Crown Prince Ludwig, later to become King Ludwig I, was married to Princess Therese of Saxony-Hildburghausen on October 12, 1810. A public festival thrown for the people of Munich in honor of the occasion was the very first Oktoberfest.
I am so glad we’ve made it to Friday. This week was a killer.
Last Wednesday, Fritz was sick with a bad cold and did no school. On Thursday and Friday, he was still sick, but managed to do some school. On Monday morning, we had to go to the doctor for Billy. The bottom line was that he was behind, way behind. Even omitting subjects or exercises that can be skipped – for example, I love the Explode the Code books and each of the kids is working their way through one of them – we (mainly Fritz and I) were doing school until after 3 pm all week long.
I know it seems like we should be able to back off a bit. We’re on Week Seven – that seems so far ahead to anyone who didn’t begin school until after Labor Day. But I’m having a baby soon, and we’re taking a break. And I’m moving next June, so the school year has a definite end.
And although I’m pretty relaxed about most of life, my children’s education is one thing that I’m really, really uptight about. I don’t like to skip things. I don’t like to rush through things. I don’t like to leave assignments incomplete. It’s one thing to not finish a handwriting book and quite another to not finish math. I still feel a certain amount of guilt about having not finished reading the book on Clara Barton that we began at the end of last school year; my only consolation being that I’ll be able to read it with Billy next year (and then with Katie, and then with Jenny, and then with Peter…). Fritz will hear her story, will likely read her story to a younger sibling, more than once.
I know I need to not worry so much. When I hear my kids humming classical music or discussing theology among themselves or quizzing each other on math or geography – for fun – I know they’re getting a good, solid education. I just wish they had the same motivational drive to check off all those little blocks on their weekly assignment sheets as I do.
I just wonder if Dr. John Braxton Hicks actually lobbied to have those uncomfortable pre-labor contractions named after him or if the dubious honor was thrust upon him.
Either way, I wonder if he realized, way back in 1872, that his name, a hundred and fifty years later, would be hissed out as a near curse by women nearing term. What a legacy.
Because I’m The Mom. I wish she had a better singing voice, but funny regardless.
The 40 Days for Life campaign begins today across the nation. Eighty-nine cities and towns are planning daily vigils at abortion facilities or Planned Parenthood offices, including one that is about a half mile from the house I own in New Jersey. This one also happens to be right across the street from the church where my four older kids were baptized.
We have abandoned women in this country. When our best solution to an unintended pregnancy is to pressure an expectant mother to reject her maternal instincts which desire to protect and nurture the new life in her womb and to have that life eliminated, we force women to deny their own humanity, to deny the humanity of their children, and to deny a very fundamental concept that murder is wrong.
What choices do women have today? Virginity is mocked. Men want to test drive the model before committing to the purchase. Engaged couples are expected to move in together to be sure that they can get along. Marriage is pushed to an older age or put off altogether. The end result is that women must have sex in order to be considered normal; they must use contraception to avoid the consequences of an active sex life, regardless of the health consequences of those products; and if pregnancy occurs, they must get an abortion because parents, sisters, brothers, friends and coworkers will all tell them that their life will be all messed up if they have a child.
Instead of making them equal to men, the sexual revolution has further reduced the power of women. Where once society protected women from poor youthful choices, it now shoves them into an adult world, condoms in their junior-sized jeans, to try to find happiness through a decade of one-night stands or tenuous relationships.
Ending abortion is as much about protecting women as it is about protecting unborn children. For now, my young daughters turn to me and their father for love, affirmation and protection. There will likely come a day when we will no longer be enough. They will turn to peers and other adults for a second opinion: am I worthy of love? I do not want them to feel they must give away their bodies in order to win someone else’s approval.
As long as abortion is society’s preferred solution to an unintended pregnancy, women will be the biggest losers in this game. Nobody can help carry the guilt of being an accessory to the killing of your own child. Nobody can ease the grief of future miscarriages and infertility that may result from having had an abortion. Nobody can take way the physical pain of future medical problems that may occur.
The 40 Days for Life campaign is hoping to end abortion through prayer and fasting and the daily vigils. I can’t go to a vigil – not pregnant, and not with a slew of little kids. I can’t do a true fast, although I can give up sweets or some other indulgence. I can pray, especially for a closure of this facility in New Jersey, but most especially for women to have true freedom and support and encouragement to make good choices. Consider participating in some way in this campaign, too. At the least, offer up one prayer for an end to this insanity.
Back in June, I took Billy to a pediatric endocrinologist and then to a pediatric gastroenterologist following his regular annual physical. He, and all my kids, are falling off the growth charts. At my request, I was also referred to a pediatric nutritionist, since I was (and still am) convinced that his biggest problem is not eating enough.
After those three appointments and a bone scan and some blood work (which had some low, but not too low, numbers for iron and growth hormone), I thought we were done. But no sooner had the gastroenterologist concluded that a wait-and-see approach with some follow up blood work to check on the anemia was the best tactic, when the endocrinologist called and insisted that we go to a pediatric endocrinologist out here after our move. Had we been staying in the area, the Walter Reed team would have been pressuring us to try to stimulate the growth hormone and do some other tests, including an MRI to check his pituitary gland.
It’s not that I don’t want to know for sure that everything is fine with my child, but I don’t feel that running every test available on a person, especially a child, who has all the appearances of being perfectly normal and healthy with no aches, complaints, vomiting or any other symptoms of illness, is a good idea. For a child, even a 7 year old, this might be somewhat traumatic. It certainly would be traumatic for me.
But I was happy with this referral, because there is no military pediatric endocrinologist in the area. We would have to go civilian. I think the doctors at Walter Reed are just fine, but they are a team. There is a group-think mentality. Oh, and did I mention that one of the doctors on the team was doing a study on smaller kids who have all the appearances of being normal and healthy? I don’t mind my kid being included in a study if he needs to have certain tests run anyway. But I do mind doctors drumming up potential problems in order to scare me into running tests which are actually unnecessary.
In July, I followed up on this referral, and the resultant appointment was yesterday – finally. I took growth charts, lab results, and family history along with all five kids and drove more than a half hour to the specialist. As I drove, I prayed for a happy ending to this saga, and I rehearsed my speech about how much my kid eats and how I’m being vigilant in making sure he gets enough calories every day.
At this point, Billy interrupts my thoughts to inform me that he forgot to eat breakfast.
Well, thank goodness he told me that before I claimed publicly to be a good mother, huh?
At the doctor’s office, on the line that asked for a reason for the appointment, I wrote that I was getting a second opinion. When I met the doctor, I explained that I felt the other endocrinologists were looking for problems where none existed.
“When most people want a second opinion, it’s because they think something is wrong but they’ve been told nothing is. You’re kind of doing the opposite…” he queried.
“Yes, I want you to tell me that my kid is fine,” I admitted.
And then he did.
He does want to do another bone scan in 6 months. And keep an eye on him. But, for now, he thinks he’s just a slow-grower. Like his dad. Like we’ve been saying all along.
And as for food and eating habits? Yes, scales are off from one place to another. But he weighed 39 pounds in May at the pediatrician’s office, and he weighed 43 pounds yesterday at this office.
And that’s without having had breakfast.
The landscaping around this house was pathetic when we got here in July, and things like weeds don’t just go away.
But in July, we were unpacking.
And August was oppressively hot.
Now that the weather is a bit cooler, I have decided that it’s time to deal with the mess. It’s either now, when I’m in my last month of pregnancy, or next month, when I have a newborn who needs constant attention. Or we just let the weeds grow.
It’s amazing how much physical discomfort I am willing to endure out of pride. This past weekend, I weeded, I planted daffodil bulbs, I planted a few low-growing green and white leaved bushy things, and I mulched. And I swept the sidewalks. And I got clover and grass out from between patio block cracks.
I’m about 2/3 done. I need more mulch. And more daffodils.
And Bill? He hauled the bags of mulch and then got out of the way of the crazy pregnant lady. Somebody has to have a brain around here.
For the exclusive convenience of my husband, I’ve added a link on my sidebar to Catholic Beer Review. I have my reservations about doing this. I mean, I don’t even like beer. And this is a mom blog, not a beer blog (despite evidence to the contrary). And, well, the author lists Jane Austin movies among his favorites. It’s not that I mind it if a man likes Jane Austin, but there needs to be enough testosterone-laden interests to balance that or I just get really uncomfortable. I admit it, I’m a sexist.
But Bill seems to be enjoying the blog, young as the blog is, so I’ve put the link up so he can find the site fastest. It’s another way to guarantee that he comes to my blog first. Even if I don’t talk about beer. Much.
Yesterday, while reading this blog, Bill was waxing sentimental about some beer, and I was listening, like the good wife that I am. It might have been better for him if I hadn’t been listening, because he throws out the acronym IPA and then proceeds to define the acronym IPA as though I didn’t know what it meant. Now, had I merely walked in on a conversation with someone else and not been listening to the subject, I might have confused IPA with IPO and pondered a moment if we had free cash available for investment. Acronyms are such a guy thing.
But since I was listening, and he was clearly talking about beer, I was completely insulted that he felt the need to tell me what an IPA was. I reminded him that we’ve been married for nearly twelve years, and that surely he didn’t think I was so dense that in all that time I hadn’t picked up the meaning of those letters. Now, I don’t know what makes a beer an India Pale Ale any more than I know what makes a beer a stout or a lager or a pilsner, but I do know what the initials stand for, for crying out loud.
He continued with his story, but all the beer talk reminded me of a conversation I’d had with my seven year old the previous day.
“Bill, I have to interrupt,” I said. “Billy asked me yesterday if beer was liquid bread…”
I could see a certain gleam in his eye.
“And since bread was good for you, wasn’t then too beer good for you…”
The guilt was pretty obvious now.
“I told him the law clearly stated he had to wait until he was 21, no matter how “healthy” the product.”
“OK, he got that from me. We were watching a video on You Tube…”
He got that from you? Really?
I’ve posted the offending video. Beer and legos: talk about the corruption of minors. I think I need to fire the babysitter.
I think I need to stop blogging about beer.