Hospital

That's where we've been. Mercy was put in on Monday, very dehydrated. She had both a bacterial infection of the colon (c-diff, for those nurses out there) as well as rotavirus. Lovely combination. I assure you. But I'll spare you the details. We came home last night, very tired, but very happy to be at home. Our ordeal may not be over, as the rotavirus often takes 2 weeks to runs it's full course. It's quite likely we'll be back for more fluids before it's all over. We're happy to be in the comfort of home for now, though. No rest for the weary in that place!

I so have been dying to post a particular experience I had this past Sunday. My husband and I led worship at a little church in the country Sunday morning. Very laid back. Just his guitar, and he and I singing. We were a little apprehensive that being so traditional of a church, the body wouldn't participate in worship, but rather view it more as a performance by us. We so wanted to lead others... not put on a show. Turns out, this little church knows the God we do, and they were anxious to glorify Him.

Very aware of the tendency as a musician to be caught up in performance and perfection of the music/singing, my knees were still a little sore from all the pre-prayer. I so wanted to reflect my relationship, not show my skills. (I realize that may sound conceited) Anyway, about half way through one particular song my husband quit playing his guitar all together. Up until that point, I could really only hear myself, his voice, and his guitar. Though I could see the body of Christ worshipping their bride. I had closed my eyes about the time his guitar dropped out, and left only the sound of voices singing out praises to their Creator.

And then.... a dying cow. Really. Some horrible sound I didn't think was singing at first. There's no way to describe it over the computer. You really need the audio version. It reminded me of my first attempts at the french horn. Or a momma cow giving birth. And words indistinguishable. A very monotoned, flat sound, the ends of the notes (can't really call them notes, just wails) falling even farther from the original pitch. Let me remind you my eyes were closed. I almost laughed. I know I stopped singing. And thought, "What the heck IS that?". But not wanting to just bug my eyes out like every cell in me was begging me to do.

So, being ever so proper, I only opened one eye. I had to pretend to still be in the worshipful spirit, right? Stupid. But I'm awful glad I took a peek. I would have missed the most beautiful thing ever if I hadn't. Proper or not, I'm glad I looked. Never much was one for proper, anyway. Why start now?

There, just a couple of pews from the front, stood a beautiful young lady with Down's Syndrome. Singing and loving her Jesus with all her heart. In a much more pure, innocent, and full of trust kind of way than I could ever do.

And suddenly, what I had just moments before thought was, well, a dying cow outside the church window - became the most beautiful sound I had ever heard. If only I could sing like her. And hear like Jesus. Amazing.

The Things Moms Know

I overheard a conversation a day or two ago. Who knows what I was doing... maybe trying to decide for the thousandth time this week who the pair of socks I just picked up belonged to. And better yet, whether or not they'd been worn long enough to be declared dirty, or should they be re-folded and put back into the clean basket. Or maybe I was chasing a kid with a lotion bottle, or maybe I was running from one end of the house to another with no real purpose at all. Trying to remember what it was I walked back there for.

Nevertheless, I was within ear shot of Blessing and her daddy. She was declaring to him that she needed to play with the snow whites. Perplexed, her daddy had allowed her to pull him by his pinky finger, as she pleaded all along the way for the snow whites. She led him to a closet where we keep books, puzzles, and lots of keep-em-busies. She stood there, pointing, jumping, and growing more and more irritated with sweet daddy because he had no clue what the snow whites were.

Shameless and rude, maybe, but though I knew right away what she wanted I reveled in the fact that I knew, and he didn't. Let him struggle for awhile, right? Swooping in to save the day at the perfect moment, I leisurely walked by and ever so cleverly and not at all in a I-know-everything kind of voice said, "She wants the lite brites, honey."

All that to say... It really is wonderful to know my kids so well. To have the honor (which, by the way, I have the honor because of my husband, this is not meant to somehow bash what he doesn't know) of being with my children, and knowing that "snow whites" really means "lite brites". And that only this blanket will do. To add more peanut butter than honey on this one's sandwich and not to give that one more than one helping of grapes...unless you want to spend the afternoon in the bathroom with her. I know that face means she's guilty, and that one means her day hasn't been great and she needs warm cookies and milk and an sympathetic ear. And while I certainly don't know everything, isn't is phenomenal how moms can go on for hours with examples like this? And that there really isn't anyone else in the world who knows that much about our little ones?

Dear Blog,

Oh, how I have loved thee. Oh, how I do not wish to call it quits. You've been my therapy. You've been my voice. You've been my connection to other women just like me... (and a few men who know just how to girl talk occasionally).

I've grappled with this. Really. Like it's some kind of life changing, really matters in the long run, so much weight on it, kind of decision. That alone says a lot about blogging. Or maybe it says a lot about my lean towards addictive behaviors. Because, addicted, I am.

I've needed this break. But, I do think I'm ready to go at it again. This time a little less often, and also a little more private. So, I don't really know how that works just yet. I'll figure that out as I go. I want to keep all 5 of you readers.... so, shoot me an email so that I can bring you along. It's brandy, then the underscore, then my last name. Which is files. And that's a yahoo account. That way I can post all the pictures I want and not be so worried about who might see them. Or you know, be that foster mom on the news being judged and jailed for posting pictures of the states' kids (oh, I HATE saying that - they're MY kids) on the internet for the world to see. I might even use their actual names! Then maybe their blog names wouldn't come flying out of my mouth. I actually had a kid ask me the other day, "did you just call me Grace? Whose Grace?" Cause, you see, she has no idea her mom posts her private life ever so blatant and carelessly. Using a name other than her own. Please tell me some of you have called your kids their blog name? I'm such a great mom!

So, shoot me that email, and over the next couple of days I hope to switch over to private, fix the site with a few more pictures, etc.