Someone else at that AP thread linked to this video. Warning: may cause convulsions. Bill said he is “scarred for life.” All I have to do is say “Bitty” and he falls in a writhing heap on the floor. Most British humor is too sterile for me (I prefer things that make you guffaw, but that’s just me), but in this situation it works. Danielle removed the link due to objections from late weaners. Folks, we all need to be able to laugh at ourselves, and we need to be able to laugh at the absurd things people think. That homeschool family video everyone loved is not how we are, but how people think we are (My family goes to Hooters all the time).

Then there’s this one which someone emailed me. How men think versus how women think. Here’s a clue for the guys: if you’re looking in your “nothing box” and your wife asks you what you’re thinking about, it’s much better to pretend that you’re looking in your “family box” or your “wife box.” Lie to us.

And finally from Esther is this video which shows you how to use sign language to thank all those soldiers you see at the airport. I haven’t been inside an airport in about five years, but I see soldiers every day. I suggested to Bill that I have my own *special way* of thanking the troops, and he’s totally cool with that, as long as I restrict my thank you list to…ONE. Seriously, though, Bill is always a bit embarrassed, but nonetheless touched, when someone does thank him for doing his job. And a free lunch every now and then is nice too.

Question: If your parents co-sleep with you, are you still a “cradle Catholic”?

Thank you, Sarahndipity, for a chuckle amid The Great AP Debate at Danielle Bean’s bog.

Today is his feast day. I have to love this saint, even if he weren’t from Bohemia. My family prayed a novena to St. John Newmann when my son, Fritz, needed a biopsy. I thank him and St. Apollonia for their intercession and his health.

I think when God grants you a miracle, the least you can do in thanksgiving is tell everyone about it. When Danielle Bean posted a link to this contest, I decided to share my story. In honor of St. John Newmann, here it is:

The orthodontist called at 8:15 in the morning. “Your son has a cyst in his jaw, and he needs to see an oral surgeon right away,” she said. My eight-year old son, Fritz, had only gone to her for a consultation the afternoon before. She had taken pictures and then shooed us out of the office promising to call in a day or two. “I didn’t want to alarm you, especially not in front of all your children,” she explained on the phone. He would need a biopsy to determine the nature of the cyst.

My husband, Bill, is in the military. Fritz was referred to the Dental Clinic at Walter Reed Army Medical Center in Washington, D.C.. It would be two weeks before they could see him.

At this initial consultation, a doctor pointed out that Fritz’s jaw was bulging. His chin, on his right side, was more pronounced than on his left. You could clearly see it. But we hadn’t noticed it. Later, I looked at a photo of him from a year earlier, and I could see it there too. We never noticed it.

It was hard not to feel guilty. I hadn’t taken him to the dentist since he was four. We had insurance, I just didn’t feel it was truly necessary. I had made excuses for not going: it is hard to take a whole crew of kids, especially toddlers. But obviously this thing had been growing for quite some time. If I had been taking him regularly, surely they would have seen this sooner.

The doctor told my husband that in a best case scenario my son would be lucky if he only lost a few adult teeth.

The day after this appointment, I wrote:

“I will flog myself for the rest of my life over this. Even if he’s fine. Even if it all works out in the end. But, in all things, I see the hand of God. My wonderful husband…helped me to see it last night. I was in so much need of comfort that he just could not provide. But God, through him, gave it to me. ’We should have been in Fort Leavenworth right now. But we’re not. We’re here, with some of the best doctors in the country.’ I needed to hear that. I needed to know that God is right here actively taking care of us…both the orthodontist and the oral surgeon have asked ‘How long will you be in the area?’ That’s just not good. But it’s OK. My guilt is not assuaged, but my soul is comforted. It will be a rough road. But we’re not alone.”

The biopsy was scheduled for eleven days later. There was plenty of time to worry, to ponder the possibilities, to scour the internet for information. The doctors mentioned a cyst called an OKC which is difficult to eradicate. They didn’t want to talk about what else it might be. I didn’t want to think about it. My heart was heavy, and I knew that I could suffocate in fear if I let myself.

Eleven days were enough time to do a novena. I chose St. John Newmann through whose intercession a boy afflicted with cancer was healed. We also petitioned St. Apollonia, patron of teeth and tooth problems. We begged everyone we knew to pray for our son. And finally, we sought the sacrament of Anointing of the Sick for my child who only earlier that year had made his First Penance and First Holy Communion.

Both Bill and I took Fritz to the early morning surgery. The initial prognosis was good: it seemed to be “just” a cyst and nothing worse. The doctors installed a stent in his jaw through which we needed to irrigate the cyst to help it shrink. They also forbade sports of any kind. His jawbone was extremely thin, and the risk of fracture was great. I thought about my son’s usual free time activities and knew this would be difficult, but I was thankful he had managed to avoid injury so far.

I took Fritz back to Walter Reed a week later for a check-up and for the results of the biopsy. As they suspected, it was definitely just a cyst, and in fact was not the dreaded OKC, but was simply a dentigerous cyst, which is easier to treat and is not likely to return. The staff was happy and surprised that their best case scenario was in fact much worse than the actual results. I consider it to be a miracle.

God gave us a gift of healing. It wasn’t an instantaneous cure, and life was difficult for quite some time. For two months I took Fritz on the hour-long drive to Walter Reed once a week for a check up. Bill’s job required long hours and many days away from home, so the burden of taking my son to these appointments, often with all the children in tow, fell on me. In addition, Fritz still had to avoid activities that risked fracturing his jaw, and we had to remember to irrigate his cyst daily. But he did not have to fight for his life.

Two and a half months later, at his usual appointment, the chief surgeon looked at Fritz’s latest x-rays and exclaimed, “It’s gone!” He had told us it would take six to nine months for the cyst to shrink. He turned to the new resident with him and explained Fritz’s diagnosis and treatment. I was elated to hear him say, “It turned out to be a dentigerous cyst, thank God.” Yes, I silently agreed, thank God.

For more details, I blogged about it as I lived it: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, and Part 7.

Peter: I gave him the Benadryl at 7 pm, an hour before bedtime. He fell asleep around 8:30 pm. It (obviously) did not knock him out, but it did make him calmer and a bit more cooperative. He still woke up throughout the night (3 times), but was easier to get back to sleep. And he woke up in a good mood, so what sleep he did get was good sleep.

Billy: the doctor said strep throat, but didn’t do a culture. At 4 pm on a Friday afternoon, we weren’t going to argue diagnosis. I can’t remember the last time the kid was on antibiotics, so there’s no harm in giving him some now, even if it’s just a virus.

Fritz: has contracted whatever Billy has. Well, I guess it will be a quiet weekend. I’ll put a big QUARANTINED sign on the door.

Christmas isn’t over yet, and my house shows it. New things do not have homes; large things are taking up precious floor space; clutter and debris decorate every flat surface.

The couch has been a sick bed for three days and with the recent spike in temperature, the almost 8 year old is on his way to the doctor.

Bill hasn’t returned to school yet, and neither have the neighborhood children. This is a mixed blessing. Routines are disrupted in favor of Christmas break playtime, and this contributes to the havoc in my home. But at least it is Bill, and not me and all the kids, taking Billy to the doctor.

Peter is still having big-time trouble sleeping. It’s a vicious cycle: missed naps and delayed bedtimes simply lead to mid-night wakeups and early rises, and each day gets worse. I chickened out on the Benadryl. The package said “Ask a doctor” for under age 6, and I didn’t have one of those handy. I took Michelle‘s advice and started looking for Hyland’s Calms Forte 4 Kids (I have used their teething tablets with success), found none locally, and so ordered some online. We’re waiting, but last night was awful, today’s nap time was difficult and short, and the ensuing tantrum was enough for me to google Benadryl dosages based on weight. I am hoping for a good night’s sleep tonight. I really do not like drugging my kids, but we have tried everything. We’re not rookie parents; we’ve got plenty of tricks up our sleeves, and he was a good sleeper until recent events (new baby). I hope the Hyland’s gets here tomorrow, but I think it will be Monday instead.

Power surges keep taking out electronics in my house. The usual victims are those evil incandescent light bulbs, but we’ve also had the thermostat, the cable box, the hairdryer, the microwave, and the coffee maker come under attack. Worst of all is the new (to us) treadmill, which I would really like to use, but which remains lifeless awaiting yet another replacement part. Somebody is scheduled to come out on Wednesday to investigate. I fear the damage that will occur between now and then.

The year is off to an ominous beginning. I think tonight I’ll let Calgon take me away.

This was the first year I’ve ever in my life spent new year’s eve in a different time zone. I watched the ball drop in NYC, but for once it wasn’t yet time to drink the champagne.

And now I’m waiting for my husband to drink his water and eat his bread (preventative measures…he’s not really hungry or thirsty) so I can go to bed.

I’m not in need of any pajamas, but last night, in my dreams, I went shopping for a nightgown.

I do not own any nightgowns. I haven’t owned nightgowns since I was a little girl.

I was specifically looking at the flannel kind with high necks and ruffled trims.

And if that’s not pathetic enough, I opted not to buy any because they weren’t breast-feeding friendly (no easy access).

These are the nightmares dreams of a middle-aged mother of six little kids.

Barb blessed me, and now I’m passing on the blessing.

The idea… it’s a game of tag with a difference, rather than looking inwardly, we look outside ourselves and bless, praise and pray for three blog friends. By participating in this endeavour we not only make the recipients of the blessing feel valued and appreciated, but we are having some fun too. We’re going to see how far the bloggin’ blessings can travel around the world and how many people can be blessed! Recipients of a bloggin’ blessing may upload the above image to their sidebar if they choose to. If you receive a bloggin’ blessin’ please leave a comment on this thread here so that we can rejoice in just how many blessings have been sent around the world!

I thought you loved me! Why, oh why, did you leave that opened bag of potato chips here?

I can’t give it to the children…it is much too unhealthy for them.

And Bill doesn’t like barbecue flavor.

It is entirely up to me to eat them. All of them. Before morning. Because that no-yummy-food program was working really well until you showed up and lead me into temptation, and I’m going straight back to it. Tomorrow. When these chips are gone.

Have a safe flight to Alaska, and be sure to call me crying about housing like you always do. And get me your address as soon as you can, so I can mail you five dozen of my Crinkled Molasses Cookies. Your hips won’t mind a bit.

BFF.
Peace. Out.