The weekend was enormous fun.
I will post pictures of the $700 swatch, tell you the story of my water bottle on the tray, and illustrate how not all knitters are good knitters. I will talk about how the reindeer pulling Santa's sled have rain poncho's for each night.
I only brought knitting for me (for all of my projects, I have exactly one thing that I knitted. Everything else I have given away. It is my first pair of socks. Sufficed to say, I have learned lots since then.) There is a shawl that I started, and a pair of socks in purple and lime green, and a scarf that I carried all the way there, and back, and didn't start, but there are 6 more tiny hats for wee ones born still. And many knitters that have heard about our precious children, and how much we love them.
There were fiber purchases, knitting in front of the fireplaces, dessert every night, and smoked salmon on good cream cheese, with capers, on rye bread every morning. There was in fact, every good kind of food, and a spectacular room mate, who did not make fun of me for being odd.
The train trip was spectacular, and somehow 50 knitters restrained themselves from shearing all the Dall sheep we passed. (It was hard, we persevered). There was a paper bathing suit, and a photo of a woman in the paper bathing suit, who should not look that good in a paper bathing suit. In fact there is no one that should look that good in a paper swim suit.
Oh, and there was Ashley. I will also tell you the story of Ashley.
So, photo's and stories tomorrow. For tonight there is a husband who was so happy to see me, he bought me a food processor, (which is more romantic than you are thinking) - there are cats and dogs to pet and love, and a bed with my name on it.
I thought of you all, even though I had no Internet. I'm slowly catching up on your blogs, be patient with me.
Showing posts with label Meme. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Meme. Show all posts
Weekend Are For Quotes
Knitting is a boon for those of us who are easily bored.
I take my knitting everywhere
to take the edge off of moments
that would otherwise drive me stark raving mad.
~Stephanie Pearl-McPhee, At Knit's End: Meditations for Women Who Knit Too Much
The Feast of All Souls
About 16 years ago, a dear friend killed himself. He was young, and somehow, he lost sight of hope. I don't know if he woke up one morning, and it was gone, I don't know if it slowly etched away, I don't know.
I didn't, in fact, know that he had lost hope, I didn't know he was in a dark and horrible place. I, like so many, wish that I had known. That in that terrible place, I could have held his shoulders and his hands. And promised that I would have stayed with him. Found him help. Believed in a brighter tomorrow.
And his life ended one day after school, and suddenly we were all left with more questions than answers, and sorrow, and this was the first time that such sorrow and tragedy had entered our lives. We were just 15.
And I struggled. You will tell me that I was indeed fortunate that death did not cast it's pall over my life until the age of 15, and I will agree. But I will maintain, now and then, that it does not matter at all when that pall touches your life, only that it does, and there is a terrible change before and after.
Some months ago, Tash had a beautiful post about shadow children. And I started reading, thinking that I understood exactly what she was writing about. I didn't. And that's ok.
But when someone refers to shadow children, I shall always think of my experiences after Doug died.
For years, I would think that I saw him. While my brain knew that he was gone, and was past where I could communicate with him, past where I could touch him, be with him, I would think that I saw him. Something in the slope of shoulders, the way someone flipped their hair off their face, a particular laugh, echo's in the appearances of hands.
And I would know, at least in some sense, that time or lighting or distance or fatigue were playing games with my mind. But, another part of my brain, wanted to see what I was seeing. It became a fight in my mind.
4 years after Doug's death, in the year of a friend's death, death on a sunny October day - a death that was a senseless as it was stupefying, a new set of clergy came to my church.
And for the first time, they celebrated the Feast of All Souls.
The Feast of All Souls is simply this - a reminder, that there are those here on earth, and there are the faithful departed. There are Christ's sheep on earth, and the lambs of the flock that we ask Him to recognize as His, and they are in heaven. And that heaven is merely a breath away for all of us. And when you think about it, it seems a strange thing. A feast is a celebration, and we are celebrating the dearly departed.
And in that year, with this feast, I could begin to make some sense of death. I could begin to bound and describe death. The sting was a bit removed. Not the pain of grief and loss, but the senselessness of it. I will never say that Doug or Matt died for any good reason. I will never say there is a point to their death, a point to any death. I will say that I was finally able to put death in some sort of perspective, incorporate it into a larger narrative. Death was no longer an end, but perhaps merely a stop. Death became a form of birth, a way of transfiguration. An entry into the communion souls, more powerful and enduring than the exit from this world.
I think of All Souls more deeply, some years. In some years, it passes without a thought. In this year I shall remember my son, who is within the communion of saints. And this knowledge will not take away any of the pain. It will not make me miss him any less, it will not make my heart rest any easier, as I question why he had to die at all.
I will say this, if he had to be anywhere, the Communion of Saints is where I would most like him to be. Amidst friends and family, amidst those who have made me laugh, and cry while on earth. Amidst those who have taught me some of life's most profound lessons. And if I cannot be my son's teacher, I should like them to be. Amidst those who have known me deeply, amidst solid and pure love. There is, if not meaning, then solace in this.
I didn't, in fact, know that he had lost hope, I didn't know he was in a dark and horrible place. I, like so many, wish that I had known. That in that terrible place, I could have held his shoulders and his hands. And promised that I would have stayed with him. Found him help. Believed in a brighter tomorrow.
And his life ended one day after school, and suddenly we were all left with more questions than answers, and sorrow, and this was the first time that such sorrow and tragedy had entered our lives. We were just 15.
And I struggled. You will tell me that I was indeed fortunate that death did not cast it's pall over my life until the age of 15, and I will agree. But I will maintain, now and then, that it does not matter at all when that pall touches your life, only that it does, and there is a terrible change before and after.
Some months ago, Tash had a beautiful post about shadow children. And I started reading, thinking that I understood exactly what she was writing about. I didn't. And that's ok.
But when someone refers to shadow children, I shall always think of my experiences after Doug died.
For years, I would think that I saw him. While my brain knew that he was gone, and was past where I could communicate with him, past where I could touch him, be with him, I would think that I saw him. Something in the slope of shoulders, the way someone flipped their hair off their face, a particular laugh, echo's in the appearances of hands.
And I would know, at least in some sense, that time or lighting or distance or fatigue were playing games with my mind. But, another part of my brain, wanted to see what I was seeing. It became a fight in my mind.
4 years after Doug's death, in the year of a friend's death, death on a sunny October day - a death that was a senseless as it was stupefying, a new set of clergy came to my church.
And for the first time, they celebrated the Feast of All Souls.
The Feast of All Souls is simply this - a reminder, that there are those here on earth, and there are the faithful departed. There are Christ's sheep on earth, and the lambs of the flock that we ask Him to recognize as His, and they are in heaven. And that heaven is merely a breath away for all of us. And when you think about it, it seems a strange thing. A feast is a celebration, and we are celebrating the dearly departed.
And in that year, with this feast, I could begin to make some sense of death. I could begin to bound and describe death. The sting was a bit removed. Not the pain of grief and loss, but the senselessness of it. I will never say that Doug or Matt died for any good reason. I will never say there is a point to their death, a point to any death. I will say that I was finally able to put death in some sort of perspective, incorporate it into a larger narrative. Death was no longer an end, but perhaps merely a stop. Death became a form of birth, a way of transfiguration. An entry into the communion souls, more powerful and enduring than the exit from this world.
I think of All Souls more deeply, some years. In some years, it passes without a thought. In this year I shall remember my son, who is within the communion of saints. And this knowledge will not take away any of the pain. It will not make me miss him any less, it will not make my heart rest any easier, as I question why he had to die at all.
I will say this, if he had to be anywhere, the Communion of Saints is where I would most like him to be. Amidst friends and family, amidst those who have made me laugh, and cry while on earth. Amidst those who have taught me some of life's most profound lessons. And if I cannot be my son's teacher, I should like them to be. Amidst those who have known me deeply, amidst solid and pure love. There is, if not meaning, then solace in this.
MOST merciful Father, who hast been pleased to take unto thyself our brethren departed: Grant to us who are still in our pilgrimage, and who walk as yet by faith, that having served thee faithfully in this world, we may, with all faithful Christian souls, be joined hereafter to the company of thy blessed Saints in glory; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who with thee and the Holy Spirit liveth and reigneth, one God, world without end. Amen.
In that place where sorrow and pain are no more, neither sighing, but life everlasting.
Wishing you were here.
Erm. . . .
So, the posts are pre-set to run over the next few days, as I will be off to Jasper, to knit and drink wine and generally enjoy myself. I'm at a knitting retreat with a friend.
I thought you might be interested in my to do list.
I will attempt to update it through the day.
I thought you might be interested in my to do list.
I will attempt to update it through the day.
- Wake up (I'm not expecting this to be a problem. . .)
- Paint Sewing Room - 1st and 2nd coats of second colour. Decide if roller is the problem, or if it is paint. Be cross either way, that the paint is not going on smoothly.
- Go and buy PJ's for sake of roommate's sensibility on knitting retreat. (I do wear night shirts, but, believe in, ahem, airing things out. So, because I like Kuri, and I want her to stay friends with me. . . )
- Dig up carrots. Finally. Also, consider the problem of the fridge again.
- Remove evidence of dead mums, possibly by burying them in the compost heap.
- Determine if the knitting classes have homework. Do homework if required. Also, figure out where I have to be when, so that I can actually catch the train on time.
- Pack knitting projects, also, clean underpinnings. (Honestly, the knitting is more important than the clean underpinnings. Underpinnings can be swished out and hung over the shower rod to dry. Knitting on the other hand, must be brought)
- Think about what sorts of things Mr. Spit could cook while gone. Possibly purchase something for him. Also, remind him, that he might be feeding his Mother in Law's cat.
- Find pumpkins for front door.
- Mail things to Alicia and Jen and Martha.
Finally, as they walk through a valley, would you keep Jenell and Rob and their wee twins in your heart? She's one of ours, and could use all the love they can get.
Silent Communion
She's been struggling with infertility for 6 years. The latest cycle failed. Again. Still. Always.
I didn't bring my son to work for others to ooh and ahh over. I can't even bring his photo to the office.
And I walked over to see the new baby, to ohhh and ahh, and coo. To tell his mum that he is the most beautiful baby ever. To rub his cheek and clasp his finger, and wish that my son had been like him.
I looked in her eyes. She looked in mine. My hand rested on her shoulder, for just a second.
No false promises that this time next year we will have children, no promises that things will get better, no stupid exhortions to buck up little camper.
Simply an acknowledgement that this was hard. Gut wrenching, heart breaking, head bowing, hard.
The pain in my heart, mirrored in her eyes.
Silent communion. Abiding. Strenght for the journey in what places we can find it.
I didn't bring my son to work for others to ooh and ahh over. I can't even bring his photo to the office.
And I walked over to see the new baby, to ohhh and ahh, and coo. To tell his mum that he is the most beautiful baby ever. To rub his cheek and clasp his finger, and wish that my son had been like him.
I looked in her eyes. She looked in mine. My hand rested on her shoulder, for just a second.
No false promises that this time next year we will have children, no promises that things will get better, no stupid exhortions to buck up little camper.
Simply an acknowledgement that this was hard. Gut wrenching, heart breaking, head bowing, hard.
The pain in my heart, mirrored in her eyes.
Silent communion. Abiding. Strenght for the journey in what places we can find it.
You Just Don't do That
" You just don't do that, you just don't.
You have no idea who I am, or what I could have done to your child."
I was sitting, in the midst of my study group, when I watched this mother. She walked around the corner, had a hissy fit, put her 9 month old baby on the floor, walked away and left. She was all the way around the corner, way out of sight of this wee one.
This, in a busy downtown office building, on the mezzanine floor. A concourse, with the office towers above, and the entrance to the subway 200 feet away. With the street people and the homeless, and the odd drug addict, and busy office workers in suits. And no one looking down on the filthy floor, for a 9 month baby.
And I leaped out my chair. I stood there in my suit and heels and not even debating, I walked over to this baby. Who was sitting and crying on the floor. I knelt down and picked her up. Snuggled her up against my hip.
Began walking the 100 feet to where her mother was.
And her mother was heading towards me.
"That's my baby", she said.
"You don't know who I am. I could have grabbed her and run, and you would have never seen that. You just don't leave them like that. You just don't."
"But I had to get my son." I'm watching her. She put her daughter down out of sight, in the middle of a busy concourse, in an office tower, to go and get her son, from the same place she picked her daughter up.
"You just don't leave them. Children are precious. You never put them down and walk away. Never." I thrust the baby at her, and walked away. Back into my real world.
I wanted to say "His name was Gabriel, and when the time came, I had to put him down. Dressed and washed and loved. Rocked and sang to, I had to lay him down. And every morning I remember. And my heart breaks again. Please, for the love of all that's holy and true and real in this world, please, she's a beautiful little girl, and you just don't leave her. Ever."
Tonight is one of those nights that I'm screaming "Why me, and not her?"
Thank you
One of the challenges about being a dead baby mum is that you can't put your baby's photo up at work.Or, more accurately you can, but it's going to cause problems. And while I'm always up for a fight, the fact is, that would be my son that someone is finding repellent, and I'm sorry, but I don't have that much of a fight in me. I don't want my beautiful and sweet son to be a fight.
But, as I look at desks with pictures of children on them, I am, again, still, always, left out.
Thanks to these guys, I can have Gabriel with me at work. There are no words to say how much this means. To both Mr. Spit and I.
Monday Miscellany
Ok, we have to break this into sections:
Domesticity:
Ok, I admit it. I have flunked domesticity 101, 201, 301, and 401. I'm hopeless. I don't iron my pillow cases, there are still carrots in the garden, and if I don't find the time to dig them up soon, they are going to rot. I had beautiful mum's for fall, but I forgot to water them, and they died.
But, my fridge, it still smells. And I CANNOT get rid of the smell. Someone please help. I swear, I am going to go and buy a new fridge. Honest. And my thrifty and ecologically sane mind cannot countenance getting rid of my fridge, just because it smells. But I can't handle it.
The Home Reno Front:
- Another weekend spent painting. Well, actually, it was spent napping, with brief spurts of painting.
-I went to the woodworker's show (With Mr. Spit, face it, can you actually see me using power tools?!).
- I have shower taps. They came in the mail. I am beyond excited. Now, I just have to book in the tub re-glazing guys, to get them to come and do the tub. It may be, perchance, that in a few weeks, I can have my first shower in 8 months!
- I should be done my sewing room by next week.
- The dining room should be done in about 3-4 weeks. We are almost at the painting stage.
- Which means, by the end of November, we should be home reno project free. We could actually spend our weekends without power tools and paint brushes, doing whatever it is that normal people do on weekends (Quick: someone tell us what normal people do, please!)
So, what were we talking about at dinner last night? Yes, that's right, what we wanted to do to the kitchen. Someone, for the love of hammers, take away our tools and paintbrushes. We promised ourselves, no more home reno projects. None. Not for an entire year. Maybe even two.
(But we could do the kitchen in stages, and it's so ugly and dysfunctional and we need to insulate the back entry and put a heating vent and a proper window in there, so that we can remove the door, so it looks better. . . . )
Domesticity:
Ok, I admit it. I have flunked domesticity 101, 201, 301, and 401. I'm hopeless. I don't iron my pillow cases, there are still carrots in the garden, and if I don't find the time to dig them up soon, they are going to rot. I had beautiful mum's for fall, but I forgot to water them, and they died.
But, my fridge, it still smells. And I CANNOT get rid of the smell. Someone please help. I swear, I am going to go and buy a new fridge. Honest. And my thrifty and ecologically sane mind cannot countenance getting rid of my fridge, just because it smells. But I can't handle it.
The Home Reno Front:
- Another weekend spent painting. Well, actually, it was spent napping, with brief spurts of painting.
-I went to the woodworker's show (With Mr. Spit, face it, can you actually see me using power tools?!).
- I have shower taps. They came in the mail. I am beyond excited. Now, I just have to book in the tub re-glazing guys, to get them to come and do the tub. It may be, perchance, that in a few weeks, I can have my first shower in 8 months!
- I should be done my sewing room by next week.
- The dining room should be done in about 3-4 weeks. We are almost at the painting stage.
- Which means, by the end of November, we should be home reno project free. We could actually spend our weekends without power tools and paint brushes, doing whatever it is that normal people do on weekends (Quick: someone tell us what normal people do, please!)
So, what were we talking about at dinner last night? Yes, that's right, what we wanted to do to the kitchen. Someone, for the love of hammers, take away our tools and paintbrushes. We promised ourselves, no more home reno projects. None. Not for an entire year. Maybe even two.
(But we could do the kitchen in stages, and it's so ugly and dysfunctional and we need to insulate the back entry and put a heating vent and a proper window in there, so that we can remove the door, so it looks better. . . . )
The Pet Front
Delta wants you to know that the dog in the picture on Friday Was. Not. Her. She's an apricot brindle, and that was a fawn, and she's MUCH PRETTIER. But the cats still don't like her.
Delta wants you to know that the dog in the picture on Friday Was. Not. Her. She's an apricot brindle, and that was a fawn, and she's MUCH PRETTIER. But the cats still don't like her.
The Bling Front
Saturday's are For Quotes
There are many men of principle in both parties in America, but there is no party of principle.
~Alexis de Tocqueville
A gentle reminder from the mists of history.
~Alexis de Tocqueville
A gentle reminder from the mists of history.
Hi!
I'm here. My Internet was down and I got home and, yeah, I didn't write a blog. (To be honest, I had no original thoughts either. Macro's. Cell formatting. Concatenate formulas, VLookup)
I thought I'd share a pictorial representation of how it's going with Delta and the cats.
I thought I'd share a pictorial representation of how it's going with Delta and the cats.
Fire!
I am having a moment, you know from the movie. Tom Cruise? No, maybe Tom Hanks. Anyway, I think he finally figures out how to make fire. Anyway, I have this vague and hazy memory of him running up and down a beach screaming "Fire".
So that was me at 3pm. I got excel to work (with the exception of 1 cell, and I don't know why).
And I have a couple of lovely macro's and some snifty formuals.
Excel likes me again. It really, really likes me. fickle despot
Now, I have had my dinner, I have had a few some cookies. And I'm going upstairs with a book, to sit in the bath.
5 hours of sleep in the last 36 is not enough. . . .
So that was me at 3pm. I got excel to work (with the exception of 1 cell, and I don't know why).
And I have a couple of lovely macro's and some snifty formuals.
Excel likes me again. It really, really likes me.
Now, I have had my dinner, I have had
5 hours of sleep in the last 36 is not enough. . . .
Wednesday's are Not For Grammar
At least not this Wednesday.
I'm working on a thing in excel. A very large, very important thing. For my grumpy, bitchy miserable boss. A large form thing with validation and formatting, that should transfer data all over the place, in excel. Which is behaving badly. And usually excel behaves very, very nicely for me. I love it. Except today, when it is giving me a formula error, for something that really isn't a formula. And it's doing it randomly. Very randomly. And I need this document for a meeting in 8.5 hours, and I have no freaking idea why it isn't playing nicely.
I'm coming very close to losing it.
So, I present a lovely meme from LoriBeth.
31 questions - one word answers.
1. Where is your cell phone? Purse
2. Where is your significant other? In Bed, asleep. Where I'd like to be.
3. Your hair color? dyed.
4. Your mother? Odd
5. Your father? Dead.
6. Your favorite thing? Not Excel
7. Your dream last night? I don't remember dreams.
8. Your dream/goal? getting excel to work.
9. The room you’re in? kitchen
10. Your hobby? knitting.
11. Your fear? Bitterness
12. Where do you want to be in six years? Victoria
13. Where were you last night? Shopping
14. What you’re not? Good at excel?
15. One of your wish list items? Travel
16. Where you grew up? Alberta
17. The last thing you did? Swore
18. What are you wearing? Scowl
19. Your T.V.? Amazing Race
20. Your pet? Furry
21. Your computer? About to be broken
22. Your mood? Frustrated.
23. Missing someone? Gabriel
24. Your car? VW Jetta
25. Something you’re not wearing? Excel Wizard Hat
26. Favorite store? Yarn
27. Your Summer? Short
28.Love someone? Mr. Spit
29. Your favorite color? Blue
30. When is the last time you laughed? Dinner
31. Last time you cried? 15 minutes ago
I'm working on a thing in excel. A very large, very important thing. For my grumpy, bitchy miserable boss. A large form thing with validation and formatting, that should transfer data all over the place, in excel. Which is behaving badly. And usually excel behaves very, very nicely for me. I love it. Except today, when it is giving me a formula error, for something that really isn't a formula. And it's doing it randomly. Very randomly. And I need this document for a meeting in 8.5 hours, and I have no freaking idea why it isn't playing nicely.
I'm coming very close to losing it.
So, I present a lovely meme from LoriBeth.
31 questions - one word answers.
1. Where is your cell phone? Purse
2. Where is your significant other? In Bed, asleep. Where I'd like to be.
3. Your hair color? dyed.
4. Your mother? Odd
5. Your father? Dead.
6. Your favorite thing? Not Excel
7. Your dream last night? I don't remember dreams.
8. Your dream/goal? getting excel to work.
9. The room you’re in? kitchen
10. Your hobby? knitting.
11. Your fear? Bitterness
12. Where do you want to be in six years? Victoria
13. Where were you last night? Shopping
14. What you’re not? Good at excel?
15. One of your wish list items? Travel
16. Where you grew up? Alberta
17. The last thing you did? Swore
18. What are you wearing? Scowl
19. Your T.V.? Amazing Race
20. Your pet? Furry
21. Your computer? About to be broken
22. Your mood? Frustrated.
23. Missing someone? Gabriel
24. Your car? VW Jetta
25. Something you’re not wearing? Excel Wizard Hat
26. Favorite store? Yarn
27. Your Summer? Short
28.Love someone? Mr. Spit
29. Your favorite color? Blue
30. When is the last time you laughed? Dinner
31. Last time you cried? 15 minutes ago
Happy Birthday, Mr. Spit
Today is Mr. Spit's birthday. Which seems, to me at least, as good a time as any to tell you why I love him.I love him because of inside jokes. Things that make both of us laugh. I love him because of how we can make a not very funny line from a movie make us laugh for weeks. (or, in the case of Office Space, years.)
I love him because his smile lights up his face, and he can find humour in anything. He makes me give over my serious and pensive moods, and laugh at the insanity of the world around me.
I love him because he's virtuous. Virtuous - is an oft mocked word. Put simply it means a sort of goodness. I watch my husband go above and beyond, be honest and good, even when it would be easier not too. I watch him take the hard path, even when no one notices.
I love him because he's kind and decent. I realize that kindness and decency, much like virtue are considered to be a boring sort of character trait. Not so say I. Mr. Spit is truly kind. He's truly gifted at looking at things from other's points of view. He's truly fair.
I love him because he takes joy in the world around him. From his love of astronomy to technical gadetry and literature, he finds so much to be excited about. In a world of cynism and bleah-attitudes, I find his wonder amazing and inspiring.
I love him because he listens. When I say something like "You know, I've been thinking . . . " and what I've been thinking about includes ripping out walls or buying a new car or digging up more of the back yard, he never tells me to stop thinking. And he never runs away. He's always willing to hear other's out.I love him because he's a gentleman. He holds the door open for ladies, gives up his seat, doesn't wear a ball cap indoors, treats women with kindness and respect.
I love him because he gives back to his community - he routinely volunteers with the large item pick up, schlepping heavy stuff to the dump. He shows up to my volunteer commitments, and takes pictures, or helps organize, or runs chips at a casino.
I love him because he believes in me. He knows I can kick ass in a skirt and high heels, and he knows that I can do just about anything I make up my mind to do. And when I forget it, he reminds me. And more than believing in me, he believes in us.
And so, for these reasons, and many others, ladies and gentlemen, if you would join me in raising your (virtual glass),
To Mr. Spit, on his 36th birthday. Wishing him many more.
Cheers my love.
Monday Miscellany
Monday Miscellany - On Monday. Hey, would you look at that. . .
- We are still noshing on Chocolate from Martha. Martha is our new best friend. It used to be Sam, but we are fickle that way.
- Maggie's dental surgery on Friday went really well.. She's pain free from bad teeth. Our bank account, on the other hand, is very pained. Everyone - go get pet insurance now!
- I'm mostly over my cold. My nose is very sore from all the blowing. . .
- The putty-tat's are bullies. They sit on the stairs and won't let the dogs up. The dogs wander around the main floor, looking pathetic. So, let's see, We have 40 pounds of cat managing to terrorize 200 pounds of dogs.
- Saturday night, Delta woke Mr. Spit up barking. She wanted to come upstairs, but the cats wouldn't let her. She had to wake up daddy to give her safe passage! (Which I thought was hilarious, and Mr. Spit did not.)
- But then they snuggle up and purr, and well, we tell the dogs that they outweigh the cats 5:1 and they really should get over it. . .
- Marriage Encounter went really well.
Weekend Are For Quotes
It is not a lack of love, but a lack of friendship that makes unhappy marriages.
Freidrich Nietzsche
Mr. Spit and I are again volunteering with World Wide Marriage Encounter, supporting a couple as they go through their Marriage Encounter weekend.
Freidrich Nietzsche
Mr. Spit and I are again volunteering with World Wide Marriage Encounter, supporting a couple as they go through their Marriage Encounter weekend.
Today was going to be . . .
Finished project Friday.
No, not Becky's baby sweater, I'm not that fast. Not even close to that fast. I haven't even wound the skeins. I haven't even figured out the basics of what gauge I'm knitting at, and what gauge the baby sweater purports to be knitting at, and how to make my gauge equal that gauge, so I get a sweater suitable for a baby, not an elephant that happens to be cold and likes pink.
And when I figure that I out, I have to decide whether I need to to do it for Antigone first, because I think she is likely to come first at this whole having a baby thing, because she got started earlier (But if you would both speak up in the comments about relative dates, that would be absolutely brilliant.)
No, actually I finished socks for a birthday present, for a stand up, bang up friend, who kindly has sent me a birthday present last month, even though hers was exactly 6 months before mine, and she would have been quite justified in sending me my birthday present somewhere around her next birthday, because hers is well over 6 months late. And instead, she sent me a lovely candle and a bunch of truffles and she did not include a reminder that her birthday present consisted (at that time) one entire sock, and a sock to the heel for the other foot. Nor did she remind me that she, rather like most humans, has two feet, and would find it most useful to have two socks.
So, I finished them up earlier today, and they are all done, with the ends woven in, and ready to go, but I must confess, I feel like hell today, and possibly tomorrow, and I'm not sure where the camera is, and I feel crappy, and whiny, so pictures tomorrow, which means, Banana - your socks will be in the mail on Monday. Oh and Alicia, your scarf too. I still have to weave the ends in.
I really am that sad and pathetic these days. I'm sick. . . .
Now, I'm going back to bed.
(And on the subject of stand up, bang up women - could we all bow to the Amazing Martha, who blessedly sent chocolate and pet treats. I saved it to share with Mr. Spit (well, mostly). Did you all know that chocolates are called candy in the US? When ever I read books and the hero bought candy to the heroine, I always imagined some sort of bucket of hard candies, and I thought this was a bit odd, but anyway. So, I opened up the box of See's candy and they were the most amazing chocolates in the universe. I am sorry that Mr. Spit won't get to share them. But there's lots of other stuff)
No, not Becky's baby sweater, I'm not that fast. Not even close to that fast. I haven't even wound the skeins. I haven't even figured out the basics of what gauge I'm knitting at, and what gauge the baby sweater purports to be knitting at, and how to make my gauge equal that gauge, so I get a sweater suitable for a baby, not an elephant that happens to be cold and likes pink.
And when I figure that I out, I have to decide whether I need to to do it for Antigone first, because I think she is likely to come first at this whole having a baby thing, because she got started earlier (But if you would both speak up in the comments about relative dates, that would be absolutely brilliant.)
No, actually I finished socks for a birthday present, for a stand up, bang up friend, who kindly has sent me a birthday present last month, even though hers was exactly 6 months before mine, and she would have been quite justified in sending me my birthday present somewhere around her next birthday, because hers is well over 6 months late. And instead, she sent me a lovely candle and a bunch of truffles and she did not include a reminder that her birthday present consisted (at that time) one entire sock, and a sock to the heel for the other foot. Nor did she remind me that she, rather like most humans, has two feet, and would find it most useful to have two socks.
So, I finished them up earlier today, and they are all done, with the ends woven in, and ready to go, but I must confess, I feel like hell today, and possibly tomorrow, and I'm not sure where the camera is, and I feel crappy, and whiny, so pictures tomorrow, which means, Banana - your socks will be in the mail on Monday. Oh and Alicia, your scarf too. I still have to weave the ends in.
I really am that sad and pathetic these days. I'm sick. . . .
Now, I'm going back to bed.
(And on the subject of stand up, bang up women - could we all bow to the Amazing Martha, who blessedly sent chocolate and pet treats. I saved it to share with Mr. Spit (well, mostly). Did you all know that chocolates are called candy in the US? When ever I read books and the hero bought candy to the heroine, I always imagined some sort of bucket of hard candies, and I thought this was a bit odd, but anyway. So, I opened up the box of See's candy and they were the most amazing chocolates in the universe. I am sorry that Mr. Spit won't get to share them. But there's lots of other stuff)
Monday Miscellany
Yes, I know, it's Thursday.
Candles for wee ones last night.
Thank you for remembering our sweet and missed Gabe.
Gratuitous cat pictures. Yes, they really are this cute. Snuggly too.
I think we are in love. They tolerate Maggie - Barely. We aren't talking about what happens with Delta. . . .
And can we say Aunt Becky is having a girl? I went into the yarn store and asked about wool, and the only stipulation? Pink! It had to be pink . . . .
And that's all for me. I'm feeling a wee bit off. My throat is scratchy and my head is achy. . .
Candles for wee ones last night.
Thank you for remembering our sweet and missed Gabe.
Gratuitous cat pictures. Yes, they really are this cute. Snuggly too.I think we are in love. They tolerate Maggie - Barely. We aren't talking about what happens with Delta. . . .
And can we say Aunt Becky is having a girl? I went into the yarn store and asked about wool, and the only stipulation? Pink! It had to be pink . . . .And that's all for me. I'm feeling a wee bit off. My throat is scratchy and my head is achy. . .
SITS Posting.
Wow, you all have overwhelmed enfolded me in your care and concern. I'm loving it. . . .
And hey I found you on the web.
For any of my usual commentators who are confused, the blog is here, and in honour of Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness day, they are featuring:
Serenity Joy's Mum (Ya Chun)
Katie's Mum (Lori Beth at the Road Less Travelled)
Glow in the Woods
and another blog that I hadn't seen - Dr. Joanne.
I noticed that you usually feature 3 posts, and I wondered, as I know that many of you don't completely understand what baby loss is like, I thought I would pick a few, to save you all the hassle of wading through 200 posts (Not that I would complain, I like it when other's read what I write. . . .)
Accordingly, my 4 favourite posts
An Open Letter to Matt Kaufman
A Lesson In Knitting
His Name is Gabriel
The Last Kick
And finally, my husband wrote about what it was like to lose your first born son, in the midst of what is largely perceived to be a woman's problem. Infant loss is extraordinarily painful for men too.
Lastly, if you are looking to support someone who has lost a baby, please be aware that it is different than a miscarriage, different than when your grandmother died. It's not more or less painful, but different. It's painful for the grieving when you liken one person's pain to another. Glow in the woods has some excellent suggestions on supporting those who are hurting.
And hey I found you on the web.
For any of my usual commentators who are confused, the blog is here, and in honour of Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness day, they are featuring:
Serenity Joy's Mum (Ya Chun)
Katie's Mum (Lori Beth at the Road Less Travelled)
Glow in the Woods
and another blog that I hadn't seen - Dr. Joanne.
I noticed that you usually feature 3 posts, and I wondered, as I know that many of you don't completely understand what baby loss is like, I thought I would pick a few, to save you all the hassle of wading through 200 posts (Not that I would complain, I like it when other's read what I write. . . .)
Accordingly, my 4 favourite posts
An Open Letter to Matt Kaufman
A Lesson In Knitting
His Name is Gabriel
The Last Kick
And finally, my husband wrote about what it was like to lose your first born son, in the midst of what is largely perceived to be a woman's problem. Infant loss is extraordinarily painful for men too.
Lastly, if you are looking to support someone who has lost a baby, please be aware that it is different than a miscarriage, different than when your grandmother died. It's not more or less painful, but different. It's painful for the grieving when you liken one person's pain to another. Glow in the woods has some excellent suggestions on supporting those who are hurting.
Baby Born Still
Today is Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Day.I know lots of American voters have been pushing for the passage of H.R. 5979 - Stillbirth Awareness and Research Act. I wish them luck. Like so many things with baby loss, it is astounding that so many babies are lost and so little is said.
I will remember the broken hearts and shattered dreams of the broken. I will remember mother's and father's with empty arms. I will remember only children that aren't supposed to be. I will remember siblings who miss the other half of their family.
I will remember grandparents that longed to rock and sing to the next generation. The death of our children is the death of our future.
Memento Mori.
When the Saints go Marching In
My thoughts began with Julia's eloquent post. I have been thinking for 3 months, while this post has resided in my drafts folder. It came up again today as I spoke to a friend. These are not the sum total of answers. This isn't theology. If you are looking for a neat package, I'd suggest that you consult Aquinas and Anselm. But, a few weeks ago, Becky declared the need for honesty. And I have been asking why babies die. So, with those provisos. . . . .
God did not save my son.
God, who raised Lazarus, who raised Jarius' daughter, who saved his Son, did not spare mine. I believe he could have. I believe in miracles. Then, and now. I cannot conceive of a God who used to raise people from the dead, and then suddenly, arbitrarily stopped. And if God could have stretched out his hand, if he could have and did not - what answer can I possibly have, other than to say God killed my son. Not murder, no. But I bet I could make a good case for negligent homicide.
I've spoken of it before: as I was in a tiny room, learning that my son would die, as Mr. Spit was hearing that I might die, there was a woman in the next bed.
She was 34 weeks pregnant, or around that, the perinatologist thought. She wasn't actually sure when she got pregnant. Given that she had no pre-natal care, no pre-natal vitamins, it was hard to tell. She was arguing with the nurse - she wanted to stop the NST so that she could go have a cigarette. She'd had a couple of beers the night before. She wasn't married, she had 4 children already, by four different fathers. She was on social assistance. She wasn't going to breast feed, and couldn't they just section her now? She was tired of being pregnant.
Contrast
Mr. Spit and I. University educated. Good jobs. Own a house and a car. Financially stable. Regular church attendees. Educated about pregnancy and child birth. We pay our taxes. More than our share probably. We volunteer, in our community, in the inner city. We donate of our own blood. We are caring. Good friends. Bake casseroles for those in need. We show compassion and mercy. We would have raised our child in the church. We are good people. We do our best. Our child would have wanted for nothing. Braces, soccer, ballet, tutoring, enrichment, university, we would have been able to afford it. There would have been presents under the tree at Christmas. Discipline, love, prayers, stories read and hugs given. We are not monsters, we would have cherished this child we waited 5 years for. He would have been the joy of our lives, the apple of our eye. Loved beyond all comprehension.
She went home with a baby, and I, in the horrific way of tragedies, went home with empty arms.
We seek for answers when tragedy strikes. Why her, and not me? We look for nice and simple packages. An explanation. A thing that says: this - this is why tragedy happened. And perhaps, I think, if we decide we know why, we think we have regained a little bit of control over our world. Tragedy is tragedy because it turns what we know, what we believe, the bedrock of our life, inside out and upside down.
I think of the prayers offered for us. The hundreds of people who prayed. At church, in our lives. Friends who do not pray, who offered up their fervent desire that we would escape this tragedy. I think of a friend who told me of kneeling by her bed. Past any sense of decorum, propriety. Sobbing. Begging, imploring, pleading.
I think of my own prayers on Sunday night. Of sobbing, wailing. Cries to let God know my heart was rent in two. Cries that were not coherent words, thoughts. Cries that bartered. If God would save my son, I would do anything he asked of me. Anything. There was nothing he could not take from me, nothing he could do to me, nothing I would not bear, only please, I begged, from the bottom of a life-carriers heart, please, spare my son.
24 hours later, my tiny, frail son, was born. With an Apgar of 1. An apgar he received because he was breathing, in flimsy, feeble gasps. One every minute or so. Then every five minutes. And then he was gone. Life that Mr. Spit and I had bred into his body joyfully, exuberantly, with promises and celebration. Life that didn't even open his eyes, to see his mother's tears. Life that was gone.
I think of those prayers, and I think of a room filled to the brim with sorrow and gall. And I know, from the bottom of my heart, I did not receive what I deserved. For my son, I will stand up and say that he deserved life. Even if I was so terrible that I could not be permitted to bear a child, the soul that was Gabriel, he deserved life.
And I am left with a sense of bewilderment. How could God not hear our prayers? There were thousands. Hundreds of thousands. I imagine that many prayers bombarding God. A series of phones that do not stop ringing. Emails, faxes, telegrams, carrier pigeons. Was God not looking during all that space? Was He busy? Playing chess? Caught up in the human rights abuses in China? Was He too busy answering prayers for parking stalls in Christmas-crowded parking lots? What happened that He was too pressed to spend the millisecond it would have taken to save Gabriel.
And I wonder, who prayed for the baby of the woman next to me? Anyone? I did. I prayed that in the midst of my sorrow, that baby would arrive safely. Not out of spirit of love and compassion, but selfishness. I could not bear for another baby to die. How could it be that my voice was the only one beseeching for this child to live, and that God would hear my single prayer, offered for selfish reasons, but not hear the bounty of prayers for Gabriel?
This reflection does not answer any question, much less the terrible, awful, heart rending question. How could God deal so brutally, so unfairly with his children. How could he strip the life we created from us, when He, created us? How in the face of horrible tragedy, could I, could anyone maintain that God is intimately involved in the world?
Tragedy, entered into, grappled with, as we struggle to understand it, changes how we understand ourselves and how we understand God. The process is messy, full of pain and raw human emotion. Tragedy, grappled with, leaves us different people. We are no longer Jacob, we become Israel, with a different set of questions, and a hip that reminds us of the power of God.
God did not save my son.
God, who raised Lazarus, who raised Jarius' daughter, who saved his Son, did not spare mine. I believe he could have. I believe in miracles. Then, and now. I cannot conceive of a God who used to raise people from the dead, and then suddenly, arbitrarily stopped. And if God could have stretched out his hand, if he could have and did not - what answer can I possibly have, other than to say God killed my son. Not murder, no. But I bet I could make a good case for negligent homicide.
I've spoken of it before: as I was in a tiny room, learning that my son would die, as Mr. Spit was hearing that I might die, there was a woman in the next bed.
She was 34 weeks pregnant, or around that, the perinatologist thought. She wasn't actually sure when she got pregnant. Given that she had no pre-natal care, no pre-natal vitamins, it was hard to tell. She was arguing with the nurse - she wanted to stop the NST so that she could go have a cigarette. She'd had a couple of beers the night before. She wasn't married, she had 4 children already, by four different fathers. She was on social assistance. She wasn't going to breast feed, and couldn't they just section her now? She was tired of being pregnant.
Contrast
Mr. Spit and I. University educated. Good jobs. Own a house and a car. Financially stable. Regular church attendees. Educated about pregnancy and child birth. We pay our taxes. More than our share probably. We volunteer, in our community, in the inner city. We donate of our own blood. We are caring. Good friends. Bake casseroles for those in need. We show compassion and mercy. We would have raised our child in the church. We are good people. We do our best. Our child would have wanted for nothing. Braces, soccer, ballet, tutoring, enrichment, university, we would have been able to afford it. There would have been presents under the tree at Christmas. Discipline, love, prayers, stories read and hugs given. We are not monsters, we would have cherished this child we waited 5 years for. He would have been the joy of our lives, the apple of our eye. Loved beyond all comprehension.
She went home with a baby, and I, in the horrific way of tragedies, went home with empty arms.
We seek for answers when tragedy strikes. Why her, and not me? We look for nice and simple packages. An explanation. A thing that says: this - this is why tragedy happened. And perhaps, I think, if we decide we know why, we think we have regained a little bit of control over our world. Tragedy is tragedy because it turns what we know, what we believe, the bedrock of our life, inside out and upside down.
I think of the prayers offered for us. The hundreds of people who prayed. At church, in our lives. Friends who do not pray, who offered up their fervent desire that we would escape this tragedy. I think of a friend who told me of kneeling by her bed. Past any sense of decorum, propriety. Sobbing. Begging, imploring, pleading.
I think of my own prayers on Sunday night. Of sobbing, wailing. Cries to let God know my heart was rent in two. Cries that were not coherent words, thoughts. Cries that bartered. If God would save my son, I would do anything he asked of me. Anything. There was nothing he could not take from me, nothing he could do to me, nothing I would not bear, only please, I begged, from the bottom of a life-carriers heart, please, spare my son.
24 hours later, my tiny, frail son, was born. With an Apgar of 1. An apgar he received because he was breathing, in flimsy, feeble gasps. One every minute or so. Then every five minutes. And then he was gone. Life that Mr. Spit and I had bred into his body joyfully, exuberantly, with promises and celebration. Life that didn't even open his eyes, to see his mother's tears. Life that was gone.
I think of those prayers, and I think of a room filled to the brim with sorrow and gall. And I know, from the bottom of my heart, I did not receive what I deserved. For my son, I will stand up and say that he deserved life. Even if I was so terrible that I could not be permitted to bear a child, the soul that was Gabriel, he deserved life.
And I am left with a sense of bewilderment. How could God not hear our prayers? There were thousands. Hundreds of thousands. I imagine that many prayers bombarding God. A series of phones that do not stop ringing. Emails, faxes, telegrams, carrier pigeons. Was God not looking during all that space? Was He busy? Playing chess? Caught up in the human rights abuses in China? Was He too busy answering prayers for parking stalls in Christmas-crowded parking lots? What happened that He was too pressed to spend the millisecond it would have taken to save Gabriel.
And I wonder, who prayed for the baby of the woman next to me? Anyone? I did. I prayed that in the midst of my sorrow, that baby would arrive safely. Not out of spirit of love and compassion, but selfishness. I could not bear for another baby to die. How could it be that my voice was the only one beseeching for this child to live, and that God would hear my single prayer, offered for selfish reasons, but not hear the bounty of prayers for Gabriel?
This reflection does not answer any question, much less the terrible, awful, heart rending question. How could God deal so brutally, so unfairly with his children. How could he strip the life we created from us, when He, created us? How in the face of horrible tragedy, could I, could anyone maintain that God is intimately involved in the world?
Tragedy, entered into, grappled with, as we struggle to understand it, changes how we understand ourselves and how we understand God. The process is messy, full of pain and raw human emotion. Tragedy, grappled with, leaves us different people. We are no longer Jacob, we become Israel, with a different set of questions, and a hip that reminds us of the power of God.
I have only a moment of clarity. Of walking out of a downtown office tower, into a warm summer day. I can see a bright blue prairie sky, a blue so impossibly blue it takes your breath away. I can smell lilacs. And I can hear a singer, on the street corner. Playing a saxophone. When the Saints Go Marching In. And he is dancing around. He is playing with pure distilled joy.
Thou only art immortal, the creator and maker of mankind; and we are mortal, formed of the earth, and unto earth shall we return. For so thou didst ordain when thou createdst me, saying, Dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return.. All we go down to the dust; yet even at the grave we make our song: Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia.
Thou only art immortal, the creator and maker of mankind; and we are mortal, formed of the earth, and unto earth shall we return. For so thou didst ordain when thou createdst me, saying, Dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return.. All we go down to the dust; yet even at the grave we make our song: Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia.
Into thy hands, O merciful Savior, we commend thy servant Gabriel. Acknowledge, we humbly beseech thee, a sheep of thine own fold, a lamb of thine own flock, a sinner of thine own redeeming. Receive him into the arms of thy mercy, into the blessed rest of everlasting peace, and into the glorious company of the saints in light.
