Ah, Benjamin!

            So many teeth in so little time means some sleepless nights.  I took a few turns snuggling Benjamin, rocking and dozing through those pre-dawn hours.  What I lost in sleep I gained in cozy memories.

            Seeing his face light up when his mommy and daddy gave him his gift bag during our early Christmas celebration was precious.  He had no interest in the bag, just in the loving attention they gave him.  His eyes sparkled with delight, and his smile stretched across his face.

            Sitting on the floor with him, I clapped my hands to the music.   His eyes opened wide, his mouth formed an “O,” and with great concentration he watched, finally carefully placing his hand between mine as I continued to clap.

            Watching Benjamin absorbed in a simple music video was a delight.  Seeing him strapped into the stander to give his muscles practice at standing and his bones the weight-bearing resistance they need to grow was bittersweet with the reminder of the extra help he needs to reach his developmental milestones.

            The last night Joseph and I sat on the floor with Benjamin at the Night Watch prayer group while Dana played her guitar and sang with the worship team and Shawn led out in prayer.  Joseph fed him his squash and rice cereal mixture.  I glowed with the joy of watching my son with his nephew and of listening to my daughter and son-in-law praising God.

           

In the Drainer

written November 16 upon my arrival home

            In the drainer are a pitcher, serving spoon, Magic Bullet blender base, and glass lid.  Those items do not surprise me.  Looking rather worse for wear, the dish scrubber stands in the side.  The items that concern me are the two clean kitty litter scoopers and the plastic litter bucket lid.

            In my bedroom are the bathmat, the vacuum cleaner, and the broom.  What concerns me is the litter box pad which should be in front of the litter box.

            In the litter box is a very shallow layer of litter.  What concerns me is that we are out of extra litter, and scoopable litter needs to be much deeper.

            On the couch are a couple pieces of junk mail, my stack of library books, and the newspaper from a week and a half ago.  What concerns me is absence of more mail.  I suppose I can live without last week’s papers.

            It appears that tomorrow’s priorities will be disinfecting the kitchen drainer and purchasing more kitty litter.  Because the power is still out 24 hours after last night’s windstorm, which I missed because I was in Oklahoma, both households are running on the generator, which means I can’t do laundry.  

            But at least I have the two cleanest kitty litter scoopers in town.   

Tea for Two

            Was I six or seven the Christmas I received the tea set?  I’m guessing six because the memory is tied to my grandpa’s house and, though we didn’t know it at the time, Christmas of 1961 was our last Christmas with Grandpa and Grandma. 

            Dad had left for good earlier that year, leaving my mom with four children:  ages 8, 6, 3, and newborn.  My sister and I attended a public school within walking distance of our newly rented house in a rather shabby area of Grand Rapids, Michigan, and our little brothers stayed home with the babysitter, whom we called Grandma Livermore.  (That really was her last name.)  Mom taught elementary school physical education in Grandville.  We went to Grandpa and Grandma’s house out in the country every weekend and every holiday. 

            Grandpa liked our weekly visits.  By then, Grandma was a silent, still presence because of Parkinson’s Disease.   All I remember of her was being afraid she would fall down.   I am sure Grandpa supplemented our Christmas, providing the Santa Claus gifts, but those are not the gifts I remember.

            What I remember is my one-dollar tea set from Woolworth’s.  (Years later, I learned that Mom had all of a dollar to spend for each child that Christmas.)

            That tea set proclaimed to me that I was a big girl now to be the proud owner of fragile dishes.  How careful I was with them!  How exciting it was when Mom would make up tea I could pour from my tiny pitcher, adding sugar from the matching sugar bowl and milk from the matching pitcher!  Those tiny cups of tea were delicious.

            In May, Grandma died, a withered shell of the vibrant woman she once had been.  We continued our weekend stays with Grandpa, and it was on a Saturday morning in November that he died of a heart attack after breakfast.

            At the time I had no understanding, naturally, of what an enormously difficult time this must have been for my mother.  I do remember missing Grandpa, who had been grandpa, dad, and friend to me, all rolled up in one.  During the funeral dinner at his house, I wished he was there.  Then everything would be perfect.

            I still have the tea set.  Admittedly, it is missing a few pieces.  Someday when I have a granddaughter, I will give it to her and enjoy some tea parties again.  I’ll even let her pour.

Pantry Problems

            It’s not too hard to guess what Mom’s project will be when I’m gone next week, and I have no one to blame but myself.

            It’s the kitchen pantry.  The last time I traveled to Oklahoma, she organized it.

            Since that time I have allowed the pantry to run amok again.  My messes start out innocently enough.  I started by gradually putting everything back in that she had taken out and placed on the counters.  Then I bought groceries, some of which go in the pantry.  Along the way, I dug back to find the random items she had neatly lined up, and I didn’t bother to replace them in their random order.

            Earlier this fall, when the countertop microwave died and John installed the over-the-stovetop model, I dreamt of open counter space.  I have in mind a reorganization of the nearby cupboards to make a beverage center.  I envision all of our coffee and tea supplies, my nutritional supplements for healthy shakes, the pitchers, the blender, and the Magic Bullet stored in the same area for handy use right next to the refrigerator.  The thought of brewing my morning coffee and fixing my breakfast shake in one place without having to navigate the cramped space around our kitchen table is downright intoxicating.

            Perhaps I gave up my dream too quickly, perhaps not.  My best ideas have to be tempered by the frustration factor:  how upset will I be when Mom rearranges my work?  I spent a morning moving everything to wipe down and rearrange all the counter space. The empty space I created didn’t last much more than a day.  I figure the frustration factor is at least twice the sum of any cupboard-rearranging efforts.  So I continue my side-step shuffle in the morning as I gather needed items.  So far I’ve been able to control the impulse to kick the kitchen table.

            And by the time I get back from visiting my kids, the cupboards and pantry will be rearranged anyway.  But I guarantee that the kitchen table will still be in the way.

A Sane Approach

            Chronic illness has a way of making you feel crazy.  It disappears at times, and you get used to feeling good.  It reappears, sometimes with a vengeance, and you wonder what you did wrong this time. 

            That’s probably how quack cures are made.  Associate most anything with symptom relief, and you assume a cause and effect relationship.  Come to think about it, that’s probably how superstitions are made, too.

            Educating yourself about your chronic illness can help you feel less crazy.  I still remember a doctor appointment close to fifteen years ago.  I had my litany of complaints—a crazy array of bothersome symptoms that seemed unrelated.  My doctor excused himself from the examination room briefly and came back with a big medical book, probably the Physician’s Desk Reference.  He looked up “Sjogren’s Syndrome” (my initial diagnosis before fibromyalgia was suspected) and read off another list:  everything I had mentioned, except in medical jargon.  It was oddly reassuring.  Perhaps I was not a hypochondriac after all. 

            Yesterday I finished reading my quarterly copy of Fibromyalgia Network.  It was reassuring to find that my current symptoms have a genuine physical basis.  I don’t understand everything about neurotransmitters or toxins or brain waves or hormonal imbalances, but I do understand that there are real reasons for my discomfort.  Much research is being done and, hopefully, new ways of treatment will eventually emerge.  In the meantime, I’ve learned a few more techniques for pain management and am encouraged that I’m already doing a pretty good job of managing what can be managed.

            That, by the way, is one of the unsung benefits of having a chronic illness:  it forces me to recognize that some things are outside my control and encourages me to make good choices.  Pacing and prioritizing are very important.  So are diet and gentle exercise and sleep.  I’ve learned to spend my energy on the things I love and live within my limitations.   It’s a sane approach to life that works even when things get crazy.