It's that time of year again. School. Looming, stealthily rearing its angry head on one hand, and offering newness and opportunity on the other. The children feel it. Even the babies. Something has changed in the air. The stuffiness seems to whisper, "It's coming . . . prepare" (or is it saying, "It's coming . . . beware"??). We all seem more urgent in our need to DO something. The nights get longer, the garden begins to brown, and our hearts turn to (away from?) the future.
Our school room is a shambles. The big rainfall saw to that. We aren't just dealing with the normal emptying of shelves, sharpening of pencils, and pitching of old assignments. No, no. We have shelves away from walls, carpet and baseboards out of place, and not one, but two non-working doors. Even if we wanted to get in there to tackle the disarray, we couldn't. At least not easily. That's what I tell myself, anyway.
My instinct is to run. Run Run Run. The children seem to have the same inclination. I can't keep them still. The question is, are we running to the hope of the future or away from the horror of it?
July 30th, 2009
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Annamaria couldn't get enough of listening to Great Grandpa Maxfield play his harmonica on Mother's Day.
May 13th, 2009
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In belated honor of Annamaria's third birthday (March 10th), I decided to share this song I wrote for her when things were just starting to get bright again about three months after she was born. We were coming out of the miasmic coma of fear resulting from her diagnosis and slow weight gain. She was opening her eyes more, and had begun to smile with us. We knew more about Down syndrome and her heart conditions. We were ready to see the sun again. We had no idea, we couldn't even fathom, the radiance that would fill our lives for the next three years. It's funny how this song doesn't even seem to do her justice anymore.
For Annamaria:
They said to me, "I'm sorry, your baby's Down."
I said, "Now, how can that be? I don't see a frown."
The only thing blue about her is her eyes.
They're bluer than the sweetest of summer morning skies.
Sometimes Down means joyful.
Sometimes Down means delightful.
Sometimes Down means rising from the fall.
Sometimes Down means happy.
Sometimes Down means beautiful.
Sometimes Down is the greatest gift of all.
They said her heart is broken.
I asked, "Why?"
"That's part of being Down," they said.
But her little eyes were dry.
They turned and sighed, "I'm sorry, but it's true.
She'll always be quite different. Not like me and you."
Because sometimes Down means cheerful.
Sometimes Down means wonderful.
Sometimes Down means soaring for the stars.
Sometimes Down means blissful.
Sometimes Down means magical.
Sometimes Down means a baby just like ours.
Sometimes Down means joyful.
Sometimes Down means delightful.
Sometimes Down means rising from the fall.
Sometimes Down means happy.
Sometimes Down means beautiful.
Sometimes Down is the greatest gift of all.
Sometimes Down is the greatest gift of all.
March 18th, 2009
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Mildred was baptized on December 28th (the same day as Lillian, only 11 years later). Millie's Baptism was beautiful. She screamed through the whole thing. Father Pikus actually commented on how loud she was. Yup. My kid gets the most vociferous baptism award. I'm so proud. Here we're all smiling, but really it's from relief more than true happiness.
She finally fell asleep.
March 18th, 2009
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Here she is folks. Our long awaited, very much treasured daughter, Mildred Elizabeth Hynfield was born on November 24th at 5:11 p.m. She was 10 pounds 2.7 ounces and 19 inches long. She is beautiful and healthy.
December 11th, 2008
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Streptococcus infection. Strep Throat. Scarlet Fever. Perianal Strep. Yup, that's right, Strep BOTTOM. We've had it all since mid-May. And it appears we're still going strong.
Sarah has had 4 rounds of antibiotics -- her fourth round beginning 7 days into her third. I've had two, as has Lillian. The rest have only had one. We go this week to see if any of us are carrying the infection without symptoms.
Here a strep, there a strep, everywhere a Strep STREP.
June 30th, 2008
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Illness creeps in like mildew on the shower walls. First it seems like nothing -- you know it's there, but you can ignore it. Soon, however, it multiplies, and no matter how you try to turn away, it's there, staring you in the face. All you can do is suck it up and take care of it. It doesn't matter that you have a baby shower planned for your sister-in-law. It doesn't matter that you have a life. Everything stops until you fix the problem.
Unfortunately, illness doesn't disappear with a bit of cleaning solution and several minutes of intense elbow grease. In a family of 7, soon to be 8 (God willing), days of healing, comforting, and sleepless nights are required to tame the beast. It's been over a week of illness and there's no end in sight.
The mildew on the shower walls is looking like a vacation right now.
May 23rd, 2008
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