Friday, September 4, 2015

My Eight Pound Bag of Tater Tots

Occasionally when I shop at Sam’s or Costco, I feel like I really need a big bag of something.  Ordinarily I am a paleo or at least a soaked-grains-a-la-Nourishing-Traditions kinda gal.  But, sometimes I am utterly possessed by a large bag o’ unhealthy.  Tonight, after a long afternoon of putting together quotes for our business, I really, really didn’t want to cook dinner.  I figured I’d call my husband and ask him to bring home dinner from one of the myriad (like three) of restaurants in our town of 1200 .  Well, it turns out he is under a house (he’s ok, I promise) and won’t be home until after bedtime.  Ok freezer, what can you do for me?  Oh yeah, there is that eight pound bag of tater tots sitting there in my freezer; the big bag of I live nowhere near a city, but I’m in the city at a Sam’s Club, need to feed my  family of five boys, but I know this really isn’t healthy, purchase.
Voila, a Tater Tot Casserole, recipe from AllRecipes.com:

Tater Tot Casserole

I doubled everything and threw in a bag of frozen vegetables (its healthy now, right?)  I kept the condensed soup to one can of cream of mushroom, but I also added a can of condensed cheddar cheese soup.  I also added some finely diced jalapeno peppers I had in my crisper.  I think an excellent New Mexico addition could be green chili.  I might try that in the future if I find myself with tater tots needing to be eaten and am making this again.  Top with shredded cheddar cheese during the last five minutes of cooking.  Instead of adding tater tots around “the edges”, I topped the whole thing with tater tots.  Actually, my five year old topped the whole thing with tater tots because he was looking for a job at dinner time.  And that led to this exchange:

Sam: “You know, tater tots are not actually healthy”.  Me: “Yeah, I know.  They are kind of a treat.”  Sam: “Like for dogs?” Um, yes.  But our dogs eat very well.  Bon appetite!

Saturday, December 6, 2014

Goodbye, Benjamin

Benjamin is my sixth child. I never got to meet him here on earth but I trust in God’s mercy and hope to hold him in my arms in the next life.

When I went in for my 12 week appointment, I knew deep down inside it wouldn’t be a happy one.  At my 10 week appointment, the midwife didn’t hear a heartbeat, but at that point we weren’t too worried because it could have been the baby’s position or some other factor.  He was still living at that point (as I later found out from his age on ultrasound), but a part of me knew at that point what the outcome of the pregnancy would be.  Samuel, my four year old, blurted out of the blue the night before my 12 week appointment, “mom, is your baby dead?”  I was taken aback and asked him why he said such a thing.  Sam has been particularly sensitive to the loss and I find myself wondering if he had a connection to the baby or if he is particularly attuned to me.  I keep my babies and toddlers very close and I think that connection continues through their childhood.

The midwife couldn’t hear the heartbeat, so we went over to the room with the ultrasound to look at the baby.  I knew in my heart what to expect.  When his image came up on the screen, I saw his head and his body, but he was completely still and there was no heartbeat.  I started crying and my midwife simply said, “I’m sorry”.  She hugged me and we talked about the next steps.  I was to go over to the hospital for an ultrasound for confirmation and then I would need to talk to the doctors about the next step, which was assumed to be a D&C to remove the baby because of his larger size (standard practice is to let very early miscarriages happen naturally, but I was almost in the second trimester).

The hospital got me in for my ultrasound very quickly, thankfully, but of course when the baby’s image came up on the screen, his sweet little body was there, completely still.  I asked the technician after a few minutes, “no heartbeat, right?”  She replied, “no, I’m sorry.”  I then asked for a picture of him.  She said that he measured 11 weeks and 4 days.  I should have been 12 weeks and 2 days at that point, so he had passed away only a few days earlier.

I was alone for the appointments as Steve was home with our other children.  I went out to my car and cried for a few minutes.  I called my husband and told him.  I asked him not to tell the children until I got home, but Sam was in Steve’s lap and he heard the conversation.  He announced to his brothers that “the baby is dead”.  The boys started their grieving before I got home.  The next person I immediately wanted to tell was my mom.  I called her and let her know and asked her to pray for me.

The rest of the day was filled with many tears, but I was comforted to be with my husband and my children.  While they were waiting for me to return home, the four youngest boys had drawn several pictures for me.  They were all so sweet- me holding Benjamin, Jesus holding Benjamin, and Joseph drew himself facing Benjamin and holding hands with him in a green field with the sun shining.  The pictures were all happy pictures with green grass and sunshine.  I will forever treasure those pictures.  My seventeen year old then came hold from school.  He hugged me and cried. 

All I wanted to do was to pray and be with my family.  Steve thought he should take me and the boys over to our church to pray, and I welcomed the suggestion.  I love my little church.  On the way to the church there was a small rainbow shining across one of the mountains.  All of us saw it and wondered if it was a sign from God.  I think it was.  I still don’t know exactly what it meant, but I’m sure it was meant for us.

There is a park next to the church and it was a warm fall day, so I thought the boys should play outside before we went into the church.  The boys got out and Steve and I remained in the car.  He asked if he should stay with me and I told him he should go play with the boys.  I loved sitting there and watching them play.  Steve is such a good dad.  At one point, Gabriel jumped off his swing and as it kept swinging, I imagined my little boy who would never touch foot on this earth swinging in the empty swing.  I will always remember that empty swing.  I decided to let them play and I went into the church.  They came in and joined me a little while later.  After we had prayed and cried and lit a candle, we went back over to the park.  We stayed until dark and then we returned home.

Now I had to deal with the medical decisions.  I had never miscarried before and knew nothing about what to expect.  I had immediate pressure to remove the baby surgically, but I have never let doctors pressure me into a decision, so I verified that there was no emergency and decided to wait and read about miscarriage and the options and take my time to make the decision.  The standard medical management of an 11-12 week missed miscarriage is surgery because of the risk of bleeding.  But I had to wonder, if this was a common occurrence for women (an estimated 20-25% of pregnancies end in miscarriage), then why the rush to surgery?  Wouldn’t my body take care of it?  I learned that it can take up to six weeks for a woman’s body to deliver a missed miscarriage, with two weeks being a common amount of time.  It is hard to carry a baby that you know has passed away, but it felt like the right thing to me.  I didn’t like the thought of dismembering his body to remove him.  Burying him became very important to me.  I would never be able to take care of him as a mother should, but I could protect and take care of his body and honor him with a burial.

I went down to Albuquerque to stay with my parents because I knew that there were certain risks to my decision and I wanted to be near a big city hospital (I live in a very rural area, 40 minutes away from a small, community hospital).  I took the 4 youngest kids down (my  17 year old stayed home with Steve because of school) and decided that I would call Steve to come and join us when the miscarriage started happening.  I also wanted to get another confirmation ultrasound and a second medical opinion.  I saw a very sweet Catholic doctor who has four children of her own, whom my mother knows.  She took time to speak with me and answer all of my questions about the situation and my future fertility.  She did give me a prescription for Misoprostol which would bring on the miscarriage if I decided to hasten the process.  Again, that option had the risk of bleeding and additionally of significant pain.  I would call her if I decided to take it.  She was so kind, reassuring, and informative and I appreciated that she knew what I was going through from a faith perspective.  She knew I had carried a life and that the baby wasn’t just tissue as it is treated by many doctors and hospitals- to the point that they throw away babies’ bodies with medical waste.  The doctor gave me a hug at the end of our appointment and I felt her care and warmth.  I have received many small blessings along this painful journey and that hug was one of them.  I think that speaking with her put my heart and my body at ease and the delivery of my miscarried baby finally started happening the next morning, about 2 weeks from the time Benjamin had died.

I woke up with a small amount of bleeding- brownish in color, but no pain.  I knew the process was starting to happen.  I was relieved, thankful and sad.  I called my mom, who was at work, to let her know that the process had started.  It was a beautiful day in Albuquerque and as I didn’t feel like much was happening, I took the boys to a park close to my parents’ house.  While sitting on a bench, enjoying watching the boys play, I started to have pain.  I was surprised by how much the pain felt like the labor pains I had with my live births- only they were not as intense and started and maintained at a particular frequency- about every 45 seconds to a minute I would have a pain that would feel like a tightening rubber band and then it would let go.  I wanted to feel the pains and I sat there and appreciated and felt blessed by the pain.  These were the final moments I would experience carrying the baby I would never know.  I knew his soul was already gone and in heaven, but I was taking care of his body for him and I would soon be laying his body down in the earth.  The pain then intensified and I knew it was time to take the boys home.

My mom hadn’t returned home from work yet, so I let the boys play with the iPad to distract them and then I went to the upstairs bathroom.  I didn’t tell them what was happening because I didn’t want them to be scared.  I knew my mother would be home shortly.  I brought the cell phone into the bathroom in case I needed to call for help and got several towels and the thick pads I had ready.  I called Steve and he said he was an hour away.  The baby came out just about five minutes after I went into the bathroom.  I was sitting on the toilet because of the bleeding, but I felt him coming out and I caught him.  He fit in the palm of my hand.  I held him and marveled at his little body.  He was only 11 weeks old, but he already had the tiniest fingers and toes.  His life was short, but his life was a miracle.  I then placed him in a folded up towel.  I called my mom and she just wanted to come home right away, but I asked her to go to the Catholic supply store and find a pretty box to put him in.  That suddenly became very important to me.  The first person to see him after me was my mother.  She came into the bathroom as I didn’t want to leave where I was at.  She showed me the most beautiful box that had a picture of Our Lady of Guadalupe on the front cover.  She had also brought some pieces of lace to put inside the box.  She asked to see the baby.  We laid him in the box and looked at his beautiful, still little body.  It was at this point that I became thankful that my mother was a hospice nurse and knew how to handle death.  I didn’t know if the kids should see the baby or not and she without hesitation said yes, if they wanted to.  All of them did.  It was such a good decision to let the boys see the baby.  They were happy, even in the midst of grief, to see his body and to have a tangible connection with their little brother, even for a moment.  By then my father had also come home.  My dad and my grandfather also wanted to see the baby.  And then Steve finally arrived, along with our oldest son.  I was so thankful to see my husband.  I felt so full of love for him.  He is such a good father; I was so sorry his baby was dead.  He would now be there with me and hold my hand through the next difficult part.

I kept bleeding and I knew it was too much, so I told my parents and Steve that I needed to go to the emergency room.  My mom and Steve took me.  Once I was checked in and in a room, my mom went home to take care of the kids so that Steve could stay with me.  I am not going to write about all of the hospital details, but it did get somewhat serious at one point.  I am not sure the staff knew how much I was really bleeding (maybe because I kept changing and throwing away the Chux pads) until I passed out on the toilet next to the ultrasound room.  That got the staff’s attention.  When they started treating me (putting on oxygen and whatever else they were doing that I can’t remember), I became very scared.  But I then suddenly became calm when I realized that if I died, it would be OK, because I could hold Benjamin.  I then actually wanted to die for a few moments.  But then I felt my husband’s hand and I looked at the man I love and thought about my five sons whom I love more than words can say and who need me on this earth and I stopped allowing myself to wish for death.  I did undergo a D&C that evening to stop the bleeding and they had to give me two units of blood for the blood loss.

We considered burying Benjamin in Albuquerque at a cemetery that graciously buries miscarried, stillborn and young infants for no cost, but we decided to bring him home.  He is buried at an old historic cemetery in the old west ghost town of Elizabethtown, a few miles from our house.  That is where Steve and I will be buried, next to our baby.  We had a grave site service with our immediate family and our priest, who has become a family friend, and our deacon, whom we also feel very fondly for; we were so thankful for and blessed by their presence and caring for our family.  Each of the boys picked an item to have blessed and bury with the baby.  I put a blessed crucifix on Benjamin’s box and our priest blessed an identical crucifix that I now have on our mantle.  Our deacon’s wife gave him six roses to bring to us- five were red and were for each of our living sons and one was white for the child we were burying.  It was such a touching and meaningful gesture.  We had the boys lay the roses on the baby’s grave.  We came home and had our priest and deacon do a blessing of our house and then we shared a meal together.

Throughout the process of losing our baby, I corresponded with and spoke to my priest.  He was a great spiritual adviser to me and offered me bible verses that spoke to my heart at just the right time.  I will always treasure Job 1:21: “…Naked I came from my mother’s womb, and naked shall I return; the Lord gave, and the Lord has taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord.”  I asked my priest to pray a mass for the unborn, and he prayed three masses for the unborn at three churches, including our mission church, that he pastors.  I attended two of the masses and prayed by name for my Benjamin and all of the mothers and babies that are part of an online group of ladies that I know who have experienced miscarriage, stillbirth or infant loss.  I also prayed for several mothers that I know personally who have lost babies.  My pastor has said that he will pray masses every year in November for the unborn.

I am still in the process of pondering in my heart this event, how it happened and what it means in my life.  I have no regrets about the decisions I made.  Even though I did end up in the hospital, I am glad I chose a natural miscarriage.  I believe I made the decisions that have allowed me, my husband, and my children to connect with the loss and grieve in the manner most appropriate for our family.  We named the baby Benjamin, because I knew that would be his name even before he died.  We named him after my grandfather’s father.  Steve wondered if we should save the name for a baby who might be in our future, but I knew this baby was Benjamin and there would never be another Benjamin.   It happened that my grandfather (my dad’s dad) had arrived to live in Albuquerque from Maine just a few days before I came down to Albuquerque.  I treasured talking to him about our family who passed away years ago and through him I felt connected to my great grandmother who suffered a terrible tragedy in the loss of her youngest son in the Korean War.  I have imagined my baby being held in heaven by all the family I hope to see one day.  I particularly like to imagine my saint of a grandfather, my mom’s dad, holding and cuddling my little baby in heaven.  He always loved babies!
 
I would like to say that I have responded perfectly and with grace to this loss.  But, I certainly haven’t.  Some days are better than others.  Even though intellectually I know that there was nothing I could have done about his death, I find myself talking to Benjamin and telling him that I am sorry I couldn’t take care of him.  There are some moments I wish I could crawl into the earth next to him.  I have found great comfort in praying the Rosary and the Chaplet of the Seven Sorrows of Mary, which was suggested by a friend of mine, who also experienced a miscarriage, to pray.  I do have to admit that one week I stopped praying and started drinking several cocktails a night.  Cocktails are not a very effective amelioration for grief, so I have given up alcohol and returned to prayer.  I have written this story one month to the day that I buried my baby, so I can’t say I know how I will feel or handle this as time goes on, but even though it hurts, I never want to forget this baby or how I felt losing him.  And I want a permanent record that he lived, if only for a moment, and that he will always be my sixth child.  That is why I have written his story.   






Friday, May 9, 2014

Literature for Boys

I found some great reading lists for boys on the blog Ordo Amoris.  She is a mom of nine and has eight boys.  Her book lists focus on honor (a word we don't hear enough of anymore!)- The Literature of Honor for Boys and The Literature of Honor for Little Boys.  I'm looking forward to reading many of these with my boys as I shift the focus in our homeschool to more emphasis on literature.  Or rather, to allow literature primacy in my priorities for our homeschooling day.

Saturday, October 6, 2012

Unexpected Trinidad

I have a million very important things to do, but my inner gypsy takes priority sometimes.  Yesterday, a beautiful day in October, I just needed to get away.  I had the three little boys with me and I asked them where they wanted to go.  I didn't like their first choice, so I told them to pick again.  Joe, my 7 year old piped up, "Colorado!"  It was already almost 11 am and Colorado is about an hour and 45 minutes away, but, ok.

The younger boys still don't completely understand geography, so to them Colorado isn't really a state, but a state of mind.  It is a place to hike, enjoy nature and probably end up at a restaurant on the way home.  There are a couple of places I have been wanting to explore in Colorado, but they were too far on a day we were getting a late start.  So, Trinidad here we come!

Trinidad gets overlooked as a trip destination sometimes because it has been primarily known for being a major sex change operation destination (not a discussion I intend to have here, Google it if you must).  But it is really a quaint mountain town with an interesting history in an area with a coal mining past.  I have been there several times and have enjoyed the museums, the beautiful Catholic Church and a nice little city park.  We've been to Trinidad Lake briefly before, but I thought this would be a good day to explore it more extensively.

We went to the Visitor's Center entrance.  I am sure there are some interesting things in the Visitor's Center (along with the history, southern Colorado is geologically very interesting), but the boys wanted to get right down to the business of exploring.  At that particular entrance to the lake is where you can find a series of nature trails.  We explored the Levsa Canyon Self Guided Nature Trail.  This is a perfect trail for a family hike with little kiddos in tow.  I had a seven year old, a five year old and a two year old on my back (only the two year old was on my back, fyi).  It is a mile long with slightly challenging terrain (rocks and elevation changes), but definitely do-able for young children.  There is a map available and the trail has 15 markers with a corresponding short, informative explanation on the map.  Joe stopped and drew a lovely picture of the cactus he saw in his nature notebook while Gabriel tossed rocks.  The view from the trail was magnificent as it overlooks the lake and the hauntingly beautiful Purgatoire River.

We finished up our afternoon with a playfest at the nicely maintained playground next to the amphitheater.  The boys enjoyed the playground equipment and riding their bikes on the sidewalks.  While they were entertaining themselves, I was able to scoot a few yards away and look at the small display featuring a succinct history and pictures of two of the Native American tribes of the area.  I was also treated to a display of frolicking Mountain Bluebirds in the Pinon trees.


As we arrived home that evening at dusk, the sky was a pink backdrop against the dark green mountains splashed with deep golden colored Aspen.  It was a picture perfect ending to a delightful and unexpected day with the little men in my life.





Sunday, November 20, 2011

Favorite Family Breakfast

Never do today what you can put off until tomorrow has been my life's motto. I am a procrastinator, seriously, ask my husband; he had never really met a procrastinator until he met me. Self discipline has never been a particularly strong character trait of mine, either. However, as God has blessed me with a large-ish family, I am being forced to overcome my character flaws or face utter pandemonium and a Lord-of-the-Flies situation with my five boys. What has really kicked my rear into gear is having to leave home for half a day in the mornings to go into the office of our family run business. "Be prepared" is my new motto. (Shout out to the Boy Scouts over at Philmont!) So, I have been making breakfasts in advance. Here is one of our favorites:

Baked Oatmeal, Nourishing Traditions style

4 cups oatmeal
1 cup yoghurt
1 cup water
4 eggs
1/2 cup melted butter
1 tsp baking powder
1 tsp salt
1 tbsp vanilla
2 tsp cinnamon
1/3- 1/2 cup maple syrup
1 cup mix-ins (choc. chips, dried fruit, etc.)

Soak the oatmeal in yoghurt and water for 8-24 hours (the closer to 24 hours, the better). Use more or less soaking liquid depending on your climate. (We live in a dry climate and burn wood for heat which sucks the moisture out of the air). Mix soaked oatmeal with remaining ingredients. Mix, mix, mix, mix until you can't mix any more. Make those biceps burn, baby burn. I digress, sorry, this isn't an exercise post, is it? Back to the recipe... pour into a greased 9x13 pan and bake in a 350 degree over for about 30 minutes. Let cool, cut into squares.

I cut this into 14 bars and make it last for our family of 7 for two days by hiding 7 of the bars and putting them out the following morning. If I leave it all out, it is demolished in one morning. This is my boys' favorite breakfast. I keep asking them if they are sick of it and much to my astonishment they say no. I am trying to go more "Primal" (no grains) in our family's diet, but I still allow some grains if they are properly prepared. This is one of those recipes. My thought is that this recipe would be very good for a nursing mother because of the oatmeal which is said to be good for milk supply. (I am still nursing, but my baby is actually a toddler now who doesn't nurse as much as he used to, so milk supply isn't much of an issue.) I have prepared this recipe without soaking the oats before, but it is so much healthier and the texture is amazing if you plan ahead and soak the oats.

Stay tuned for my egg casserole recipe...

Saturday, July 3, 2010

Raising Boys in a Time of War

I wrote the following a couple of years ago, but I've decided to repost it because as we've added yet another little boy to our family, the war in Afghanistan has ratcheted up again, innocent civilians are losing their lives, American troops continue to spill their precious blood, and the cost of the wars has now topped 1 trillion dollars:

I grew up in a military family, so I feel a great deal of loyalty to the military. The military men and women I have known are among the highest caliber people you will ever meet in your life. Chief among them is my father, who is a retired Air Force officer. He is a loyal, smart, and dedicated man. I was so proud of him at his retirement ceremony when I heard of his achievements and the admiration his colleagues and superiors had for him. It is from this place that my loyalty springs.

I am against our current war in Iraq, but I am not a pacifist. I believe very strongly in the right to bear arms and in the necessity of defending our families and our freedoms when necessary. Many say that is what we are doing in Iraq. I disagree. When we first went in to Iraq, I did think the goal of installing a democracy was honorable, but misguided. Being somewhat familiar with the tumultuous history of Iraq and the fact that Great Britain had failed to install a democracy in Iraq, I wondered why we thought we would succeed. But this post isn't really about military strategery. It is about being a mother of four boys in a time of war. My oldest is only 10, but at the present time I am not confident that we will see peace in the near future.

My trepidation and fear grows as the war comes closer to home for me. A few years ago, a friend's husband died in Iraq. He left behind a two year old daughter. Just a couple of weeks ago, my brother found out that a childhood friend of his had died in Iraq. He was only 31 and left behind five children. He was the oldest of 12 children and seeing a picture of his mother being handed her oldest son's flag was devastating. Then I think back through history to all of the mothers who have lost boys (and in more recent history girls) to the cruelty of war. My great grandmother lost her youngest son, "Dicky" in the Korean War. She gave permission for him to enlist at only 17 because she knew he would find a way to get in on the action no matter what. It is said that the entire "French Island" where they lived heard her scream when she received the news of her son's death. It is with reverence that I recall these sacrifices, but I gently and humbly ask that all of us think more critically and demand more accountability from our politicians in this dangerous and uncertain time.

I found the following passage in an article at Lew Rockwell attributed to Major General Smedley Darlington Butler, a highly decorated and controversial General who died right before the U.S. got into World War II:

"Now – you mothers, particularly. The only way you can resist all this war hysteria and beating tomtoms is by hanging onto the love you bear your boys. When you listen to some well-worded, well-delivered speech, just remember that it's nothing but sound. It's your boy that matters. And no amount of sound can make up to you for the loss of your boy. After you've heard one of those speeches and your blood's all hot and you want to bite somebody like Hitler – go upstairs to where your boy's asleep. . . . Look at him. Put your hand on that spot on the back of his neck. The place you used to love to kiss when he was a baby. Just rub it a little. You won't wake him up, he knows it's just you. Just look at his strong, fine young body because only the best boys are chosen for war. Look at this splendid young creature who's part of yourself, then close your eyes for a moment and I'll tell you what can happen . . .

Somewhere – five thousand miles from home. Night. Darkness. Cold. A drizzling rain. The noise is terrific. All Hell has broken loose. A star shell burst in the air. Its unearthly flare lights up the muddy field. There's a lot of tangled rusty barbed wires out there and a boy hanging over them – his stomach ripped out, and he's feebly calling for help and water. His lips are white and drawn. He's in agony.

There's your boy. The same boy who's lying in bed tonight. The same boy who trusts you. . . . Are you going to run out on him? Are you going to let someone beat a drum or blow a bugle and make him chase after it? Thank God, this is a democracy and by your voice and your vote you can save your boy. (from a 1939 broadcast) "

I must be crazy.

I'm revisiting this blog again, 6 months later. I'm really going to get this blog going, really I am. Yes, I'm usually busy running our business and having babies (added boy #5 since I last posted!), but of course I have time to keep up with a blog. And start a Catholic school. Yup, I keep thinking about it. I wonder if that means something. When I was surfing the web, just for the fun of it, and thinking about starting a Catholic school, I found the National Association of Private Catholic and Independent Schools and an interesting blog post prompting parents to Start Your Own Catholic School. I must be crazy.