More pie!

Today, we had our children's Christmas play at the church. It is done! It went well! And yesterday, I made the last two pies to share at lunch after service today. They're all done! Some went well!

A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z

Fig Frangipane

ff (fortissimo), awesome! Not that it was a loud pie. It was a tasty pie. A frangipane filling is made with egg, vanilla, and almond meal (and sugar). It was my first frangipane, but not my last. The fig was good, but I'd like to try it with plums. And then you can't read it musically (unless you play too much Brahms and then you can poco forte/plum frangipane your heart out. I used a recipe I found online. Ricardo's?

Gingerbread Pie (no picture)
I tended to make more than one pie at once and I'm pretty sure the partner to gingerbread was W. It was an unusual weekend of pie. And, interestingly enough, also made for a lunch at church. Moral of the story, if you want pie, come to our potlucks.

Gingerbread pie was the flavour of gingerbread in a cheesecake-like texture in  tart shells (read: small pies). I thought my kids would like it. They did not. But they didn't even TRY W.

Honey, honey
H was one of those difficult letters. Honeydew? Hazelnut? Wait, I could have done hazelnut!? I want a do-over. I mean, I want YOU to make me a hazelnut pie because I'm tired and I've been making Christmas cookies all day.

What I ended up making was "honey-lemon pie". It was from a honey cookbook I have. I thought straight honey would be too cloying and the lemon would tone it done. It sounded a bit too much like the title of a cough drop, but nothing's perfect. And it really was nothing like a cough drop. Not hard, more silky and it did nothing for my cough.

Anyway, I always have lemons so we were off to the races! Or so I thought. At a crucial step in the recipe, I ran out of honey. It did have some honey in it, but not enough. So, to finish and not have to run to the shop, I substituted in golden syrup for the rest of the honey. They're both sweet, right? Both thick and sticky?

BAD IDEA.

It was sweet, with a flavour of sweetness and a hint of sugar. This was a pie that was not finished. We had a slice (as did my poor in-laws). We did not need/want more. Probably this would be better as a petite-four. You know, like really, really small portions.

To bake the Impossible Pie, to eat the whole coconut jar!
Impossible pie is one of those things where you mix all the stuff, plonk it into the pan and throw it in the oven. You may be sceptical that it will make its own crust. You may be sure that it won't taste nice at all. But at the end of the day, it's a coconut pie that made it's own crust and tastes like more.  It was even one of my dear friends' (who ate many of the pies) favourite!












Jam tarts
I doubled the crust from my frangipane and made tiny tarts, topped with jam: blackberry and strawberry pear. I chose those specific flavours, because they were the first ones that I managed to grab from the fridge. Word of warning: jam somehow expands and turns to boisterous lava when cooked.









Key Lime
It's delicious. It's three ingredient - key limes, condensed milk, cream.

Lemon pie with blueberry sauce
It has the distinction of being the first pie I made in 2018. It was good, but also a long time ago. I always have lemons, so it made sense to jump on the list. The blueberry sauce was nice, too.






Macaroon
Note the double o. This was not an almond meal circle sandwich, this was chocolate and coconut in happy harmony. Well, pretty happy harmony.  See, I had this theory that dark chocolate and coconut are both sweet enough to make a pie without adding sugar. Had I been using 45% chocolate and sweetened coconut, I'd have been right. Instead, I was using 85% and unsweetened. It was satisfying, but dark.  Good with coffee. You only needed a small piece. (Note the white chocolate melted on top of the pie to make it a tinge sweeter. The other pie is banana cream.)

Okay, that's enough sweet talk for one day. If you decided to pie it up one year, I recommend this: SHARE. Baking is fun. Giving away baking is more fun. You get a bit, others get a bit and no one's hips start shouting. Happy Baking!

Next time - N is not for noodle

Chippy the Christmas Squirrel: The Lost Files of Stuart McLean

The Jones family weren't excited about Christmas that year. Work was too hard, the days were too long, life was too demanding and there just didn't seem to be money for extras. As tired out and grumpy as they felt, Christmas just seemed to be an extra. An extra full of extras.

Chippy the squirrel sat in his tree outside their house and watched them as they trudged out of the house in the mornings and slumped into the house in the evening. Even the house itself seemed to sag with melancholy.

Chippy was sad for them, but then really, what can a squirrel do to alleviate the worry of a household? Chippy thought awhile longer, because he could feel the sadness rubbing off on him. No one wants a sad squirrel, he thought.

It was then that he had his idea. He could make them happy with what made him happy. He enlisted his friend, Oslo the beaver. Oslo was always up for a good chin-wag and soon they'd fixed the plan good and proper.

Oslo got to work right away. He worked and worked through the night and, by all accounts, the Jones family should have noticed when they left their house the next morning.  Such was their collective fog of stress, they just passed right by.

It's difficult to pass by a beaver chopping down the tree in your front yard, but if you get distracted enough, you can manage it.

With the tree down and the glum folks away, Chippy and Oslo had time to get the tree into the house.  They might have broken a lock to get in, but it was that dodgy one that Mrs Jones had been meaning to get to anyway. If they hadn't broken it, it would've broken itself soon enough.

With the tree up, they set to decorating. It wasn't the prettiest sight. A squirrel and a beaver are not known decorators.  Still, it was done. It was thorough. From a scavenged Barbie at the top of the tree to a not perfectly round wreath of nuts on the front door.  It wasn't meant to be perfect, though. It was just meant to be a piece of joy, a little spot of light to shine through those clouds that had blocked out the Jones family smile.

When they got home and realized what had happened, even as they almost couldn't believe it, they felt that joy. They saw the half-gnawed doll tucked in the tree.  They saw the badly misshapen nut wreath on the door.  They looked at the stump in their yard and at a squirrel racing around trying to refill a summer's stockpile of nuts.

The Jones family was no longer under a cloud of too busy and too tired.  They seemed to bounce through their days, the merriest part of the street.

That year Chippy got the biggest Christmas present he'd ever seen. It was a kind of dog kennel, but fitted up with tunnels to hide and play it. And nuts! There were nuts from countries that Chippy had never even heard of and more than he'd need in three years. 

The next Christmas, Dave and Morley would be surprised to find that they'd gotten each other squirrel kennels. In fact, it was a very popular gift on their street that year. Oh, it wasn't a matter of keeping up with the Joneses. No, they were hoping that they'd get a piece of that joy and glow that the Jones family had seemed to have all year. A pet squirrel would be worth that.

But the Jones family knew that joy came from efforts that seem impossible, like maybe you couldn't believe they really happened. Joy came from someone loving you enough to give up everything. Every Christmas they managed to find joy.  They always hung an acorn on the tree as they celebrated their little reminder with the very big heart.

This is not actually written by McLean, but it's funnier if you read it in his voice. No disrespect meant.

A is for Apple... E is for?

(Oh yeah, that's why I stopped blogging. No time!)

Me to 4yo: "Eat a bit more meat."
4yo: "I just want kale!"
Me to 4yo: "One more piece of meat and then all the kale you want."
4yo: "And broccoli?"
...
6yo: "Can I have more kale?"
7yo: "Look! I just finished it."

These are the people that I'm trying to convince to eat pie.  These beautiful, strange people who would rather eat freshly made kale chips.  Actually, this pie adventure (pieventure?) has been beneficial. They are more likely to try new foods. Of course, that could just be because we make them try new foods all the time.  Still, we've gone from our boys eating pie NEVERNOTINAMILLIONYEARSHOWDISGUSTING to two of them having a favourite pie.

Our daughter, on the other hand, will eat all of the pies but the kale she shredded and dropped on the floor. It's cute but irritating when she finds a food she doesn't like. She sneakily* drops the food on the floor instead of just ignoring it. Then gets more and drops it.


Without further ado, let's talk pie! I have not made the pies in alphabetical order, but will tell you of them in that order.

A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z

Apple Crisp Pie
Apple crisp pie is something that happens when you want apple crisp but you've made some stupid plan to make a lot of pies, you are behind in making all of the pies and you have accidentally over purchased apples.**

When I make apple pie I use the method that involves cutting up the peeled apples very finely and then coating them in the sugars/flour/cinnamon/nutmeg mixture. Apple crisp is a much easier beast as you just peel and cut the apples and have the seasoning come from the crumb on top. In deference to it being pie, I did add a bit of liquid to the apples as well as butter (which is what you do with apple pie, but not with apple crisp.

Vague ingredient list/Prep

Cut some peeled apples. Put them into a pie shell (unbaked), or if you are lazy, a sheet of puffed pastry in a pie dish. Add a couple of tablespoons of milk and a bit of cubed butter. Cover with crumble topping (scant 1/2 cup brown sugar, 1/2 cup flour, 1/2 cup rolled oats, 1 1/2 tsp cinnamon, 1/2 tsp nutmeg, 1/3 cup softened butter). Bake at 180 (375) until it's done, approximately 40 minutes.


Banana Cream
Banana cream is a pie that reminds me of home. It was one of the first pies made, way back in January. In a homemade pie crust, you put in a layer of sliced banana, cover with a homemade custard and then top with lightly sweetened meringue. Bake until the meringue is lightly coloured. And awesome.

As this isn't a food blog, that's all the info you get, dude. Want a recipe? I'll give it you.




Citrus Coffee
This was a bad idea.***

Not enough?

Okay, so it was a citrus custard****. I wanted to use oranges, but we only had mandarins and I figured, what's the difference? Answer: punch of flavour. Oranges have a much stronger flavour and zest, so the citrus was a bit weak. The other problem with this is that I tried to be fancy and put it in a "crust" made of ladyfingers soaked in espresso. Tiramisu with a twist! Or, you know, a bit of a sodden mess. It tasted okay, but in a "well, it could've been worse" sort of way. I don't know about you, but at the end of a cooking adventure I like to have the bar higher than "this was edible". Also orange + chocolate = yum. Mandarin + coffee = meh.

Date
All I can say about this is that I "made" it. That is to say, we were visiting my family and Mom and I made a pie, except I actually played with my daughter and then made the meringue to pretend I was helping. My boys were fishing with their father and grandfather. A good pie, a good memory.




Everything
That's right. With five letters left in the alphabet (E, F, J, Q, Z), it's time to get creative. Egg pie? Isn't that a quiche? Or egg tart? I've got a similar one coming! Everything pie was a triumph. It was good and fully made from me standing in the kitchen and adding whatever I could find that seemed pie-ish.

This everything pie:
baked pie crust
with a layer of cream cheese blended with icing sugar,
finely sliced banana evenly spread,
slivers of fresh, juicy mango,
topped with small pieces (rectangular) of apple, cooked with smashed blueberries, the juice and zest of a lemon and a lime and a bit of powered sugar and water.

It looked like beetroot. It had a yummy zing. Each mouthful had a slightly different taste. Served with ice cream or cream (two different days) just to prove that it was made of everything available.

So that's the pie du jour!


*not sneakily, but super obviously but she thinks no one notices
**accidental apples: when you and your spouse run to the shop for a few things (over a couple of days) and both buy a large bag of apples, believing you are out
***I have MANY bad ideas, but like a fool, will follow them through assuming it will work out. Sometimes they do. Sometimes they don't, spectacularly.
**** Oh, there was cardamom too, which was the saving grace, as I recall.

Alphabet Pie

Hello!

It's been awhile. This blog is nearly as dusty as my high heels! I had good reasons for not using either, as I recall. The one hurts my knees and the other - well, I wanted to tell funny stories of things that my children got up to, but it seemed unfair to write things that they would one day be upset that I'd shared. It's one thing to tell a funny story about your child pooping on the side of the road to a friend, but different to share it to the internets in general. Not saying that my children have ever pooped on the side of the road. My children don't even poop. Stop starting rumours like that.

(I've just realized that this post was meant to be about food and it started with poop. It's an interesting thing to have to segue. Like, should I start singing the "Circle of Life" or...)

So, this year to shake things up, I decided to make my new year's resolution doable. None of this self-improvement malarkey, this year was a challenge: Alphabet Pie.

See, even though I've lived in this country for 9 years, I still miss sweet pie. Pie tends to be savoury down here. If you casually mention to someone that you'd like pie, they won't hand you a piece of cherry. More likely steak and bacon!  I quite like pie (both sweet and savoury) and I like cooking/baking. Why not put these things together?

The challenge: Make 26 pies over one year. A pie a fortnight. Easy. Except, have you looked at the alphabet lately? That thing is crazy with its x and w and q and e. And h. It actually has been a challenge to accomplish. I got a bit of a slow start, however, at this point I've made 19 different letters of pie.  Some were tasty. Some were shared. Some were just a bad idea.

You would think, "Alphabet pie, that's easy! Apple, blueberry, cherry, doughnut, eggplant, fish.." but you have to remember that I can't do anything the easy way and tend to decide to make pie before I look in my pantry/fridge.  It's been unusual.

Oddly enough, this plan to eat has backfired and I've actually worked out pretty regularly and try to eat healthily.

It's been fun, this pie adventure and I want to share it. But how? That's where this blog came in. While it is not transmogrifying into a food blog, it could be the place where you look into my pies. (Ha. Look into my pies - you are getting hungry, hungry!) But if you don't want to read about my pies, I'm not wasting my laundry folding time typing about lemons and coconut. Let me know. Should we give it a go?

[First up, Apple Crisp Pie]

Aesop's Fabled Entry: A Birth Story

It has been years since I've used this blog, but I wrote the birth stories for the boys, so I thought I should do one for my daughter as well!

The real question with a birth story is where do you start? At the very beginning would be great, but I think that would be inappropriate, so no thanks Maria von Trapp.

On Saturday, I went into hospital at 1:30 pm. My darling daughter was born at 2:55 pm. The end.

Not enough? I'll try again. (I'll bold the actual birth story, but there is a decent amount of backstory to help explain it all)

On Saturday, I gave birth to our only daughter, who is our fourth child.  All three of her brothers were born in week 37, so I assumed that she, too, would be born in week 37.  All through the pregnancy, I focused on 37 as the week when all would be revealed.  I had all things ready by the start of week 37, except for one and it was stressing me out a little bit.  Our second son's birthday party was scheduled for 37+2.  Based on the fact that I made it through a wedding having contractions three minutes apart whilst labouring with our third son, I kind of figured that I could make it through the party even if I was in pain.

The party came, the party went.  Even with all the frantic getting ready and the release and relax of being done, there was no baby.  Not a problem, plenty of time still in the 37th week.

Except, there kind of was a problem.  I had gestational diabetes this pregnancy, as I had with my 3rd.  The main difference was that now living in Victoria, I noticed that they approached the subject of gestational diabetes differently.  Here I was under much higher surveillance.  The extra appointments were wearing, as they took time and energy I didn't really want to spare.  Home schooling and growing a person felt like enough to be focused on.

When they called for an extra ultrasound toward the end of the pregnancy to find out if baby was overlarge (which can easily happen with gestational diabetes), I agreed willingly if a bit grumpily.  I wasn't measuring large and my sons weren't huge, so I thought this child would be no different.  And the ultrasound backed me up. So the next time I went in, they asked me to get another ultrasound, this time to make sure the baby was growing big enough. I flatly refused.  I had already had four ultrasounds, one of which no one could explain to me why it had been ordered or what its purpose was.  They wanted baby not to be giant. Baby was not giant. Baby was growing and that was good enough for me.

It wasn't enough for them, though.  See, this beautiful child had an interesting way of hanging out in my womb.  She curled around to the right side. Her feet would kick at my side.  You could see it. She was obviously over there.  Unfortunately, this made my measurements a bit iffy. When you are 36 weeks and you get 32-33 cm, health care professionals get all edgy, even though you can state that your child moves almost constantly and hey did you see those feet poking out over there?  They called for another ultrasound which I reluctantly booked in for week 38 (whatevs, it'll all be done by then, right?)

Every time I went into get checked, people would start up with the "your baby is too small" thing which would stress me out, though I'd calm myself down and remind myself that she'd been growing fine and was active. Her cord had plenty of blood going through it. She was fine. It got to the point, however, where my blood pressure would go up when I was at clinic. They then had new things to stress about, GD and (slightly) high blood pressure! (My blood pressure was normal when checked at the regular doc and no protein was leaving me, so she was fine).

So there I was, in the 37th week, hoping that any day would be baby's day and I could cancel all the upcoming appointments. It seemed as though my plans would be fulfilled. Through the party and the days before I had plenty of Braxton Hicks. Honestly, I'd been having Braxton Hicks for months, but now they were coming every afternoon and lasting until the evening.

I spent the Sunday afternoon cleaning walls and other crazy things and was rewarded with a painful Sunday night. But the contractions stopped in bed that night.

Every day I had Braxton Hicks. Every day they'd get fiercer as I did things and back off in the evening. One day, after a long walk with my sons, they got very fierce indeed. It was go time.

No.

I started calling baby "Aesop" as it was like the boy crying wolf all over the place.  I'd alerted the friend who was to watch the boys one time when it got painful, and then felt like an idiot when I called off the alarm that evening.  The Braxton Hicks started coming when I got up in the morning and would go only when I was lying in bed in the evening. I was tired, mildly pained, stressed and grumpy.  Ever grumpy.  I got sobby one day, believing baby would never come out. I'd try to help the contractions become real by getting work done, but it just made stronger Braxton Hicks.  I couldn't even get out of my ultrasound!

The Saturday of my 38th week came.  A young uncle of mine died unexpectedly.  The pain of it, the distance that I could not cross to get there and be with my family burned.  My grief for my 52 year old uncle who had always been full of joy seared my soul and the Braxton Hicks came on again.  I thought the shock had sent me into full labour.  It was a hard day, but my grief was not assuaged by birth.  My husband loved me.  My sons hugged me, but still I sank in grief and frustration.

On Monday, the ultrasound tech was nice and explained that the doctors around here tend to be cautious.  It's not a bad thing, I suppose, to be cautious, but man oh man it was difficult to live through.  Baby was still growing.  All was well.  I went to see the doc that aft and he was nervous.  Blood pressure high! Baby not a giant! Did I want baby out that day?

No, no I did not.

I was allowed a reprieve of three days. On the third day, I went back.  I was checked to see if all the weeks (months) of Braxton Hicks had done anything.  Nothing.  I left with tears streaming down my cheeks, feeling broken and scared.  All of the fear was eating at me and though I daily tried to give it back to my heavenly Father, I didn't know what was happening. The boys had come without help.  The boys had come before I had expected them.  Here I was at 39 weeks, feeling like I was 42 (as I'd perceived full term for myself at 37, so felt overdue though I wasn't).  Here nothing I did made the baby come.  Ahead of me was uncertainty and fear.  I was to be induced the next day.

All the Friday passed in a bemused fuddle. My uncle was being buried. I was not there. I did not know what induction would do, but I heard it was painful.  The fear of the unknown played with my fear of failure to grow baby properly. I went through my day and hoped it would just start.  Baby would just come.  I played soccer with my young son for the first time in weeks, hoping the running and jostling might do something.

At 4 that afternoon we went in, I tired from weeks of bad sleep (Braxton Hicks may not eventuate to anything but they can be darn painful and they had gotten painful on the Thursday and stayed painful), but resolved to be induced, pleased that the day had come to finally meet our child. The days of crying wolf had passed.

Or had they? My exam showed that I was 3 cm. Come back in the morning unless it starts up.  We picked up dinner on the way home, not having anything prepared (the boys were having takeaway as we thought it was a special day). The whole evening was full contractions, even as the day had been. They were intense. They were close.  I sat down in the evening to see if they would continue.  They slowed to three times an hour, though they were still jaw jarring in intensity. 

The night passed slowly. I slept between contractions and waited for them to speed up.  They didn't.  My dreams were odd and would end strangely.  Like, I'm at a lake with someone from uni and we're going to go canoeing - just wait I need to have a contraction -- and I would wake up having a contraction.  I tried to be silent so Adrian could rest.

We went in on Saturday morning at 7 as we were instructed. They listened to baby again and sent us on our way - an emergency had come in and there were three other women labouring.  Maybe they'd call later, maybe the next day.  The contractions stayed strong, but not regular or close enough, so I gritted my teeth and went on with life.  

They called again around lunch time.  We'd gone to a parking lot fair very briefly to check it out and I'd wandered around trying to ignore contractions while the boys enjoyed the things they saw.  When the hospital called, we were getting ready to leave anyway.  I said I'd be in after I'd eaten.  We got to the hospital at 1:30 pm.

I was 6-7 cm, though my contractions were not regular. They broke my waters at 1:45.  The midwife set out to get an IV in my hand. With the complications of blood pressure and GD they wanted it set up in case it was needed. She blew the vein in my left hand and then my right hand.  I didn't care as the pin in my hand was much less than the contractions I was having. Fun trying to sit still for a needle whilst contracting.

She gave up.  The doctor came in to put the IV in my arm. The midwife moved on to feeling baby's position in the womb.  Adrian was doing his best to relax me and started to massage my feet. It all struck me as funny and I made a joke about it being the worst day spa ever. I'm always making jokes when I'm in labour.  Because I'm a crazy person. With the needle in, I got up to dance with Adrian as I enjoyed the music.  Upon standing I had contraction on contraction.  Adrian was amazing as he always is, talking me through all of the contractions.  Then I felt the pressure.

But it was too soon.  I hadn't been at the hospital long enough.  It couldn't be time.  I was up on my knees on the bed.  I had to push.  I  pushed.  It was happening, that bone breaking pain. I bore down through a couple pushes for her head and it was out. One more for her body.  We were just so excited that our baby finally had come.  The midwife checked baby out.

"Is it a girl or a boy?" said Adrian. "Check for yourself," said the midwife. 

A girl. I scooped her off the bed.  They undressed me and urged me to turn and sit.  I couldn't be bothered. I had my little joy in my arms.  The pains of the weeks melted away and bliss came in the form of a squalling little girl.  They convinced me to turn, easier to deal with the fourth stage then.  I went back to silly jokes, not able to believe it was done, that she was there, that she was a she having been sure it would be a fourth boy.  My legs still shook through the day hadn't been as long as I'd thought it would.  We'd only been in hospital for an hour and a half.

And that's the story.  The girl who cried wolf now cried in my arms, now comforted in my arms, now warming my heart.

The end.

(Oh and the midwives and doctor that day were great, though the doc did comment on my Canadian accent and how I said "about" while she stitched me up)

Sara

My friend Sara went home to Jesus today.

She had a terrible disease.  She was 32.  She went peacefully and for that, I give thanks.

Death is a terrible thing, and not a friend.  We need Jesus.  He has prepared a place for us in heaven.  He has destroyed the enemy death.  He has taken Sara home.  Away from the terrible pain, the terrible frozen disease that immobilized her.

I miss her.

I've missed her for a long time, as I haven't seen her in a few years.  It was hard when she got sick, being so far away.  I wanted to be there for her.  To help in some way.

Thoughts and prayers are good, but it's nice to give hugs too.

She was a funny, fantastic person who I spent ridiculous, random adventures with drinking pots of tea, driving the prairies, growing up.  She was thoughtful, caring, generous, clever and she loved serving and helping people.  She was good at what she did: caring for people.  I know many people will miss her.  As I think of all of those years where she was a major part of everyday, I weep.  She was like a sister and I'm so glad to have known her.

Goodbye, Sara.  One day we will meet where there is no death and no crying.


The Lord gives and the Lord takes away.  Blessed be the name of the Lord.

The long long long way back

As you might know, we moved recently and our delightful little family had the fun of moving across Australia.  Well, 3000 km across it, anyway.

Because we moved around the time of Anzac Day, the movers packed up our things on the Wednesday and loaded them on the Thursday.  We were leaving on the Monday following.  I can hear you thinking that one through.  Did we camp with three youngens?  Are we experienced in the way of the air mattress?  That had been our intention, but a wonderful family from the church offered us their place in town (often farmers have a small apartment in town because the drive is long!), and so we moved in to that place on the Wednesday.

Tall says "new home, yay!".  No, Tall.  There is more driving yet to be done.  That whole last week was bizarre.  Adrian was still working, but we were also trying to do all the visiting we could.  3000 km is a long way and there are many people we knew we would (and currently do) miss that we wanted to catch.  We didn't manage to see them all.

Oh, how I miss that land.  I can see it in my mind's eye.

The boys were happy with the new place.  New things to explore, different toys to play with and Mommy driving them to the beach all the time...

The last days came.  We had decided not to start early on the Monday, but to leave after lunch, eating at our favourite restaurant in town.  It was a glorious, sunny, warm day and the boys and I went for a play date (wear the kids out before the long drive, no?) while Adrian ran a few last minute errands (one of those was to pick up a couple greeting cards which I finally filled out and sent two weeks ago.  Because I'm nothing if not prompt.  Waiting for a thank you card? Trust me, it's on the list).  I also got him to get me a little notebook so I could write things like fuel prices.  My mother does it.  His mother does it.  I was suddenly consumed with a need to do it.  Perhaps I will knit soon, too.

We went about 400 km the first day.  The way across the bottom of Australia is long and fairly straight.  If you look at the map, it looks like there are a decent amount of towns spread across, but when you actually get to these places, they are a roadhouse and servo.  Often with a motel component.  That's it.  I was nervous about driving into the middle of nowhere with three small boys and we thought easy days was the way of it.  Also, we'd heard okay things about that roadhouse (I'd heard much about most of them having mice and cockroaches).  We pulled up for the day before the sun set, had dinner and settled into the room.  The boys went to sleep well and Adrian and I tried to plan for the next day.  We crouched on the floor of the room, peering at the map by the light of the bathroom.  The trip had gone okay and the short days weren't seeming as necessary.  That, and I wanted to see a whale.  Four and half years beside the ocean and I hadn't seen a whale.  There was a place at the head of the bight where at certain times of the year they guarantee you to see whales.  We were a few days off that time of the year, but we thought we'd try.

This, however, gave us a problem.  If we stopped where we'd been planning, we'd have to wait until 8:30 in the morning to get moving.  That seemed like a lot of wasted time.  I started looking up reviews online about the roadhouses near there.  Not good.  We looked at the map.  We looked at each other.  We decided to get up at 4, put the kids in the car, hope they stayed asleep so we knock off some of the journey.

We hopped into bed very early (for us, so probably super early for you) and lay in the dark listening to the boys sleep, while we whispered and giggled like ninnies at sleep-away camp.  Who can sleep that early?

The morning came, as mornings do, and though I had listened VERY carefully, I heard no mice and saw no cockroaches.  We loaded the car in record time, put the boys and as Adrian said, should we check the room, I said no.  We'd be fine.  Had only brought in minimal luggage.

The boys woke up in the cold morning air.  We blasted the heat and drove away while Tall said from the backseat "Going to X-----, new home?"

200 km later when we sat down to breakfast (please, let me never not see a bacon and egg sandwich for a long while, the trip was full of them), I realized something that we had left behind.  Two safety rails for beds.  400 km trip to get them? Not so much.

The day went well.  We sang, read books, played with toys, explored a bit.  We caught glimpses of the ocean (this rested my soul), looked at cliffs, looked at signs, counted eagles (we saw: a lot.  What? My blue book is somewhere over there.) We paid for gas at $2/L.  We opened presents (special for the boys) and ate bickies (gifts from our old congregation).  Baby pooped explosively in his seat early in the day.  I cleaned it up as much as I could and then had to sacrifice a blanket to it.  There was nothing else to be done until I could get to a washing machine.  We ate sangas and drank terrible coffee (seriously terrible coffee.  Were I to do the trip again, I would make sure to pack the french press.  Adrian said we should, I thought it would be a bother.  He is a brilliant, brilliant man.)  We got to the whale place within half an hour of it closing.

It was a lovely, beautiful walk outside the car.  The ocean was spectacular, even if the sand was the wrong colour.  There was only one thing it lacked.

Whales.

Anyway, we drove on and by the end of the day we had three boys who wanted out of the car now and two parents who wanted to eat something and not be sitting anymore. This is why we ended up sleeping at a pub.  Because at 980 km and a 14 hour day, we were done.  But still, no mice or cockroaches.  And cheap as.

The next day was a good time.  We were back to not pushing it as we neared civilization.  We had about a two hour break at Wudinna, which is a great place for a stop.  Good coffee, good egg and bacon sandwiches, and AWESOME playpark.  The jumping pillow!  The random stranger who grew up Lutheran, but converted to Catholicism as her husband was Catholic, but who still knew lots of people Adrian did.

Seriously, the man knows everyone in Australia.

We stopped early that night so the boys could play before dinner.  They were okay with that.  You would think after the third day in the car, they'd be busting to be out of the car, right?  Okay, so when we went to have a break at one point in the afternoon, the two big boys threw a collective huge tantrum as they didn't want out of the car.  It was one of the funniest situations of all time.  "No play with ball, stay car!"  But we all got happy again.

The drive to the Barossa was lovely, the winding hills and roads that curved a nice change from the flat outback.  The outback is very cool, but it was nice for a change.  We spent a couple of night with good friends in the Barossa, played in Adelaide, went to the zoo on a cold and wet and windy day, saw planes and basically ran around like crazy people.

Then we went to Adrian's folks's place for a visit, where, for the first time on the trip, we had no cell phone reception.

We came to the new town a few days later and waited for our furniture to arrive.  As we waited, we got to know the town.  We played a bit.  We experienced frost.  It was great.

And here we are.  Settled (mostly) into the new home.  We pushed really hard at unpacking for awhile and then the last couple of boxes took a long time.  There are still a few things waiting for homes, but soon, soon, soon, I'm sure it will all go away.

The frosts in the morning are great.  Going from a land that was in drought to a land where the grass did not dry for a month (no exaggeration) was unusual.  I miss the ocean, though we have managed to visit it a bit.

So that's how we made it home.  Though for the first month, Tall kept asking when we'd get there.

Running Commentary

Say what?
Mom:  Tomorrow we're going to go on an adventure!
Tall: Tall go on adventure? And Small?
Mom:  And Baby and Mom and Dad.
Tall: And chairs.
Mom: And chairs?  You'd need a lot of packhorses.
Tall: Pack horses? Yay!

Wherein there was spaetzle in the chicken noodle soup.
Dad:  Wow, this spaetzle really soaked up the moisture.
Mom:  It's like a camel.
Dad: Camels' humps are actually full of spaetzle.
Mom: Camels were invented in Germany?

Colloquially speaking
Mom: The spoon's in the curry.  That's sounds like a phrase, doesn't it?
Dad: What?
Mom: You know. [Affects broad Australian accent].  The spoon's in the curry; it's off the table, mate.
[Speaks normally] That sounded like an Australian phrase, right?
Dad: So Australian that I couldn't understand what you were saying.
Mom: No, no.  The spoon's in the curry: it's off the table.
Dad: That just sounds like you're describing an event.

Dinner Manners
Dad: [Sternly] It's dinner time.  You should be sitting in your chairs eating or you should be dancing!

Poops-a-doozy
Mom:  [Upon discovering a nappy rash]. You really need to tell me when you poop so this doesn't happen.
Small: [Toots in Mom's face without nappy on] Poop!

A Miracle?
Dad:  [During evening devotions] His legs weren't working and Jesus made his legs better so he could run.
Mom: Where's he going? [Referring to a picture where the man was running]
Tall:  To watch TV!

Imaginarium
Small: [Spies a ute canopy on the ground]. Quack, quack, quack! [Like, crazily excited]
Mom:  Do you think ducks live in there?

Who needs school?
Tall:  Tigers live down in the trees.
Mom: They do? In the trees in the jungle.  What do they eat?
Tall: Tigers eat rocks.

Tall: Tall is a farmer.  Makes cows out of horses.
Mom: What?
Tall: Makes cows out of sheep.
Mom:  How?

Mom: What do crocodiles eat?
Tall: Bugs
Mom:  Crocodiles eat fish and...
[Tall's eyes bug out.  He runs into the kitchen to look at the fish tank]
Mom: Not your fish!

Say it again, Sam
Dad:  And this story is about Jesus.  Can you say "Jesus", Small?
Small: [nods]
...
Dad:  And they were on the water.  Can you say "water", Small?
Small: [nods]

A long time ago when we were working on word clarity.
Mom:  Say "water".
Tall: Wagain
Dad: "WaTER"
Tall: Water
...
Tall: Train-car
Mom: Train track.
Tall: Water!

It's been a long time since I'd posted and I have too many things to say and no idea how to start, so I thought you should just get to hear some of what goes on here.

Fare thee well

Today is Adrian’s last day of work here.  Tomorrow we leave and start our 3000 km journey to our new home.

I don’t want to go, but I know we have to.  We are called to move.  While we deliberated the call, it was easy to see how God was calling us onward, yet when we said yes, it suddenly became a much bigger deal.

Though I have moved 9 times in my life (4 of which were large, either across Canada or to Australia), I find this place harder to leave.  It has become my home.  Maybe it’s because we started our marriage here, or because our three sons were born here.  Maybe it’s the stage of life.  Maybe it’s the beauty of this place or the people who live here.  Maybe it’s the memories that crowded the empty house we cleaned yesterday.

All I know is that it is time to say goodbye, or rather “farewell”.

Fare well, my beautiful town with your lovely, pristine beaches. Fare well, first house of our marriage – the place where our children grew, where I painted a tree on the wall, where we played and danced and sang, cooked and cleaned and worked.  Fare well to the place that was sometimes unbearable for me – the distance away from nearly everything like when I couldn’t even contemplate going to my grandmother’s funeral.  Fare well to silly poetic thoughts of the glorious and terrifying ocean.  Fare well to friends met and made by all of us.  Fare well to two lovely congregations who have cared for us and challenged us.  Fare well to some of the best coffee.  Fare well to shops where the keepers know me (and the children) by sight and ask after them if they are not with me.  Fare well to windy days and middle of the night towel banks by the front windows in rough rain. 

Fare well to long drives north and west.  Roads known so well, filled with conversations and silly things.  Fare well to walks in the bush and on the beach, around the neighbourhood and over rocks.  Fare well familiar sights and smells.   Farewell lovely people whom I will miss.  Fare well habits and schedules, birds and trees.

Fare well to dreams unfinished, hopes unrealized and plans undone.

I love you, my little house of dreams; goodbye. May God bless this place and these wonderful congregations that made this place home.  We pray God will bless you with a faithful pastor.

Hello to the future, to not knowing what’s around the corner but going boldly where God has called us.  With our home in our hearts (and future vacation plans) we go forward to new dreams, new hopes, new plans. 

Farewell.

Good Friday

Today has been a very difficult day for me.  From a mishap before the grocery store this morning and large frustration afterward to little boys acting up in church and being rough so that they were disruptive through service this morning to spew in my hair, it's just been a full on, hard day.  As I sat in church with my head in my hands, wondering if all this congregation will remember of me is this moment where I feel like the most useless parent, a new thought strikes me.

No matter how hard this day gets for me, it is Good Friday.

The Good is mine.  The Good is done.  The Good was because this was Jesus' worst day ever.  As I sit with the weight of three little boys wrestling in my lap on and off, he had the weight of the world on his shoulders.

Have you ever had a sin weigh on you?  You know you did something wrong and you can feel that weight pressing you down?  Jesus had that sin on him.  All of the sins of all eternity, of every person, he took on all the guilt, the shame, the wretchedness, the pain and suffering of all and he broke it.

He died and took to death all of that sin.  He was crushed for our iniquities.  By his stripes we are healed.  It is finished.  He has died for the sins of the world.  The sins of a world that does not acknowledge him, a world that constantly mocks him - he even bore that sin.

And he did it uncomplainingly.  He did it because he is love.

And you know what else? He is risen.

As I tucked my boys into bed at nap, my anger and frustration were gone.  Jesus' love and sacrifice has healed my soul, not through any deserving of mine, but because of love.

Let us love one another.  Not be tolerant or stupid, but actually love.  Care for, build up, encourage each other to go the right way.  Not the way of the world, but the way of our Saviour.  Trusting in his mercy, holding fast to his promise to never leave us or forsake us, clinging to the cross.

Come Lord Jesus, come into this weary world.  Oh, how we long for you to come, Lord, come.

Themes taken from Isaiah 53, 1 John 3 and a song by Robin Mann.

A Song

Jesus, I Will Ponder Now
--Sigismund von Birken


Jesus, I will ponder now on your holy Passion; with your Spirit me endow for such meditation.  Grant that I in love and faith may the image cherish of your suffering, pain, and death that I may not perish.

Make me see your great distress, anguish, and affliction, bonds and stripes and wretchedness and your crucifixion; make me see how scourge and rod, pear and nails did wound you, how you died for those, O God, who with thorns had crowned you.

Yet, O Lord, not thus alone make me see your Passion; but its cause to me make known and its termination.  For I also and my sin brought your deep affliction; this the shameful cause has been of your crucifixion.

If my sins give me alarm and my conscience grieve me, let your cross my fear disarm, peace and pardon give me.  Grant that I may trust in you and your holy Passion; if his Son forgives anew, God must have compassion.

Jesus, Lord, my heart renew, let me bear my crosses, learning humbleness from you, peace despite my losses.  May I give you love for love!  Hear me, O my Savior, that I may in heaven above sing your praise forever.


Tune: Jesu Kreuz, Leiden Und Pein (Melchior Vulpius)
1^st Published in: 1646

Aware

I've tried to start this post about 10 times and every start just isn't right.  Too pithy or silly or whatever.

I was asked to promote this site on my blog.  Please check it out.  Sure, the official week has passed but we all need to be made aware of things in life.  Be careful.  And help get rid of dangerous things.

http://www.mesothelioma.com/heather/awareness/

Hospital Visit

Like Fleming McWilliams and David Bowie before me, I find that I am afraid of many things.  Not Americans so much (although I wouldn't want to run into Scarlett O'Hara in a dark alley. She be crazy.
), perhaps, but a lot of little things. Driving on ice.  Snakes.  Singing in public.  Singing in public while driving with a snake on ice.

What really scares me though, is not being able to help my boys.   A few weeks ago now, when Baby was just three weeks, the dreaded gastro bug that has been circling the town (nay, the world it seems) hit the boys.  We caught vomit, both with our clothes and our hands.  Baby somehow got it too.  One day he vomited so often that I had to change my clothes more than ten times and Adrian at least four.  We took him into the hospital as he had gotten jaundiced too.

I hated being at the hospital.  I have great respect for (most) doctors and nurses.  I am impressed by that which they have to contend.  They checked out my boy.  Thoroughly.  They watched as he vomited on me again and again (on special occasion, he managed to vomit across the room and into my open handbag).  They brought him blankets and towels to be rugged up in to get away from the vomit.  They ordered tests and admitted us.

It is a bizarre experience to be admitted into a hospital as a companion. There was nothing wrong with me and yet I was in a hospital.  My boy was that sick.  And I couldn't fix him.  Neither, it seemed, could they.

That's when it got scarier.  They took obs. they checked his blood sugar. He screamed whenever he got hit with a needle. He screamed in general really.  Definitely if I put him down or someone else held him.  When I'd run off to have a shower, I could hear him scream from down the hall and tried to hurry back as quick as I could.  I could not stand to see him in distress.  Heck, I was in distress.  I wanted to be home, especially after a night of less than two hours sleep holding my sad, sick, loud baby.  Home would mean he was getting better. Yet, the spew kept coming.  I gave up changing until I was entirely covered. They came to take blood and had to stab him four times to get it.   I was ready to punch everyone in the face and run off with him, even as I knew that they were doing their best to help him.

We had to stay a second night. I cried.  It meant my family was still split apart (and yes, only for a couple nights), but because of terrible sickness and unknown.  They would not let him go because he was not stable. Not stable? Were his obs. not fine every time they checked him? How was he not stable?

Babies are fragile.  We all know not to shake them and to support their tiny necks, but I've always been impressed with the strength of newborns.  Birth is not the most gentle of times.  Babies, I thought, were highly resilient.  Babies, it seems, can go downhill incredibly quickly when they are sick and he needed to stay.

I cried.

I cried so much in those days.  I cried when he cried out of pain in his belly.  I cried when they took his blood.  I cried when they told me they had to take more blood later that day.  I cried when they took it.  I cried when my boys visited and asked me to come home with them.  I cried when Tall told me he loved me.  I cried when he had blood three days later and five days later at his ultrasound when he wailed (at that age, the vomiting could mean a problem with his digestive system and needed to be checked out).

The boys visited a few times in those couple days, but even though they enjoyed the toys in the paeds. department, they were a bit too active for the ward.  I missed them.  I ached for Baby.  I longed for the comfort of being with Adrian.  I read the Word for strength.  I worried and prayed and fed and fed and fed and prayed it would stay down.

Those days are past now.  Baby is fine now, praise God.  He still vomits occasionally, in the way that babies do.  He is content and healthy according to all tests.

It was a scary time and it was short.  My heart goes out to all of those families for whom hospital visits are long and prognoses not good.  I know some of you are going through this and that you have pains you are suffering: you are in our prayers.  May God our Father grant you comfort and healing and may you ever trust in the gifts He has given through His Son - life everlasting and forgiveness bought through His own suffering and loss.

Third Time's the Charm

Welcome to the birth story of my third son! Upon careful reflection, I cannot determine how much of this story to share, so it shall be presented in two forms:brief/succinct and too much information.  Wait, you say, shouldn't a birth story start with labour and end with birth? To that I say, probably, but I can't help myself..

Enjoy.

The Birth Story
On a Saturday evening, my third son was born after my being at the hospital for 4 and a half hours. He is healthy and only took two pushes?! Also, he was the largest of my three sons at birth.

The End.

But it just doesn't seem like enough, does it?  So let us go back in time, back to the beginning of labour.

Thus It Begins
Our story begins on a regular Thursday afternoon. Okay, so it wasn't a regular Thursday.  It was the Thursday in my 36th week of pregnancy.  I had long been worried that I would go early with birth of my third child.  People kept telling me that I had dropped and expressing surprise of when my due date was.  Evidently, I looked a cow who needed milking.  Really, I was measuring the right number for the right number of weeks, but still all these idle comments sat on my mind, and combined with the fact that my eldest son was born at 37 weeks +4 and my second son was born at 37 weeks +2, I worried.  I tried not to worry.  I prayed about it and gave it to my heavenly Father and three minutes later tried to take it back again.  I cleaned the house and got told off for nesting too early.  I was exhausted from all that my mind wanted to get done before I had three to run after.  I had this theory that the baby wouldn't come until I'd finished off my to do list (ask many mothers about their birth story and the baby seems to come as a case of relief - "As soon as I finished [insert large task here] I felt done and whoosh, the waters, they broke".), thus I kept adding to my to do list.  I got a good deal accomplished.

Thursday (36 + 4)
Whilst sitting at my sewing machine during naptime, I realized that I was having regular tightenings.  I had been having those on and off for the past day and passed it off as Braxton-Hicks, but these had a definite constancy to them. They didn't hurt, but it was still before 37 weeks and I was nervous (also, people are always claiming that the more babies you have, the faster they come). I called my husband and after the boys woke up, we went to the hospital.  I went so that they would tell me they were Braxton-Hicks, maybe tell me to put my feet up for a few days and la-dee-da all would be fine.

Except.  They told me I was in labour. Early labour, sure, but the contractions were registering, consistant and constant.  I was advised to go home and wash the floor, which I did with alacrity. I had wanted to scrub that floor for quite sometime, but first I celebrated by thoroughly vacuuming.  It was delightful.  Sure enough, that evening I was having somewhat painful contractions 3 minutes apart.  Went to the hospital. After about an hour, they slowed down.  The midwife considered breaking my water, but said the head was "ballotable*, I was only 2-3 cm," therefore it wasn't a safe option.  Anyway, it was my third baby.  Baby would hurry themself up soon, surely, she thought.  I sent myself home to get some sleep before it started up again.  They calmed down while I slept.  Fine and dandy, I thought, false alarm.  Except. The next day I was still in labour. Constant, consistant tightenings.  Even at night, when I'd get up to use the washroom, they would be there.

I was somewhat pleased, as I was concerned for my dear husband.  Sure, we had lovely ladies from the church to come and help out when we were at the hospital, but I couldn't expect them to be there all the time from birth 'til I came home and Adrian still had to get work done.  Getting work done with the boys "helping" is sometimes interesting.  Add a computer to the mix and you've lost the day.  Fine, I thought, this baby can hold on for awhile.  Just need to get to 37 weeks! And then it's not early.  And if I can make it until my sister comes, whoo!

It was not a comfortable wait.  The contractions stayed with me, never longer than 10-15 minutes apart and softer when I slept, but always there.  They got worse when I was active.  I had two young boys to play with.  It was often uncomfortable.  The end of the day was usually worst, though some mornings would start with strong, frequent contractions.  Sitting slowed them.

Tuesday (37 + 2)
The contractions would not ease up and were three minutes apart.  I waited until the boys were asleep (just as I had the first time) and then my husband and I called lovely ladies from the church to come and sit with the boys.  I was crying in pain.  Surely, this would be over soon.  I was worn out from the constant pain.  Everyone and her sister was telling me that a days-long labour like this meant a quick birth.  Bring it on.  I wanted to meet my baby.  Sure, my sister wouldn't be around for a couple more days.  Adrian could survive with the boys.  Except.  He had a wedding on Saturday.

At the hospital, I was told that the head was still ballotable and I was 3-4 cm.  After sitting for awhile, the contractions slowed again.  I got frustrated.  And left.  And sobbed in the parking lot.  On the walk to the car.  In the car.  Huge, racking sobs of frustration, of longing to meet my child, of anxiety, of confusion - surely my body should be able to manage birth a third time.  The pain was real.  The contractions were real, but there was no result, only pain.  Only waiting.  And I was tired. Weary of patience, of wondering if this was really happening.

We took the long way home from the hospital and stopped at the ocean.  We stood in the dark and I sobbed on the wooden railing while Adrian held me and understood my frustration, my ache.  He's good at holding me.

We got home and had tea with the lovely lady in our house.  I bit back pain and ignored contractions and tried to be a pleasant host - something that I fail at on a good day.  As I crawled into bed that night, I felt oddly powerful.  Like even though I could not cause birth to happen, I was somehow able to stop it progressing.  Surely, then I would be able to hold this baby in until my sister came.  I would not go back to the hospital until my water broke, because then I would be sure that it was happening, no more second guesses.

Wednesday (37 + 3)
Loss of mucus plug.  Lots of wondering and waiting.

Friday (37 + 5)
My sister arrived.

Saturday (37 + 6)
The day was like any other.  The pain was there.  Movement made it worse and more often.  Naomi started to time me about lunch.  Only five minutes apart.  So what, I thought, I've been there before.  The wedding was scheduled for three.  I decided to sit around and not do too much.  While I got ready for the wedding, they were 3-4 minutes apart and so strong and long that I started to cling to things to remain upright.  Fine and dandy.  Weddings aren't long.  I can make it and then lie down and calm the contractions again.

It was a lovely day for an outdoor wedding.  The sun was shining and filtered through the trees in showers of brightness.  The bride was late.  The contractions were 2-3 minutes apart and lasting about a minute-minute and a half.  Adrian invited people to sit.  I adjusted my sunglasses and hoped no one looked at my face as I stood behind the chairs and watched Naomi mind my sons.  I could not help.  I could not move.  As he got to the sermon, I had to sit.  Use my power.  Slow this madness.  I had to wait.  I collapsed on the ground.  My sons climbed on me, ran past me, went up the hill.  I closed my eyes and felt the sun bite my shoulders.  I shifted slightly to the shade.  The contractions slowed.  I was winning.

The wedding was finished and Adrian came to me.  The act of standing brought the contractions to full force once more.  I clenched my jaw and asked to leave, then said, "No, do they need you for photos?" So off he went for photos.  When they realized I was in labour, they decided to do the group photo right away.  We smiled for the photos and then got in the car.  Dropped Nao and the boys at home, got changed, burst of pained tears coming from me.  I wiped them away and hid the pain from the boys, held them close, told them I loved them and got in the car.  Got to the hospital at 4:30 pm.  I told Adrian if I wasn't at least 6 cm, I was leaving the hospital.  I was 6 cm.  I writhed in pain waiting for baby to rush out the way everyone had promised me baby would.

Baby would not be rushed.

The pain grew worse and worse, the contractions held long.  My water still had not broken.  The midwife couldn't get enough to make it break, the head pushed down so firmly.  I felt like I needed to pee a lot, but didn't really.  I must be sweating off the water I'm drinking, I thought.  I took a shower and screamed when the contractions hit.  The screaming scared me.  In my other births, I only screamed when pushing, when the pain got too hard for me.  How was this too hard for me now?  My third birth, I should be able to do this.  I gave up and asked for gas.  So I couldn't go natural, it was just gas, just like I'd had for my first two.

Through it all, Adrian held and supported me.  He talked me through the pain and gave me something to think about.  The stories that worked best were the ones about the boys, or our marriage.  Even against the wall of pain, I could hold an image of my beautiful sons and I could stand through the pain, bear through it.  I would hang on Adrian's shoulders and crouch through the pain.  It seemed to help, the bouncing up and down, like I could do something to help that baby out.  I only bit him once.  I pray a lot in labour.  Mostly prayers for mercy and help.  After the shower, I wore a hospital gown, but as I hung off the top of the raised end of the bed, it was in the way.  I apologized to the midwife.  I make a lot of jokes during labour, in between pain.  It's strange, but when the contractions aren't, the pain really goes away.  The midwife was used to me.  She had helped birth Small.

I felt the need to push.  She agreed, I was definitely at 10 cm.  The pain was unbearable though.  I needed to push, but I was unable to push.  I could not push.  I tried so hard, but it wouldn't work.  Like my foot was on the floor, but the car was still in park.  All the revs in the world wouldn't make it go.

Suddenly at 8:42 pm, my waters broke.  I felt relief.  Blessed, sweet relief.  God is merciful.  I was crouched on the bed, holding the raised bed head. I could breathe again.  The midwife called the doctor.  I needed to push. One push and his head was out.  I could feel it. Adrian said it.  Even as I was still processing that, my body needed to push again, and out came his body.  The midwife only had time to get one glove on to catch him, my perfect, beautiful, amazing son, born at 8:45 pm.

It was so odd, how quickly he came out.  With my first two, it took half and hour and then an hour of pushing to get the baby out.  It had been odd processes of bearing down when not pushing to hold the child in place and work him out.  Not this time.  Gravity helped.  God helped.  A week and half of labour helped.  I take it that as much I wanted to meet him, he wanted to meet me.  And then I had to turn around and sit down so I could hold him.  I cannot explain the moment of holding one's own child for the first time, but it is incredible. Magnificent.  It makes you feel whole, and like your heart will explode with joy.

The doctor came in.  And then the other news happened.  My placenta was stuck. The cord had torn and it was not coming out.  After giving birth with only gas, my option was to now get a spinal block and have it removed.

Being wheeled into the surgery was so bizarre.  I felt for women who have to have an emergency caesar.  The room is cold.  Everyone is there and contributing to your lack of modesty.  Time passes and you can do nothing.  And not being able to feel your legs?

The Land of Too Much Information
As a matter of procedure, they catheterised me to make sure I was empty.  I probably will be, I said, talking too much from nerves, from joy at having a new son and from fear.  I trusted the doctors and staff, but I did not want to be in the room, away from my son and husband.  I wanted to hold them still. Sure, I'd been holding Baby since he was born, but I craved him.  Labour is such an intense time and such an oddly wonderful time as my husband helps and supports me so much.  It's an intensely private time for the two of us and I cherish those moments together when I get to appreciate my other half - the one who enables me to keep going.

Even though I had peed so many times in labour, I was not empty. Far from it.  They got off 1 1/2 litres  from my bladder.  The number shocked me.  Them, as well.

They started explaining to me why birth had been so hard.  With a full bladder and full waters, Baby could not get past and manoeuver down.  Probably, they theorized, my bladder had not been emptying properly for the week of labour and that's why he couldn't progress.  Why was this?  My bladder had gotten kinked somehow.  It could have been from my body being worn out giving birth to three babies in three years.  At any rate, placenta was removed and the process of healing my bladder was it's own adventure that probably doesn't need to be discussed.  I will say this, I stayed in hospital until Monday night and it is all fixed thankyouverymuch.  (I think the closest you can come to experiencing this would be to cut the ends of an empty pop bottle, put a (large) squid in a bag full of water and affix another bag of water in the tube.  Then try to force the squid through the tube.  Fun, huh?)

My Adrian and son were waiting for me in the room.  I held them and they held me.  We had tender, delightful moments and then I sent Adrian home.  It was after 11 and he had church and three baptisms to do in the morning.

I didn't sleep much that night.  Baby made noises, and because of the GD, they needed to keep a very close eye on his sugars.  Everytime I started to fall asleep, I was woken up by a nurse or Baby or just the odd odd feeling of my legs coming back.  Like when you go to the dentist except for the freezing feeling was everywhere from my ribs down.  I got them back by 5 am.

This birth was my hardest.  It was the longest I've held a baby in (still haven't made it to 38 weeks).  But this Baby is no less loved, no less cherished.  All of my sons' births are precious memories, even if they are hellish to experience.  But I wouldn't trade my boys for anything.





*Ballotable - the most frustrating term in the universe, meaning that the mass (in this case, head) can be moved.  It is one of my least favourite words and can now cause irrational frustration in me.

How Shall I Call Him?

On Saturday last, we welcomed a new little boy into the family (this is not the birth story.  I'll post that another day).  He is a wonderful little joy to us.

There is only one problem that I can see here.  I don't know what to call him.  Don't be like that. He has a name.  Quite a good one, we think.  I'm just not sure what to call him on the internet.  Already we have Tall and Small. So Tiny?  But then, Small is not so small anymore.  What to do?

Small, Medium, Large?
Baby, Toddler, Boy?
Tall, Grande, Venti?
Monkey, Monkey, Underpants?
Sleepy, Happy and Doc?
Child 1, 2 and 3?

Any ideas are welcome.  Post them in the comment section.  If I choose your suggestion, you win a prize!  Which isn't a dirty nappy, I swear.

[We don't use their names on the internet, because we would like to give them some privacy. It's also why I don't post about everything that happens.  They may not be stories that the boys want shared with the world at large.]

Gestational Diabetes

I found out that I have gestational diabetes a couple of months ago.  I was not overwhelmingly pleased. We got the call from the doctor's office at lunchtime.  I was over it by dinner time, but that first half hour was not my finest.

To my understanding, gestational diabetes means that the placenta is killing my insulin and so more of the sugars are getting to baby who in turn would produce more insulin.  Insulin is a growth hormone, so they put strict limits on diet and whatnot so that the child does not grow too big.  The extra growth can cause early labour and other complications, should the child be allowed to stay in.  We shall not talk of those complications.

I was advised to see a dietician, a diabetes consultant and to learn as much as I could online.  The information online was good, but somewhat confusing.  I was quite pleased to see the dietician so I could get some things cleared up (and also pleased to learn that my interweb gleanings had been good and I was already following the diet).

In essence, to maintain a steady blood sugar when personal stores of insulin are not working properly, one must eat small amounts of carbohydrates regularly.   This was a bit difficult for me, as after I finished feeding Small, I attempted to give up snacks and just eat at mealtimes.  Being told to eat six times a day was a shock.  After meeting with the dietician (more good news), I got a blood testing kit and got to prick my finger four times a day to make sure the levels are good.

Thus, a good day should look like this:
Wake up: fasting blood prick blood sugar, 4-4.9
Eat breakfast: 2-3 units of carb (30-45 grams)
Two hours later: blood sugar, 4-6.7
Eat snack: 1-2 units of carb (15-30 g)
At least two hours later, eat lunch: 2-3 units of carb (30-45 g)
Two hours later: blood sugar, 4-6.7
Eat snack: 1-2 units of carb (15-30 g)
At least two hours later, eat dinner: 2-3 units of carb (30-45 g)
Two hours later: blood sugar, 4-6.7
Eat snack: 1-2 units of carb (15-30g)

Also, everything had to be low or no-fat while making sure that the flavour hadn't been replaced by sugar or the wrong sweetners.  And, you should have some protein with the carb.  Basically, you spend the entire day thinking about food.  You plan out meals in extreme detail.  I've done weekly meal plans for awhile anyway because it makes grocery shopping easier.  This was just another step, where you measure out your pasta with a cup measure.

The truth of it is, though, gestational diabetes isn't so bad (I could live this way if I had to, I'd just a bit grumpy around Christmas when I had to skip the cookies.). We'd already been trying to eat healthily, though I must admit I had been enjoying the occasional Pepsi to keep some pep in my step.  Little boys who were not sleeping well due to teeth and undiagnosed ear problems who somehow had energy in the day were wearing through my already depleted energy supplies.  I had sometimes enjoyed some yummy chocolate or a doughnut to keep going.  That all had to change.  Whole grains are recommended.  We already ate multi-grain bread and had tried wholegrain pasta, but hadn't enjoyed it.  We've found out that now we do.  And whole-grain couscous!  We already only used whole-wheat flour (or spelt if white is necessary).  And there is stevia in my cupboard now, but that has the most nasty aftertaste ever.  Just use a bit of raw sugar (15 g is 1 tsp).

In fact, gestational diabetes has given me a few things. Other than a nervous twitch of reading nutrition labels, I mean.  It's given me an appreciation for people who have to deal with this all the time.  My dear sister is type one diabetic and I never fully appreciated how difficult life must be for her.  I knew that she had to think about food a bit more, but there are charts devoted to glycemic index and how to make healthy food choices into healthier food choices.  And she has to survive with insulin! My sugars have been pretty easy to regulate thankfully, mainly because I've learned that my willpower is pretty good.  I love this child so much that I want them to be healthy and I've kept to this diet more than I ever thought I could.  Because my blood sugars have stayed within the healthy levels (4-8 in a blood prick, so says the doc), no extra insulin was needed.  I've also had the chance to try to new recipes! I had gotten lazy about the recipe thing because the boys had gotten a bit difficult about trying new things and cooking two meals sucks.  Unless you have to, and then it's a chance to explore.

Some recipes that we've stumbled across:
Sun-dried tomato and artichoke quiche
One sheet of puff pastry
Some sun-dried tomatoes, drained thoroughly
Some marinated artichokes, drained thoroughly
Half of a small container of ricotta
4-5 eggs
Pinch of herb salt

Beat the eggs.  Add the other stuff.  Pour onto the puff pastry, which in your greased quiche pan (but greased with EVO oil, not butter. Gotta watch those carbs).   Top with grated cheese.  Bake in a hot oven (240C) for 25-30 minutes.  Actually, Small taught me the last bit.  He turned up the oven on me from 190 and I could smell the quiche much sooner than I thought I should.  Upon checking it out (well and truly done in half the normal time), I learned that dinner prep could be done sooner and Small likes to play with dials.

Best Ever Brussel Sprouts
Quarter some brussel sprouts and boil until the water turns green.  Drain.
In the meantime, toast some pine nuts.  Keep your small sons away from the oven if you wish to maintain a regular temperature.
Drain some sun-dried tomatoes.
Grate parmesan cheese.
Mix all these things together with some minced or dried garlic and a bit of herb salt.

And then realize that brussel sprouts are delicious.

Tomato Salad
Chop up some small tomatoes of different colours.
Chop up a couple drained roasted red peppers.
Toss with a few capers and some garlic.
Add some dried multi-grain bread, a swoosh of EVO oil and balsamic vinegar.

And then there's that eat any brassica (kale, broccoli, etc) after it's been roasted in olive oil for 20 minutes in a hot oven and then sprinkled with parmesan and sprinkled with fresh lemon juice.

Cheese is a surprise delight of the whole GD thing.  Milk has carbs. Yogurt has carbs.  Cheese? Carb free.  About a month into the diet I asked my doctor if I could have fat again.  I was losing lots of weight (2 kg in one week) and my blood pressure was a bit low.  I've been back on fat since (woot, woot!) and that makes cheese consumption even easier.  Bocconcini is my special treat right now.  If I'm feeling peckish, it's free food! For whenever! And has calcium which is good for everybody's bones.  It's a bit odd when bocconcini becomes one's candy.

So where are these carbs found then, these highly regulated and documented carbs? In delicious things. In fruit. In starchy veg (peas, lentils, corn,  etc). In pasta and potatoes and bread and cake and anything made from wheat.  In nuts.  In candy and chocolate and milk and yogurt.  In fact, carbs are liberally spread through everything, especially prepackaged things.  Again, it's been cool to have a reason to push forward and try to make things from scratch, but sometimes when you're massively pregnant, dealing with two delightful boys that make life full, you'd like to order a pizza. But you've done the carb count, and you can only have two pieces. And that sucks.  But you can have salt and pepper squid salad! So that's something.  And all the other veg you could want.  Although, it does have some carb in it, so you have to think about everything that goes into your face.

(I just pricked my finger - 5.3.  Dinner was chilli-cheese sausages and pea salad - peas, celery, cashews, mayo and italian dressing.  It's surprising, but it hurts everytime.  Next time you see someone with diabetes, kiss their poor fingees.  Or offer them some bocconcini.)

[What is a unit of carb? One piece of bread. A medium-small potato, but as they have a high GI, eat them only occasionally.  A 125 mL glass of milk. A small tub of natural yogurt - which I now prefer to any sweetened.  A quarter cup of dried fruit and nuts.  One large cracker with peanut butter. A teaspoon of sugar.  Good luck getting that medicine down.  Half a cup of cooked pasta.  Half a cup of cooked rice (basmati or brown, please). 3/4 cup of oatmeal. 1 medium or 2 small fruits. 3/4 cup of grapes. Still hungry? Load up on proteins and non-starchy veg.  It's good gear.  Who doesn't want a poached egg with that? Oh - the trick to a perfect poached egg:  Add enough water to a low-edged pot to cover an egg.  Bring to a boil.  Add a splash of vinegar and a pinch of salt.  Crack an egg and drop in the water as closely as possible.  Cook for 4 minutes for soft.  10 for pregnant ladies hard-style.]

That, in a nutshell, is gestational diabetes.   If the nutshell was the size of a commerical airplane.  Any questions? Bueller?