Five of us and the dog

Lately, we've been doing "fire stories" before bed, which means we turn off all the lights and sit in front of the fire and I tell a story.

Sometimes the stories are completely made up, like "Ice cream" which has various people from our family heading off to buy my sister an ice cream cone only to get distracted. My kids love to decide which cousin they will play with and what activity they will do (build a sandcastle, splash in the water, ride boogie boards . . . ). Eventually, she heads off to get her own cone, and one by one everyone tags along to get an ice cream too.

Sometimes the stories are true, like the story Brian told the other night of the night we got engaged.

Sometimes the stories are partially true and partially made up, like the story of taking the train to Boston to ride the swan boats (true) and running into other people from our family as the train stopped along the way (made up).

Tonight, Kathleen asked for a story about "me and Lizzy and mom and dad."

"Okay, a true story about mom, dad, LizzyB, and Kathleen."

"And Henry!" she added. "And Bandit."

"Okay, but it has to be partially made up because Henry and Bandit weren't here when you were."

"Okay."

So I told a the story of our family camping trip, when we all went in the canoes to go blueberry picking. The boys, Brian, Henry, and Bandit, went in the blue canoe. The girls went in the green one. All five of us, and our dog, camping, canoeing, picking blueberries, seeing a bear. It's not so hard to imagine this being a true story.

Next summer, we plan to try camping with the girls. We will go with our one canoe. If the timing is right we will pick blueberries right along the shore as we paddle. It isn't inconceivable that we would see a bear. But Bandit won't be there to bark at a bear or at us as we paddle (he never did like the water or seeing us in or on it). And Henry won't be there sitting in the front of Brian's canoe. He may be in there in our hearts. He may be among the countless stars of the night sky that we see as we sit, telling stories, around the fire, but he won't be there in the canoe or in the tent. And yet, how easy it is to weave him into our family stories.

Sharing the blanket

My grandmother has knitted blankets for all her 16 great-grandchildren. They are all the same pattern, the same as the one she knit for me and my sisters when we were babies. It is a loose knit with fringe on one end.

Elizabeth has been a blankie girl for a while now. At first, I could easily substitute my yellow and green blanket that's slightly scratchy or Kathleen's creamy, super soft one for her aqua one. Now she knows the particular matted feel and smell of her blankie, and is less accepting. Still, when she's really tired, she will sometimes settle for a different blankie if it has that fringe.

Two days ago, she woke around 1 AM, sopping wet. Her bed was wet, and yes, blankie was wet. Brian stripped her crib, got everything in the wash, and got her back in bed. He tried to cover her with a blanket his mom made. She took it, but she wasn't happy. And it didn't last long. She cried and cried for blankie. Kathleen was tangled in her own blankie. I felt around in the dark for my old blanket. It was right here in the basket, but the kids have been pulling things out. It wasn't in the basket or on the rocker or the chair. She was clamoring for blankie and Kathleen was stirring and I was deliriously tired.

There was one other blankie, same pattern, same fringe. It was lemon chiffon yellow. Until a couple of days before it had been folded on the chair in my room, but while I was sick and stressed and looking for comfort anywhere, I pulled out one night. It was, of course, Henry's. It was the blanket we last held him in. It was the blanket I held every night for a year. Could I share it? What if she peed on it? What if she decided she wanted to have it? What if it would help her sleep? I stumbled across the hall into my room, where the blanket was strewn by the foot of the bed. I spread it over Elizabeth, "Here's your fringe," I soothed.

"My blankie wet. Dada put in wash."

"Mhmm, but you use this. Sleepy time," I whispered putting her hand on the fringe. She fingered it, put her thumb in her month. "Shhh. Sleepy time." I went to bed. She fell asleep under her brother's blanket.

Trying to trust

I remember standing under harsh fluorescent lights in the little room behind the nurses station. I was in the yoga pants and t-shirt I wore for bed. I might not have had my glasses on. I was crying because I was worried. Henry had a fever, a low grade one, but a fever nonetheless. His heart rate was "normal for a baby his age," but high for him. And he wasn't right. I didn't know what was wrong, but I knew something was wrong and nobody really seemed all that concerned. A few days later he turned blue in my arms and was rushed back to the CICU. The next day he hovered on the edge of dying. That time he didn't. I knew something wasn't right, but I didn't have the evidence I needed and I couldn't convince the fellow standing in front of me as I blinked in those artificially bright lights that "normal for his age" didn't work for my boy.
I worry sometimes that something is wrong with me and I won't be able to get somebody to hear me in time. And part of that is that I simply worry sometimes that something is wrong with me. Brian talks about waiting for the other shoe to drop, but mostly I trust that I'm okay, will be okay. Sometimes, though, something little sets me off and I start to get anxious and and it builds and builds, because knowing that something isn't right isn't always enough. And watching my girls, I remember just how much me being okay matters.


It's been a long week of vague symptoms and feeling off and an doctor who couldn't see me, but I feel comfortable right now with a fairly mundane diagnosis of a stomach problem exacerbated by a virus (and far more anxiety than was probably warranted). My doctor ran some blood tests, and I'll check in if things persist or get worse. I'll try to breathe and to trust again that I'm okay.

Back to winter

As if to mock me for my premature sense that spring was imminent, winter blew in bitterly cold and blustery yesterday. This morning the thermometer hovered around 10 and despite the bright sun, I suspect we'd need a lot of bundling to get out there.

It reminds me of grief sometimes this time of year, the messiness, the sudden U turns and backtracking, the moments of hope, the sunshine looking happy and bright but hiding the frigid temps.

Sweet and sour

It's such a messy, hopeful time of year.

Around 5:30 every evening I look out and marvel that it is still light out. The kids wear snow pants and coats, more to keep them dry than to keep them warm and I abandon my hat and settle for a fleece instead of a real coat. Our dirt driveway is puddly and muddy, and so is my kitchen floor.

Last night we got a covering of snow, enough to cover the yellow from dogs and orange from Kathleen's snow marker and the dirt from snow clearing. Lacy flakes were still fluttering down at morning light and the sun peeked over a fresh start.

We used that fresh whiteness for a sweet treat. As a kid, after reading the Little House books, I tried to make sugar on snow. I got the Vermont Maid out of the cabinet and brought it out, cold, and poured it over some clean snow. It was sweet and slushy and kinda gross, and I didn't quite get it. Today, I got some of our real maple syrup out, some of the end of the gallon we bought last March, and boiled it. The first attempt was similar to my childhood efforts, so I googled sugar on snow and pulled out the candy thermometer, and wow! It formed these stiff icicles of maple that turned to taffy in your mouth. It stuck to our teeth (and the girls' hair) and we'd try and lick it off and pick at it and then eat some more. I pulled out pickles from last year to temper the sweet, and we stood out in the muddy driveway mixing sweet and sour, winter, spring, and summer.

Warm days and cold nights the sap rises and drip drip drips into the containers on tapped trees with a gift of sweet and the promise of spring.