perspective and prayers

It's all about perspective.

I had a rough day with the boys. Lots of screaming, yelling, crying, fussing and fighting. They are sleeping now, and the house is finally quiet. I checked my email and had an update on a little boy named Patrick Chance. I personally do not know this Patrick. I have never had the opportunity to meet him, nor his family. He is the child of a friend of a friend. For over a year now, he has been fighting a type of cancer called neuroblastoma. I've been following along with updates on his CarePage... reading about ups and downs of his treatment and recovery. Life is no longer normal for the Chance family. Frequent trips to New York for treatment, days filled with medicine and needles. Day filled, I'm sure, with a mixture of fear and faith. Today's update from Patrick's dad reads:

Yesterday was shorter and better than Monday. Today was much worse. He received a third rescue of Dilaudid that caused predictable irritability, itching, and inability to sleep. He is finally asleep after hours of playing through the wean from narcotics with the attendant misplaced anger - with me as the target. I finally got a break of sorts when he agreed to go to the pub for steak. So we sat in a booth while I rubbed his feet (neuropathic pain from antibody) and fed us both. I managed an occasional pull from my pint. It wasn't the most sterile meal we have ever had, but it was OK. Tomorrow I won't have Alev's help during the morning and his treatment. Given the rough day and belated crash, I plan to let Patrick sleep in until time to return to Sloan. I hopefully can do some laundry and maybe return a few business calls in the morning. The city is cool and refreshing in ways but a stark reminder of cancer in others. Crabbing at the beach seems remote and idyllic. I will think of those days often during days like today. They will come back. SRC

No matter how bad I think my day was, it doesn't compare to the kind of days that the Chance family has to live through. My day - a day filled with healthy, grumpy children - would be an answered prayer for them. A good day.

Despite all this family has been through, they continue to praise God. I admire their strength. And I pray for their son.

I've been trying to find a way to end this blog... a way to tie this all up in a neat package. But I can't. All I can think about is how thankful I am that my children are healthy. I can only pray that one day the Chances are going to be able to say the same thing.

saving for a rainy day

Or, saving for a hungry day. Apparently {s} is concerned that there might be a pb & j shortage, or worried that I might forget to feed him sometime in the near future.

I found his little hiding place in the space between his booster seat and the chair. Seems that he hasn't been eating all of his lunch, after all. Little squirrel!

a popsicle sort of day

God hears

In about three months, we'll be celebrating the second birthday of {s}.

First, shock over a barely visible pink line.

Six more tests later, beginning to believe it.

An ultrasound that was so early, the tech could only point out the thickened lining of my uterus.

Another ultrasound that showed a yolk sac.

And finally an ultrasound that showed the tiniest, tiniest speck of a baby.

The medicine (Prometrium) that was mistakenly called in for me when I didn't need it.

A scary reaction, trip to the ER, and a CT scan on my head.

Bleeding.

Prayers that God would let me keep this little baby that was so unexpected, but so, so wanted.

A new obstetrician.

A c-section.

An epidural that left a "hot spot" so that I could feel part of the surgery.

One and a half gallons of amniotic fluid.

Nine pounds, 0.1 ounces of baby,

and a doctor saying, "It's a boy!"

My baby {s}. Even his name reminds me...

God hears.

faith

Although {p} had a great first day of school, the rest of the week was more than a little rough. He cried at night before going to bed, and he cried in the mornings before going into the classroom. Kindergarten is a big adjustment. Getting dressed when it is still dark outside, being away from home for six hours, coming home, eating supper, getting a bath, and going to bed just to wake up and do it all again. I could tell that he had fun at school. It was just the anticipation of the long day, and the fear of the unknown that caused him to cry. That, coupled with the stress of change, made for one tired, overwhelmed little boy.
The hardest part for me was that {p} would say,
over and over, "I can't. I just can't."
It was hard for two reasons...

He had never expressed such a defeated statement before.

and

I knew he could.

So, I did what many other parents have done before me, and will continue to do after me. I pushed. I pushed him away from me, away from his safe home, and toward the unknown of school. Figuratively and literally. I pushed him down the hall. I pushed him into the classroom. I pried his arms away from my neck, turned him around, and pushed him away.

All because I knew he could.
And today he did.

No tears, no shaky voice. Confidence. He might not have been too sure of himself, but he was sure of my faith in him.
Months ago I tore an article by Katrina Kenison out of a Family Circle magazine. She was writing about teaching her son to drive. I knew that at some point her words would ring true with me. Sooner, as it turned out, rather than later.

"...I'm finally learning to accept that fear doesn't keep a child safe, any more than faith assures immunity from harm. It's no longer my job to protect my son from the world but rather to let him know that I believe he can handle it - and that I trust him enough to let him try."

Well said, and so very true. And that is why I pushed.

the big day before the big day

I'm sitting here at the kitchen table with {p}, sharing some warm cookies and a glass of milk. He wanted to work in a little workbook, and he just asked me to spell "dolphin" for him. He didn't believe me when I got to the "ph" part. He said it was "f." Then, for my benefit, he sounded out the word very slowly -- "d ahhhh l fffffffffff i nnnn." I guess he thought I needed a review. He always thinks he is right. Usually, he is. But he finally gave in with this one and wrote the right letters.

I have no doubts that he is ready for tomorrow. My {p} loves to learn. Just barely 5, he knows more about the names and habitats of sea creatures than I do. His vocabulary is years ahead of where it should be. He's adding and subtracting, and even reading a bit. The sky is the limit for him. He can do, and be, anything that he wants.

No, I'm not ready, but I know he is. And that's enough to get me through tomorrow.