Sick Kids

It's never easy when your kids are sick.  You feel so helpless when you see their hot, red faces and bright, feverish eyes.  You sleep on the floor of their rooms in case they need you in the night.  You spend hours in the doctor's waiting room.  You pick up prescriptions, then try to coax your sick child into actually swallowing the medicine.  You buy popsicles and ice cream for sore throats, 7-up and saltines for shaky stomachs.  Then you fret and pray and wait for them to get well.  When they were babies, I thought it would be easier when they could talk and tell me what was wrong.  But somehow, it never seemed to get any easier.  When they were older, being sick meant they were falling behind in school, missing games and meets and concerts and auditions they'd been looking forward to, and there was nothing I could do but take care of them and wait for them to get better.  Two of my three kids got sick the first week they were away at college, and I quickly discovered that taking care of sick kids is much easier than not being able to take care of them.  This week one of my grown-up kids is sick, very sick, and once again I am feeling helpless.  I check in by phone.  I google symptoms.  I offer advice and sympathy.  But mostly, I fret and pray and wait for him to get well.  As I wait, I realize something: it's always going to be this way.  No matter how old my kids get, when they are sick, I will worry.   How do I know? All this fall while Steve has been undergoing radiation treatments, his 90-year-old mom has been doing exactly what I'm doing: calling and worrying and waiting for her boy to get well.

A Few of My Favorite Things

Four of the original six ornaments we got as wedding gifts

When Steve and I got ready to decorate our first little Christmas tree in our first little apartment thirty years ago, we had six sweet ornaments we had gotten as wedding gifts, as well as a few stray ornaments Steve had snagged from his parents' collection.  Our tree was pretty sparse for the first few years of our marriage.  But a year or two after our second son was born, I started a tradition of buying each of the kids a Christmas ornament each year.  The idea was that when they eventually left home, they would have more than six ornaments to decorate their first tree.  In the meantime, their ornaments filled in the spaces on our family Christmas tree.  As their collections grew, so did the size of our tree.  Steve and I accumulated more ornaments of our own over the years, too, but but most of the decorations on our tree are from the kids' collections.  Every year, they each put up their own ornaments first, fighting over prime tree space.  A few years ago as our kids were getting older and closer to having their own trees, I discovered a flaw in my plan:  I had grown attached to the ornaments I bought for the kids--each one reminds me of the child I bought it for and the year I found it.  And I've gotten quite used to having them on our tree year after year.   Last night on the way home from Thanksgiving in Pennsylvania, we were making plans to chop down our Christmas tree this weekend, since the three kids won't all be home again until the weekend before Christmas.  My oldest child, Ben, has an apartment with room for a tree this year, so as we were talking about decorating our family tree, Ben casually mentioned that he would be needing to take his box of ornaments to his own house this year.   I know he's right.  I know it's time.  I know that was the plan all along.  But it's going to be very strange not to see his ornaments nestled in among the others on our tree this year.  And how long will it be before all the kids' ornaments have disappeared from our tree?  At least we still have Rocking Horse,  Christmas Broom, Thimblehead, and Sleeping Mouse!

Some of my favorites from Ben's collection

 

Grading . . .

I'm buried in student papers for the time being, so blog is on a hiatus while the blogger attends to her day job.  I'll be back when I can see daylight again . . .

Bath Time

Bath time used to mean bath toys, Johnson's Baby Shampoo, and sweet-smelling, pajama-clad toddlers afterwards.  These days it means a hot bubble bath, a good book and a calmer, cheered-up, pajama-clad me afterwards.  I think I'll always miss the former, but I like having time for the latter.  I guess that's what I'm beginning to understand about this whole emptying-of-the-nest stage I'm in: losing some things means gaining others.  I don't know why it took me so long to realize this--the same principle is at work throughout life.  When you move from childhood to adulthood, you lose the simple, carefree days of having someone take care of you, but you gain independence and the freedom to make your own decisions.  If you decide to marry, you give up some of your autonomy but you gain a lifetime of companionship.  If you end up having kids, much of the relaxing couple time you had with your husband or wife disappears, but in its place you get warm, rich, rambunctious family time.  And, as I found out recently, if your husband is diagnosed with cancer, you give up your sense of well-being (at least temporarily), but you gain a deeper understanding of how very much he means to you, a fresh realization of how lost you'd be without him, and a new appreciation for every ordinary and extraordinary day you get to spend together.  I don't know why it took a bubble bath to help me grasp this, but now I see there really is a season for everything and a time for every purpose under heaven (Ecclesiastes 3:1).

Knit One, Purl Two

When I was six years old, my dad was in graduate school at Ball State University.  We lived in one of the small university apartments right near campus.  The single-story apartments were arranged in rows of four and were filled with married students and their families as well as Ball State faculty and staff, so we had lots of neighbors right nearby.  Our two-bedroom apartment was small for our family of six, so we kids spent a lot of time outside.  One night after dinner as it was starting to get dark, my parents couldn't find me--I wasn't on the playground in the grassy center of the rows of apartments, I wasn't at one of my friends' apartments, I wasn't behind our little apartment playing dolls--I wasn't anywhere.  My parents were in full panic mode by the time I came walking calmly down the sidewalk toward home.  Although I don't remember, I imagine they were caught in that odd mixture of relief that I was safe and frustration that I'd worried them.  According to my mom, when they asked me where I'd been, I replied in a small, bewildered voice, "At my knitting lesson . . . "  One of the women who lived in the next row of apartments had apparently offered to teach me to knit, and I took her up on it.  I don't remember exactly how it came about or why my parents didn't know that I was taking "knitting lessons," but I still have my first-ever piece of knitting--a long, uneven variegated green rectangle.  Several years later, a Sunday school teacher in Pennsylvania picked up where my first knitting teacher had left off, and I've been knitting ever since.  At first all I made were scarves, but then early in our marriage, I made an afghan for our little apartment, then a complicated sweater vest for Steve that ended up being too small.  That disappointment discouraged me for a while, but when my kids came along, I started knitting again--they wore lots of homemade sweaters in their early years but then one by one outgrew the homemade sweater look.  Still, over the years, I've kept my hand in--a Christmas stocking here, a scarf there, tiny baby sweaters as gifts, a batch of comfort dolls, and most recently, a couple of pairs of boot toppers my daughter saw on Pinterest.  I don't know what drew me to knitting at such a young age, but I guess there are things each of us seeks out on our own, things we can't learn at home or from our parents--and maybe it's that blend of things handed down and things acquired along the way that makes each generation unique and interesting.

First Steps

Like many parents, I have bought a lot of shoes for my kids over the years, from Weeboks and pink high-tops to running shoes, basketball shoes, and hiking boots to homecoming heels and shiny black dress shoes.  In those shoes my kids have toddled across the living room, skipped off to school, hiked across the county, and danced at the prom; they've run fast, jumped high, and kicked up their heels.  Except for the current crop of shoes my kids have in their closets, most of the shoes I've bought over the years have been handed down, worn out, or donated.  But I kept a little pair of Weeboks.  They are usually tucked away in a box under my bed, but every once in a while I sneak a peek at them.  They remind me of the days when my kids were first learning to walk.  I think about those first wobbly attempts--how they struggled for balance, found it for a second, then toppled over and seemed to decide crawling was easier and faster after all.   But then before long, there they were, pulling themselves up and trying again, and again, and before long, they no longer needed my hand to steady them as they cruised across the room.  These days my kids are in the process of taking more first steps--steps across college campuses, steps into new professions and new responsibilities, steps into adulthood. They might wobble a bit or even topple over, but I know them--I've seen it before--they will get right back up and try again, and before long, they'll be running and jumping and dancing through their adult lives with courage and grace and purpose.

Sitting in Church

When I was a kid, my dad, mom, and the four of us kids sat in the fourth pew from the front on the left-hand side of the church.  It was a small church, and our family of six took up the whole pew.  I'm guessing we weren't allowed to bring any toys or books to pass the time during the sermon because we never had any that I can recall, though I do remember my mom playing "Intery, Mintery, Cutery Corn, Apple Seed and Apple Thorn" on my fingers, and when we were especially lucky, there was a little container of red hots, mini marshmallows, and raisins for us to nibble on.  I think we were allowed to draw on the back of one offering envelope, or at least we didn't get in trouble unless we took more than one.  I'm sure the idea was that we were supposed to learn to sit quietly and listen as soon as possible.  But you know how it goes when you have four kids sitting right next to each other on a wooden pew in a quiet place for an hour--lots of giggling, squabbling, and whispering.  I clearly remember the muffled sound my mother's gloved fingers made when she snapped them in our direction as a warning to quiet down.  When our kids were growing up, we sat about two-thirds of the way back on side section on the right.  Our family of five took up the whole row of the more modern padded interlocking sanctuary seats.  Unlike my mom, I had a bag of quiet little toys I brought to keep their hands busy and sometimes a snack--plain cheerios when they were young and fruit snacks when they outgrew the cheerios.  But like my mom, I expected them to learn to sit quietly as listen as soon as possible.  When my oldest left for college, we were down to four in the row, then my second son left, and there were just three of us.  Our church has three Sunday morning services, and we usually go to the one that starts at 11:10, and usually our oldest child meets us there and sits with us.  But this morning, we went to the 10:00 service; our oldest was playing the piano for the music part of the service then helping with Sunday School.  So there Steve and I were, just the two of us, sitting at one end of someone else's row.  It's not the first time it's happened, but it still feels so weird and lonely to me.  I remember seeing it happen to other couples over the years as their children grew up and moved on, and now we are one of those older couples sitting alone in church.  I guess it's easier not having to pack a bag of toys and snacks anymore and it's nice being able to listen to the whole sermon without distraction.  And I know it's one more thing I'll get used to in the years ahead.  But today I missed my kids, and my siblings, and even the sound of my mother's muffled finger snapping while I was sitting in church.

Church toys