It's becoming a running gag, that I don't get to Small Success Thursday until Friday. Still, it's not Saturday, so I'll consider that a small success for next week.
Also, I have a piece over at the National Catholic Register. It's the beginning of a series meditating on the mysteries of the Rosary. I'm working on the next one, but these I hope will allow people to delve deeper into each mystery. They're not in order....yet. They're as I go meditations, based on whatever one keeps presenting itself in front of me.
One last thing: Last week, I wrote about a woman who only needed a dollar fifty-five, discussing how when we encounter need, we should act. It's very easy these days, to discover need. One would have to be willfully blind to not see. If your heart is stirred, pray, then act accordingly. If we all give even the widow's mite, we can together be one of the drops in an ocean of God's mercy for someone...and that's the goal, to be a drop.
Showing posts with label Catholic Mom. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Catholic Mom. Show all posts
Friday, September 22, 2017
Saturday, January 23, 2016
Over at Catholicmom.com
I know it's Saturday but I was at the March for Life yesterday and have been digging out from the Blizzard of 2016 ever since so...come join us over at Small Success Thursday (on Saturday).
Wednesday, May 6, 2015
Peanutbutter & Grace
Today, I have a piece over at a new site, Peanutbutter & Grace.
The family that runs this publishing company have been internet friends for years and they have great stuff if you have a first communion or baptism or godchild to shop for, and want something that allows not just the kid, but the family to deepen their faith. Check out the rosary devotions with liturgical art, browse, leave a comment. Thank them for growing a Catholic family ministry to support their own Catholic family and others.
Thursday, August 21, 2014
Catholicy Mommy Tribute
"Pray. Hope, and don't worry." --Saint Padre Pio.
My grandmother had a great love of this saint. I never knew that much about him except for that quote, but it came to mind yesterday when I spoke with my daughter. She is going to a new school and feels great anxiety about this change. When I suggested prayer, she didn't exactly roll her eyes but she gave me the look.
Over the recent years, I've heard the complaint from my teens, "You're going all Catholicy Mommy" on us." Some cringe when they hear EWTN radio on as I do the dishes, others if it is on in the car. I get it. All the outside of it can seem too sweet to tolerate even in small doses. Pray, hope and don't worry sounds almost flippant. Tra-la-la-lah. I've prayed so no worries. That's not what the quote means, anymore than "Jesus, I trust in You." means God is my co-pilot.
I struggled to explain. If it were flippant, it would be merely, "Don't worry, be happy." But this is a directive. Pray. --which means do this first. Hope. This is a choice. And don't worry. This is an action, a deliberate effort of faith in life. It means that prayer is an action, and hope is a faith lived, which allows one to proceed forward no matter what, with an uplifted heart. God answers. Every time. Pray, hope and don't worry requires trust in God that He is infinitely good, infinitely loves us and infinitely seeks to bring us home no matter how we wander.
But what does it look like? To pray, hope and don't worry.
If you've ever met someone who deeply understands their vocation and lives it, they bubble with joy even if the work they do is strenuous, obnoxious and lowly. They aren't trivial. They know the hardness of the life they've chosen, and yet they exude joy. To be in their presence, is to be steeped in joy. I've had the blessing of knowing priests, nuns, family, teachers and friends I love, who live this day in and day out. I searched for examples. I told her about the sisters of life, women I interviewed for an article and their constant work with crisis pregnancies. They dealt with hard realities of life and death, of struggle and sacrifice, and they yet were joyous people, and I could even feel that joy talking to them over the phone. She understood.
Later I thought of how Paul is joyful and we are joyful about him, but that doesn't change the reality of his Down Syndrome. It does however mean his condition is not the arbiter of how we will treat him or how much we will love him. There is still a muscular nature to the work of loving Paul. He requires more vigilance, more patience, more direct hand over hand, but it's all love. I do not spend sleepless nights over the fact that Paul has this condition. Pray. Hope, and don't worry. I understood slightly deeper.
So today, she got on the bus and I texted her, "Have a great day, love you." and she wrote back, "Hunger games hand thing." and "Do do doo do." so I replied, "Thank you for volunteering as tribute." and privately thought, "Pray, hope and don't worry." as I uttered a Hail Mary for her in my Catholicy Mommy way and then mused on how very not flippant that sentence of Saint Padre Pio is.
My grandmother had a great love of this saint. I never knew that much about him except for that quote, but it came to mind yesterday when I spoke with my daughter. She is going to a new school and feels great anxiety about this change. When I suggested prayer, she didn't exactly roll her eyes but she gave me the look.
Over the recent years, I've heard the complaint from my teens, "You're going all Catholicy Mommy" on us." Some cringe when they hear EWTN radio on as I do the dishes, others if it is on in the car. I get it. All the outside of it can seem too sweet to tolerate even in small doses. Pray, hope and don't worry sounds almost flippant. Tra-la-la-lah. I've prayed so no worries. That's not what the quote means, anymore than "Jesus, I trust in You." means God is my co-pilot.
I struggled to explain. If it were flippant, it would be merely, "Don't worry, be happy." But this is a directive. Pray. --which means do this first. Hope. This is a choice. And don't worry. This is an action, a deliberate effort of faith in life. It means that prayer is an action, and hope is a faith lived, which allows one to proceed forward no matter what, with an uplifted heart. God answers. Every time. Pray, hope and don't worry requires trust in God that He is infinitely good, infinitely loves us and infinitely seeks to bring us home no matter how we wander.
But what does it look like? To pray, hope and don't worry.
If you've ever met someone who deeply understands their vocation and lives it, they bubble with joy even if the work they do is strenuous, obnoxious and lowly. They aren't trivial. They know the hardness of the life they've chosen, and yet they exude joy. To be in their presence, is to be steeped in joy. I've had the blessing of knowing priests, nuns, family, teachers and friends I love, who live this day in and day out. I searched for examples. I told her about the sisters of life, women I interviewed for an article and their constant work with crisis pregnancies. They dealt with hard realities of life and death, of struggle and sacrifice, and they yet were joyous people, and I could even feel that joy talking to them over the phone. She understood.
Later I thought of how Paul is joyful and we are joyful about him, but that doesn't change the reality of his Down Syndrome. It does however mean his condition is not the arbiter of how we will treat him or how much we will love him. There is still a muscular nature to the work of loving Paul. He requires more vigilance, more patience, more direct hand over hand, but it's all love. I do not spend sleepless nights over the fact that Paul has this condition. Pray. Hope, and don't worry. I understood slightly deeper.
So today, she got on the bus and I texted her, "Have a great day, love you." and she wrote back, "Hunger games hand thing." and "Do do doo do." so I replied, "Thank you for volunteering as tribute." and privately thought, "Pray, hope and don't worry." as I uttered a Hail Mary for her in my Catholicy Mommy way and then mused on how very not flippant that sentence of Saint Padre Pio is.
Thursday, February 21, 2013
Small Success Thursday
Today at Catholic Mom. Go visit here. Leave a comment or a post link to your blog! Thanks!
Thursday, October 18, 2012
Small Success Thursday
Just a reminder, I'm over on Catholicmom.com on Thursday to celebrate Small Successes! Click on the link and leave your list of what you did this week that deserves a cheer and remembering. I look forward to seeing what you did this past week to live out a life of little things with great love.
Monday, August 2, 2010
Tattle Free Zone
Last week at breakfast, my daughter began tattling to me about her brother who also happened to be sitting across from me. Naturally, her brother reciprocated. "She's putting on too much butter." "He poured chocolate syrup in his milk." "She took an extra piece of toast. You're only supposed to have two." "He's telling on me." "She kicked her foot under the table." "He made a mean look." No one actually waited for me to respond. I thought I'd nipped it in the bud with a classic Mom glare over my cheerios but no, as soon as breakfast was over it started up again.
"Mommmmmm, I wanted to play the Wii and he took the remote."
"Mommmmmm, she wants to play the Wii and we're supposed to do our math before we have screen time."
"Mommmmmm, he's trying to pretend he's the parent."
"Mommmmmm, tell her I'm right."
Now I hate tattling. It's tiresome. But it's a fine line parents have to tread because kids are your first best early warning system (see last week's post on skateboarding) of seriously dangerous epic experiments that might be happening outside of your knowledge.
So I appreciate having a mole network amongst the kids to keep tabs on what everyone is doing. However, I got tired of being used as the nuclear threat in the perpetual sibling cold war.You know the drill. Not so innocent random sibling comes to the room and says with breathless excitement and no small dash of drama, "Mommmmmmmm!" There's an important element of syntax here. The word Mom has been transformed into a two sylable phrase with two stresses, not to be confused with MoM! MOM! or MaOMMM, all of which indicate something far more expensive and/or dire. Once they have caught my eye, the tattle begins.
It doesn't matter what the tattle actually is about, the tone is always the same. "There's a disobedient child. Sic em!" and I'm supposed to pounce like a rabid dog while they sit back smugly and enjoy the show while quoting lines from Ricardo Montalban in Startrek II about revenge.
If the child tattling is older, the approach is a slight bit more smooth. I am suddenly the Judge. "Your honor, this miscreant was caught red handed by me engaging in behavior deemed improper by me. What say you? Be sure it's a nasty long sentencing." Mind you, if I have any words for the prosecutor about his or her conduct in the proceedings, that is soundly ignored.
So I banned tattling for the day unless it was on yourself. For at least the first six hours, the kids struggled as good lawyers will, to discern a way to get around the ban. One of them finally opted for the everyone loses approach. "We were all downstairs watching TV even though you said we should do our reading first." "No tattlesnakes. Are you tattling?" "Yes, but on myself too." "So I should take away the TV from everyone for the rest of the day?" I asked. "Well no but..." Suddenly, the apocalyptic approach to winning the sibling war took on a new seriousness. I thought I'd made a breakthrough until her brother came up and said, "Mommmm, she broke the rule about tattling by tattling on us."
That evening I racked my brain. I needed a solution that hit them where they lived. I couldn't take another day of being Judge Mom. Then it came to me; if they want me as a court, we'll have court fees. I posted a sign next to the coin jar in the kitchen. Tattles: 25 cents each. With luck, the fines will make the habit price out of range in a day or two. In the meantime tattlesnakes, "Don't tread on me."
"Mommmmmm, I wanted to play the Wii and he took the remote."
"Mommmmmm, she wants to play the Wii and we're supposed to do our math before we have screen time."
"Mommmmmm, he's trying to pretend he's the parent."
"Mommmmmm, tell her I'm right."
Now I hate tattling. It's tiresome. But it's a fine line parents have to tread because kids are your first best early warning system (see last week's post on skateboarding) of seriously dangerous epic experiments that might be happening outside of your knowledge.
So I appreciate having a mole network amongst the kids to keep tabs on what everyone is doing. However, I got tired of being used as the nuclear threat in the perpetual sibling cold war.You know the drill. Not so innocent random sibling comes to the room and says with breathless excitement and no small dash of drama, "Mommmmmmmm!" There's an important element of syntax here. The word Mom has been transformed into a two sylable phrase with two stresses, not to be confused with MoM! MOM! or MaOMMM, all of which indicate something far more expensive and/or dire. Once they have caught my eye, the tattle begins.
It doesn't matter what the tattle actually is about, the tone is always the same. "There's a disobedient child. Sic em!" and I'm supposed to pounce like a rabid dog while they sit back smugly and enjoy the show while quoting lines from Ricardo Montalban in Startrek II about revenge.
If the child tattling is older, the approach is a slight bit more smooth. I am suddenly the Judge. "Your honor, this miscreant was caught red handed by me engaging in behavior deemed improper by me. What say you? Be sure it's a nasty long sentencing." Mind you, if I have any words for the prosecutor about his or her conduct in the proceedings, that is soundly ignored.
So I banned tattling for the day unless it was on yourself. For at least the first six hours, the kids struggled as good lawyers will, to discern a way to get around the ban. One of them finally opted for the everyone loses approach. "We were all downstairs watching TV even though you said we should do our reading first." "No tattlesnakes. Are you tattling?" "Yes, but on myself too." "So I should take away the TV from everyone for the rest of the day?" I asked. "Well no but..." Suddenly, the apocalyptic approach to winning the sibling war took on a new seriousness. I thought I'd made a breakthrough until her brother came up and said, "Mommmm, she broke the rule about tattling by tattling on us."
That evening I racked my brain. I needed a solution that hit them where they lived. I couldn't take another day of being Judge Mom. Then it came to me; if they want me as a court, we'll have court fees. I posted a sign next to the coin jar in the kitchen. Tattles: 25 cents each. With luck, the fines will make the habit price out of range in a day or two. In the meantime tattlesnakes, "Don't tread on me."
Monday, July 19, 2010
You Really Do Need What You Learn in Pre-K
“You are making that up.” I said as I kept serving dinner.
But my daughter insisted, “I saw it!” as she dug through the backpacks and bags that were supposed to be neatly stashed in the cubbies.
“You’re telling me she sneezed.” I repeated incredulously.
My four year old daughter (the sneezer) nodded her head violently in agreement. “And the meatball went flying.” She drew a rainbow arc in the air with her finger. My older daughter cut in, “and it landed but we don’t know where. So now I’m looking for it so we won’t find ants.”
“You’re saying that after being served a plate of spaghetti, all covered with cheese, she lost her poor meatball because she sneezed?”
I wasn’t buying. There was just no way. No way this happened. I ordered them to the table.
“But the ants.” My daughter protested.
I looked at the decidedly meatball and sauce free floor. “If there are ants attracted to a meatball and it’s on the floor, if they find it, we’ll be able to follow them to find it.” I explained, “Now sit.”
Dinner proceeded as planned, with the occasional requests for seconds, requests for something else, and complaints that the meal included a vegetable. When we were finished, Paul (the almost 2 year old) was all covered in sauce. Whisking him to the showers, I asked the oldest three to clean up.
They cleared the table and pulled back the chairs and under Paul’s highchair, was the meatball gone awol. My daughter brought the saucy thing to me as evidence, in truthful triumph. What could I say except….”If you eat spaghetti….all covered in cheese…..hold onto your meatballs….and don’t ever sneeze.”
But my daughter insisted, “I saw it!” as she dug through the backpacks and bags that were supposed to be neatly stashed in the cubbies.
“You’re telling me she sneezed.” I repeated incredulously.
My four year old daughter (the sneezer) nodded her head violently in agreement. “And the meatball went flying.” She drew a rainbow arc in the air with her finger. My older daughter cut in, “and it landed but we don’t know where. So now I’m looking for it so we won’t find ants.”
“You’re saying that after being served a plate of spaghetti, all covered with cheese, she lost her poor meatball because she sneezed?”
I wasn’t buying. There was just no way. No way this happened. I ordered them to the table.
“But the ants.” My daughter protested.
I looked at the decidedly meatball and sauce free floor. “If there are ants attracted to a meatball and it’s on the floor, if they find it, we’ll be able to follow them to find it.” I explained, “Now sit.”
Dinner proceeded as planned, with the occasional requests for seconds, requests for something else, and complaints that the meal included a vegetable. When we were finished, Paul (the almost 2 year old) was all covered in sauce. Whisking him to the showers, I asked the oldest three to clean up.
They cleared the table and pulled back the chairs and under Paul’s highchair, was the meatball gone awol. My daughter brought the saucy thing to me as evidence, in truthful triumph. What could I say except….”If you eat spaghetti….all covered in cheese…..hold onto your meatballs….and don’t ever sneeze.”
Friday, April 9, 2010
What Do I Do Now?
Here I am, my children all safely tucked away in beds 2,100 miles away from me. My husband took them to visit his folks while I flew to Texas to see my parents and one of my brothers and my sister, her husband and their almost one year old daughter. I am here and I do not have a role. I cannot Martha my way around the room because there is nothing to Martha.
What I have discovered is I would make a boring batchellorette. I read the paper. I write little. I eat too much and I exercise. Time unfolds at a snails pace with nary a rushed moment and I'm groping for ways to fill the minutes. It is odd to have no job. The quiet of my own mind is more than I've come to be accustomed to in 17 years of parenting. It's like I'm a Supreme Pizza that forgot all the toppings or the one pin left standing after a failed spare. I am glad to be with these people I love fiercely. I'm grateful for the trip and for this time.
I also feel fully aware of how whittled down my own life becomes in the absence of my children. But, as my sage brother pointed out, when I return, it will be to launch back into school after spring break. Thinking about the bills and the projects coming due, the laundry that will await me and suddenly, I guess I will just savor this spare time a bit more. It will probably make the time seem to fly by faster as a result.
But this is Martha being told to sit and Mary. It is a lot more difficult than one would suspect. It will be a bear to one day retire.
What I have discovered is I would make a boring batchellorette. I read the paper. I write little. I eat too much and I exercise. Time unfolds at a snails pace with nary a rushed moment and I'm groping for ways to fill the minutes. It is odd to have no job. The quiet of my own mind is more than I've come to be accustomed to in 17 years of parenting. It's like I'm a Supreme Pizza that forgot all the toppings or the one pin left standing after a failed spare. I am glad to be with these people I love fiercely. I'm grateful for the trip and for this time.
I also feel fully aware of how whittled down my own life becomes in the absence of my children. But, as my sage brother pointed out, when I return, it will be to launch back into school after spring break. Thinking about the bills and the projects coming due, the laundry that will await me and suddenly, I guess I will just savor this spare time a bit more. It will probably make the time seem to fly by faster as a result.
But this is Martha being told to sit and Mary. It is a lot more difficult than one would suspect. It will be a bear to one day retire.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
And That's Why They Watch TV
"I don't believe in a no win scenario." --James T. Kirk.
Captain Kirk never was a Mom. --me.
My children can tell when I'm in one of these moods, when all screens are evil. I'll announce that I've changed the pass codes to all the televisions and disconnected the Wi-Fi except to my own laptop which has a password none of them know. In my zealous madness, I hide the remotes and batteries separately and have been known to unplug all the machines as well so that there is defense in depth against children getting to vegetate before a TV, computer or video game.
"Outside! or Homework! or Practice!" A choice of three very different hells born of boredom awaits my offspring. The older ones groan and take their pick, usually opting to get the school stuff out of the way, hoping to pacify my need to crack down with dutifulness. It's been known to work. Middles try to extract bargains. These get shot down but it does give them more stall time on starting their assignments.
Mom's dictatorial ruthless outlawing of all things on Cable, DVD's, Wii and DS never lasts long. It would be even shorter lived if those kids paid attention to the ones calling all the shots, the toddlers.
It was a warm winter day, the kind made for bike riding, for discovering the outdoors when there are no bugs and it isn't so unpleasant that you need gloves. Unloading from school, the olders scurried in for snacks but the 2nd, K and younger set pulled out the scooter and the trikes and the bikes and started drawing a road for traffic patterns.
Pleased as I unloaded the baby that they were using their imaginations and exercising and being outdoors, I smiled, filled with the pseudo virtue that comes from being a Mom, catching your kids doing something good, and having had nothing to do with it whatsoever. Inside the house, I started fixing snack. I wouldn't call them in I decided, I didn't want to interrupt the fun. That would be mean.
I fed the baby. I heard a few sounds of happy laughter. Silly laughter. By this point, my mom radar should have registered “check,” but I was still trying to pretend I was offhanded and relaxed, to bask in the coolness of having four kids outside playing, four inside doing homework, and a happy 15 month old working on solid foods.
Thwack! Slurp. It sounded like something was thrown. It sounded like something mushy hit something. More giggles. Thwack! Thwack! Slump. SLump. SLump. "WOW!" "MOMMMMM."
Racing and already knowing I'm too late, my son comes in, his white shirt doing a splendid imitation of a Dalmatian. He is covered, speckled with mud. His two sisters come after him, happy and semi-horrified respectively. They too are caked from the knees down. Squelch. Squelch. Squelch. My van is also spackled with mud balls.
A child is still playing. "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?" I try to just have volume, not irritation. It isn't very convincing.
"I'm making mud soup. Just like in that book." She explains. She is forking a giant puddle of mud with a large stick, stirring it to make even more.
"You're a mess."
"Oh. Does this mean I have to come inside?"
Three showers, a carwash and four loads of laundry later, exhausted, I handed my daughter the remote. "Dora the Explorer is on, channel 56. The code is 1441."
Captain Kirk never was a Mom. --me.
My children can tell when I'm in one of these moods, when all screens are evil. I'll announce that I've changed the pass codes to all the televisions and disconnected the Wi-Fi except to my own laptop which has a password none of them know. In my zealous madness, I hide the remotes and batteries separately and have been known to unplug all the machines as well so that there is defense in depth against children getting to vegetate before a TV, computer or video game.
"Outside! or Homework! or Practice!" A choice of three very different hells born of boredom awaits my offspring. The older ones groan and take their pick, usually opting to get the school stuff out of the way, hoping to pacify my need to crack down with dutifulness. It's been known to work. Middles try to extract bargains. These get shot down but it does give them more stall time on starting their assignments.
Mom's dictatorial ruthless outlawing of all things on Cable, DVD's, Wii and DS never lasts long. It would be even shorter lived if those kids paid attention to the ones calling all the shots, the toddlers.
It was a warm winter day, the kind made for bike riding, for discovering the outdoors when there are no bugs and it isn't so unpleasant that you need gloves. Unloading from school, the olders scurried in for snacks but the 2nd, K and younger set pulled out the scooter and the trikes and the bikes and started drawing a road for traffic patterns.
Pleased as I unloaded the baby that they were using their imaginations and exercising and being outdoors, I smiled, filled with the pseudo virtue that comes from being a Mom, catching your kids doing something good, and having had nothing to do with it whatsoever. Inside the house, I started fixing snack. I wouldn't call them in I decided, I didn't want to interrupt the fun. That would be mean.
I fed the baby. I heard a few sounds of happy laughter. Silly laughter. By this point, my mom radar should have registered “check,” but I was still trying to pretend I was offhanded and relaxed, to bask in the coolness of having four kids outside playing, four inside doing homework, and a happy 15 month old working on solid foods.
Thwack! Slurp. It sounded like something was thrown. It sounded like something mushy hit something. More giggles. Thwack! Thwack! Slump. SLump. SLump. "WOW!" "MOMMMMM."
Racing and already knowing I'm too late, my son comes in, his white shirt doing a splendid imitation of a Dalmatian. He is covered, speckled with mud. His two sisters come after him, happy and semi-horrified respectively. They too are caked from the knees down. Squelch. Squelch. Squelch. My van is also spackled with mud balls.
A child is still playing. "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?" I try to just have volume, not irritation. It isn't very convincing.
"I'm making mud soup. Just like in that book." She explains. She is forking a giant puddle of mud with a large stick, stirring it to make even more.
"You're a mess."
"Oh. Does this mean I have to come inside?"
Three showers, a carwash and four loads of laundry later, exhausted, I handed my daughter the remote. "Dora the Explorer is on, channel 56. The code is 1441."
Monday, November 30, 2009
Advent Begins
It's the first week of Advent and already, I'm impatient.
Coming two months early to start, I guess I always have been. It doesn't explain why I'm always late everywhere, but it does shed light on my inability to diet, budget or maintain a cleaning routine. It also explains why I struggle beyond the easy level with Rock Band, I keep jumping the count.
Like everyone, I am my own worst enemy. Original sin just messes with every gift we have if we let it and I do all too often. Delayed gratification is something I struggle with; I like the immediate hit of a comment on a blog and thus often surrender the better prize of a crafted publishable piece. I eat the pie when it's served. I don't take pitches and I panic in the pocket in touch football. The present that is perfect at first glance is too much to not purchase. I don't like looking, I like finding. God knows this, so He placed my future husband in front of me first day of college.
This year's prayer theme was "Wait on the Lord." Essentially, my husband and I have thrown this line out at each other all year long whenever things got hard. Sometimes it has meant serve, other times it has meant patience and most infuriating, sometimes it has meant both. Advent is the Church's "Wait on the Lord" instruction to all of us.
You'd think a year of meditating on this bit of wisdom would have paid off, but I still give hints about presents if they're really cool gifts. I used to do my shopping last minute so I wouldn't mess up and tell people what I'm giving. My current solution had been to tell SOMEONE what I got someone else but even that makes it harder for me not to give more hints to the recipient. It comes down to the fact that I don't like secrets and really stink at surprises. I've always found out what each kid I was having was. I always jumped up and down the last week hoping the time would be sooner than the induced date scheduled. Again, God knows how to work around my flaws and never has indulged my impatience on this point.
Even the one kid who was premature made me sit for a week and the other one that needed an emergency c-section made my husband wait in a room alone to pray while the doctors got ready. I had to wait to find out she'd been born, I didn't feel a thing and she didn't cry at first. Then we got the shock of great joy and that was what we needed, seeing her face and touching her cheek. This is what Christmas is; the shock of the angels, the shock of the star, the shock of the little family in the stable being the salvation of the world; the shock of seeing the one you love completely for the first time.
Christmas is the scheduled delivery day when time will slow down, when we will look around and miss whoever is not there, and feel the day would be better, more and more wonderful if everyone were in one place. We will long for Heaven because Earth only hints with all it's wonder and beauty and bounty but does not satisfy and we really really know it.
So as of today, the all Christmas carols radio station(with the notable exception of a few banned for life tunes), is allowed. We made a list of what we hope to have happen during these next few weeks but have promised not to freak at what doesn't. I will try to "Be still and know He is there." Holding onto the infant Jesus I know will bring the strong true peace not of this world but right now, out in the fields, it's hard not to want to run straight for that star. But then I remember, "Wait on the Lord." So I'm waiting. I'm not patient, but I'm waiting.
Have a blessed Advent.
Coming two months early to start, I guess I always have been. It doesn't explain why I'm always late everywhere, but it does shed light on my inability to diet, budget or maintain a cleaning routine. It also explains why I struggle beyond the easy level with Rock Band, I keep jumping the count.
Like everyone, I am my own worst enemy. Original sin just messes with every gift we have if we let it and I do all too often. Delayed gratification is something I struggle with; I like the immediate hit of a comment on a blog and thus often surrender the better prize of a crafted publishable piece. I eat the pie when it's served. I don't take pitches and I panic in the pocket in touch football. The present that is perfect at first glance is too much to not purchase. I don't like looking, I like finding. God knows this, so He placed my future husband in front of me first day of college.
This year's prayer theme was "Wait on the Lord." Essentially, my husband and I have thrown this line out at each other all year long whenever things got hard. Sometimes it has meant serve, other times it has meant patience and most infuriating, sometimes it has meant both. Advent is the Church's "Wait on the Lord" instruction to all of us.
You'd think a year of meditating on this bit of wisdom would have paid off, but I still give hints about presents if they're really cool gifts. I used to do my shopping last minute so I wouldn't mess up and tell people what I'm giving. My current solution had been to tell SOMEONE what I got someone else but even that makes it harder for me not to give more hints to the recipient. It comes down to the fact that I don't like secrets and really stink at surprises. I've always found out what each kid I was having was. I always jumped up and down the last week hoping the time would be sooner than the induced date scheduled. Again, God knows how to work around my flaws and never has indulged my impatience on this point.
Even the one kid who was premature made me sit for a week and the other one that needed an emergency c-section made my husband wait in a room alone to pray while the doctors got ready. I had to wait to find out she'd been born, I didn't feel a thing and she didn't cry at first. Then we got the shock of great joy and that was what we needed, seeing her face and touching her cheek. This is what Christmas is; the shock of the angels, the shock of the star, the shock of the little family in the stable being the salvation of the world; the shock of seeing the one you love completely for the first time.
Christmas is the scheduled delivery day when time will slow down, when we will look around and miss whoever is not there, and feel the day would be better, more and more wonderful if everyone were in one place. We will long for Heaven because Earth only hints with all it's wonder and beauty and bounty but does not satisfy and we really really know it.
So as of today, the all Christmas carols radio station(with the notable exception of a few banned for life tunes), is allowed. We made a list of what we hope to have happen during these next few weeks but have promised not to freak at what doesn't. I will try to "Be still and know He is there." Holding onto the infant Jesus I know will bring the strong true peace not of this world but right now, out in the fields, it's hard not to want to run straight for that star. But then I remember, "Wait on the Lord." So I'm waiting. I'm not patient, but I'm waiting.
Have a blessed Advent.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Calling in Sick allowed Others to be Present
Yesterday I crashed.
It had been a big and long weekend what with the festival and the National Shrine for mass on Sunday and by the end of Monday, midway through softball practice after band, my body said or rather screamed, "STOP!" I was sick. My stomach felt as if it were in complete revolution and every bone ached. Praying I wouldn't throw up, I called my husband at work and simultaneously ordered my seven year old to fetch her two sisters from the baseball field to return to the car.
We stopped at a grocery store and I let the two older girls run in for snacks and a few supplies I knew we needed while I moaned in the car hoping to get home. The kids patted my shoulder and asked how I was doing. They kept the radio songs a coming all the drive home making sure I at least felt peppy because of the music.
By the time I reached our front door, my husband was cooking dinner and the two sons I'd left at home had started the laundry. My oldest daughter who had been struggling with the pervasive angst that is being an adolescent, came in and read to me until I fell asleep. My husband got to rock his youngest son and tuck all the littles into bed. My oldest four worked together to fold the clothes.
The touches included making lunches and a table wiped by a solicitous five year old.
This morning, they'd done the dishes and helped get us all out the door, business as usual. Yet it wasn't. The little things added up to my feeling healthy if only because of all the unexpected care.
"You okay Mom?" my two year old punched my thigh as if to will it so. Because I scooped up my youngest to feed him breakfast without answering my daughter's question, she punched me again. Caught in her sincere stare, I murmurred, "Mom's okay." She sighed a relieved smile and went over to grab her baby doll.
I still don't feel it's safe to eat, but it's hard to feel awful when wrapped in such love. Mom's okay.
It had been a big and long weekend what with the festival and the National Shrine for mass on Sunday and by the end of Monday, midway through softball practice after band, my body said or rather screamed, "STOP!" I was sick. My stomach felt as if it were in complete revolution and every bone ached. Praying I wouldn't throw up, I called my husband at work and simultaneously ordered my seven year old to fetch her two sisters from the baseball field to return to the car.
We stopped at a grocery store and I let the two older girls run in for snacks and a few supplies I knew we needed while I moaned in the car hoping to get home. The kids patted my shoulder and asked how I was doing. They kept the radio songs a coming all the drive home making sure I at least felt peppy because of the music.
By the time I reached our front door, my husband was cooking dinner and the two sons I'd left at home had started the laundry. My oldest daughter who had been struggling with the pervasive angst that is being an adolescent, came in and read to me until I fell asleep. My husband got to rock his youngest son and tuck all the littles into bed. My oldest four worked together to fold the clothes.
The touches included making lunches and a table wiped by a solicitous five year old.
This morning, they'd done the dishes and helped get us all out the door, business as usual. Yet it wasn't. The little things added up to my feeling healthy if only because of all the unexpected care.
"You okay Mom?" my two year old punched my thigh as if to will it so. Because I scooped up my youngest to feed him breakfast without answering my daughter's question, she punched me again. Caught in her sincere stare, I murmurred, "Mom's okay." She sighed a relieved smile and went over to grab her baby doll.
I still don't feel it's safe to eat, but it's hard to feel awful when wrapped in such love. Mom's okay.
Sunday, September 27, 2009
All I know, I Learned from the Internet
The older I get, the more I wish I’d paid more attention when I was in school.
That’s not because I wish my life had turned out differently, no. It’s just I would have preferred to not have my ignorance revealed on a daily basis when my children sit down to do their homework. Before I had kids, I figured I was all set. I’d passed through college and even graduate school with nary more than two “C's.” But there were subjects I avoided studiously, so as to avoid studying; like science and math.
Now a days, as a conscientious parent, I try to be a resource for all my children when they come home from school. But I’ve learned, you can’t bluff your way through the periodic table or quadratic equations.
When my science oriented children were engaged in a game of mental catch over the dinner table about the various properties and distinctions between solutions and compounds, I foolishly attempted to join in the fray.
But chemistry is a subject I ignored even while in the classroom with Coach Keister explaining that a mole was not an unwanted growth on one’s skin. Not to worry I thought, I’ve got wireless internet. I wikipedia’d the subject “Chemistry” while in the kitchen while getting the milk and cookies for snack. I returned to toss off a pithy reference inserting myself into the conversation while pouring.
My attempts garnered a “Where’d you learn that?” and “Mom, that site is completely bogus…” plus a snort of milk requiring me to return to the kitchen for towels followed. It got me wondering why Wikipedia’s so popular if it’s so inaccurate. Why aren’t real encyclopedia companies creating giant conglomerates of actual accurate information so parents across the fruited plains can understand what their children’s homework assignments are?
But those sorts of questions aren’t answered by “Ask Jeeves” or “Dogpile” or any of the other handy search engines out there that promise to open the flood gates of information to the world. I know, I checked while getting the paper towels.
“You have to go to trusted sites.” And of course they rattled off a few. I listed a few of my current favorite places to visit and got “tsked.” According to my children, these haunts of mine were the equivalent of “The Earth is flat” in their chosen fields. Now maybe others out there are more tech savvy than me and Lord knows I hope so, but the way my kids spoke about it, I felt as if the whole World Wide Web suddenly collapsed into a three volume compendium.
Listening to my children’s recommendations, it occurred to me that finding info on the World Wide Web was rather like dating. One had to make sure the page in question was honorable, accurate and not just playing with your mind. Playing the field was useful for discovering which ones would be worth going steady with, but blind dates were mostly scary and unworthy. If one wanted to be certain about the accuracy of information, one had to hold true to a properly vetted place with the fidelity owed a spouse, or in these days, a political party. My daughter offered to show me her fave spots that were best for tutoring in science. "That way, you can help my sister with sixth grade lab." she explained.
Having to do research on the classes I’d skipped twenty-seven years ago to comprehend a dinner conversation seemed like a bit much so I turned my attention to my other children who might have subjects of interest that didn’t require independent study. Alas, the high schooler started his German assignment which left me with my two years of Latin and three years of French useless unless he just needed the phrases from the song “Cabaret.”
The 4th grader started to tackle his social studies. Now I am social and I do study so here, I thought I could be of some use, but he didn’t want a 43 year old’s perspective on anything, not that that was any different from any other time of the day. Turning to the younger children, hoping to prove my mettle as a resource, I looked over their homework assignment sheets and asked, “Do you need any help?”
One child was working on a project concerning dinosaurs. I got excited. “We have books on that, and you can make a model with clay or paint something.” I began scanning the shelves for a few I knew had in depth articles on the Jurassic period with great color illustrations. “Mom, I’m just going to go on the website.” My son patiently explained. “But why assign it if everyone will look at the same page?” I asked. He shrugged. “The paper says to go to this page and read this article.”
I’d already pulled three tomes for his report. “Don’t you want any of this?” I asked? But he was already typing in www. And I wondered if we discovered aliens and wanted to share technology, would we need to change the internet to be the igww, the intergalactic wide web. Then I wondered if I should buy the domain name or see if the government would offer me money to devise it as part of the stimulus plan. I was flunking the motherhood “help with homework” section of the day. My attempts to provide aid and comfort were being ignored or rebuffed or bombing absolutely. I felt like the UN.
The second grader sat at the table writing her spelling words. She has a kinder heart than most and seeing me flailing at every front, she took pity. “You can help me.” She said softly. “What do you need sweetie?” I asked as I hugged her. She handed me a pencil. “You can sharpen this one for me in case the one I’m using breaks.”
My oldest finished his German. “It’s not that you aren’t helpful Mom.” He explained.
“It’s that we’d have to bring you up to speed and that would take more time than actually studying.” My teen-aged daughter chimed in.
I sharpened the pencils wondering if I had the mental will to go and secretly master everything about ionic compounds or learn the irregular conjugations of verbs in Deustche before the next evening. I decided I could live with my reputation as an ignorant adult. So, I’m educated enough to assist through third grade. After that, they’re on their own.
And when they’re grown, they’ll say “Mom, she was as sharp as the pencils she provided,” until we hit third grade.
That’s not because I wish my life had turned out differently, no. It’s just I would have preferred to not have my ignorance revealed on a daily basis when my children sit down to do their homework. Before I had kids, I figured I was all set. I’d passed through college and even graduate school with nary more than two “C's.” But there were subjects I avoided studiously, so as to avoid studying; like science and math.
Now a days, as a conscientious parent, I try to be a resource for all my children when they come home from school. But I’ve learned, you can’t bluff your way through the periodic table or quadratic equations.
When my science oriented children were engaged in a game of mental catch over the dinner table about the various properties and distinctions between solutions and compounds, I foolishly attempted to join in the fray.
But chemistry is a subject I ignored even while in the classroom with Coach Keister explaining that a mole was not an unwanted growth on one’s skin. Not to worry I thought, I’ve got wireless internet. I wikipedia’d the subject “Chemistry” while in the kitchen while getting the milk and cookies for snack. I returned to toss off a pithy reference inserting myself into the conversation while pouring.
My attempts garnered a “Where’d you learn that?” and “Mom, that site is completely bogus…” plus a snort of milk requiring me to return to the kitchen for towels followed. It got me wondering why Wikipedia’s so popular if it’s so inaccurate. Why aren’t real encyclopedia companies creating giant conglomerates of actual accurate information so parents across the fruited plains can understand what their children’s homework assignments are?
But those sorts of questions aren’t answered by “Ask Jeeves” or “Dogpile” or any of the other handy search engines out there that promise to open the flood gates of information to the world. I know, I checked while getting the paper towels.
“You have to go to trusted sites.” And of course they rattled off a few. I listed a few of my current favorite places to visit and got “tsked.” According to my children, these haunts of mine were the equivalent of “The Earth is flat” in their chosen fields. Now maybe others out there are more tech savvy than me and Lord knows I hope so, but the way my kids spoke about it, I felt as if the whole World Wide Web suddenly collapsed into a three volume compendium.
Listening to my children’s recommendations, it occurred to me that finding info on the World Wide Web was rather like dating. One had to make sure the page in question was honorable, accurate and not just playing with your mind. Playing the field was useful for discovering which ones would be worth going steady with, but blind dates were mostly scary and unworthy. If one wanted to be certain about the accuracy of information, one had to hold true to a properly vetted place with the fidelity owed a spouse, or in these days, a political party. My daughter offered to show me her fave spots that were best for tutoring in science. "That way, you can help my sister with sixth grade lab." she explained.
Having to do research on the classes I’d skipped twenty-seven years ago to comprehend a dinner conversation seemed like a bit much so I turned my attention to my other children who might have subjects of interest that didn’t require independent study. Alas, the high schooler started his German assignment which left me with my two years of Latin and three years of French useless unless he just needed the phrases from the song “Cabaret.”
The 4th grader started to tackle his social studies. Now I am social and I do study so here, I thought I could be of some use, but he didn’t want a 43 year old’s perspective on anything, not that that was any different from any other time of the day. Turning to the younger children, hoping to prove my mettle as a resource, I looked over their homework assignment sheets and asked, “Do you need any help?”
One child was working on a project concerning dinosaurs. I got excited. “We have books on that, and you can make a model with clay or paint something.” I began scanning the shelves for a few I knew had in depth articles on the Jurassic period with great color illustrations. “Mom, I’m just going to go on the website.” My son patiently explained. “But why assign it if everyone will look at the same page?” I asked. He shrugged. “The paper says to go to this page and read this article.”
I’d already pulled three tomes for his report. “Don’t you want any of this?” I asked? But he was already typing in www. And I wondered if we discovered aliens and wanted to share technology, would we need to change the internet to be the igww, the intergalactic wide web. Then I wondered if I should buy the domain name or see if the government would offer me money to devise it as part of the stimulus plan. I was flunking the motherhood “help with homework” section of the day. My attempts to provide aid and comfort were being ignored or rebuffed or bombing absolutely. I felt like the UN.
The second grader sat at the table writing her spelling words. She has a kinder heart than most and seeing me flailing at every front, she took pity. “You can help me.” She said softly. “What do you need sweetie?” I asked as I hugged her. She handed me a pencil. “You can sharpen this one for me in case the one I’m using breaks.”
My oldest finished his German. “It’s not that you aren’t helpful Mom.” He explained.
“It’s that we’d have to bring you up to speed and that would take more time than actually studying.” My teen-aged daughter chimed in.
I sharpened the pencils wondering if I had the mental will to go and secretly master everything about ionic compounds or learn the irregular conjugations of verbs in Deustche before the next evening. I decided I could live with my reputation as an ignorant adult. So, I’m educated enough to assist through third grade. After that, they’re on their own.
And when they’re grown, they’ll say “Mom, she was as sharp as the pencils she provided,” until we hit third grade.
Monday, June 22, 2009
What's On TV?
Nothing, if you know what's good for you.
We just got cable. There are now 800 channels to annoy the Mom on two televisions. I didn't think it would be much of a problem. My kids had always agreed to the reasonable one hour of starring at a screen Mon-Thurs and lax standards on the weekend rule. Even the youngest kids understood, if you are staring at a rectangle, and the rectangle is in some way electronically powered, it counted towards your hour. They also knew that abuse of the hour rule was tolerated within reason.
Not anymore.
With so many opportunities to watch, a certain lack of discrimination overpowered their otherwise reasonably intact child intellects and wisdom. What's more, the opiate of the masses* did mean that I could have hours of semi-silence in my house at the price of their brains. After a week of saying to myself, we just got cable, it is just a time of adjustment, they'll get bored of it soon, I decided I was bored with my family. They weren't doing anything sans incentive. Even eating had turned into a listless speedy affair designed to acquire the necessary calories as quickly as posssible so as to return to the stupor of TV land.
Like Odysseus, I had come to the land of the Lotus Eaters.
So I pulled the nuclear option.** I locked every channel, even the previews, as one crafty child had figured out she could watch anything using the preview option. I now pay a monthly service fee for the priviledge of having nothing to watch.
I part with the money happily to see them walk around wondering what to do, but the cure has already had an effect. One child read her first assigned book of the summer. Another is doing the dishes. A third even helped move the toddlers through shower time.
So I'm thinking about changing all the passwords to lock them out of the Wii and the computers because, there's laundry that needs to be folded and dishes to do and my main floor needs a mopping.
*Oldest son has issued an edict that if I ever leave him to babysit again without unlocking the opiate of the masses, he will become a rebellious teenager and make my life a living hell.
**Second oldest wants credit for her idea as long as the other children don't read this.
***In the interest of fairness, I too need to have my computer shut down during the day in order to get stuff done, so the apple does not fall far.
We just got cable. There are now 800 channels to annoy the Mom on two televisions. I didn't think it would be much of a problem. My kids had always agreed to the reasonable one hour of starring at a screen Mon-Thurs and lax standards on the weekend rule. Even the youngest kids understood, if you are staring at a rectangle, and the rectangle is in some way electronically powered, it counted towards your hour. They also knew that abuse of the hour rule was tolerated within reason.
Not anymore.
With so many opportunities to watch, a certain lack of discrimination overpowered their otherwise reasonably intact child intellects and wisdom. What's more, the opiate of the masses* did mean that I could have hours of semi-silence in my house at the price of their brains. After a week of saying to myself, we just got cable, it is just a time of adjustment, they'll get bored of it soon, I decided I was bored with my family. They weren't doing anything sans incentive. Even eating had turned into a listless speedy affair designed to acquire the necessary calories as quickly as posssible so as to return to the stupor of TV land.
Like Odysseus, I had come to the land of the Lotus Eaters.
So I pulled the nuclear option.** I locked every channel, even the previews, as one crafty child had figured out she could watch anything using the preview option. I now pay a monthly service fee for the priviledge of having nothing to watch.
I part with the money happily to see them walk around wondering what to do, but the cure has already had an effect. One child read her first assigned book of the summer. Another is doing the dishes. A third even helped move the toddlers through shower time.
So I'm thinking about changing all the passwords to lock them out of the Wii and the computers because, there's laundry that needs to be folded and dishes to do and my main floor needs a mopping.
*Oldest son has issued an edict that if I ever leave him to babysit again without unlocking the opiate of the masses, he will become a rebellious teenager and make my life a living hell.
**Second oldest wants credit for her idea as long as the other children don't read this.
***In the interest of fairness, I too need to have my computer shut down during the day in order to get stuff done, so the apple does not fall far.
Friday, June 19, 2009
What I'd Do
A friend of mine had a convergence of the planets such that she will be sans her five children for a week while her husband is off for the summer. She emailed me, "What should we do?"
I answered: First, turn off the phones and run around the house screaming at the top of your lungs..."I'm off duty! I'm on vacation." Then, before the neighbors speculate on what you did with your children, calm down, pour a glass of wine and do one or all of the following.
1) Read a book without pictures.
2) Watch television you wouldn't and movies too,
3) Go to a coffee shop or a restaurant that uses plates and forks.
4) Then go to a museum where there are breakable things
5) and a concert your kids would deem uncool.
6) Take a walk in a park without themes or jungle gyms or with it and hog the swings.
7) Make an appointment at a parlor that doesn't use an elephant for the sink and experience an unrushed hair cut.
8) Cook weird food.
9) Drink the wine.
10)Make a list of what you didn't do today --pay bills, run a wash, bus the table or vacuum pasta pieces and apple slices off the floor. Then realize ever so softly, you miss it because of what these repetitive daily tasks meant.
I left off the thing most obvious because that's how you get to having to wait for a planetary convergence to enjoy the rest of these things.
I answered: First, turn off the phones and run around the house screaming at the top of your lungs..."I'm off duty! I'm on vacation." Then, before the neighbors speculate on what you did with your children, calm down, pour a glass of wine and do one or all of the following.
1) Read a book without pictures.
2) Watch television you wouldn't and movies too,
3) Go to a coffee shop or a restaurant that uses plates and forks.
4) Then go to a museum where there are breakable things
5) and a concert your kids would deem uncool.
6) Take a walk in a park without themes or jungle gyms or with it and hog the swings.
7) Make an appointment at a parlor that doesn't use an elephant for the sink and experience an unrushed hair cut.
8) Cook weird food.
9) Drink the wine.
10)Make a list of what you didn't do today --pay bills, run a wash, bus the table or vacuum pasta pieces and apple slices off the floor. Then realize ever so softly, you miss it because of what these repetitive daily tasks meant.
I left off the thing most obvious because that's how you get to having to wait for a planetary convergence to enjoy the rest of these things.
Friday, May 8, 2009
Remembering 13 years...
My daughter turned 13. She's so much more together than I was when I was that age. (I put the awk in awkward). She reads more. She knows more. She automatically pays attention to detail in a way I still have to consciously consider to manage.
When she was first born, my first words were, "Let me see her." and "She's beautiful." I then said, "That was much easier than the first time."
The nurse washed her up and laughed. "Are you going to have any more?" she asked. Keep in mind, I was fresh from delivery. I smiled, "Oh yeah." Little did I know.
On my 30th birthday eve, she slept through the night. She was two months old. She continues to be a source of comfort.
Having a strong independent streak, one day she decided to color her entire left arm purple. She wore boots with a tutu and a crown on a regular basis before "Lilly's Purple Plastic Purse." When being instructed on riding a bike by her older brother, she rolled her eyes. "I've been watching you for years."
At four, she started pre-school and the first day was a parent/child day. She said she didn't need me. Brimming with confidence, she played, she ordered me to take a picture of her teacher, sans her, and explained when I asked her to share the toys with the other kids, "They get to play with ME."When we left the room, she collapsed in tears. "What's the matter?" I asked, utterly baffled.
"I still don't know how to read!"
She also was fierce with us, but absolutely sweet on Dad. For him, she would try harder, she would study, she would practice piano, she would master how to do the layup and she would study politics to sound impressive.
She now keeps a literal library in her bed, (at last count, 23 books), stacked neatly against the wall for easy reference. She plays the saxaphone and loves orange, purple, the Orioles and anything that seems like it might have come from the elves of Lord of the Rings.
Because this child is also the official organizer of birthdays, she was concerned about her own. Normally, she locks herself in my room and wraps the presents, reminds me to get a cake and whatever number we need from the store and does decoration flawlessly. She frequently acts as a coordinator of games for the younger set when we host a party, and she loves being part of the plan even if we're on top of things.
I promised I would actually get to the details and I did wrap her presents. I even made her favorite cup cakes, or rather, she did with my help. (Chocolate sour cream, no frosting). I was feeding the baby and reading aloud the recipie with helpful commentary. Watching her work and seeing how much she's grown up, its hard and real to recognize that soon, I will be sending sour cream chocolate cupcakes to college (5 years will fly by), and I will remember because there isn't someone there nagging me not to forget.
Happy Birthday Athena, my gentle wise child. My original assessment of her still holds. "She's beautiful."
When she was first born, my first words were, "Let me see her." and "She's beautiful." I then said, "That was much easier than the first time."
The nurse washed her up and laughed. "Are you going to have any more?" she asked. Keep in mind, I was fresh from delivery. I smiled, "Oh yeah." Little did I know.
On my 30th birthday eve, she slept through the night. She was two months old. She continues to be a source of comfort.
Having a strong independent streak, one day she decided to color her entire left arm purple. She wore boots with a tutu and a crown on a regular basis before "Lilly's Purple Plastic Purse." When being instructed on riding a bike by her older brother, she rolled her eyes. "I've been watching you for years."
At four, she started pre-school and the first day was a parent/child day. She said she didn't need me. Brimming with confidence, she played, she ordered me to take a picture of her teacher, sans her, and explained when I asked her to share the toys with the other kids, "They get to play with ME."When we left the room, she collapsed in tears. "What's the matter?" I asked, utterly baffled.
"I still don't know how to read!"
She also was fierce with us, but absolutely sweet on Dad. For him, she would try harder, she would study, she would practice piano, she would master how to do the layup and she would study politics to sound impressive.
She now keeps a literal library in her bed, (at last count, 23 books), stacked neatly against the wall for easy reference. She plays the saxaphone and loves orange, purple, the Orioles and anything that seems like it might have come from the elves of Lord of the Rings.
Because this child is also the official organizer of birthdays, she was concerned about her own. Normally, she locks herself in my room and wraps the presents, reminds me to get a cake and whatever number we need from the store and does decoration flawlessly. She frequently acts as a coordinator of games for the younger set when we host a party, and she loves being part of the plan even if we're on top of things.
I promised I would actually get to the details and I did wrap her presents. I even made her favorite cup cakes, or rather, she did with my help. (Chocolate sour cream, no frosting). I was feeding the baby and reading aloud the recipie with helpful commentary. Watching her work and seeing how much she's grown up, its hard and real to recognize that soon, I will be sending sour cream chocolate cupcakes to college (5 years will fly by), and I will remember because there isn't someone there nagging me not to forget.
Happy Birthday Athena, my gentle wise child. My original assessment of her still holds. "She's beautiful."
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
Played
Every day before I pull out of the parking lot at school, I ask everyone if they have everything they need and if they need anything we don’t have at home that I must get from the store.
Today, my kids got in, started chattering away and I asked the questions. Half way home, one of my children remembered that he forgot a paper that is due the next day. I dutifully turned the car around. We got to school. The classroom was locked. I spotted the teacher in the hallway and flagged her down. My son then added that he needed to ask the teacher a question about the assignment, that the page she had prescribed didn’t exist in the workbook when he checked. This is a kid that sometimes does his work in the car and as such, I didn’t question his concern. He's meticulous about his work.
We returned to the classroom and the teacher asked about the incorrect page. The little imp grinned. “April Fools.”
It took a lot of convincing to make me stop at the CVS on the way home for some markers.
Today, my kids got in, started chattering away and I asked the questions. Half way home, one of my children remembered that he forgot a paper that is due the next day. I dutifully turned the car around. We got to school. The classroom was locked. I spotted the teacher in the hallway and flagged her down. My son then added that he needed to ask the teacher a question about the assignment, that the page she had prescribed didn’t exist in the workbook when he checked. This is a kid that sometimes does his work in the car and as such, I didn’t question his concern. He's meticulous about his work.
We returned to the classroom and the teacher asked about the incorrect page. The little imp grinned. “April Fools.”
It took a lot of convincing to make me stop at the CVS on the way home for some markers.
Friday, February 13, 2009
If Today You Hear Mom's Voice, Listen Up!
Moms have this gift. It isn’t a power, it’s a Darwinian evolutionary trait designed to ensure the long term viability of the species as a whole. The inner ear wakes Mom at 3 am because there was an odd cough and knows the six year old just threw up in her bed. In the shower, a Mom senses while in mid lather rinse repeat that the refrigerator has been opened and an overly helpful toddler is distributing grape juice and slice and bake uncooked cookies to everyone. Mom’s inner eye can look at a television that is turned off and know which child stayed up late watching a video. There's a voice that tells Mom these things.
Veteran moms have learned to trust the voice’s recommendations through the series of hard knocks that came when the voice was ignored. For the rookies out there, here are examples of the sound not heard, the sign not seen and the voice unheeded.
The mom voice specializes in preemptive alarmist thinking. When a teenager asks, “Who’s purse is this?” and volunteers to take it to his sister’s room, veteran Moms know to stop the generosity in its tracks. She follows her son into his sister's room. He doesn't notice until she coughs. “What?” the teen asks? His hands are in the wallet. “She owes me money.”
The mom voice prompts the accidental emergency discovery. We’ve all had that moment. We’re going about our business, ordering the house, planning the day, straightening things and suddenly, our heart freezes. Things are quiet. It’s that Miss Clarvel turned on the light kind of something is not right sort of feeling. We run to check off the kids knowing, we’ll find one doing something unthinkable. Maybe it’s unraveling an entire paper towel roll down the stairs. Maybe it’s putting stuffed animals in the sink for a bath. Maybe it’s trying to will the unsweetened chocolate found in the pantry to taste good. It doesn’t matter. All you know when that silence settles on the house is “Run!” Locate and secure all non sentient beings. You have maybe ten seconds.
Sometimes, Moms get jaded and slack off for a moment. We get tired. We put the Mom voice on "Mute" and we punt. Over the years, Veteran moms learn, all punts by Mom are returned for 90+ yard touchdowns. If we punt on dinner and order food, the scale yells at us the next day. If we push a kid to go to school, around 11 o’clock am, the phone will ring. The nurse will lecture us. The child is very sick and we will feel like the winner of negligent mother of the year award. We yell up the stairs, “JUST GO TO BED!” just before we get the “But I just wanted to say prayers with you.”
Aaaaugh! The Mom voice always says do, do and do. It’s usually right but does it have to be so smug about it?
Today, while getting the baby dressed, I noticed my almost five and 3 ½ year old had put on their coats and gone outside. They had socks and shoes and coats and gloves and hats. The Mom voice said, “Check.” But I said they were fine. The kids stood on the back stoop. The Mom voice said “Check.” But I told it, I wasn’t worried, let the kids play. After feeding the baby and putting him in his crib for a morning nap, the Mom voice jumped up and down and said “Check!” such that I gave a cursory glance out the window. They had brought up the smallest sled and were mulling the possibility of sliding down the stairs.
“Scrub the launch!” I banged on the window.
They reconsidered and went out into the yard to make snow angels.
The Mom voice crowed, “Told you so.”
Veteran moms have learned to trust the voice’s recommendations through the series of hard knocks that came when the voice was ignored. For the rookies out there, here are examples of the sound not heard, the sign not seen and the voice unheeded.
The mom voice specializes in preemptive alarmist thinking. When a teenager asks, “Who’s purse is this?” and volunteers to take it to his sister’s room, veteran Moms know to stop the generosity in its tracks. She follows her son into his sister's room. He doesn't notice until she coughs. “What?” the teen asks? His hands are in the wallet. “She owes me money.”
The mom voice prompts the accidental emergency discovery. We’ve all had that moment. We’re going about our business, ordering the house, planning the day, straightening things and suddenly, our heart freezes. Things are quiet. It’s that Miss Clarvel turned on the light kind of something is not right sort of feeling. We run to check off the kids knowing, we’ll find one doing something unthinkable. Maybe it’s unraveling an entire paper towel roll down the stairs. Maybe it’s putting stuffed animals in the sink for a bath. Maybe it’s trying to will the unsweetened chocolate found in the pantry to taste good. It doesn’t matter. All you know when that silence settles on the house is “Run!” Locate and secure all non sentient beings. You have maybe ten seconds.
Sometimes, Moms get jaded and slack off for a moment. We get tired. We put the Mom voice on "Mute" and we punt. Over the years, Veteran moms learn, all punts by Mom are returned for 90+ yard touchdowns. If we punt on dinner and order food, the scale yells at us the next day. If we push a kid to go to school, around 11 o’clock am, the phone will ring. The nurse will lecture us. The child is very sick and we will feel like the winner of negligent mother of the year award. We yell up the stairs, “JUST GO TO BED!” just before we get the “But I just wanted to say prayers with you.”
Aaaaugh! The Mom voice always says do, do and do. It’s usually right but does it have to be so smug about it?
Today, while getting the baby dressed, I noticed my almost five and 3 ½ year old had put on their coats and gone outside. They had socks and shoes and coats and gloves and hats. The Mom voice said, “Check.” But I said they were fine. The kids stood on the back stoop. The Mom voice said “Check.” But I told it, I wasn’t worried, let the kids play. After feeding the baby and putting him in his crib for a morning nap, the Mom voice jumped up and down and said “Check!” such that I gave a cursory glance out the window. They had brought up the smallest sled and were mulling the possibility of sliding down the stairs.
“Scrub the launch!” I banged on the window.
They reconsidered and went out into the yard to make snow angels.
The Mom voice crowed, “Told you so.”
Friday, January 30, 2009
Not Quite the Lesson Mother Teresa Intended I'm Sure.
So today, I’ve got a toddler crying because she doesn’t want to go to the potty even though she’s practically twisted her legs into a pretzel. Carrying a screaming three year old to the bathroom that is all the time kicking isn’t a joyful mother moment. At the same time, I hear the tell tale crash of a breakfast plate by a fellow toddler followed by the on the spot news reporter play by play by the very earnest but not necessarily helpful four year old. The baby has also chosen to voice his irritation at all the racket.
Sitting her on the potty, the phone rings. I’m ignoring it as I’m in no mood to talk to anyone, nor do I want some telemarketer to hear a symphony of caterwauling children as I decide whether or not time is running out on a once in a life time offer to buy tracts of undeveloped land in North Carolina. My newscaster son nevertheless brings me the phone. “There’s a spill of orange juice in the kitchen.” He tells me solemnly, “And it’s Dad.” The cell phone has begun ringing as well.
Currently, I’m reading Mother Teresa’s “Come Be My Light.” It details her intense suffering of spiritual darkness as she persevered in helping the poorest of India for decades. Over time, she learned to embrace this gift of the silent God as His answer to her prayer to be the one to “carry Jesus into the darkest holes of India.” To truly be able to do this, she had to know the darkest holes herself. That the darkest holes of poverty were not found in the slums of India or anywhere else, but within the terrified soul that either does not know or fears there is no God.
It was a sign of her perfected faith that she underwent this great purification while on Earth. Most people did not know of her deep pain, her daily struggle with her faith, as she took it as God’s command that people should Not know. She wore her smile as a cloak to hide her suffering. It was her gift back to God, in return for His. She understood that acting in complete Faith required nothing less than absolute surrender and she gave it. She covered that suffering with a sense of humor and a generous smile. It was a shield and an invisibility cloak that rendered her transparent, so that only God shone through.
“Hello?” I cradle the phone with my neck as I’m now cleaning up from the successful pottying, handing out a few m&m’s and mentally preparing to get out the mop, fix my son’s medicine and a bottle and maybe get myself a diet coke.
“Hi Sher. The school called, we’ve got a sick kiddo. ”
Mentally trying to pull together how I’m going to shod and dress for the weather the four and under set in less than thirty minutes, navigate the icy drive way and get our daughter, drive back home, drop her off, run the toddler back in for another forced potty march and then shuttle back to the school for 2:45 dismissal, it overwhelms. I start to rant. “I want an invisibility cloak, a ring, something to mask all of this craziness.”
“Wha?”
“The Cloak. Mother Teresa’s cloak. I’m smiling.”
“You need to work on it.”
“I know.”
“You can’t be gritting your teeth.”
“How would you know? I’m on the phone.”
“I know.”
So I began the trek. Loading the four children, something prodded me to go back in and make a bottle and a complete diaper bag. I even got an extra outfit in case we didn’t make it back home in time for a potty break and snacks. I never pack snacks. I’m trying to put on the joyful smile even when one of my daughters starts to flop and refuse to get in the car. She wants to throw shovels of ice instead. I’ve brought a new music CD for them to listen to, though I’d rather hear the news. Faking a sing songy voice of enthusiasm, amazingly, they all get in the car and we’re off. I can hear Mother Teresa telling me, "Honey, you're still gritting your teeth."
Spiritually, I have learned that whenever one seeks to deepen one’s faith life in practice, the level of challenge responds. Having fastened a joyful smile to my face to stare down the struggles thus far, the front tire promptly blows out equidistant from virtually anywhere that might have been remotely useful. I am on a freeway ramp. I cannot leave, I cannot get out and I cannot drive.
Calling my husband, no answer. Calling Tripple A, I get disconnected. Calling the school to explain the situation, I hang up in mid call as a policeman is knocking on my window. He has called a tow truck and summoned a second car so as to transport all four of my kids and me to a gas station. “It’s a good thing I hadn’t picked up my whole family or you’ld need a paddy wagon." We spend the two hours at the dealership and a woman who is sitting there waiting for her car, can't believe I'm smiling.
"I've engaged the cloaking device." I think as I shrugged, "It's not so bad."
When my husband arrives to pick up the kids, I mentally send Mother Teresa a message. "Hey, I didn't grit my teeth this time."
Sitting her on the potty, the phone rings. I’m ignoring it as I’m in no mood to talk to anyone, nor do I want some telemarketer to hear a symphony of caterwauling children as I decide whether or not time is running out on a once in a life time offer to buy tracts of undeveloped land in North Carolina. My newscaster son nevertheless brings me the phone. “There’s a spill of orange juice in the kitchen.” He tells me solemnly, “And it’s Dad.” The cell phone has begun ringing as well.
Currently, I’m reading Mother Teresa’s “Come Be My Light.” It details her intense suffering of spiritual darkness as she persevered in helping the poorest of India for decades. Over time, she learned to embrace this gift of the silent God as His answer to her prayer to be the one to “carry Jesus into the darkest holes of India.” To truly be able to do this, she had to know the darkest holes herself. That the darkest holes of poverty were not found in the slums of India or anywhere else, but within the terrified soul that either does not know or fears there is no God.
It was a sign of her perfected faith that she underwent this great purification while on Earth. Most people did not know of her deep pain, her daily struggle with her faith, as she took it as God’s command that people should Not know. She wore her smile as a cloak to hide her suffering. It was her gift back to God, in return for His. She understood that acting in complete Faith required nothing less than absolute surrender and she gave it. She covered that suffering with a sense of humor and a generous smile. It was a shield and an invisibility cloak that rendered her transparent, so that only God shone through.
“Hello?” I cradle the phone with my neck as I’m now cleaning up from the successful pottying, handing out a few m&m’s and mentally preparing to get out the mop, fix my son’s medicine and a bottle and maybe get myself a diet coke.
“Hi Sher. The school called, we’ve got a sick kiddo. ”
Mentally trying to pull together how I’m going to shod and dress for the weather the four and under set in less than thirty minutes, navigate the icy drive way and get our daughter, drive back home, drop her off, run the toddler back in for another forced potty march and then shuttle back to the school for 2:45 dismissal, it overwhelms. I start to rant. “I want an invisibility cloak, a ring, something to mask all of this craziness.”
“Wha?”
“The Cloak. Mother Teresa’s cloak. I’m smiling.”
“You need to work on it.”
“I know.”
“You can’t be gritting your teeth.”
“How would you know? I’m on the phone.”
“I know.”
So I began the trek. Loading the four children, something prodded me to go back in and make a bottle and a complete diaper bag. I even got an extra outfit in case we didn’t make it back home in time for a potty break and snacks. I never pack snacks. I’m trying to put on the joyful smile even when one of my daughters starts to flop and refuse to get in the car. She wants to throw shovels of ice instead. I’ve brought a new music CD for them to listen to, though I’d rather hear the news. Faking a sing songy voice of enthusiasm, amazingly, they all get in the car and we’re off. I can hear Mother Teresa telling me, "Honey, you're still gritting your teeth."
Spiritually, I have learned that whenever one seeks to deepen one’s faith life in practice, the level of challenge responds. Having fastened a joyful smile to my face to stare down the struggles thus far, the front tire promptly blows out equidistant from virtually anywhere that might have been remotely useful. I am on a freeway ramp. I cannot leave, I cannot get out and I cannot drive.
Calling my husband, no answer. Calling Tripple A, I get disconnected. Calling the school to explain the situation, I hang up in mid call as a policeman is knocking on my window. He has called a tow truck and summoned a second car so as to transport all four of my kids and me to a gas station. “It’s a good thing I hadn’t picked up my whole family or you’ld need a paddy wagon." We spend the two hours at the dealership and a woman who is sitting there waiting for her car, can't believe I'm smiling.
"I've engaged the cloaking device." I think as I shrugged, "It's not so bad."
When my husband arrives to pick up the kids, I mentally send Mother Teresa a message. "Hey, I didn't grit my teeth this time."
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Imponderables
It's a snow day so I don't have the quiet to think, that's why lists are a good cheat. Enjoy.
10) Why does my six year old still think the top of the stairs is a good place to practice an arabesque?
9) How come my three year old raids the food pantry for poppy seed rolls and stores them under her bed? I mean, if it had been cookies I would have understood. She's done ice cream and apple juice before. I've taken to checking underneath her bed for grocery monsters.
8) Why can my adolescent daughter be the high scorer on both her basketball teams and not put clothing in the laundry basket?
7) What made my four oldest think stacking soup bowls face up in the dishwashing machine was a good idea?
6) Why is it that the child who has the most shoes, can’t find any two that match when I’m in a hurry?
5) How do all my kids know how much they are owed in allowance when some of them don’t know which day it is?
4) Exactly how messy does a room have to become before a child will recognize that such a state of being is unhealthy?
3) Why is it all the times she loved baked potatoes are negated by the one time she threw up?
2) Why can a boy wear the same shirt for three days and fuss if he finds a speck on a bowl at breakfast?
1) Why do multiple children act shocked when they've been pegging their brother with snow repeatedly, that he retaliates?
and the final question, When is Spring Break?
10) Why does my six year old still think the top of the stairs is a good place to practice an arabesque?
9) How come my three year old raids the food pantry for poppy seed rolls and stores them under her bed? I mean, if it had been cookies I would have understood. She's done ice cream and apple juice before. I've taken to checking underneath her bed for grocery monsters.
8) Why can my adolescent daughter be the high scorer on both her basketball teams and not put clothing in the laundry basket?
7) What made my four oldest think stacking soup bowls face up in the dishwashing machine was a good idea?
6) Why is it that the child who has the most shoes, can’t find any two that match when I’m in a hurry?
5) How do all my kids know how much they are owed in allowance when some of them don’t know which day it is?
4) Exactly how messy does a room have to become before a child will recognize that such a state of being is unhealthy?
3) Why is it all the times she loved baked potatoes are negated by the one time she threw up?
2) Why can a boy wear the same shirt for three days and fuss if he finds a speck on a bowl at breakfast?
1) Why do multiple children act shocked when they've been pegging their brother with snow repeatedly, that he retaliates?
and the final question, When is Spring Break?
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