Category Archives: History

The Boy and His Poop

This morning I took the crew on a little adventure down the street at the park.  With jars in hand, they were each commissioned to observe nature and find specimens for us to discuss. In particular, insects were high on the list of priority.   Gleefully, the bandits scattered through the park in search of the perfect items to present to each other when we regrouped.
I took in a deep breath to ground myself with the amazing nature around me and feel the wind…what peace. THIS is what homeschool is about.  Bliss.

A few minutes later, the scene changed.  All of the children were clustered around something. And as usual, the something had to do with Lucas.   Three voices, upset and anxious telling him to stop, that’s gross.  Lucas’ in his high-pitched tone of agitation that I’ve come to know so well, screeching over and over frantically, “I’m catching flies. I’m catching flies.”    As I walk towards them to diffuse the drama, I’m thinking, “What’s the big deal with flies?”
Well, the big deal was that he, in his own clever way, found a fail proof way of catching flies.   Shoving dog poop from a careless neighbor into his jar.  And I take a deep breath.  And I close my eyes. Because I can’t attack this kid, even if the last 5 years of my life has revolved around him and poop.
If you’ve read before, you know that poop is not a new issue with Lucas. (there’s a little poop HERE and then a lot of potty talk HERE) Both are from the same week, when he was 3 1/2 and I was determined to be done with his poop issues.  Looking back it kills me.  First, because I now know so much more about this sweet boy and what he needs. Second, because I neglected to come back and share with you the results of the poop wars. For three years. Yeah.
To be honest, I think a part of me doesn’t want to put it in writing.  It makes it more real, so concrete, this computer screen of mine.   For me, it’s putting it in writing that makes things so final. Makes them more true somehow. I’ve hinted about it, I’ve talked about it. I’ve somewhat posted Facebook statuses and links about it.  But, now I write. It’s time.

Lucas is now 6 years old. And he is still in pullups. Actually, he’s growing  out of them and I’m having to look for xsmall depends. WHAT, you say?!?!?!  So much has happened. GI specialist, blood tests, pow wows with preschool and kindergarten staff…. Yes, I sent him to Preschool and K because he needs structure desperately.   And the reason is that Lucas has a Vestibular Sensory Processing Disorder. His nervous system does not tell him how or when to poop without help.    He also has what commonly comes alongside  SPD.  Lucas has Asperger Syndrome.
I am very thankful that he is high functioning. There are pros and cons to that, as well, since many people just see him as a badly behaving child who lacks discipline.  We had an email from a teacher last  year who was upset at how disrespectful he was to her. He just REFUSED to make eye contact with her when she was speaking to him.  Heck, I’m happy if he makes eye contact with ME!! We’ve been working on eye contact since he was a baby!
He can go for hours looking like a completely normal child, and I start thinking maybe they’re wrong.  Then something sets him off. The squeals start, the repetitive motions….It’s there.
As far as the poop, we’ve been told that at his level some children aren’t fully self-sufficient even until 12 years old.  So, we’ve dropped it.  Taking the stress of that out of my day was huge, even if it meant surrendering myself to many more years of butt wiping.  I’ll be sharing more about it, but I wanted a starting point. I needed to get it out there to move on.
And since, the poop has been such a part of this walk, I figured I’d start there, and let it all be known.

We had to leave the park to clean Lucas up. He was devastated because he was certain that his fly trap would be a great success. I’m sure he’s right.  And there comes another facet of having a different level of need in your home.  The disappointment of 3 other children who wanted to stay and play at the park. It’s a unique juggling act that many mothers better than I am have mastered. I’m just catching the balls as they come and throwing them back when I can, hoping that I’m doing the right thing for these little people in the process.

Lucas is a lover, a cuddler, the one who strokes your hair when your head is down.  He comes with a deep insight that’s unexpected.  He’s incredibly intelligent and  I get daily glimpses of what he will be as a man someday.  I look forward to that, because the day-to-day now is temporary.  Every time I clean his mess, I pray. Not a prayer for rescue or healing.  I pray a prayer of thankfulness that my son is happy and healthy.  I remember what my mother always said, “Well, thank god for  good plumbing and a healthy digestive system!”  I take a moment to consider the mothers who have children unable to play, speak, move.  I have nothing, NOTHING to complain about.  My son is perfect, just how he is.

I’m ready to start sharing more, and I think that I will now. Now that I’ve cleared the air… on the poop.

Lucas, aka Ludini, with his fellow escape artist and favorite hen, Copperfield.

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Well, Gluten Happens :-(

This weekend my whole crew of littles were fed from the wrong spaghetti leftovers. They were accidentally “Glutened” by mistake, and the mistake ultimately was mine for not having made sure myself that those leftovers went straight in the trash and never made it into my fridge.  I thought they were pitched, but instead they’re wreaking havoc in my children’s digestive systems.  Selah is doing well, just they typical rash.  She’s actually off on a hike with a friend’s family today.  Jake has been grouchy. touchy and had one accident that I know of.  He doesn’t say anything anymore if he’s bleeding.  At seven  years old, he’s decided to be a man about it and I have to trust that he’ll let me know if he needs help.  Lucas and Irie are both in pull-ups, with full blown loss of control and bleeding rashes.
Life in our house is rough when #$*% happens. And by $#&%  I do mean gluten.  Being gluten-free has become very trendy lately. On one hand I love that there are more options, and I DO believe that the majority of people shouldn’t be eating gluten.  Certainly not as much as we do!
But there’s one little side effect of everyone wanting to treat gluten like a dietary choice. People like my family don’t have a choice.  So when their friends know others who are “gluten-free” but cheat when they want to (I’m personally guilty of this for me, but NOT for my kids) they assume that everyone can.  It’s like someone on a diet.  But this isn’t a diet.  Gluten tears my babies up.  It throws our whole household off for a few days. My children have intestinal bleeding and bleeding rashes.  It’s not the same as sneaking a bite of cake and not counting the calories. It’s devastating.
And no one has acted as if it’s not serious for us.  We’re surrounded by loving friends and family who care.  I’m so grateful for that!  It’s just that I see the general public being more aware of gluten, but in a way that desensitizes them.  They see it as a fad. And who doesn’t know someone who read an article and decided that they must be gluten intolerant? Once again, they most likely are!  And I love sharing and helping people become GF.  It’s just the way it is perceived as a simple choice in general that scares me.  And I suppose for me, I wonder if people think that I’m doing it for attention (let me tell you, NO ONE in their right mind would be doing this for 6+ years, with 4 kids, for an ego boost).

Anyway, that’s the end of my rant.  Shit happens. In my house, it tends to start out with gluten.   I just needed to pout publicly for a minute.  It’s not what I typically blog about at all, but darn it.  It stinks.
And speaking of stink, some uninvited guest seems to have climbed up into the new, lovely wall that my husband finished in the bathroom a few weeks ago.  The stench is so overwhelming that I’d almost RATHER change a pullup in the living room than sit and “wait” with them in the reekugb stench of our only bathroom.  See, there’s always a silver lining, right?  Travis will be back from Greenville late tonight so I don’t see much hope of finding the offender today.

Lucas is crying and leaking down his leg.  Irie is at my side crying and saying that her tummy hurts. Jake just ran through the house screaming “I’m not going to make it to the bathroom!”

Lord have mercy on my babies and their poor bellies and bumms!

 

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I have the Gall….

This is not something I typically want on my blog, but I thought it would be easiest way to tell any of my friends who who care. So, forgive me if this is way too OT and boring.

After several months of pain, nausea, sleepless nights… my gallbladder- who has taken on her own evil persona, giving my life a Jekyll and Hyde effect at times- got the best of me. I distinctly remember pain as far back as February so it’s certainly been awhile, but who had time for it? Not me.  Eventually, the Fowler (my family name) habit of  “suck it up and get over it” and not admitting anything was wrong stopped working out.  I had an idea of what I thought it was, and kept telling Miss Gallbladder to shut up and leave me alone. I seriously didn’t have the time of day to give to her.
I finally went to my doctor back in July and she order an ultrasound on it.  Unfortunately, my insurance restarted that month and we hadn’t paid the deductible yet.  So, after a day of fasting I got a call right before my appointment saying that I would have to pay $700 cash on the spot to get my ultrasound.  I canceled, and I ate lunch…   It was ridiculous really, because I knew the answer was to go to the ER and pay the $100 copay and they would do an ultrasound on the spot.  But I couldn’t just do that, and I despise emergency rooms.  So I went on back to my usual, the suck it up routine.
That’s until the gallbladder made the mistake of throwing a fit after a birth last Sunday night.  Here we were, all enthralled by the beauty of  sweet baby Grace, peacefully nursing in her mother’s arms.  I was at the head of the bed just adoring the scene, watching over them and basking in the beauty of the after-birth flow in the room and a job well done. And suddenly… the pulsing radiating pain hit me like a mac truck.  I started to shake, and the cold sweat spread quickly. I found myself practicing the controlled breathing again that I had been encouraging the birthing mother with just an hour earlier, but now it was for me. And I was praying  HARD that no one would notice!!!  But who was I kidding?  Anjli, one of the most amazingly perceptive midwives I know, was standing across the bed from me and picked up on it right away.  As did Susan an nurse that I’ve worked with so many times I feel like we should be facebook friends.  She knew me well enough to see something was wrong.  I tried to deny it as long as I could. Can you imagine the horror I felt, ruining the ambiance of such a moment?  How dare that damn  diva of a gallbladder steal that sweet couple’s thunder?!?!  I was mortified.  I kept saying I’d be fine. That I’d go home and take some pain killers and call my doctor in the morning, but they weren’t having it. Anjli actually offered to follow me home because she didn’t think I could drive, and I have a feeling she would have marched me up the steps and told my husband to take me back to the ER immediately anyway!   That wouldn’t do.  Then Kim, the photographer, picked up on what was going on.  She offered to walk down to the ER with me, so I decided to just go for it.  By the time I got down there, I realized that they were right.  I was not looking good.
Kim was amazing.  It’s all kind of a blur… yeah, like labor,  but I know she sat there with me a LONG time talking to me and keeping me distracted and all I could think was that it was now the middle of the night and she had over an hour drive home. She’s an incredibly generous and caring person and has demonstrated this to me on many occasions. She didn’t leave my side until they finally called me back and I appreciate every moment of distraction.   So, back I went. Ultrasound done, showing large gall stones. They talked for awhile and offered to admit me and take out the gallbladder right away.
Now, after all these months of trouble I was quite willing to kick the blasted gallbladder to the curb, but I was, in fact, in a hospital and I am who I am. So, doula mode kicked in and all of the questioning that goes with it. I have to say I was pretty proud of myself, being all alone and in pain but still that habitual line of questioning just flowed from me like it was natural, because at this point it really is.

  • What was the reason they were offering this right now? Well I knew that, through every throbbing nerve in my body
  • What were the risks and benefits? Infection was a risk, but really just that I will have pain until it’s gone. And the usual risks of surgery, although a little higher risk since I have already had 5 abdominal surgeries in my life and have adhesions and scar tissue to consider
  • Are there any alternatives? Well, yeah, go home with drugs.  And call Atlanta Natural Health ASAP in the morning!
  • How long do I have to make a decision? Already knew that  form previous answers…
  • Can I have a minute alone to think it through? No, I didn’t ask for a minute alone.  Through the haze of pain I already deduced that I was not really interested in rolling into the ER at 4am to be worked on by whichever surgeon was paged in the middle of the night while my husband and family slept unknowingly. Seriously, how would I even get home? And as long as it wasn’t truly an emergent need (Miss Sassy Gallbladder wasn’t going to rupture like that pesky appendix I had evicted when I was 18) I was NOT going to do anything without a second opinion and without consulting Dr. Hurd at  Atlanta Natural Health who I trust and know well.

So home I went at 4 am. In the meantime the pain had stopped.  Miss Gallbladder has a way of doing that. The pain lets up suddenly and completely, making you feel like a moron and wondering if it was all in your head and you really are the wimp that you were telling yourself you were.  I crawled into bed with my husband, who rolled over and held me until the alarm went off at 6:20am.  Totally unnecessary information to add, I know, but I just have to insert how much I adore and love my man. His arms are my favorite place to be and that little bit of time before the alarm went off relieved all of the fear and anxiety…I was safe.
Monday morning I dragged myself out of bed and went to  Atlanta Natural Health for an NRT and to get some supplements to support the gallbladder.  I talked to Dr. Hurd and Lisa about different options and got some good information.  Over the next week I got a referral for a great surgeon to meet with, and I researched other natural options like doing a flush or something. The problem is that I have LARGE stones that if you do pass them can become lodged in the pancreas and be potentially fatal. I just don’t feel good about pushing it.
So, tomorrow morning I have my surgical consult.  I hate surgery.   I’m not looking forward to it. But I feel like I took the time I needed to be sure that it’s the best option available. I know that some people choose to go one, even their whole lives, with gall bladder pain but I’m just not up for it.
And that’s all I have to say about that.  Thanks for reading my novel.

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Break It To Me Gently…

And here are the lyrics.

My grandfather died when I was 14. It was the “C” word, of course.  Cancer.   I remember riding in my grandmother’s convertible Le Baron one sunny afternoon, when Brenda Lee’s “Break It To Me Gently” came on the radio. And in a rare moment of true vulnerability, she told about those first days after out that she was about to lose the man who she had shared her life with.  She told me about the deep longing for just one more day. For time to slow down so she could be with him just a little bit longer.  Hold him and be held just so she could have the time to let it sink in.  She told me about this song.  I remember the wind in her hair and the sun on her face as she stared off into the distance, singing the song, gently under her breath. Just loud enough so that I could barely hear the catch in her throat as she lost herself in the memory.   In that moment, she was one of the most beautiful women in the world.  Her strength was burned in my memory.  And so were the lyrics and melody of that song. I’ve never forgotten it.
I knew then, at fourteen years old,  that this song was powerful. If ever I found myself facing such a situation, that song would comfort me.  It would soothe me, strengthen me.  I know that if I’m ever faced with losing my husband,  Brenda Lee will be there for me.  I will put my kids to bed, find the song on youtube and listen to it over and over while I wail in unhindered abandon until I’m able to face reality.
And the reality is that my husband is fine. He is healthy and well. But my mother has cancer…

Last week she went to the dermatologist to have a small cyst removed from her scalp. They see them all of the time, they said.  Typically not a big deal at all, they told her.  But just in case they always send it off for testing. Monday afternoon the dermatologist had to eat her words. The cyst was actually a cancerous tumor.   And the tumor burst so they need to go back in and remove more of the skin around it so that it doesn’t spread. Mom acted like it was no bid deal. Didn’t ask questions.  When I asked her what’s next she said. “Well, I guess we’ll just go through the process.”  That day I told my sister “She’s treating it like it’s nothing more than an ingrown hair!”
We pressed her to call back and get more information. So the next morning, she did.  We found that it  is a low-grade, rare skin cancer. Highly treatable, although the bursting isn’t a good thing because no one wants this to spread.  It’s called a Proliferating Trichilemmal Tumor.  Ironically, if you read the description, you’ll find that Mom and I were both right.  On a basic level it is an ingrown, cancerous hair follicle.  Nice, huh?

This week has been rough.  Friday was an amazing, powerful birth that took all of the strength and ability in me to serve this sweet family. I woke up after a few hours of sleep the next day sick.  Vomiting for hours and poor Selah was on couch next to me  until Sunday night. Monday we spent the whole day at Selah’s film shoot, which was a fantastic experience for my sweet girl.  Monday afternoon was the first call about mom, but who had time to process it with homework to do and Travis packing to go out of town at Butt-crack next morning?  Tuesday we were back at the shoot, then I had to make dinner for small group and take the kids alone.  Which was good to get out and get prayer, but Oh! the state of my kitchen after that whirlwind!  And, of course, I had to sleep alone. Not my thing, at all.  Wednesday Lucas woke up sick and miserable. I kept him home and cared for him all day.  Luckily he was better to go back yesterday. I was able to take Eden to the park and get some errands done.  Today I woke up with a sore throat again.   And did I mention that the truck battery died on Tuesday and I ran out of gas on I75 today?  Seriously. Haven’t had a minute to face this until now.

Anyway, so it’s not that dramatic in and of itself, now that we know the details about the cancer.  Regardless, it certainly started a train of thought. All of the “what ifs”  between strained family members, what holidays could look like in the future. I’m gonna be honest. Being a Fowler is amazing, but like any family there’s lots or drama, lots of crap and I don’t have the highest hopes for a Cosby- like-future. I’m not sure  how it will be handled when the inevitable comes, and Mom is gone.   It’s a sobering thing to think about.  I don’t want to do it.

If you look back through my history and posts, you’ll see that I use song lyrics often. They speak to me.  They challenge me. They move my heart.  Many of my post titles are song lyrics.  Heck, half of my facebook statuses are song lyrics or quotes that challenged me to think.  So, once again I’ve turned to a song to bring me back to center.  I guess I’m like my Grandma in that way.
While many  hymns and sweet spiritual songs have come to mind over the past few days, it’s Brenda Lee that has finally helped me stop life for a minute. She’s been here with me and Jesus, while I finally take a few to sit down on my couch and cry.   And of course, the other way I process things is to blog. So here I am laying it all out there, like the mess that I am. A completely vulnerable, blubbering fool, bawling while I type and listen to Brenda. I think I’ve hit play 5 times while typing. Don’t ask me how many tissues are on the couch beside me. I’m not counting.
My mother will be fine. She will go in Monday for more details, and next week she will have more skin removed.  In most people’s opinions, I’m overreacting.  But I’m the kinda girl that has to think through and process. Everything. Always.

So thanks for reading and letting me lay it out there.  On a happy note, ROOFING SAMPLES CAME TODAY!! I have in my hand, the colors for us to choose our kick-butt, rocking tin roof.  After 3 weeks of a standstill on construction, we’ll be moving forward again shortly.

Now, I’m going to go make 10 Minute Gluten Free Mini-Pizzas for the kids to take to Community Night at church.

I leave you with the beautiful voice of Brenda Lee.  Who knows.  Maybe it will move you to tears, too.

 

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How I Learned to Say Vagina From My Three-Year-Old: Something every parent should know

It’s amazing how many challenges come with parenting.  Before you have kids you think about the to-spank-or-not-to-spank debate and if you’ll stay at home or not.  After you have them you have to think about things like, well, vaginas and penises.  Actually, I wonder how many of you knew that it’s vaginae…

Well, there ya go. Learned something new? Let’s continue.

I grew up in a family where sex was not talked about.  Our bodies were not talked about.  There was this general air of “You’ll know…” and a book that was handed to you when you turned twelve.  About a month after receiving the book my mom would one day ask, “Now do you have any questions?”  Ummm, no. And that was that.
I started my sex education from a little boy in first grade who, while hiding with me in the back of my parents 12 passenger van, told me that if he kissed me with his tongue in my mouth it would make a baby. Interesting….
The subject of s-e-x is really no big deal in my family now. You might even say that it comes up too often over a big plate of Shipwrecks at family dinners. My parents changed and grew over the years as all of us will, and do. So I think my younger siblings got a completely different experience.  But still, I think that many of those in my ‘generation of parents’ had that experience of sex not being talked about and it really does affect how we look at our bodies and their sexual functions on a deep level. And it affects how we look at our children and our ability to teach them about their selves.
Travis and I had thought the whole thing through and decided how we were going the subject of private parts. We remembered the shame and confusion that a ‘Hush, hush!” approach had caused both of us and many of our friends.  We also weren’t naive enough to think that we could just raise our perfect little angels until they were 12 and THEN  have ‘The Talk”. Ok, seriously.  How many of you really didn’t know about sex until them.  Most of us knew just enough to be overconfident, confused, embarrassed but completely convinced that we were way past needing to talk to Mom and Dad about it.  Just enough to be dangerous.  While our parents were relieved to not have to spell out the details, many kids suffered from not having a real understanding and respect of their bodies. And many of us went on to ask all our questions from the kids who ‘knew’. Not so good.

It intrigues me how many parents don’t get the concept of shame that is almost always attached to these words.  We say things like “I just don’t think it’s right to hear that word out of a 3 year old’s mouth.” We teach our children cute little words like peter and who-ha thinking that we are keeping them sweet an innocent until it’s ‘time’ for them to learn the truth. Which is what, how to say vagina and penis? Do you have a problem hearing your child say ear?  I have a seriously uncanny phobia about feet. I didn’t teach my children to call their feet’ trotters’ so that I would feel more comfortable with what came out of their mouths.  I know a few people who do double duty, teaching their kids cute words AND the anatomical terms.  I guess that’s better. One friend has her daughter call it her ‘ninny’ which is absolutely adorable. I’m not gonna lie about it.  But I wonder if that is really helping or not either.  Aren’t you then maybe teaching them that their parts have these names that we don’t even say because it’s not appropriate, so we’ll say cute things instead, ok?  Don’t get me wrong. Part of me completely wishes that I could be ok with that approach. But my goal isn’t to get through the younger years of my kids being uninhibited with what they say to who, without them saying vagina in public. My hope is to someday have completely confident, secure adults who know who they are and have a safe, respectful and appropriate view of what their bodies are made for.  While a 3 year old doesn’t care what you teach them to call their vagina, when she’s 10 and aware of what her friends are saying there is an underlying awareness of not being ok to talk about it to mom and dad. I mean, I wasn’t even supposed to say the words….

Teaching Selah to use the appropriate words for her body seemed so simple, but I really did struggle with it at first.  I didn’t even realize how much shame I,myself,  had attached to the words.  I cringed and blushed the first few times I heard the word ‘vagina’ in her sweet little 2 year old voice. I had to cautiously work through my response and it was hard to do.  The more I went through the process, the more I was thankful that we were teaching our children to respect their bodies and be comfortable from the beginner. I had no idea what I would get out of the process.  My own shame and discomfort evaporated little by little as I watched my daughter in complete innocence grow more confident and secure with her body parts at 3 than I was at 30.  They’re there. They’re important and have a purpose. She learned an appropriate respect and boundaries without there ever being an issue of ‘don’t say that’!
And here’s the thing.  I am forever in awe and thankful for following what I felt was God’s gentle prompting to teach my children their bodies. Period.

I was completely unaware of the potential consequences of disguising body parts with play words, until the day that Selah told us that someone had touched hers. It something that every parent fears and prays that they never, ever, ever have to hear.  I’m just not even going to go into the extent of pain and crushing that can happen to your heart in 5 words from a precious, tiny child. She was 3 year old. It’s debilitating to face not being there in a moment when your child needs your protection.  I may share that someday, but not today.
We’re not the kind of parents who were going to brush over these things and ‘hope that she’ll forget’.  We went through the appropriate measures of reporting the incident to the police so our baby girl could get the counseling and support she needed to work through this. Waiting. Is. Not. An. Option. Even if you’re having a baby that week. It’s just NOT.
To make the report we had to take Selah to the Child Protection Agency so she could make an official  police statement.  It was….hard.  It was after Selah gave her statement that I realized how huge it is to teach your children their bodies.  The woman who interviewed Selah thanked me for teaching our daughter about her body, and was amazed at how secure and confident she was in talking about it.   Apparently one of the biggest problems that they deal with is the ‘play words’ that run rampant though our childrens’ vocabularies.   If she interviews a child who uses play words, they are not considered able to give a clear statement and it can be a very damaging setback in prosecuting their abuser. On the other hand, if you try to ‘fix’ it and teach them the real words after the fact then it is considered leading a witness.  As if the trauma of the situation isn’t bad enough for these children, imagine the helplessness of knowing that teaching them one word, the real word, could make of break the case against someone.  Our situation was different and we did not press charges for very specific, well thought out reasons.

Selah is fine. She’s about the most confident, secure seven year old you will meet.  We’re fine. We’re thankful for what we learned, even if we would never had wanted the experience for her or us.  This one is heavy today, and I know that.  But seriously, if you haven’t already… Tell. Them. About. Their. Bodies.

Edited to add: This is not meant to be a bummer of a post, but I do believe that good can come from circumstances that just aren’t.  I’m thankful and want to share with other parents what we learned through the experience. That whole God used it for good thing, ya know?

Amen. 🙂

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No Easter Bunny ‘Round hare…

Nope.  Just like Santa, the big fluffy guy is seriously a distraction from the meaning of the holiday. Which is the death of Christ.  I don’t post a lot about my spiritual beliefs here, but I’m sure they are evident.   I believe Easter is the most important day of the year. The remembrance of the death of Christ is much more important than his birth, because his death is what gives us freedom. 

To find out where he came from, read this.  

 Easter Bunny

On Thursday night we had 3 couples over for dinner, prayer and communion.  The idea being that ‘The Last Supper’ (the Thursday before Easter) was Christ with his friends sharing a simple meal of wine and bread and then he didn’t eat again until he rose on Sunday.  So that was the last thing we ate.  I did have one cup of coffee with milk yesterday and I made some apple/orange juice this morning and had about 6 ounces. 
Ironically, I had to make 2 huge batches of muffins and a batch of chocolate overload cookies yesterday, all while not eating.  It wasn’t really that bad.  And today I have to make 2 cakes to take to dinner tomorrow, and we are making Easter Story Cookies with the kids.
I’ve always had a hard time fasting because I’m hypoglycemic.  It really hasn’t been a problem this time and I’m actually enjoying the experience of reading the bible and meditating at mealtimes instead of eating.  Part of me actually wants to start fasting on a more regular basis because it’s so calming.  Haven’t really felt hungry yet, but I may by tonight.

  We’ve read the stages from Palm Sunday to the cross to the kids and Selah keeps begging us to go ahead and read the end, even though she knows what happens. It’s precious.  We will read the resurrection tomorrow morning and have a ‘celebration’ over breakfast.   Tonight Travis and I will watch ‘The Passion of The Christ’ after the kids go to bed.  Tomorrow we will have lunch with my family and dinner with his. 

So, that’s our Easter process. What’s yours?

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