Stains

There is a fountain filled with blood drawn from Emmanuel's veins;

And sinners plunged beneath that flood lose all their guilty stains. 

Lose all their guilty stains; lose all their guilty stains.

And sinners plunged beneath that flood lose all their guilty stains.

As you might imagine, this past weekend's merriment was captured in numerous photos, but rather than share those on the blog, what I'd like to do today is discuss Tolstoy's War and Peace.

I kid, I kid.  That was for my sister-in-law; she's a huge Tolstoy fan.  Okay, not really.  She is a fan of my kids, & she has been known to lodge a complaint when the blog is bereft of their photos.

Let me get right down to the photo business.

Last Thursday I was relieved of my teaching duties by Easter Break, so the kids & I lounged around the house until about four that afternoon when I decided we'd head over to Nana & Papa's since Jessa, Heath, & Maisie were set to arrive sometime that evening.  While we awaited their arrival, Henry took his inaugural ride down to the park in the wagon.  In Reagan's wagon, I should say; the girl knows her possessive pronouns.

Friday was a long, eventful day for us, at least when you consider that the odds of us making it out of our pajamas on Friday lately are about 50/50.  Okay, 60/40. 

I left the house with both kids in tow by eleven that morning to meet the fam for an early lunch at The Pickle Barrel.  We then headed north to Bastrop to visit Papaw.  A good time was had by all.

At this point, a good time was being had by everyone except maybe Maisie, who expressed her displeasure over my incessant picture taking & the general absence of quality naps all weekend by doing a graceful faceplant. 

The dearth of quality naps soon caught up with Henry as well as I attempted to get a picture of him with Papaw.

We left Bastrop & headed due southwest toward Nana & Papa's, where Reagan was busy in the kitchen for quite some time making cupcakes (diabetic friendly cupcakes made with coconut flour): 

Saturday the kids & I met Nana, Jessa, & Maisie for lunch while the men played golf.  I was made aware of the plan to meet for lunch about an hour before this photo was taken . . . this is a little something Reagan & I like to call "Aloof Selfie."  I'm so cool I don't need to wash my hair . . . & Reagan's so cool the iPhone can't quite handle her looking directly into the camera & smiling. 

After lunch, the babes whined a little in protest of the weekend's busyness & attempted to nap at Nana's while Reagan dyed eggs:

While the eggs soaked, Operation Bunny-O-Cupcakes was in full swing.  The aforementioned cupcakes that were baked Friday were transformed into a culinary masterpiece: 

I returned home with the kids about six Saturday evening & was not in a calm state.  On the drive home  from my parents I kept making lists (in my head, of course, since I was driving) of the numerous things that had to happen in order for the four of us to arrive at church Sunday morning (on time) bathed, fed, dressed in our Easter outfits, & happy that the Easter Bunny paid us all a visit.  Easter is about to catch up with Christmas on the stress meter; that's the mom-who-makes-things-magical-during-the-consumer-driven-holidays stress meter.  

When Sunday morning dawned, things were ticking along nicely (because of all the lists I'd made in my head, no doubt).  The kids were bathed Saturday evening; I rose before the sun to bathe & dress myself Sunday morning, & the Easter Bunny did indeed pay us a visit. 

Reagan was delighted to discover the Easter Bunny left a few jelly beans in her plastic eggs.  The Easter Bunny accounted for these when Reagan got her insulin shot for her breakfast Sunday morning. That Easter Bunny is a jack of all trades.

We went all out this year & ordered the monogrammed Easter baskets from Pottery Barn for the three grandkids.  Of course, we waited until a week before Easter when they mark all Easter paraphernalia down 20%, & offer free shipping.  Yes please!  If I am consistent in only one thing, let it be said that I do not, DO NOT, pay Pottery Barn's outrageous shipping charges.  

I knew Sunday morning would be tricky, or trickier, because Lionel Richie is wrong; there is nothing easy about Sunday morning, ever . . . unless you have no small children & sleep in on Sunday & drink coffee at your leisure instead of rising to worship the Lord.  I guess that would be easy.  I did my part Sunday morning.  I got up early & was dressed & sitting & drinking coffee by eight o'clock.  I had to wake both kids at eight thirty, & then shove Reagan's basket in her face, quickly proclaim joy over the Easter Bunny's visit, & then enlist Trey to drag her away from her new goodies & get her teeth brushed, hair combed, etc., etc.  Keep in mind that in the middle of all this, I am checking her blood sugar & injecting her with insulin.

Jessica took these of the babes in Bible class Sunday morning:

I had high hopes for some nice Easter Sunday afternoon pics.  Silly, silly me.       

I quit asking her to smile after these. 

Naturally we had to put the babes in the monogrammed baskets . . . 

He was okay with the basket situation until Reagan came over & got in on the action:

Not one to be outdone . . . 

The men were enthusiastic about all the picture taking:

Waiting while Nana & Papa hide eggs for her in the front yard:

 She was the solo hunter, but she moved with purpose & showed signs of speed & agility you'd not expect from the daughter of two slow white people:

Post-hunt, it was family photo fail time, & fail we did.

We took a few & then realized a Tahoe doesn't make for the best backdrop . . .  

So we shifted, & when reviewing these, realized the Tahoe really wasn't the big issue . . . 

When I sat down with all these pictures to upload & thought about the weekend, one word came to mind: stains.  We are kind of ridiculous about Easter.  And by we I mean mothers of young children whom we dress in expensive outfits that will look wonderful in pictures, but are not otherwise functional attire for small people who eat with their hands &/or have no concept of a toilet; we who stalk Pottery Barn's website, pouncing when they offer to ship overpriced baskets & liners monogrammed with our children's names to our front door for free.

More than once this past weekend, I found myself in full out fret mode.  I worried that the eggs Reagan dyed would stain her brand new monogrammed basket liner, or her new dress (her new Feltman Bros. dress), or both.

The dress:

I worried that the moment I dressed Henry in his Feltman Bros. outfit, something would come out one end (or the other) that would stain it, ruining all the perfect family photos we would take after Easter lunch (ha!).

Here's what happened Sunday morning.  First, when I attempted to dress Henry, it became apparent that he wasn't going to fit in his outfit.  There was no more maybe about it when one of the buttons sprang free from the threads confining it & flew across his room.  To use my Papaw's word, Henry is "solid," & this outfit didn't accommodate his recently acquired solidity.  I was given the outfit as a gift, so it wasn't bought specifically for Easter, but it would've been perfect.

See:

Simply perfect with these shoes:

Henry did wear the shoes with another, suitable plaid short / sweater vest ensemble that was cute.  I am not going to tell you what Trey said about these shoes; let's just say it was not politically correct. 

So, Easter wardrobe crisis averted.  Fret level down a notch.

When I was loading the kids' baskets in the back of my car so their grandparents could see what the Easter Bunny brought them (& so the baskets could be used as props in pictures), I noticed this on the liner of Reagan's basket:

It's a drop of her blood.  While she was inspecting what the Easter Bunny left her, I checked her sugar, & the finger I pricked bled on her liner a bit.  I almost started crying when I saw it, for about ten different reasons.

If you're not already thinking of it, there is an old Reba McEntire song titled, "Is There Life Out There?"  It's about a young wife & mother who decides she wants to go to college (at least this is what I gather from the hoky music video I probably last watched twenty years ago).  During the course of the music video, Reba is working on a paper for one of her classes, & her child spills something on it - - coffee or coke or something.  She screams at the child, & then later feels shame, regret, etc.  It's all very dramatic & moving in that special way all country music videos are.  When she hands the paper to her professor, he makes some comment about the stains on the paper, to which she replies, "I learned more from the stains than I did the paper."   Trite, I know.  I suppose the video was shot before word processors were mainstream, because I believe the paper is handwritten, & apparently simply printing another stain-free copy was not an option.  Unfortunately, this music video was playing in my head Sunday.  But I digress.

My dad taught the adult class Sunday morning at church.  He went hour by hour & detailed the events leading up to Jesus's death on the cross.  I felt small sitting there listening, thinking about how minutes earlier I'd been a wee bit too consumed with the droplet of blood on the basket liner issue.  We have commercialized & sanitized Easter to a ridiculous degree.  Jesus's death was brutal.  He was bloodied & beaten before He was ever hung on the cross, & further agony awaited Him there.  He sweated drops of blood in the garden when He prayed to the Father, & rivulets of His blood likely dripped from the cross near the feet of His mother & others gathered at the foot of the cross.

Few things worth having are attained without spilling a little blood; ask anyone who has seen combat in a war that was fought for freedom from tyranny, or any woman who has given birth.  The lines quoted above are from a song titled, "There Is a Fountain Filled with Blood."  Lovely, right?  You know what, it is!  It's the loveliest image imaginable when you understand that Jesus's blood had to be spilled.  There was no other way, & He knew this, & the Father knew it, & they both could've ended His agony at any point during the lengthy, tortuous process, but without the river of His sinless blood, we'd have no hope; His stains cleanse me from my own.      

I haven't treated the stain on the liner.  I may just leave it; I may not have a choice now anyway as I imagine there is a window of opportunity to treat a blood stain, & then, well, you're stuck with it.  Every year when I drag all the Easter stuff out, that dried droplet of Reagan's blood will serve as a nice reminder to me to let go of my need for tidiness, perfection, pristine monogrammed basket liners, & neatly pressed Feltman Bros. attire.  The message of Easter is considerably more gruesome, & considerably more important, than the frills & bows we all too often associate with this holiday.

AZ

A Banner Week

A Novel About the Novel

A Bit of Nonfiction

The End

A Fib, a Brit, & a Cupcake

About the Addendum

If you recall, I ended my last post with a brief note about retching that commenced early last Monday morning.

To quote myself,

I have a fun Monday morning addendum for you.  There is some retching happening in our home this morning.  Thankfully, at the moment, it's only the adults who have retched, though Trey considerably more than me.  We shall see how the day unfolds.

I had a sneaking suspicion about how the day would unfold when I typed that early last Monday, but I was hoping I would be proven wrong.  I was not.  The only thing I didn't anticipate was that there would be not one, but two ER admissions by nightfall.  And that was just Monday.  Oh yes, just you wait.

Let me begin by telling you that Reagan lived the first three years of her life free of stomach bugs.  When she was diagnosed with diabetes two months ago, one of the things I heard from medical personnel & parents of other diabetics was to take stomach viruses seriously.  I knew we'd catch one soon; after three vomit-free years, & all the warnings about vomiting that came after the diabetes diagnosis, I knew it would happen, & last Monday, it did.

I woke early & knew I'd be hovering over the toilet within the hour.  I was, but soon after felt considerably better.  I knew I'd likely caught a bug & contemplated leaving the house immediately, knowing if Reagan started vomiting we would likely be headed to the ER.  I was in the middle of a prayer that no one else would fall ill when I heard ghastly sounds from upstairs.  I don't know if it's just Trey, or if it's a man thing, but oh. my. word.  I guess pregnancy & childbirth / child-rearing prepared me for various of life's trials, such as dealing with nausea & vomiting, how to vomit without scaring small children, how to navigate horrible smells & various bodily fluids, etc.  I am surprised our neighbors didn't come knocking on the front door to investigate the sounds; it was the loudest vomiting I have ever heard.  Without making a trip up the stairs I knew Trey was sick as well, & I suspected the upstairs toilet might never be the same.  And, I am okay with that, because I never use it.

By Monday afternoon, Reagan was still holding steady, while Trey's condition deteriorated.  Trey's mom took him to the ER for fluids, & about five seconds after they left, I heard the splat I'd been bracing myself for all day.  I took a few deep breaths & walked to Reagan.  I calmed her down.  I cleaned everything up.  As a testament to how worried I was about Reagan's condition, my mind was so preoccupied I didn't gag once while stripping Reagan down, removing the (thankfully removable/washable) chair cushion, & wiping up the floor.

I checked Reagan's number; it was 98, so that was a boost I desperately needed.  I had expected something along the lines of "40" or "450," as illness can cause dramatic highs &/or lows.  I called the on call endocrinologist in Jackson, & he told me if she continued to vomit, she needed to go to the ER for fluids since someone her size can so easily dehydrate.  The problem with dehydration, other than the obvious issues it causes anyone, is that when the body is dehydrated, it is insulin resistant, meaning her sugars can potentially soar.  Next time you have a stomach bug, while you're folded over the toilet, possibly cussing & wanting to die, say a prayer of thanks that despite your stomach's upheaval, you don't have to worry about your pancreas doing its job, & you can drink a regular coke (real coke, the hard stuff) without worry, which is absolutely the only thing I want when I am nauseous.

I tried to stay calm.  I prayed that like me, she'd only vomit once & bounce back.  I was irritated that after two PICU visits in as many months, after finally getting a handle on her insulin needs, she was vomiting, the one thing I knew I wasn't equipped to deal with on my own at home.  Unfortunately, splat number two hit the floor about six thirty Monday evening, so my mom & I loaded Reagan up & headed for our home away from home, the ER at St. Francis (splat number three, which was, as it turns out, Reagan's final splat (on Monday, that is), occurred en route to the hospital).  Trey's dad was with him at the ER, so his mom came to the house to sit with Henry.  Trey was leaving the ER when we arrived.  We had a fun little family moment in the waiting room while my mom & I settled in with Reagan, & Trey's dad went to get the car for him, & somewhere in Baton Rouge, a Blue Cross/Blue Shield employee's head exploded.  Between us & Obamacare, these poor folks are not having a pleasant year.

Despite two family members receiving treatment in the ER, I'm placing Monday in the 'victory' column for several reasons.  First, Reagan was not admitted to the hospital . . . on Monday, that is.  They gave her some fluid in the ER & sent us home, rather than sending us straight to PICU as they did in January & February when we showed up in the ER.  Second, by late Tuesday afternoon, we were all eating Chick-fil-A, & all the Chick-fil-A was happily digested.  Third, Reagan's numbers were beautiful throughout the vomiting fiasco.  Finally, I'd like to give a shout-out to my immune system, which came through in a major way for me.  Maybe the toil of carrying & birthing & nursing babies & learning to cope with little to no sleep at times has toughened me up.  Maybe it's the daily probiotic I take.  Maybe the Lord knew that two ER admissions in one day was my limit.  Whatever the reason, my immune system did a stellar job of handling the virus.  I was up & retching before the kids awoke, & by the time they were both up, I was able to handle the morning chores, which I did while listening to Trey heave in the background.

Tuesday was ho-hum.  No one needed to go to the ER, so that's always a plus.  Reagan seemed to feel great.  She was eating, playing, & her sugars were good.  I relaxed, thinking the plague was through with us.  We all went to bed Tuesday night.  We slept a little.  At five o'clock Wednesday morning, Trey woke me up to let me know Reagan had vomited.  I am serious.

Lather, rinse, repeat.  Change her clothes, clean the vomit, wait for inevitable second splat . . . head to the ER.  Trey took her this time while I stayed at the house with Henry.  They decided to admit her the second time around, so I headed to the hospital Wednesday afternoon when Trey's mom arrived to stay with Henry.  We weren't admitted to PICU, since she didn't need an insulin drip, but simply some fluid to rehydrate her.  The regular floor just isn't as flattering as PICU.  There's no blood pressure cuff, no heart monitor, no checking her sugar every hour.  You just feel less special.  Her granddaddy made a few balloons with the nurses' purple gloves, but that was about it for excitement.

As was the case Monday evening, by the time we got her to the ER Wednesday, the retching had ceased, so it was just a matter of getting her rehydrated & watching her number.  We hung out at the hospital Wednesday, sipping Powerade, nibbling Jello, & watching Reagan's number, which was running a little low, but stayed in an acceptable range thanks to the Powerade & Jello.

I hope in the future we can attempt to handle a stomach bug at home, but right now Reagan throwing up is completely frightening to me, & not just because I am the one who has to clean it up.  I feel like I understand what to do in most situations - when she needs insulin, & how much, when she needs to eat something, & what, & how much - but vomit is a brand new ball game, one I hope we don't have to play again for a long, long while (seriously, if you or someone with whom you've spent any amount of time has a stomach virus, stay far, far away from my child . . . there's no punchline here; I am not joking).

The remainder of the week was spent on vomit-watch as one by one by one the grandparents fell like dominoes, with the exception of my mother, who (knock-on-wood-fingers-crossed), as of the time of this post, has yet to vomit.  You may also be wondering about a certain nine month old.  My sweet Henry man has held his own as well the past week, & I did in fact finally take a few nine month pics of him yesterday afternoon.

Isn't he just the cutest?  Henry & I have a crazily codependent relationship that involves a lot of slobbering & giggling, but it's working for us at the moment.

As you may've guessed by now, neither my revolver nor our new steak knives saw any action last week.

New set of steak knives = $100

Box of steak sauce shipped from Peter Luger's in NY =  ???

Steaks = $30

Having to freeze steaks because everyone is vomiting = 

Priceless 

I've postponed my concealed carry class.  After a family total of three ER visits in as many days, I was not about to rise early Saturday morning & sit in class for hours learning when & where I can & cannot use my firearm.  I just don't need the stress of it all at the moment; it's just not the right time for me to be handling a loaded weapon.

I'm not sure how to close this out.  I'm not going to announce any grand plans for the upcoming week because for starters, I have none, & also, if I did, I would not jinx things by discussing them because clearly I know by now that the way I should end every blog, & every sentence I utter, is the Lord willing.

AZ

Guns & Knives

A little over a week ago, Trey handed me his credit card & told me to keep it.  That was a major clue that a well-rested Anna would have never missed.  Due to tiredness & the snot & the coughing & the daily diabetes care, the clue went right over my head & I didn't give his credit card handover, his unsolicited credit card handover, a second thought until he came home from work one day with a big box.

To Trey's credit, we legitimately needed some steak knives, & now we have some.  We have some for our little family of four, & some for our twenty closest carnivorous friends.  I didn't register for steak knives when we got married because, well, they're not very attractive & while I tried to be practical with the registry, looking back, I failed miserably in some areas.  On the bright side, if there's ever some sort of entertaining emergency requiring that I serve everyone we know finger foods using nothing but Arthur Court serving pieces, I am prepared.

Shortly after the arrival of the knives, Trey requested that I buy some steaks at the grocery store.  This seemed logical since we do have a brand new set of steak knives, so the steak request didn't phase me.  Then, last Thursday, Trey came home from work with another box.  Unlike the steak knives reveal, this one lacked suspense as this is what Trey lugged in the back door & placed on the table, all while wearing a mischievous grin:

Peter Luger's is a steakhouse in Brooklyn, New York.  Trey & I ate there while we were in New York on our honeymoon in 2009, & obviously their steak sauce left its mark on Trey, much the same way Peter Luger's left its mark on Trey's credit card.  Their steak sauce is good, & now I can drown any steak I eat in it for approximately the next five years.  We'll see how long the credit card remains firmly in my grasp.  Thankfully, lately Trey's been reading a lot at night after the kids are in bed so he misses most of the infomercials; I can only imagine.

In addition to his new set of steak knives & the straight-from-New York steak sauce, the price of which I remain happily in the dark about, I am finally granting Trey a request he's made of me for quite some time.  This Saturday I'll be taking a concealed carry course so that I can legally carry my revolver on my person, except of course while I am at church or while I am teaching . . . but no matter, because everyone knows crazed gunmen respect the sanctity of churches & schools & would never ambush a large gathering of law abiding citizens who are unable to arm & defend themselves.

Since I've briefly mentioned our honeymoon already, I'll just take the whole stroll down memory lane & tell you that Trey gave me my revolver when he proposed.  Take a moment, wipe the tears . . . not only did he give me the revolver when he gave me my ring, the ring box was inside the revolver case.  Are you still there?  Did anyone faint?  What can I say?  Weapons are his love language, & I'll be spending several hours learning how to speak it this Saturday.  I am honestly completely dreading the day, but I do like the idea of not fearing for my life when I am out & about in Monroe, which has become just a tad scary.

I know you're wondering where they are, but no, I have not taken Henry's nine month pictures yet.  He will be nine months old for another two weeks, & I will make the deadline.  He knows that I love him.  This past week has been a blur of antibiotics, cough meds, breathing treatments, & insulin adjustments to accommodate the aforementioned meds.  The shame of it all is that Reagan has been doing saline breathing treatments a few times a day for the past week, & yet, all Darth Vader references are totally lost on her because she doesn't have a clue who he is.  She didn't smile once; she just gave me an odd look & said, "Mama, who's Luke?"

I suppose I'll close with an obligatory "Happy St. Patrick's Day."  I am thankful I'm home all day today, happily snug inside my house with all my weapons rather than out in public, taking a chance that some fool who would otherwise never dream of touching me might think it's appropriate to pinch me because I am not wearing green.  The whole concept of this day is just peculiar to me.  At least next year if I'm pinched on this oddest of days, I can accidentally, "accidentally," flash the offending dolt my concealed weapon.

I typed most of this up last night, but I have a fun Monday morning addendum for you.  There is some retching happening in our home this morning.  Thankfully, at the moment, it's only the adults who have retched, though Trey considerably more than me.  We shall see how the day unfolds.  So now our recovering stomachs will be in a race with the clock to eat the steaks I bought before the date stamped on them.

I hope your Monday is off to a better start than mine, & if you haven't vomited, well, it is.

AZ