Coffee

Since my big-loss diet of almost two years ago, I’ve enjoyed being lighter. But I’ve also struggled with the aftermath: putting some pounds back on and taking them off again, confronting my pattern to eat to soothe myself, watching when I tend to gorge.

This past year, I’ve been drinking a bit more coffee. The young miss discovered coffee several months ago. I “recommended” one per day, max. Her average is about two a week, and sometimes those come home from school unfinished. For a while I drank those two-day old frappuccinos, but the things are just too darned sweet. It’s like coffee-flavored sugar water. I’d rather just spoon it out of the brown sugar jar and smell the real coffee brewing.

Coffee, I found out, is nearly calorie free. Until you start putting additives into it. This page gives an amazing rundown of those additives, including this bit of testimony:

For example, a cup of plain coffee has about 2 calories, but a large Lotta Caramel Latte™ shake from Cold Stone Creamery has a whopping 1790 Calories and a large Coolatta™ from Dunkin Donuts has 800 Calories! A person could easily consume hundreds of excess calories very quickly from speciality coffee drinks.

Good grief! Hold that Cold Stone Creamery LCL, lol.

I like the taste of straight-up coffee. But I also will put a drop of something into it about half the time. I like to track that each teaspoon of sugar is about 16 calories. Each tablespoon of cream is about 50. 2% milk is about 8–that’s about right for me if the brew is strongly bitter.

There’s a nice coffeeshop a block away from the parish center. It was my part-time office for about a month after the fire. It was then I found my limit on regular coffee is about a large cup a day. If I had a second appointment, I would have to do a green tea smoothie. That was probably a few hundred calories, but hey–I like to sleep at night.

 

Dodging Tornadoes in Iowa

Oklahoma got the brunt of funnel clouds I see. While we were watching The King’s Speech tonight, the sirens went off in town. Heavy winds and rain, but nothing to pluck us off to Oz.

Unbeknownst to my wife and the young miss I checked our basement digs where we would head in case of a tornado. So far, only the distant rumble of thunder. Time for me to pray, then get to bed. Hopefully you readers have escaped the worst of bad Midwestern weather. It’s nice to live on a large continent … except for the tendency to spawn twisters.

 

RIP, Pip

It’s one of the sad duties of a parent to dig a grave for a pet. After she got home from school this afternoon, the young miss found Pip dead in his home. He chirped for his breakfast this morning, but didn’t nibble too much on it. When my wife and I left for a shopping trip a few hours later, he seemed in some distress, breathing fast. He was pretty old for a cavy.

To the right is Pip on one of his playful moments with Gambit.

 

First May Snow In Five Decades

Earlier this week, I was thinking Friday would be a good day to tune up the mower, set out the deck furniture, and maybe even fire up the grill.

A few days ago I set out our extra litter boxes to air them out.

Was not anticipating shoveling a 50/50 water/snow mix from the front walk and driveway today.

Yesterday the young miss wore bedroom slippers to school. I don’t think she repeated that stunt today.

First May snowfall in my city since 1963. Sheesh.

 

Metusael or Methusael?

Sorry for the two consecutive posts on the young miss, but here goes …

About a half-hour after she went to bed tonight, she emerged from her room, pointing to Genesis 4:18 in the Bible she received yesterday after Confirmation, with a question:

Are these two different people?

And sure enough, her print Bible read, “… of Metusael, and Methusael became …”

The online version of 4:18 is clear:

To Enoch was born Irad, and Irad became the father of Mehujael; Mehujael became the father of Methusael, and Methusael became the father of Lamech.

After she padded back to her bedroom, I was left with a question of my own. What is the young miss doing reading Genesis 4 with enough attention to catch a Catholic Book Publishing Company’s typo at this time of night? First Pope Francis. Now my daughter’s Confirmation. What is the church coming to?

 

Viriditas

The young miss, after Confirmation yesterday, chocolate in hand.

It was a happy accident that she picked a green dress, gave a green scarf to her sponsor who was wearing a dress with green.

Confirmation name: Hildegard.

Viriditas!

 

Hildegard in the Family

I’m not a fan of the practice of taking a confirmation name. I have “Andrew,” the first apostle and my boyhood parish’s patron. But I didn’t know better in ’72.

The young miss settled on Hildegard. I approve of that.

Confirmation rehearsal tonight, after a long day’s drive back from Kansas City. Big thumbs-up assessment from the cardiologist. We were only in the clinic for an hour today. These good reports are always a relief. Though I’ve grown accustomed to having a daughter who, despite having half a heart, seems healthy as a horse … you never know when the black cloud might blow in.

Meanwhile, I found this coin on wikipedia:

 

On The Road, Again

Hitting the road in a few hours. The young miss gets a cardiology check-up in Kansas City twice a year, and tomorrow morning is the first of these in 2013. That these fall during the school year is a slight annoyance. Why hasn’t my wife and the doctor scheduled one of these during the summer? It doesn’t ever seem right to drive four hours for a two-hour appointment, then turn around and drive back. There’s so much fun to be found in our former city. I was hoping for a ball game tonight. My wife has arranged a stay with some old friends, so I think a quiet evening catching up seems more to everyone else’s liking. Boo.

Unforeseen six months ago was the troubling front of bad weather in the American Midwest. I never like driving in heavy rain. Last night I suggested openly that maybe if the weather was atrocious this afternoon, maybe we just leave early early Wednesday morning instead. My spouse nixed that idea–and she’s right: it will be good to spend time with friends. Besides, Royals-Twins will be a rainout. Boo.

Also unforeseen was Confirmation rehearsal tomorrow night. So there will be no dilly-dallying after the doc gives us the clean bill of health. We’ll have time for a meal on the road. But no real visiting with friends. And guess who gets to do the lion’s share of driving. Boo.

At the parish’s lectio divina this morning, we prayed through just the end portion of this coming Sunday’s Gospel (see all the readings here). The end portion struck me, after Jesus and Peter complete their threefold dialogue of “Do you love me/You know I do.”

Amen, amen, I say to you, when you were younger,
you used to dress yourself and go where you wanted;
but when you grow old, you will stretch out your hands,
and someone else will dress you
and lead you where you do not want to go.”
He said this signifying by what kind of death he would glorify God.
And when he had said this, he said to him, “Follow me.”

I was feeling out of sorts this morning. The seemingly endless exile away from the fire, a rather long and seemingly pointless meeting at church last night, almost 500 miles behind a steering wheel in the next thirty hours. What’s not to be annoyed about?

And yet, the message seemed clear as I heard these words this morning. When I offer my hands in love, in service, I am led to places I don’t want to go. Even if I’m not quite able to articulate my dissatisfaction logically or otherwise, I still see it. Jesus urging “Follow me” seems less nebulous after Good Friday. We all know now where this will lead. We know now.

I think about my wife’s stress with her sister’s situation and my daughter’s worries about just being a teenager. I can strive to make this trip a pleasant one, and blend my “Boo” out of the picture mostly. It will be a gray enough day. This is one of those episodes where it seems appropriate to subsume my dissatisfaction, and look at the bigger picture, the better picture.

Besides, my wife will ask me, “Do you love me?”

And I know what my answer will be.

 

“Walking Miracle”

The post title is how the doctors in Florida described my sister-in-law.

I want to thank all those who prayed for her and for my wife and our family. It looked very bleak on Good Friday: taking her off the ventilator and sending her to hospice. But she woke up. She was talking and responding. She improved through Easter week and went home from the hospital yesterday.

My niece commented on the prayers: “We felt them and we are grateful.”

As a person of faith, I know miracles happen. But as a cynic, I don’t expect to experience them. I don’t ask for them, really. I know my sister-in-law still faces a long recovery. And she has a history of severe back pain from arthritis and degenerative disk disease. And she smokes heavily. When she was ill, I prayed for her without specific intercession. After all, who am I to know what is needed most in her life? Do other family members rely on her? Has her arthritis been a serious cross to bear? Has the heart attack damaged her brain and heart tissue?

I also prayed for my wife. I know she had conflicting feelings. She does not want her sister to suffer. She also wanted to be there for her family here: the young miss celebrates Confirmation a week from tomorrow, and my busy time of the year.

So the news from down South turns me to a prayer of gratitude–a good orientation for the Easter season.

 

Weathering The Monopolies

Last night, I almost exhausted myself shovelling a walking path to the street. Ames got ten inches yesterday, but the drift in front of the house was well over a foot. I expected the schools to be open. I wanted to prepare for getting the young miss out to the street to catch her bus. She was bustling around the house this morning at 6:50AM. Lucky thing I rolled out of bed to make sure she was bundled up. She couldn’t find her coat.

Eep. The little oaf almost went out in her hoodie.

I loaned her my coat, and while she was struggling with its balky zipper, I thought to check my email. Whew! School called off because of sub-zero wind chill and blowing snow.

So, it was time to kick off Christmas Break with a round of Monopoly:

After ten minutes, I had served three jail terms, and as you see above, the young miss had completed hotel construction on the dark purples.

After an hour, I had scored the dark blue monopoly, and had five houses on the properties. But repeated stays at the Mediterranean Hotel had reduced me to $42 in cash, a house sale on Boardwalk, and every other non-blue property in my portfolio mortgaged.

But I guess the early break was too much for my daughter’s sensibilities. Her high-rolling lifestyle eventually caught up with her. She absorbed three big hits before the end.

It was really a good thing I woke early. The wind is still whipping, and it would have been dangerous for her to be waiting for the school bus underdressed for the weather. I know kids get independent-minded in the teen years. The young miss is really self-motivated to get ready for school on her own and get out the door in time. Last year, she had a slew of tardies and many last-minute rides. This year, maybe only one. I’m glad my parent/danger sense is still active after all these years. Every so often, I get that inner nudge to check things out. Thank God for those nudges.

 

Winter Descends

The much-anticipated/dreaded blizzard has struck Iowa tonight. We had some thunder and lightning with the snow. That last bit was freaky.

The entire family has been holed up inside today. Despite two-thirds of us getting flu shots, we were all home sick. Even the cat barfed a few times outside the bedroom door.

A young friend of mine has gone missing. He left home too soon in life, lost a job and an apartment, feels estranged from his family, and tragically, is homeless on a night like tonight. Probably holed up in his car somewhere. It looks peaceful white from the inside of a warm home. I imagine it must be bitter on the inside a shell of metal with an empty gas tank and a feeling of estrangement from family and friends. So, if you’re reading, offer up a prayer if you would. When the young miss emerged from the shower, we read Luke 15:11ff. It was all I could think of. This is a good time of year to come home.

 

Teen Daughters Are Mysteries

Lately, I’ve been tapping into my assessment from forty years ago that female teens were intimidating, strange, and just a cause for worry. These days, I just can’t figure them out. Tuesday I asked the young miss, “It’s the last home volleyball match at ISU. Want to go?”

“I dunno.”

I reminded her on Thursday. Same mumbled answer.

Yesterday, my wife and I spent the afternoon picking through retail wreckage after the locusts descended on Black Friday. It was nice to spend a few hours with my wife. When I settled in at my desk at the parish a bit after 4 yesterday, I thought I’d get four, maybe five hours of Christmas planning, email catching-up, and the little stuff that didn’t happen this week. So after only a half-hour, I get a text from my daughter:

I do want to go to the game.

It’s not often I will get an offer like that from the young miss. Work can wait. It was a great match, especially for the home team.

 

Nap!

My wife uncovered this ten-year-old image of naptime. The young miss at age five, I believe. Splinter, our last white cat. Must have been a rough day at the parish, at pre-K, and in the rat race.

 

Gambit, Ever Alert

The young miss with our younger cat. He cuddles unlike any other cat we’ve had. But he always has his eye out for prey.

 

Taking Heart

Recently I was researching a bit into my daughter’s heart condition. In previous generations, she would have been like Pearl. There were no reconstructive surgeries possible, and she would have died long before she was ever available for adoption. I never would have known her, let alone loved her and had father-daughter chats over hot chocolate, or gone sledding, or kicked a ball around the backyard.

My wife was shocked when I told her not every HLHS parent chooses surgery. There are two operation options these days–a heart transplant or a three-stage reconstructive procedure. Each carries its own risks. Ten percent failure rates for each open heart operation. The five-year survival rate is about fifty percent. Beyond that, the heart impairment during pregnancy or infancy seems to affect brain development, and some older children have learning or emotional challenges.

So not every parent chooses surgery. It happens in one out of three HLHS infants. My wife asked me, “Who wouldn’t opt for surgery?” I guess that some people can’t afford it. They opt for palliative care and make the small, slender life of their child as comfortable as possible for a rather short time. So it’s like the few weeks of life for little Pearl.

Pearl’s dad:

Things didn’t go wrong. God has designed Pearl the way he wanted, for his glory and our good.

Well, maybe. I don’t have a window into God’s plan. I’m not convinced the anguish of parents and a life ended in infancy is “God’s will,” as the headline suggests. I think it’s okay to suggest that tragedy like this is definitely not the intent of God, nor is it to be borne with passive acceptance by mothers and fathers. But I do think these sad situations provide us with opportunities. And it seems that many people are touched by Pearl and her parents’ witness of faith. And that is a good thing, a very good thing indeed, if by means of Pearl, a little more tenderness and compassion enters the world.

I still can’t get my head around the numbers on HLHS. I feel even more grateful for my healthy, well-adjusted daughter. One-third survive the womb. With her surgery one-half of those survivors live to age seven, if they were one of the seventy-percent who didn’t have complications from open-heart procedures. One half of those survivors have some developmental disability. And one-half of those survivors have emotional trauma that involves some psychological intervention. By my math, the young miss is one-in-35 to make it to where she is now, mid-adolescence. I should get down on my knees in thanksgiving for that more often than I nag her about finding a confirmation sponsor or worry about her possible career choices as a forensic scientist or a spy for the CIA.