Hands on Rosary Activity for Little Ones
/I knew I'd end up back at the craft store sooner than later! Don't miss this very cool hands-on rosary activity for little ones.
How Lovely is a Garden in Springtime?
/Jennifer at As Cozy as Spring is the hostess for our Loveliness of Gardens Fair next Monday. Pay her a visit today for lots of garden posting inspiration!
Dappled Diapers
/
On the first sunny day of spring, I carried my drying rack outside. This was a bit of an act of rebellion, as I live in a neighborhood which prohibits clotheslines. If I hadn't been very pregnant and in desperate need of a house near my hubby's new job all those many years ago, the prohibition would have been a deal-breaker. Now, it's just a thorn in my side.
Anyway, I took the drying rack outside to hang the diapers to dry in the sunshine. A neighbor wandered by.
"You use cloth diapers?" she asked, with a look that said she thought I was truly bonkers.
"I do!" I enthused, gushing a bit in my self defense. "I love the way they feel, and smell, and--honestly-- the way they look, hanging there in the sunshine." I stopped myself just short of the full gush, as her eyes were glazing over.
So...you get the full gush.
I love to change diapers. I love to lay Karoline on a soft, pink changing table, with a beautiful picture of the Blessed Mother and her Child hanging there for us to ponder. I love to make her feel good. I love to take away the wet diaper and to wash her bottom with warmed cotton wipes that smell faintly of peppermint castille soap. I love to rub a bit of homemade herbal salve on any tender spots. I love the occasional times when I rub her bottom and legs with a powder of cornstarch and crushed rose petals. And I love to wrap those fat, delicious buns in softness. I love it--the whole sensory experience of it. I love to coo at her and make funny faces. I love it when she coos and smiles and even giggles in return. The drudgery of diapers? Not here.
I'm not so sure that cloth diapers are less expensive economically or ecologically. I've seen compelling arguments in both directions. All that washing does cost something, in terms of time, money, and resources. And it certainly takes longer to hang clean, sweet smelling diapers to dry.On the other hand... Call me crazy, but I like the look of those nappies all in a row on the drying rack. It sings, "Baby lives here! Thank God!"
It also takes time to take the diapers from the rack and stack them neatly in a handcrafted picnic basket that sits beside the changing table.They look beautiful there in that basket, waiting to swaddle my little cherub.Time. These diapers slow me down a bit. Yes, they do. That's not a bad thing at all, slowing down to make something that could be a negative into something altogether pleasant and happy. I could not get all that with a plastic bag of Pampers, and they definitely wouldn't be soft and pink.
And that's what the whole diaper experience is for us: soft and pink and dappled with sunshine.
April the Twenty-ninth
/The sun rose brightly this morning, shining sparkling hope over a fresh spring day. We survived yesterday. In all, seven children were quite sick within a 48 hour period. Many cups of ginger ale were poured and ignored and many, many loads of laundry were washed and dried.I can't begin to count the number of times I ran up and down the stairs, heart pumping, lungs working overtime. The awake hours of the day numbered 20. Still, it was a relatively good day. And today? Today is relatively great. Sure beats April 29, 1990.
On that day, a remember kneeling to kiss my one-year-old goodbye before getting into the car. I remember arriving at the hospital in the early morning just as all the pink tulips were opening to greet the day. I remember squeezing my husband's hand before surgery, trying to ignore the fear in his formerly fearless face. I remember the pathologist, one of my father's dearest friends. "Hodgkin's Disease. It's going to be a very tough year, but then, you'll live."
Indeed. A tough year. It was a chrysalis year. Together, my husband and I lived a life dictated by doctors and hospitals and IV pushes of nasty chemotherapy. As the tulips began to wilt and drop their petals, huge handfuls of brown curls fell from my head. Life looked so very different at every turn. We lost our innocence and found our faith. We learned we'd never have another baby and prayed for children we had never wanted so much. I grew to hate the sight of tulips and to gag at the smell of latex--whether it was surgical gloves or birthday balloons. We huddled, dark and tired, inside the shell of our experience, partly to avoid the germs of the outside world, partly because everything that really mattered was inside our four walls and we were living as much life together as we could.
I was twenty-four. That's not very old. And the next year, I think I was about 50, though I'm not quite sure. I definitely wasn't 25. People who are 25 are usually blissfully unaware of their mortality.
Together, my husband and I had grown in this strange new world of surviving cancer . We would find ourselves telling people over and over that we never wanted to learn those lessons that way again, but that we were so grateful for the grace of God in allowing us to learn them when we did.
I live a life that is rooted in the reality of a finite time on earth. I live a life that sparkles with the hope of heaven. To be quite honest, I live a life that is tinged with fear, my constant adversary.Though I'm not the superstitious type, for a long time, I was afraid to plant tulips, afraid to tempt fate. But I live a life of great blessing.Time and faith have taught me so much. And so, yesterday, God reminded me with emphasis just how many sweet young souls are in my care and how He is bigger than any prognosis. He reminded me that I am still young and strong and able to care for many needy people, singlehandedly, at once. He reminded me that my heart pumps and my lungs fill with air. And He reminded me that it's okay--even hopeful and beautiful-- to plant pink tulips in the fall and watch them bloom on April the Twenty-ninth.
