Read at your own risk

Summer vacation is here and we are off to, in my mother's words, a viral start.  Yikes.  Yes, another stomach bug.  I know that you have heard about many the scourge over the years on this blog; but this, this one, folks, is the worst yet.  So violent is it that I brought Hannah to the ER after 9 hours of throwing up every 15 minutes for a dose of Zofran, the wonder drug.  Truthfully, I was convinced that she was suffering from food poisoning occasioned by an odd-tasting carton of chocolate milk purchased in Renfrew.  I mean, c'mon, a stomach flu in the last week of school?  A stomach flu when no one else in town is sick?  (Or so I thought.)  Hannah made her way through the throes of illness and seems to be emerging on this her fourth day.  And, in the interest of TMI, this is a both-ends sort of illness.  People are wearing Pull-Ups who haven't worn Pull-Ups in years.  'Nough said.

Joe entered the battle yesterday morning at 9:30 and is still moaning 24 hours later.  Thankfully Angry Birds on the iPad is proving a distraction.  Isaac joined in last night at 7pm, aiming carefully for the handmade quilt on the couch.  Jacob issued a blood-curdling scream at 9pm and has been back and forth between two buckets in the front room.  I found Sarah happy and extremely smelly at 5:30 this morning.  Funny how babies can happily sleep in vomit.  Praise God for small mercies.  Speaking of mercy:  we haven't been spared the depths of this virus; however, Dave's class was over for a bbq on the second last day of school at which they had an enormous water fight. With buckets.  Yes, buckets!  Buckets that they left here at our house.  Four buckets that we didn't have before.  Four providential buckets.  Buckets from heaven.  You get where I'm going with this?  Enough buckets for everyone...

Dave is currently asleep on a mattress on the living room floor as he took the night shift with the three boys.  I am still feeling well and praying (desperately) not to fall ill.  Please, please, spare me!  Spare Dave!  Ben is still up and running and hasn't fallen ill once this year.  The only thing that I can chalk this up to is that Ben is the only one of the older kids who doesn't bite his nails.  He is also extremely obedient when it comes to precautionary measures.  In fact, yesterday I told the kids who were still well that they should drink a lot of water so that we could prevent dehydration.  (Who knows if this makes any sense.)  Anyway, Ben has been drinking steadily for 24 hours.  He also seems to believe that cucumbers with their high water content can act as an effective prophylactic.  I also heard him pray, "Dear Jesus, I pray that my white blood cells win this battle."  Specific prayer, my friends, wins the battle.

So, there you go, blog readers.  Way too much information.  And no pictures.  Say a prayer for us.  And whatever you do, please don't say, "You guys are always sick."  That, my friends, would be unwise.

Never complete without a photo

 There really hasn't been much of Jacob on here lately.  He is still up to the same activities:  reading, eating and growing like a weed.  He is such a gentle soul; an old soul, some might say.  His body language in this photo says it all.  I imagine that this will be him in another forty years, except that he might have a glass of scotch close at hand.

 And the above?  He is a boy, after all.  And no boy is complete without a dog.

 One of the most handy aspects of twinhood is a built-in duet partner.  I remember being dropped off at the house of one of my piano teacher's students in order to practise a duet.  I had never met the student nor the parents and the experience was slightly terrifying.  I think that Jacob and Hannah have a far better deal.

 I don't know about this one.  Return of the 1990s grunge look.  Kurt Cobain, anyone?  I'm surprised that my in-laws never asked me to cut his hair.  Perhaps he was still too fresh from the trauma of his hospital stay.

 Ah, yes, the backyard garden.  Dave promised that this would be the year of the backyard garden.  Despite Hannah's disbelief (based upon the last two years' failed attempts at a garden), Dave came through.  Along with Benjamin, Joseph and Isaac.  They spent a hot afternoon digging up the sandy soil and planting potatoes, beans, peas, carrots and a few other vegetables.  I sat in a chair and watched.  At one point Dave looked over at me and, pointing first at his shovel and second at my lawn chair, said, "My childhood.  Your childhood."  I smiled and responded, "There are plenty of years to come in which we can meet in the middle.  For now, I will cook your produce when it grows."

 Oh my, did he ever need a haircut.  And that soother!  If we're not careful he'll be packing it for healthy snack in kindergarten.

 Benjamin is our great worker.  (Well, other than Hannah who could run the house quite easily.  Think Little House on the Prairie in 2013.)  Benjamin loves any sort of hard work:  dishes, sorting, shovelling, gardening etc.  He is embarrassed by a messy house and honoured beyond words to find that I ordered the basement while he was away at school.  He really is a doer and a man of few words.  Much like his father.

 And Joseph.  Joseph loves to work until the work is no longer fun.  Then he likes to pose for pictures.  His aversion to work is so great that he has fashioned it into a virtue.  Dave was away for two days and a night last week.  Each morning I would awake to find a kitchen completely ordered by Hannah.  In Joe's words, "Mommy, Hannah made my bed, she made my breakfast, she packed my lunch and cleaned the kitchen.  She is going to be a great mother one day."  With a big smile, he added, "And I helped her by letting her do all that stuff for me."

 It struck me today that we have quite a variety of ages at the moment.  One is nursing, two are napping, two are beginning to read and two are being assigned projects that make more work for their mother.  I think that I heard about the medieval-castle project for two months solid before I drove to the dollar store in a huff and arrived home with moss, paint, glue sticks and brushes.  And then I discovered  how easily I could throw myself into such a project.  It was difficult to relinquish the glue gun to Hannah who quickly learned how to apply moss so as to mimic ivy growing up the walls.  We relegated Jacob to providing the first coats of paint as his ivy skills left something to be desired.  I, however, could not hand over the drawbridge to anyone other than me.  For the next week, each time that I passed the castle, I pulled the string on the working drawbridge to relish the up and down motion of my own expertise.

 The final product included the back garden filled with actual trees (small branches stuck into modelling clay) and even a real poacher.  Hannah also created a coat of arms and archers perched between the two towers.  Jacob found a drawing of the Magna Carta being signed and we cut out windows and placed the drawing behind so as to create a truly historic perspective.  Amazing what can become of a diaper box.

 Oh my, this baby.  She is just so absolutely lovable.  And curly, she has curly hair!

 This is not posed.  I was cooking and wondered where Isaac had disappeared to.  I found him in Dave's office where he had rooted through Dave's out-of-bounds box and set up the tutoring station.  When I found him, I raised my eyebrows in question and he responded matter-of-factly, "Work."  I see that he dressed for the occasion.  Thankfully, he also cut his hair.

 She is both lovable and very hungry. Or perhaps she just likes food.  We are absolutely terrible because we love to taunt her with food just to watch the reactions.  She can be quite mild-mannered but, when it comes to food, the gloves come off.

 Only a matter of time.

 And it's hers.

 Thank you.

She also insists on feeding herself at every meal.  This amounts to holding the spoon in one hand and shovelling the food in with the other.  On Monday night we had our marriage prep dinner with the bishop.  Supper started at 6pm and Sarah sat in the restaurant's high chair for a solid hour and a half.  Eating.  The entire time.  At the end of supper one of the men on the team, a father to many, remarked that he had never before seen a baby so utterly focused on food.  The apple doesn't fall far from the maternal tree.

Photo Update

 Oh, she is just so cute that I can't resist posting her over and over again.  I just love looking at photos of her and cuddling her soft hair and squishy cheeks.  It helps that she is one of the cuddliest babies that I have had yet.  Rewarding, also.  When we pick her up she always, always rests her head on our shoulders, if only for a moment.  That moment, however, conveys so much about our little Sarah.  Cool spoon, eh?  Harvey's kids meal.

 I have made absolutely zero attempts at moving this little girl onto the next milestone.  With this many siblings milestones arrive quite naturally.  So far, I have observed that those further along the birth order follow one of two developmental routes:  a.  Try to keep up and thus hit those milestones fast and hard; b. Get carried around a lot and thus miss certain milestones and accidentally meet others.  Isaac was Baby a and Sarah is definitely Baby b.  Isaac was walking at 11 months and tearing after his siblings just as fast as his little legs could carry him.  Sarah simply waits for a brother or sister to trip over her, pick her up and move her elsewhere.

 Hannah, however, is becoming impatient and has taken to practising walking with her sister.  Sarah has started to demand daily sessions with Hannah and stamps her little feet until her sister complies.  I laugh because Hannah at the same age insisted that her paternal grandmother walk her around and around and around while holding onto her baby finger.  Full circle.

 You didn't realise that pastry cutters are absolutely essential when it comes to proper infant development, did you?  Whisks and spatulas are also helpful.

 Ah ha!  Tricked into yet another important rite of passage:  standing on one's own (with or without a pastry cutter).

Ben has an interesting sense of humour.  See above.

 And then there was Family Fun Night at the kids' school.  This end-of-May school celebration is another rite of passage on the school calendar.  It should be called extremely-dirty Family Night; or Fill-the-bathtub-up-immediately Night; or does-Mommy-really-have-to-go? Night.  Yes, she does.  But, oh, do her feet feel disgusting by the end of it.

 The dirt doesn't bother the kids as bouncy castles and army obstacle courses provide more than enough counterweight for humidity and blackflies.

 But then a torrential rain and thunderstorm came out of nowhere and the crowds rushed into the school where the bumscooter scooted here, there and everywhere.  Very-dirty-bum Night.

 The storm sort of looked like the above except that this photo is from a week later when another early summer storm rolled into town.  "I'm sure it's a tornado," warned Jacob, "it will surely take down our ancient trees!"  Jacob is always a wealth of factual information.  The following day at supper he remarked, "Well, it's a good thing that Obama is almost out of office."  To which his mother replied, "No, he could win another term.  George Bush served 12 years."  Tsk, tsk, politically non-savant mother, "No, Mom.  After Franklin Delano Roosevelt left office a law was passed limiting presidents to  two terms in office..."  Oh.  I found him reading stories from the Danish Resistance the other night.  Bet you can't tell me one story from the Danish resistance, eh?  I have a lot to learn over the next few decades.  They will all pat me kindly on the head one day, "She was always very kind to us.  And sometimes funny."

 Hannah has been practising her hairdressing skills on Sarah.  This is the end result of six teeny-weeny ponytails tied into her hair while Mommy went to the grocery store just one last time.

Close look.  Not so sure about her sixth place status.

One Year Late: Sarah's birth story (Hastily written; lacking in style; photos somewhat haphazard ... one beloved daughter)

 Funny to think that a year ago last night Dave and I were sitting in an upscale Italian restaurant in Pembroke having supper with the Bishop and the rest of the diocesan marriage prep team.  It was my due date with Sarah and I had packed a hospital bag just in case labour started while we were away.  My mother had arrived from Halifax and was at home watching the other children as we enjoyed this last evening away.  I was very pregnant and the bishop joked that I might need a police or ambulance escort.  Little did he know.

 I was slotted to give birth to Sarah at the hospital in Renfrew (an hour away from our town) under the watchful eye of our family physician who had delivered Isaac, Joseph and 'almost' Benjamin (the ER doctor ushered fast Ben into the world).  After arriving home from Pembroke I went to bed and hoped for a good night's sleep.  My wish was granted and I awoke the next morning feeling quite rested.  There were, however, a few twinges of labour here and there.  Dave and the older kids went to school and my mom, Isaac and I walked into town.  I remember that as we walked I began to have enough pain that I knew that labour would begin that day.  In fact, at one point, my hip felt as if it had popped out and I had to stand stalk still in front of Zurakowski Park as I waited for the ability to walk to return.  My mom looked a little nervous.  We made it home and Dave called throughout the day wondering if he should come home or not.  I kept telling him not to worry as I didn't want to head to the hospital too early and end up spending a sleepless and labour-free night in Renfrew as I had with Isaac.  I was pushing this little girl til the last minute.

 Afternoon turned to the end of the school day and supper preparation.  Labour was intermittent and I decided that I would try going to mass.  I think that Hannah came with me, only to find out that mass had been cancelled.  Instead I talked with a few people in the church parking lot and left with promises of prayer.  I crossed off my attempt at mass and headed home for supper.  After eating I went for a walk around our neighbourhood with just Isaac in the stroller.  I wanted one last walk with him as the baby of the family.  He was completely unaware of the poignancy of the moment.  Throughout the walk contractions were strong enough to cause me to stop and lean over the stroller but they were still irregular.  Thus, I put the stroller in the garage and Isaac to bed.  Dave was tutoring on-line from 5:30-9:30pm.  I told him to keep working until I absolutely needed to go.  My mother and I settled on the couch to watch a movie, The Painted Veil.  I had always secretly harboured a desire to watch a movie while in labour and I was excited to finally be able to do so.

 I can't remember how much of the movie we watched before I had to go to the bathroom.  My mother had been timing the contractions but they were so irregular (11 mins, 22 mins, 15 mins etc.) that we had both lost track.  By this point, 8:30pm, I was beginning to lose hope that this little baby would arrive at a decent hour!  Back to the bathroom:  I got up from the couch and coughed.  My first thought was, "Oh great, I just peed myself!"  And then I realised that my water had broken.  Within seconds my contractions began to be strong, regular and very close together.  I went to the front room to tell Dave who sent off a quick email to his supervisor who later told him that Dave wasn't the first tutor to leave a shift early due to childbirth.  And then we had an argument.  Dave wanted to drive straight to Renfrew as fast as possible and deliver under the care of our family physician.  I also wanted to end up at Renfrew but I felt that we should stop at our local hospital, 5 mins. away, just to see how far I had progressed.  I didn't want to deliver on the road and I had a secret hope that the Barry's Bay hospital would just let me stay and deliver locally as they sometimes do in emergencies.  So, we drove to our local hospital.  I remember walking up to the triage in complete control until the nurses looked up and, realising that I was in labour, registered a look of shock.  That was when I started to cry and they ushered me quickly into a room.  A nurse took my vitals and the ER doctor, a Russian neurosurgeon, walked into the room and in a thick accent said, "We don't deliver."  I told her that I knew that and that I only wanted to be checked to see if we could make it to Renfrew.

 She agreed and performed an internal check:  5 cm., baby's head unengaged.  She seemed to think that I had a way to go before delivery.  I, however, knew differently having gone from 5-10cm in 10 minutes with Benjamin and having pushed Joseph out at 6 cm.  I can't remember if I said any of this but   I suddenly began to feel quite scared.  She kept asking me why I wanted to go to Renfrew since there is no obstetrical back-up there.  I tried arguing that we always deliver in Renfrew but she decided that she wanted to send me to Pembroke.  I remember a real sense of peaceful resignation coming over me and that I just needed to do what this doctor was telling me.  (Strangely enough she was the same doctor who sent Isaac by air ambulance to CHEO.  Dave concluded that she handles all emergencies by sending the patients away.)
I hadn't quite realised that I was going to be sent to Pembroke by ambulance; I think I thought that Dave was going to drive me there.  However, the understanding soon dawned on me and my world felt like it was crashing.  I couldn't be without Dave; I couldn't labour with strangers.  But I would have to.

The paramedics arrived and they loaded me in the back of the ambulance with a nurse and the Russian doctor.  Dave closed the doors of the ambulance and nodded and smiled as if to tell me that I would be OK.  The nurse asked me to tell her whenever I had a contraction and I told her that I am always silent while in labour but that I would try and squeeze her hand.  That nurse proved a real Godsend as she held my hand through every contraction and was completely unafraid to be my advocate when the paramedics insisted that I wear an oxygen monitor on my finger or that they move me in the middle of a contraction.  I thank God for her.  The doctor, on the other hand, proved an entertaining distraction.  Apparently she suffers from car sickness.  Thus, she spent the majority of the hour's ride with her head in a bag asking how many more kilometres we had to travel.  This turned out to be quite handy as I was able to gauge where we were and how much longer until arrival at the hospital.  I prayed that the contractions would stay at 5 mins. apart as that meant that I only had 12 until Pembroke.  My prayer was answered and this was one of my first labours in which there was down time in between contractions.  I kept the mantra of "Jesus, I trust in You" in my head.  Despite my attempts at piety I distinctly remember about halfway through the ride realising that there were epidurals at Pembroke (unlike Renfrew) and my pious prayer changed abruptly to, "I want an epidural".

As we left Barry's Bay I felt incredibly alone.  I had no idea of how the night would play out and I felt completely at the mercy of others.   That was when I looked out the tiny back window of the ambulance and saw the glowing blue cross atop our church's steeple.  Up until that point I had always thought of that neon cross as slightly tacky.  Never again.  My last sight of home was the cross and a deep peace born of knowing that I was not alone came over me.
To make a long story short, we made the hour's drive in around 50 minutes.  (Dave did the same via a different route and one feline mortality.)  About 5 minutes from the hospital the contractions began to lengthen and increase in severity.  About 15 minutes from arrival I had a clear understanding that I could deliver in the ambulance and I remember squeezing my legs shut.  We arrived by the back door and I was wheeled past the ICU and onto the elevator.  I recall coming off the elevator where we were greeted by three women who immediately took over.  I could hear them asking, "Who is this woman?  Do we have any paperwork?"  I had no idea if they were nurses, doctors or janitors.  I do know that I looked at them desperately and said, "I want an epidural!"  They replied, "Sure, honey, we'll get the doctor."  And then they moved at what felt like a snail's pace.
Within a minute of asking for an epidural I again looked at them and more desperately said, "I'm pushing."  They very clearly told me that I was not allowed to as there was still cervix present and I would tear badly.  I have never spoken back to any medical professional but I looked at that nurse and said with great emphasis, "I have to!"  She looked again and cheerily said, "Oh, cervix is gone.  Go ahead."
I began to push, Sarah crowned and then they told me to stop, stop, stop as the cord was tightly wrapped around her neck.  I stopped and Dave walked into the room.  Never before have I been so glad to see him.  The nurses cut the cord and out came Sarah.  Exactly six minutes after arriving at the hospital and one minute after her Daddy found his way from the van to the delivery room.  Perfect timing.  She didn't cry and had come so quickly that she was chock full of mucus.  The nurses and the respiratory therapist spent 45 minutes aspirating her and trying to make her angry so that she would cry and let them know that all was well.  Our rejoicing at her birth quickly turned to concern but, nearly an hour after her birth, she began to cry and we knew that she would be OK.  Sarah Elena weighed in at 8 lb 3 oz and was born at 10:46 pm delivered by two nurses.  (I remember asking if she was still a girl as I hadn't been completely convinced by the earlier ultrasounds and my gestational propensity for boys.)  The doctor arrived 15 minutes later, delivered the placenta and collected the easiest pay cheque he has ever received.  The end.

 Except for birthday pictures taken on the iPhone.  Poor little Sarah has a cold, just recovered from pink eye, is teething and has fallen victim to one of the worst black fly seasons that I have ever seen.  Her right eye only just returned to normal size...

 She was absolutely delighted by a plate filled with cupcakes and burning candles.

 We kept it at a safe distance.  We are so blessed by this little girl's life.  She is the longed-for sister who has found a warm and safe place in the hearts of each of her siblings.  A very good friend, upon finding out that I was pregnant with a girl, told me that Sarah would be the comfort of our old age:  I think that this comfort has started early.  Precious little girl, how we all love you.

Things I forgot to tell you

Not that I forgot, more so that I forgot to blog about it.  Ben won the out-of-school spelling bee in the primary division.  He spelled and spelled and spelled some more.  In fact, one evening after a particularly intense practise session with Dave, he turned to me with tears in his eyes and croaked, "My voice hurts from all this spelling."

Laryngitis aside, all that spelling landed him on top ... despite being significantly shorter than the competition.  Moreover, the spelling bee was on his birthday!  His principal had the crowd sing Happy Birthday to him.  If Ben had the powers of blushing within his tool kit, he would have been crimson from head to toe.  Instead, he just looked cute, embarrassed and more than a little chuffed.

Jacob, on the other hand, suffered an, ummm, humiliating defeat.  One word:  motif.  One f, not two.  Absolute devastation combined with a good dose of character building.  Would that we all learned such lessons so early on.  No photos available.

I will, however, be back real soon with pictures of Hannah painting my, I mean her, medieval castle for gr. 4 Social Studies.  I would also post pictures of the four (count 'em) police cars parked only houses away.  (Yes, Feminine Gift, right next door to you.)  The Forensic Investigation Unit was also present.  Despite our walk-by, we were completely unable to ascertain the cause of the investigation.  Ben insisted that the elderly woman was probably in the business of throwing drugs at people.  (Is that how narcotics are dealt these days?)  I would have taken pictures but I have married a man with a far greater sense of propriety than I.
Alas, blogging does not make me a journalist anymore than hypochondria makes me a doctor.