when things aren't ok...

...I tend not to blog about them, because who wants to hear hopelessly depressing things! Plus, it's a widely known fact that there's enough pain to go around, and almost everyone has at least as much as they wanted, if not a little more :). However, having said that, this weekend was just an exercise in perseverance and pain, and there wouldn't be much to write about if I didn't include it.

So, with hopefully not too much drama, because the Queen rightfully calls me the real (drama) queen in the family-- don't worry, no dresses for me, thanks-- here's a few of the tales of the weekend.

Our sweet older madman (that'd be the LJ) has had a fun "nondescript noncontagious rash" for what's going on two weeks now. At first, it didn't worry me at all and the Queen very little, especially as we were both quite busy with other mad goings-on, but little by little he got itchier and we got somewhat more worried. It's always funny; I feel like we are relatively laid-back parents as far as most things go, but almost everyone thinks that. It's a bit like thinking your kid is cute when they are born. I don't know if this makes me the only parent in the universe to think this, but ours weren't. In fact, they were appallingly purple and angry. I think both Rachel and I were a little taken aback by it, especially with LJ. Anyway, the kids get cuter with time; it's just the way of the world.

Hopefully, our attitude towards our kids is actually laid-back, and not blindly restrictive or controlling, but feel free to let me know if it's not. (Actually, honesty is incredibly hard to come by; I spent my entire adult life thinking I wasn't as wound-up as most first-borns only to have a relative from 3,000 miles away snort when I told him just that-- now I know that I'm compulsive like every other perfectionist; it's actually helped a lot in knowing my own parenting style.) All that to say that I feel pretty laid-back about the kids, EXCEPT when it comes to breathing/ respiratory stuff. It all stems from day 2 of Elijah's life when he was having a rough go of it to the point where I actually slept for nights 2 and 3 of his life on the nursery floor with him, and I was really glad I did, because night 2 he stopped breathing while (thank God)I was awake. Telling myself not to panic I gave him ten seconds to start breathing on his own; he didn't, so at fifteen seconds I flipped him over and started gently whacking him on the back. Medically, I'm sure that didn't do anything, but after ten seconds or so, he gave a gasp and started breathing again. Since then I've been incredibly paranoid about breathing.

Right, so that was a long way to explain why my attitude about his rash was pretty laissez-faire until the Queen could take him scratching it no longer and got some Benedryl for him, which did nothing, so they prescribed a steroid. Quick side effects of steroids: lack of sleep, general irritability, and wild mood swings. Hmmm... sounds like Elijah before steroids. The effects were somewhat exponential because steroids also suppress your immune system, and thus three days in he got sick.

Which leads us to last night. We were spent, totally spent. Things weren't ok, and we had been praying all weekend. We had spent most of Saturday dealing with random pre-Halloween scary things like me drinking waaay too much caffeine and getting a funny heartbeat because of it (I'm not drinking caffeine for a week to see if that mellows me out) and the Queen had an 'ocular migraine' which apparently isn't that big of a deal (though we will consult with her doctor, all you concerned medical people) in the long-term but does involve fifteen minutes of partial vision loss (how's that for a terrifying side effect? -- If it wasn't happening in real life but in a movie it would be pretty funny... Rachel was looking at me saying "I can only see half of your face" and I was trying to cope by being witty and saying "Well, at least I look better"-- as a sidebar, in real crises humor isn't a great coping mechanism, but it's the only one I've got) so we were both freaked out and clinging to promises found in Matthew 28:20 that "I am with you always" and Deuteronomy 31:6 that "the Lord your God will never leave you or forsake you." But the honest truth?? When your heart won't beat right, your wife looks at you but can't see you anymore, and your oldest son, one of your two bundles of joy, is struggling for breath, it doesn't feel like God's there with you... at all. I think sometimes you simply have to trust and wait.

"I wait for the Lord," says the writer of the psalms, "more than watchmen wait for the morning." So there I was, at 8:30 at night, kneeling next to a fitful Elijah, who was exhausted beyond belief but couldn't sleep for more than fifteen minutes without waking up in a panicked scream, coughing and crying, and I was waiting for something. Praying... waiting for anything.

And then-- I think it happened. At least this has never happened to me before. Elijah coughed, his little body shuddered a little bit, and he sat bolt upright. I waited for the scream, but it didn't come. "Daddy," he said, looking at me with big, watery brown eyes, "pray for me?"

So I did. I didn't know what to pray exactly and I don't remember even exactly what I prayed for. After we were done pouring out all the crap that had happened over the past days to God, I felt peaceful. Elijah must have felt that way, too, because he turned over, still coughing, and held my hand as he drifted in and out of sleep. He wouldn't let me leave the bedroom. I had to hold his hand until he drifted off again.

It's not like prayer is a magic bullet. I feel like the magic bullet (at least the kind of magic bullet I dream of) would avoid Elijah waking up every ninety minutes over the course of the night. But, see, he wasn't waking up screaming in pain any more. He was waking up trying to convince me to play with him. It was almost music to my ears-- almost. After all, isn't it any daddy's dream to awake at 2:45am to the cuddling of his little one (who has switched beds just to be with me-- grrr) saying, "it's morning, Daddy. Time to play?" To which my response was, "Go to sleep, LJ. In your own bed."

He tried again at 4:00am by singing to me... I guess there will always be tomorrow night to sleep. Even amidst the sleeplessness, though, I can see hope-- and that's far more than I could see last night.

Tomorrow's thoughts will be a little less deathly serious-- after all, when you've got a normally hyperactive 2-year-old running around on 'roids, he'll say things that are just off the charts. Blessings to you all on this Halloween night!

P.S. I almost forgot-- he also tore up his face tripping on the curb at church... it's been that kind of weekend!