greenhouse, wholesalers of perennials for the local greenhouses and nurseries, and pick up a gallon pot (only $5!), or two, or three... . The game was I'd plant them and see how long it would take Matt to notice. As a former "lawn care specialist" (overstated, dear?) in high school, it generally took no time at all for him to catch me at my game. We loved to watch the land and how it grew. I was successful at full-sun flowers thanks to the great instruction of my friend, Lori, who just keep encouraging me, "You can't kill 'em, Heidi. It's a no-brainer." Rudbeckia, echinacea, coreopsis, day-lillies, Russian sage and double-daisies. She had luscious, gorgeous perennials that she, too, made over as if they were mini-children, making me a beautiful jar full of the current blooms for my birthday. I wanted to, and continue to want to invest in perennials.

Last year I spent a large amount of time fussing about the rock garden just out behind the house. It lived underneath two enormous shady trees. The only things it really grew well at it's sunny edges were myrtle and lily of the valley. I dug up and cultivated the top half with manure and hummus (ever watch a nine-month-pregnant woman garden?!? I imagine it was hillarious!) , and put in my best effort to populate it with something wonderful: Three Astilbe, sweet woodruff, one Solomon's seal, and two Jacob's ladder. The only survivors that first year were the astilbe and sweet woodruff. Solomon's seal and Jacob's ladder were accidentally stomped and broken by the toddler and the Newfoundland early in the process. Lori assured me if I cut them back I would see them return again this summer. So I waited and waited, looking forward to enjoying a garden full of swaying, smart shade flowers.

And then came the move.

I often think back to my garden and wonder what it looks like this year. Perennials are exciting because they show forward momentum with their growth. Lori said, "The first year they sleep. The second, they creep, and the third, they leap." I so wanted to believe that the Solomon's seal and Jacob's ladder would be in bloom, and that, somehow, my life would bloom with it. As you can imagine, there are endless life-lessons from flowers, especially perennials. Gardening has been an area where God speaks clearly and quietly to me as I kneel in the dirt and work. It's meditation and cultivation of my soul. (Another day I'll tell you why.)

This year, this new era, is marked by a big, beautiful sunny yard, complete with large hydrangea blooms (my Buffalo hydrangea only ever weakly bloomed on one half of the bush...), tiger lilies, little buttery day lilies, prairie onions, and lilac trees. Matt made me promise, "I, Heidi Furr, (right hand raised, left hand on the Bible) will not plant perennials this year. I promise to study the sun/shade patterns and watch what grows. I am pregnant and sick and chasing two babies. I promise to not frustrate myself (or my husband) by trying to plant a garden. This, I solemnly swear." So I have been good... and experiencing withdrawal. LOL

A woman in my church had a long conversation with me once at a party. We got to talking flowers, particularly perennials. She, too, had a similar love of flowers. I wanted to know the good greenhouses, good prices in this area, so that when I could buy I'd save time looking around. Every now and then I'd call out to her at church, "It was beautiful this week! I was thinking about you and flowers!"

In light of my "Hit Hard" blog, you may understand the subtle implications of what I'm about to write. Sunday, Dawn came to me with a large paper grocery bag. "Just because you promised Matt you wouldn't buy flowers doesn't mean that I can't buy you flowers." We laughed, but as I looked into the bag I burst into tears. There, standing tall, and in bloom, was a Jacob's ladder.

Birthday sweetie... chocolate chip mint ice cream and chocolate cake and Libby 

Miss Lib is one year old today. 

Happy Birthday, Liberty Kathryn

5:18 a.m. She rose with the sun and greeted the day enthusiastically.

8:30 a.m. All out of enthusiasm. Time for a nap!

Tonight I'll probably make her favorite meal, chili and pasta. I may or may not bake a cake. The heat index will be between 95 and 100-degrees F. Turning on the oven should be illegal!

Happy birthday, baby girl!

Better today

All that crying had a good effect because today I was able to face the world without melting. Got a shower, took the kids out to TWO grocery stores, and had a meeting before naps. (Deep breath.) I can do this.

This weekend Matt's family is coming in from West Michigan to help celebrate Liberty's one year. What a peach she is! It hardly seems possible that the time has gone by so quickly. More tomorrow.

Hit Hard

This blog needs to be cathartic because I'm a mess today. Yesterday sitting in church I was suddenly overwhelmed with a feeling of loneliness. It was so powerful that I started to cry. Strange, since I've had a few times of grown-up interaction this week. I went to a neighbor's Mary Kay party and had a great time meeting more people in my neighborhood. Yesterday afternoon I spent 2 hours at women's ministry thing at church with about 15 other ladies. You'd think it would have abated, but no. This morning is rough because, though I gave Matt the go-ahead a week ago, he has to be at church working on a time-sensitive project this morning... thus interrupting Family Day... thus leaving a lonely wife at home crying. Not to mention morning to noon is such a brutal time with the little ones on top of pregnancy, and I do 6 out of 7 mornings alone. I look forward to the company for one morning, though I thought I'd be okay without it. I guess not. I didn't anticipate the overwhelming loneliness. I am not in gracious spirits, but don't want to frustrate an already bad day by exasperating the husband. Sometimes "the ministry" is disruptive, and in general he keeps it to a minimum, so it's not his fault. And it's not my fault either. It just is.

I want to go home, but I'm not really sure where that is anymore. Life has gone on without us back in Hamburg, the house is sold, painted and redecorated. Life has some sort of rhythm here, but the walls are white, there's no artwork up, and I still have a hard time remembering my phone number. Homeless at moments, sometimes very lost, and then sometimes suddenly found. It's hard to explain. In general I can override these moments, but today's an exception.

Issues carry a different weight here too. I used to be aware of things going on at Hamburg but not have to carry them because Matt was an assistant pastor, and I was one of seven assistant wives. Here I'm the "first lady" (Matt's words, not mine). I'm constantly thinking about when to speak and when to hold my tongue. I consciously balance knowing in general the issues that NW faces, but not becoming bogged down by them. And though issues are generally not personal, as the wife of the leader it takes a boatload of discipline not to make things personal as they relate to my husband's career/life calling. But that's part of protecting my home from the invasion of the job. Most of the time I do well. Days like today I feel my limits, my shortcomings, my vulnerability. And I have to proverbially throw myself on the mercy of the court. That stinks.

The kids are well. Libby is handling her night wakings like a champ. I've stopped going in, so she generally turns the times around pretty quickly and sleeps again. Last night I heard her partying at 1 a.m. - it sounded like so much fun I wanted to go in, but curled up in the guest room to make sure she turned the corner. Izak woke up on the wrong side of the crib today, but has adjusted his attitude with a little help from Mom. Right now he's upstairs playing. It's strangely quiet... I should go check. Here's to tomorrow being better. When the nights are bleak I always remember Mom quoting the Psalm, "Sorrow lasts the night, but joy comes in the morning." I wonder if there's a scripture that says, "Hey, yesterday and today may be flushed down the toilet, but there's always tomorrow!"

Resolution?

What a week! I'm glad (?) it's almost over. The minivan has been at the dealership getting serviced since Tuesday, but I have faith (perhaps misplaced, we'll see) that they're doing the best they can and keeping it to what's being covered by our splendid extended warranty. That sucker may have paid for itself with the list of repairs this trip alone. So, I've been house-bound. Not generally a big deal.

The ultrasound was last evening. It went well. I believe that all is going long normally. At first I thought she might be spending too long focused on the heart, slowly clicking back and forth from frame to frame. But I could really drive myself nuts wondering or take her at her word that "everything looks good". I see the OB in a week.

MY NEW DISHWASHER IS HERE... more later.

Comes in Threes

This morning my sister and BIL got on a plane and headed home to Pittsburgh. They've been here since Saturday night, enjoying the kids. The last time we saw each other was the end of January, and we anticipate not seeing one another until sometime after December, probably for Bennett Christmas. The kids have changed so much, and I was so grateful for the extra help.

Monday I ran a load of dishes in the morning to keep up with the extra plates and cups, and afterwards noticed the floor sounded spongy. The good news is I get to have a newer, quieter dishwasher. The bad news is it ruined my parquet hardwood floor. Tuesday morning I spent calling insurance agents, flooring specialists, and the Dodge dealership in Antioch. My minivan's on the fritz too, thankfully the big problems are warranty work with a moderate size deductible. Dad always said, "It comes in threes." Minivan, dishwasher, floor. Yup, Dad, you're still right. We'll know the extent of the damage to the floor and insurance coverage by the end of the week. For now the peaks of wood have crushed into the floor and there's a rug over the worst of it to protect the kids. And I'm admiring my dishpan hands...

I was upset after hearing what it would cost to replace the parquet with ceramic tile. More out of disappointment than despair. But I was able to quiet myself pretty quickly. God was not surprised. He knows our situation, so why panic? The worst case scenario... a big rug for awhile. Not a problem. I have learned over the past year to go against a natural tendency of mine - motion. If something's wrong then you swing into gear, if there's a potential problem then you fuss and stir (waste a lot of energy trying to predict the future). "We must correct this immediately!" No, there's no need to freak out. A lot of times I think that the popular default mode is action, when I believe that scripture teaches us when difficulties arise we should WAIT. If the path is unclear, hold still and wait. If you're not sure that you can afford to wipe out your savings account to correct a problem, then hold on. If you're thinking that God has forgotten you and you need to take matters into your own hands, then you're misled, and potentially creating an even worse situation. Let God play His cards,wait until you feel like you've heard from HIM, and then act. Goes against my nature, that's for sure, but I'm thankful that my neurosis is lifting a little. No need to hurry or fuss, just STOP.

#3's ultrasound Thursday afternoon.

Kicks and Giggles

I have been running crazy, as you can see. But amidst it I've been able to slow down enough to feel baby #3 kicking away. Just the internal "flicking", nothing pronounced, but a reminder that I have company. Nights are long, as sleep doesn't come easily to me when I'm pregnant. Looking forward to OCTOBER! Our ultrasound will be next week. No, we are not planning on finding out the gender.

The kids are hilarious, alot of laughing and playing. Izak has begun to recognize the presence of his sister. He now greets her in the morning when I bring her downstairs, "Good morning, Bibby!" Libby has started to self-feed, which is a HUGE accomplishment for both of us. Izak was very slow to self-feed, and had a really senisitive gag reflex, so new food was not very fun. Libby is shoveling in chili, bananas (has the potential to keep up with Lukie P in the future...), Chex cereal, etc. I think she needs to eat in her diaper alone, because she becomes very involved with her meal. This morning she had tons of fun rubbing her hands in her hair, and the afternoon capris are already soaking in a bucket of OxiClean.

Grandma DID come last weekend and thoroughly enjoyed the kids. Her arm looks tough, but is healing. Bay County judge has signed 7 warrants for the dog to be destroyed, along with other legal issues, so it should be interesting to hear how it rolls out. Evidently the dog was still out of the house the other day standing off neighbors in the street. I just don't see how you can care that little...

Midwest vs. Northeast, interesting observation. I've been in the NE region for about 10 years. While people are a little more reserved in their interactions, there's also a greater sense of restraint in the conversations. I think that's something that I've grown used to. I actually like the coolness ot NE'ers, even though I'm MW-born. As I've begun to meet folks around here, you are immediately transported into areas of conversation that used to be reserved for third or fourth visits in the NE. I have to remind myself, You're back in the MW, where you can have a 15-minute conversation with a stranger. But something else I notice it the freedom with which people voice their opinion about the subject at hand. A lot of times I find myself feeling set-up, because people ask about more personal issues and then proceed to invalidate what I say by rattling off their thoughts about said subject. I stand there thinking, But I didn't ask... . From what I hear, it will get worse as I become more pregnant, obviously a bigger target for those with an agenda. My girlfriend was telling me about perfect strangers aproaching her in the stores, asking her if she was breastfeeding. I do remember when I was pregnant meeting a (NY) woman I did not know, (met with once to practice wedding music with) who wanted to know upon 2 minutes of knowing me if I was having a boy, and if I did would I cirumcise him. She spent 15 minutes discussing why I shouldn't. I think I will be better prepared this time to deflect the nosey and inappropriate comments, but it's hard when you're not sure who's safe and who's not. There's a place I need to find between being polite, being honest (which I usually do not think is appropriate), and being politely honest.

I went out for dinner the other evening with ladies from my neighborhood. We had a great time. I was so impressed with how they treated one another, and how well they listened to each other. It was great. I didn't feel picked on b/c of being the "pastor's wife," which is unusual with unchurched people. They were good at sharing funny stories, and taking the time to encourage each other as one might voice frustration with a particular issue. I'll admit I was nervous, I was texting Aunt Lo back in Buffalo to pray for me before they arrived, but three hours went by like no time at all. I look forward to next month!

Answer: Good for Shootin'

Question: What are feral cats and pit bulls good for?

Last night was remarkable in Bennett history. My dad tried calling our house twice last night at about 9:45 p.m.. That's never a good sign. When I returned his call his first words were, "Your mom's in the hospital. She was bitten by a pit bull." Ok, deep breath, put on nurse face, don't panic and scare dad. At that point he backed the story up to some time around 5 p.m.. They had just returned from visiting Mom's sister in Beulah for the afternoon. Upon arriving home my sister Stef, who is mentally and physically handicapped, was out in the yard. Before Dad knew it, the neighbors, Connie and Larry, were bringing her into the house, covered in blood. Evidentially, there was a feral cat in the neighborhood that literally attacked her. (A half an hour earlier it lunged at and scratched up our neighbor and friend, Carol, before running off.) I'm not sure if it was witnessed or not. Clawed and bit her face, tore up the skin between her eyes, lacerated areas behind her ear and throughout her hair. Mom prepared to get her to the RiteAid treatment center, and Dad hunted down and detained the cat until Animal Control came. Dad said it still had Stef's blood on it's face when he found it. The cat almost attacked the A.C officer as well before he was able to get it netted. The cat will be quarantined for 7 days and then destroyed. Cats don't get rabies (I'm not sure what they get instead of it), but the cuts have a high possibility of becoming infected. The emergency center used a skin glue on Stef to get her face/head back together, and started her on large doses of antibiotics. Mom returned home with her about 7 p.m..

Daisy is Mom and Dad's miniature schnauzer. She routinely has a walk in the evening before bedtime. Mom set out to go around the block about 7:45 with Daisy on her retractor leash. They went down the block and turned right. A man was coming out of his house to get into a car that was in front of his house. Suddenly, the screen door swung open and a pit bull charged out after Daisy. Mom reeled her in and kept lifting her higher and higher to get her away from the dog. (Not sure what the people of the house were doing while this was happening.) Eventually the dog backed up and lunged at Mom. It got her forearm. Mom began screaming. She says she heard a woman in the car yell, "Get that dog back in the house, it has a warrant out on it." Somehow the kid got the dog back into the house, and my mom was yelling, "Call 911!" She was bleeding all over. Get this: The woman said, "My cell phone's dead," and the guy jumped back into the car and they DROVE OFF. By this time the whole neighborhood was coming to Mom's aid as she was calling out the numbers of the license plate. Someone shouted, "Don't worry -- that car lives there." The neighbor called 911, and the fire trucks came to get Mom ready for the emergency room. The people were quick to tell Mom and the police that there were two pit bulls and both were menacing; multiple reports had been filed. Meanwhile, the nice neighbor's husband came running to Dad at home, "Your wife's been bitten by a pit bull!" So off Dad goes again. Mom was certain that Daisy would have been killed had she not been lifted out of harm's way. Mom ended up with 4 stitches, a tetanus shot, a Rochephin injection, and Augmentin.

Can you believe the owners fled the scene?? What if Stef had been with Mom? What if a child had been outside? What if Daisy had not been on her leash? What if...???? I'll be anxious to see justice meted out in this case. Mom and Dad are rightly talking about litigation. I'm dumbfounded by the ignorance of the dog owners, and the randomness of two animal attacks in 3 hours on my family. Not sure how this will effect Mom's trip this week. She may need to stay home and keep a close eye on Stef. The doctor said that if she shows even the slightest sign of infection she needs to get more medical attention immediately. My guess is IV antibiotics.

At the end of our phone call, I jokingly said to Dad, "Just make sure Grandma stays inside tonight."

Libby 11 months 

Picking Pretty "Yeyow Fwowers" 

My First Flower 

Update - probably too much information ahead

Many people ask how the pregnancy sickness is going. The nausea has lifted during a majority of the day, which is wonderful. I still have vomiting more days than not, which is no big deal. It's a quirk that I've learned to deal with and cope with. I keep ziplock bags everywhere -- in the car, my bag, kids' diaper bags. I'm not too proud to hang over the garbage disposal at home.

Some days I forget to take the Zofran ... and that usually spells TROUBLE. Without the drug on board, the vomiting hits much quicker and with greater severity. For example, yesterday I smelled a dirty diaper, and I knew I was in for some heave time. But before I could get anywhere safe it hit. And when I was done it was literally running down the walls. Gusto!

I usually think it's a boy in there, since the N/V is more similar to when I carried Izak. But this terrible dandruff and itchy scalp is something that I had only with Libby. So boy? Girl? Completely befuddled. Last heart rate check was 136-165. That doesn't help me a bit. I'm approaching 18 weeks, about half way done.

I look forward to getting color on the walls and more shelves and storage at home. Other than that the house is very functional, most of time looking like Toddlerland blew through and blew up. I will eventually get a picture of it posted on the website for you curious folk.

Visitors on the list: Mom is coming by train from Bay City, Michigan next week, Thur- Mon. Kat and Dave (S and BIL) coming the following weekend from Pittsburgh. A free week and then the Hilson/Cary/Fishers are coming for Liberty's one year birthday bash! Can you believe it?!

Otherwise, still getting settled in IL. Some very groovy things about my new digs: no inspection stickers required, a fenced yard for the kids, not law (yet) for handsfree cell phone use, DSL, tons of space, lots of dogs to enjoy without having to do poop pick-up, a loving church, every store that you can imagine within a mile, and DUNKIN DONUTS, AND (soon coming) a DRIVE-THRU STARBUCKS. These last two guilty pleasures will, of course, have to wait until after I get this baby out since coffee tastes like metal.

As far as the emotional adjustment-- if it's possible to be quite happy and still sad at the same time, then I very much am.

The complexity of "salad"

I share this with Matthew's permission.

Matt was gracious enough to run to the store for me the other evening. I sat down with the list and began to ellaborate on the various items. "Be sure the Mrs. Grass is the original recipe, not with the celery or carrots. Izak won't eat the veggies. And the Mr. Bubble should be for sensitive skin, it's in a white bottle. It's by the adult bubble bath in the health and beauty section...". I continued down the list. Matt rolled his eyes. "I can figure this out, unless you really want to do this." I didn't, so I shut up and let him go. He came home with several bags, everything exactly as I'd requested-- except for one thing. There was no Suddenly Salad pasta mix, which I'd been craving. I'd written, "Sud. Salad, original or ceasar." Where was it? The last item I pulled out of the bag was a Dole salad kit, Ceasar style. I asked Matt, "Would you like ceasar salad tomorrow night?" He looked confused. And then it dawn on me.

Complete salad kit in a bag = "suddenly" salad.

Riding the Bus with my Sister

I stayed up late Sunday night and watched the Hallmark special, "Riding the Bus with my Sister," along with my mother in Michigan. Mom and I called each other during commercial breaks and reflected on the storyline together. The commercial that showed the sister going to her brother's apartment for the first time, the brother who finally moved out mom and dad's at the age of 34, was priceless. He was Down's Syndrome. She brought him a congratulations card (Hallmark, of course), had a tour and lunch. Before the commercial was over, my phone rang. It was Mom. She didn't have to say hello, I have caller ID. "Wasn't that a neat commercial?" "Sure was, Mom." "Okay, that's all I wanted to say. Goodnight."

I don't usually take the time to watch movies about handicapped people. I made the mistake of watching Forrest Gump. It was the first (and almost last) movie with a theme around handicapped people that I would willingly watch. My sister couldn't stomach the movie "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest" in high school. She left the classroom. I did see "Nell" (very good). But I will generally turn a movie off, or change the channel, if a handicapped person is being depicted. There's an irreverence that writers innately have in their depictions of MR characters and scenarios. It succeeds in highlighting their ignorance of the reality, the structures that surround MR people. Well, maybe not as much ignorance as much as plain ol' lack of perspective. Many times it's a good try, but they miss the essence. And the public watches on, not knowing any better or being able to articulate a different point of view because of their limited exposure to mentally handicapped people. Everyone assumes what is on the screen is probably how things are for MR persons.

The thing that attracted me to the Hallmark film was that it was based on a true story, and from the title I could surmise that it was written by the sister. Being a sister (or brother) of a handicapped sibling is a special club that you are born into; that privilege is rarely abused. I loved the movie. It was witty, true to life, accurate at a lot of levels. Many times I found myself laughing, "If Stef (my older sister) could talk, this is exactly what she'd be saying!!!!" Beth had a ruthless love of riding the bus, junk food, and being in other people's business. That's Stef, except she is lower functioning than the character of Beth. I was captivated by the flashbacks that her older sister would have during the movie. That has become a part of my adult life on a regular basis. Flashbacks to my childhood days, scenes when I failed (or succeeded) to protect my sister, times when she was taunted, hurt, vulnerable. I still carry the weight of those times even in my thirties. I battle the memories knowing that they directly influence the kind of mother that I am and will become. Some of what I inherited from having a handicapped sibling is wonderful. Some of it is poisonous. I have the rest of my life to get it sorted out. Those of us in "the Club" understand that. I met a physician who had a handicapped sister; he was afraid to have children. A PhD research director who couldn't handle it when his children would cry; it evoked a visceral response from when his own handicapped sister would cry and rant as a child. A woman who cried every time she remembered the day her sister got locked outside in the snow, and not a single neighbor offered to help. Simple things - a smell, a sound, a memory. It takes time to figure out.

So thank you to the writer of "Riding the Bus." It was delightful, and gave me fun, new ways to understand my sister and her favorite things. Bus, bus driver, sweets, and friends.