Purposely Veiled Beauty

Because I frequent Catholic sites, I see some of the dust ups that make other denominations say, "Look how they hate each other."  When we argue over how to receive, to the point of making the posture of piety a source of venial sin, we declare unclean what God created clean.

Recently, I became part of a discussion about whether or not women should be veiled when they enter the Church.  I've never worn a veil, nor have I ever felt pressure to do so.   I've known lovely women of faith who did, and equally compelling luminous witnesses to the faith who didn't.  I didn't see it as an indicator of anything but a preference as to how one would show reverence at mass.   I did not consider it to be proof of something much more than a personal devotion or method of showing humility.   The internet reaction was swift. "We veil things that are sacred."  was the argument, and it was only my pride that prevented me from being willing to submit myself to the adoption of the practice.

I'm a proud thing so I thought it's possible pride is blocking my understanding, but still disagreed.

I went to mass.  I saw a few women praying, wearing chapel veils.  I saw women praying whose heads were bare.  Were not all of us, men and women, made in His image, were not all of us, by our very creation, sacred?  Shouldn't all of us be wearing something over our heads?  I didn't want to have this imaginary argument in my head, but it was there just the same.

Then, the priest spoke about the upcoming Encyclical on the environment, and the need of all Catholics to care for their whole family, and that included our home, the home given to us for all of our past parents, the home where we raise our children; Earth.

I considered the fallen nature of the planet, and of its keepers.  The majesty of an oak is veiled in the acorn, and the beauty of a butterfly in the catepillar.   A star cannot show you all of its brilliance because of distance, and a shark cannot manifest its terrible beauty and strength without our falling into danger.  My mind drifted into the whimsical thought, if we were to see how we were intended to be before the fall, we would mistake ourselves because of our fallen nature, for God.   We cannot bear too much reality, too much of God revealed in the physical world, and so we receive Him in the accidents of the sacrament, in the form of bread and wine but not.  We crave the distance of a veil, to keep the sacred safe, whether by keeping ourselves at a distance, or keeping ourselves from seeing.

We are accidents of form, for our souls are us, and yet our souls are not fully revealed by how we look, but how we act.   The wearing of the veil reveals one form of devotion, but not necessarily the state of the soul wearing it, the same way a collection of prayer cards three inches thick may indicate something about a soul, but it does not necessarily reveal a deep prayer life, merely an obsessive one.

 My four year old daughter played with her stuffed kitten in the cry room and knows the mass drill.  "I'm blowing kisses to God." she said.   The veil between her soul and the world and God is much thinner than mine.

Then I met a woman whose nature and countenance told me she was luminous in her faith life.  She'd adopted a child with Down Syndrome, and had seven children of her own, two in the seminary.   A dear friend who's shared her faith story with me, introduced us.  Both are devout women of prayer with deeper interior lives than I can imagine, given my own Attention Deficit methods of prayer.

One wore a veil, the other did not.  Both were holy women and my friends. The words "Both And." resonated in my heart, for they struck the reality of how we should be, how we're called to be.  We are veiled accidents of form, and through our witness, we reveal the truer reality, truer than whether one wears a head covering or not, the "Both And" radical nature of God's love for us, and call of us to love Him.   Neither of these women drew attention through their attire, but through their presence and actions.   God bled through their souls into my ordinary distracted life.

I left the parking lot after mass and all I knew was, "That's Catholic."  

A Tale of Two Reactions

This past weekend, I was in Southbend, Indiana at the 25th reunion of my graduating class from Saint Mary's College.  In trying to get back, I found myself trapped at the airport.  While waiting for someone to show up at the gate to give us directions and a touch of hope of leaving, I spied a classmate I hadn't had a chance to visit with, and we struck up a conversation. 

"So M---, tell me what's going on in your life."  I asked.
She told me about her job, her family, how much she enjoyed the reunion. Then the dreaded return question, "So do you have any family?"

I'd come to know the question would start a firestorm response and it did.  "10 kids?" "You have TEN KIDS?" By this point, other people waiting for the plane were staring.  A graduate clearly back for his ten year said, "That's insane." 

It was 5:30 in the morning, our plane had been delayed by three hours during which I could have been sleeping.  "Thanks." I said.  Not my best witness point I admit.

"No really.  That's so..." he searched for a word, "Catholic."  He quickly added, "I have two."  and put his book up over his face so I'd know the conversation was over. 

Another woman looked at her husband, "We would have liked to have more..." her voice trailed off.  Clearly the loss of not having haunted her. I'd had a conversation with another woman that weekend who pined for more but was refused.   There were echo memories of pain from the loss of having more to love everywhere and I felt like a giant reminder, not always the good kind. 

Today, I went to buy donuts for my son celebrating his summer birthday with his class.  After purchasing three dozen, the man behind me whistled and said, "You're in charge of the party huh?" I smiled and said it was for my son's 7th grade to mark his birthday.  He congratulated me.  "How many children do you have?" he asked.  I was startled to get the question in this context.  "I have ten." I said and steeled myself for the reaction. 

I wish I knew how to write what he said, it was "Praise God" but in Arabic.  I asked him what it meant.  He explained that he was Muslim and from Turkey and children were a gift from God. He repeated saying "Praise God." multiple times and "Ten children!" in response.  I thanked him and took the donuts to my kids Catholic school. 

It's not that having one or ten children is the thing, but the reaction to the existence of children is the thing. How is it that in a theoretical bastion of Catholicism, my having ten seems more shocking to the everyday sensibilities of strangers than when standing in line to buy pastries in secular Gaithersburg, Maryland?

It was then that I was struck that if we really want to live a Catholic life, we have to stand out, be part of the world but not of it, and that God knowing I like to be liked, determined I needed to have this many.  Despite loving attention, despite loving to talk, I would balk at witness that singled me out, so God devised a means where by I could not escape witnessing. But standing out is hard, particularly when you go to places where you don't expect to stand out. 

That's so....Catholic.  Really?  To me, the woman who says she has seven and wears a smile even as she mourns the loss of one of her children, this is so Catholic, the woman who stands in the pew near me in mass and sings her heart out even as I know it is partially breaking for having to touch on the brokenness in her life, a divorce and a starting over, this is so Catholic, and the woman who soldiers on, gracious and to my mind, tolerating the intolerable as she repeats over and over again how she is not married and has no children but does so to each new eager face who asks with equal graciousness of spirit, this is Catholic. So Catholic is not a number of children or how many holy cards I have in my purse, or how many decades you say, it is how you treat others and why you treat others as you treat them, because you hold to love, to Christ first.  What is so Catholic is not the outward appearance of a life, but the inward sacrifice of a life lived.

Poster Children for NFP*

(Originally Run on  7/26/09...in honor of NFP week).

Showing up for mass on time and worried that I didn't look at the schedule to see if three of the oldest kids need to serve, we huddled guiltily in the back of the church. Some of the ushers know that this is our habit, to send the oldest five upstairs to watch the mass and for my husband and me to wrestle with the "non sentient" crowd unobserved by the majority of the parishioners.

Occasionally we get a pushy mass attendant who will repeatedly try to insist that we take the two, three, five year old and 9 month old to sit at the front of the church. Usually, the two, three year or nine month old will dissuade said usher with a few well placed random happy screams.

At the back of the church there are folding chairs for the stragglers and for us, and a table where one can pick up handy literature on the needs of the food pantry, materials concerning pending legislation that will affect Catholic schools or the Church, teachings on Abortion, flyers for CYO and for retreats, and now, a giant poster covered with sunflowers advertising Natural Family Planning. Sitting with nine children in the back, it was hard not to giggle with the backdrop.

Still, upon reflection, I came to understand that we are NFP poster children. Only if the goal is to have no children, are we not. The fact that we have nine is more a tribute to my stellar book keeping skills and our great love, than the efficiency or effectiveness of NFP. If you succeed in keeping your family small using this method, it is because you have practiced the virtues of obedience and patience and sacrifice --all beautiful virtues which God loves. You have followed God's plan. If you sometimes ignore, forget, or willfully chose to ignore the times when one must abstain to avoid conception, you have abandoned yourself to life, to love, to a future of hope, and allowed yourself to be used in the great first gift of creation, also virtues that God loves. Either way, NFP places you firmly on the path to God.

And the bonus of all this, a man with his young daughter came by and walked in our midst to the table. He took up a flyer for the next session teaching NFP. Whether he did it out of desire for the massive number of sunflowers we had surrounding us or not, it didn't matter.

The usher came by right after that moment, and gave me a wink.

P.S. It wasn't our week to serve, or at least, it wasn't our week to have kids on the altar up front.

Hey Beautiful*

*Originally ran on November 11, 2007.  Was written for Dad's birthday of that year.  

Dad always answers the phone to me, “Hey Beautiful.” It always makes me smile.

My dad reads German theologians for recreation. He also puns constantly and loves Notre Dame, the Astros, fishing, hunting and 99.9% of all classic English literature. He is Texan. He is Southern. He is Catholic.

When I was a kid and he was mad, even if I wasn’t the person who did anything, I went to my room and cleaned. The thundercloud would roll by and see a virtuous kid doing only right stuff. This was the image I strove to maintain. I had figured out it would keep me out of trouble. It did, and my parents got a clean room out of the bargain, by allowing me to think I was manipulating them.

I remember him teaching me how to do flips off the high board and how to drive. He taught me to rig a lure for fishing and retrains me when I forget. He didn’t yell when I wrecked the car again. He met all my dates. He made me watch Casablanca and The Quiet Man. He bought me a guitar and a silver bracelet. I can gut a fish, train a dog and make Coq au’Vin today because at some point, he taught me. I cannot do algebra. He tried to tutor me. I know something of Latin. He made me take it. I scream like a banshee at Notre Dame Football. He showed me the game and helped me come to obsess over it.

Dad drove me to get ice cream when I lost my wallet at Christmas. Dad took me out to lunch when I worked at his office. Dad asked me to paint some crabs on the fireplace at the beach house and helped reel in the 40+pound Red Fish I had hooked. Dad danced with me at the Debutante ball and I wished, oh how I wished, he was at the table with me, for my date was boring.

Senior year at Saint Mary’s College, he wasn’t coming to Father/Daughter weekend. I tried to be offhand about that, I wished he could be there but knew money was tight. The Sunday before the Father/Daughter weekend, my then boyfriend proposed. That Friday, Dad was on a plane.

As my roommate and I got dressed to go out to dinner with him, Dad was serving as her dad for the night too, I said, “Just watch, the first thing Dad’ll say is “Why do you want to marry my daughter?” Annie laughed and disagreed. “I’ve met your Dad, he won’t say that.”

We picked up Marc, my fiancé at Notre Dame and drove to the restaurant, Dad, Marc, Annie and Me. No sooner were we all seated, then my father said, “Why did you ask my daughter to marry you?” Annie and I looked at each other and bust out laughing. Marc was left with two giggling girls and no help. He rallied. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.” Dinner was fun.

That summer I worked at his office. I went on walks with him sometimes when we were both dieting. We’d talk about food and how much we missed it. We’d argue over wedding plans, band vs. DJ, morning suits vs. Tuxes, receiving line vs. announcements by the band.

Eventually, My Dad sang the Notre Dame Fight song to me as I walked into the Church to get married. It helped me to stop shaking. I remember Dad’s smile as he walked towards me at my wedding reception to have our dance, but I do not remember the song.

Sometimes he sends me papers by his favorite theologian, Von Balthazar. I dutifully try to read the treatise, “Does Original Sin Exist?” but I want to scribble back a short post-it, “Yes. Next Question.”

Dad has had many heart surgeries, but the one I remember is the one in 2000. I arrived after the surgery had taken place, and sat in the living room with Danny and Joe and Jennifer and my newly crawling son, feeling how empty the house felt with Dad in the hospital. When we went to visit at the hospital, Joe and Danny attempted to move Dad by lifting the recliner he was in, and dropped the chair. I was terrified, but Dad was okay. He showed me the stitches that ranged all over his body. They had cut open his chest, taken out his heart, stopped it, cut away things and put everything back together and stitched him up. I looked at the long line of black threads on his legs and arms and it looked like a large black rosary to me had been carved onto his body. It hurt to look but he was alive and so I looked anyway. It was ugly and beautiful at the same time.

Just before we left, a former partner of Dad’s, dropped by to check on Dad. I had a long-standing dislike of the man ever since the firm restructured and Dad left it. I occasionally had called to jam up the 1-800 line at the firm but knowing this was childish, I had stopped. I had even thought of returning the wedding present he had given my husband and me, a dessert server, saying, “It leaves a bad taste in my mouth,” but again decided it was small minded. Seeing the man visit my Dad at the hospital, I thought, “Damn, now I’m going to have to forgive him.”

Dad held no grudges so I couldn’t either, much as I might sometimes want to…really. That ugly stuff still doesn’t matter. He still calls me and says, “Hey Beautiful.” because that’s how he sees me and how God sees each of us. “Hey Beautiful.”

And by saying that, over and over, eventually, we come closer to becoming it. 

Happy Father's Day Dad!

Did I say that?

Memo: My computer is being retooled. (stupid virus).  That leaves me precious little time on the old machine.  Thus, you get a microwaved frozen leftover re-run from last summer. (Originally run on July 17, 2009). But, if you didn't read it last year, it's new to you. Enjoy!

“Don’t put stickers on the car door!”

“You shouldn’t play the piano with a toothbrush.”

“Please, give me the hammer back…Now!”

There are sentences that need no other explanation in the civilized world other than to say, “I am a parent.” Usually, they translate as imperatives that for all sentient beings, would never need be spoken.

Yet I have begun collecting them as samples of what my offspring require to survive 24 hours in my care. While on the phone with my brother, I heard similar utterances from him at his three children. “Put that down! Stop running into the window!” I started to laugh until I had to shout, “Don’t sit on the baby!” Now it was his turn, but we both recognized conversation was impossible and hung up.

My friends started giving me samples too. “What are you doing?” to a teenager stuffing an entire tortilla into his mouth in one swoop at ten minutes to six as she was serving dinner. “Who told you you could color your arm purple?” from a kindergarten mom. (It was picture day at school). “It’s a free dress day. I don’t have to wear my uniform.” was the child’s explanation. My personal favorite was “You made dinner?” from a third mother who said she’s still finding sauce stains in her kitchen from her fifth grader's experiment.

What is unsaid and unexplained about raising children often transcends what stories are told. Part of the omission is from personal shame. We can’t explain why our child had a three gallon water bottle in the middle of his room. We asked. He didn’t want to get up in the middle of the night to go the extra five feet to his bathroom sink to get a drink. We still don’t understand.

Part of it is the dim recognition that too much truth may be unbearable. Yes, she colored on the piano with a permanent black marker. Yes, he hid dirty clothes in a drawer until they fermented. Yes the toddler took a bite out of a tomato because she thought it was an apple and spiked the offending vegetable onto the newly clean floor. The amount of labor and property damage in those three sentences alone may be enough to doom the human race if universally disseminated.

When I asked my mom about these sorts of odd phrases that were coming out of my mouth as correctives of my children, she laughed and explained everything. “I told you about that when you were a kid...” “What was that? Mom? Hold on. Sweetie, stop squirting the instant mop on the wooden floor. Don’t pull your brother on a towel…”

“Mommmmm, we were playing sled.”

"What was that Mom?"

“See dear, you just weren’t listening.” My Mom answered over the phone.

It may be a dodge, but it’s a good dodge. I’m keeping it for when my kids have kids.

P.S. Today I said, and meant with all my heart, "Don't throw the cat at the chandelier." Son was tossing his beanie baby in the empty dining room and it got stuck. It's like they're secretly reading these posts!

Reflections on the Mound that was Caplen, TX

Yesterday, I returned from a four day hiatus from being a full time hands on Mom.  So what did I do on my vacation?  I went to visit my parents, my brother and my sister and her family.  It was weird to be just an aunt.   I loved it. My niece is adorable.  But I felt smaller.

What did I learn?  That I need my nine children to mask my personal character flaws or rather to reveal how they aren't actually flaws but necessary traits. 

For example, I'm hyper.  I talk loud.  I laugh loud.  If I've had even a smidgeon of something to drink, I tend to slap down on the table like my dad does, as a means of added emphasis if I find something funny.  With nine children, all that energy and brightness and bluster gets filtered into a proper context.  No one notices how loud I am as a strange thing, they view it as a survival skill.  I'd tell you this was a calculated evolution born of practical maternal need, but that would be lying.  

I don't sleep much.  Absent a reason to stay up to get things done, I still stay up.  Absent a reason to get up at six, I still wake.  My bio rhythms are set to engage in an aircraft carrier type full scale launch every morning and so I rise fully ready to take on the day sans any coffee by seven.  If there's nothing to do, I start almost bouncing on my feet ready to go go go.  Where? I don't know but I'm ready.  All that energy gets harnessed in the course of any given school day that otherwise idles waiting for something to do. 

On Saturday, we went to the beach where the beach house once stood and I walked over the mound, all that remains of what was a house that stood for almost 85 years.  There was rope and debris imbeded in the sand.  There were shards of what was tile in the bathroom with its distinctive honeycomb pattern. 

Mound to the right is where our beach house was.  Gully where another beach house used to be. 

Two summers ago our beach neighbor and his wife taught my children how to crab and now opened their new house by the shore to us on this windy afternoon. They had rebuilt and collected "storm wear," things that survived Hurricane Ike intact. 

We took a bowl that I remembered.  It had once held gumbo cooked all day, or home made fudge sauce over bluebell cookies and cream or jalepeno cheese grits.  Now it held sand.  I decided it would be cruel for a bowl to survive a category 4 hurricane and get crushed en route in the cargo hold of a plane so I would give it to my sister to keep.   Then I collected some shells for my children, avoided the washed up man-o-wars and filled a water bottle with some of the Gulf of Mexico.

I stepped into the water. 

It was about 25 degrees below what I expect when I see the beach, as was the air.  My life memories of the Gulf almost never included April.  But the beach is still the beach and even though the beach house is gone, the essence of what I loved remained with all its wild growth glory.  The gnarled trees that seem to scratch the air as they carve and twist their way up out of the ground still scattered about the landscape.  Wild flowers with their garrish deep orange, bright yellow and blood red petals and politically incorrect names dotted the grass.  There were stickaburrs and driftwood and people walking with old dogs.   They didn't know us but still stopped to say hi and begin sharing stories.  The neighbors who had saved the crockery invited everyone in including the blind 17 year old dog. 

What did we talk about?  A 4 thousand dollar broken part of a plane that became a clock, the way things looked at the first flyover, about selling a business and finishing a deck, about back surgery and the reality that everyone suffers, rich, poor, everyone, but how you respond is what matters.   We talked about what they remembered, what they saved, why they were staying and what they hoped. "I wish you could stay longer."  the former King of Mardi Gras and neighbor said.  They offered drinks, even dinner.  That' is the essence of the beach, you always welcome everyone and you always wish everyone could stay longer.  It's my vision of what being Catholic really is. 

Looking at the ocean and the sun and feeling the wind even as I was told it was time to go, I wanted to walk the shore for hours like I used to, and like then, if time had allowed I know I would have not felt tired until I was dehydrated and sunburned or stung in a careless moment.  Most likely, all three. Only then would I have felt I'd gone far enough to turn back.  Most of the time, my life, my home, my mind and my body are busy. The beach, that beach, was and remains a place where my life, home, mind and body would quiet even as they kept doing. So I miss more than the home that celebrated most of my birthdays, I miss the opportunity for those seemingly timeless walks to nowhere that weren't for fitness and weren't to get to a destination.

(Yes, that's what it looks like but this was a pre Ike photo posted on the Facebook Bolivar You Have to Love it to Like it page).

On the way back to Pearland, I bought a pint of Pralines and Cream (my favorite) and ate more than most of it. (I shared a little with Mom.  Dad had fried chicken).  When I got back to Maryland, I took my husband outside and rolled up his jeans.  I poured the Gulf on his feet and he smiled.  If we could not get to the ocean, the ocean would come to us.  

"Did you have a good trip?" He asked.
"Yes. I did."

But I found I'm more myself here than anywhere else.  Everywhere else, who I am doesn't make as much sense, nor does all of me fit.

October 4th, 1988

When I was stuck in New York for a month, recovering from an emergency surgery in the fall after college, a family friend who was also a Catholic priest, invited my mother and me to attend the feast of Saint Francis, held on October 4th at an Episcopal Church in the village. The liturgy included dancers and choirs and a parade of exotic creatures including amongst other things, a donkey, elephant, llamas, fish, snakes, birds, and a congregation of pet owners.

We sat behind a woman who had two daschunds. The first was in her arms, an obviously smaller and older dog that needed to be comforted in the presence of so many other animals. The second pet, a youthful brown pup, tried to get her attention. He stood on his hind legs. He yipped. He begged. She wasn't interested in switching the old dog for the younger. Making it through the parade of all God's creatures Great and Small and the readings, he was mollified by the occasional doggy treat.

However, the homily ran long.

The dog was tired. The dog was bored. The dog wanted to be petted and picked up and had done every trick he could think of, including licking the hands of those of us sitting behind him. Since we weren't receiving communion, this didn't pose a problem. He rolled on his belly for us to give him a rub. Alas, sitting so close to a priest, he wasn't likely to find that cradle raised Catholics would be able to divert themselves too long in his direction, even if it wasn't a Catholic mass. Admittedly, I felt freed up to pet him after Fr. C did. But we couldn't give him what he wanted, the seat of honor in his owner's arms.

Finally, in frustration, the dog peed on the church floor. It was long, it was deliberate and to make sure she knew it, he yelped to get his mistress to turn her head before he started.

Fr. C. turned to us and said, "Original Sin affects us all."

Happy Saint Francis of Assisi Feast Day Everyone!

Adventures in Pest Control

Every summer, I get to release my inner hunter instinct that must come from my pioneer ancestry. Normally, our family emphasizes a harmony with nature, but there are a few notable exceptions. Any nature that decides to make our home its habitat, foregoes all benevolence from the home owners.

We weren’t always this blood thirsty. It was a gradual corruption of our core values, an erosion of our gentle sensibilities that started with our first apartment in New York City. One day I came home from work to be warned by my husband not to enter. A heavy cloud of choking toxins hung in the air. “I’ve just taken five years off my life.” He explained, looking rather frightening with an aresol can in one hand and a fly swatter in the other. He took me for a walk in the village park to explain while the apartment gasses did their thing. “The roaches were having a family reunion on our stove.”

Bugs freak my husband out faster than anything, so I smiled benevolently and we went out for dinner before returning to a now faintly musky smelling but bug free one room apartment.

When we moved to Houston, it was my turn. I had never seen mice in a home before, even having lived in New York city. The first time I saw a mouse, it ran and I screamed a’la that faceless woman from a Tom and Jerry cartoon. I even reached for the broom. My husband went to the local hardware store and bought an environmentally friendly trap to catch the mouse. He baited it with peanut butter. That idea alone put me off of PB&J for years.

The next day, “Mickey” was trapped in a small green case and well fed. Now we had to release the darn thing somewhere which meant carrying the case with said mouse to somewhere. My husband patiently convinced me to get in the car with the green box, I put the green box in a shoe box and then held the shoe box. I was afraid we had caught the mensa of mice who would figure out how to get out of the humane trap and scurry around the inside of our car.

Releasing it into the park however, turned out to be much more difficult than originally planned. Opening the trap, we waited for Mickey to leave. Mickey didn’t move. Tapping the glass case only further convinced him to stay put. Shaking the trap didn’t work either. In the back of the car, we had a hammer (Don’t ask), and I thought we could maybe smash the side of the polyurethane case to make the opening bigger. My husband convinced me that it looked cruel and that this probably wouldn’t work, so we waited. Forty five minutes later, Mickey finally decided to poke his nose out of the trap. A dog barked. Back inside he went.

Just when I started to think we should start charging rent, my husband sprinkled some cookies he had in his lunch bag from yesterday outside the trap. Mickey was willing to go out to eat. The trap was now ready for additional use the instructions on releasing said, but it would have to be cleaned. Looking at the green plastic cage filled with mouse droppings, I threw the whole thing out. I wasn’t even tempted to recycle.

The next turn of the battle with beasties came at our first home, with our daughter, newly potty-trained. We had purchased a house next to a vacant lot, which gave the whole place an open feeling of being bigger than it was, but also meant we had flora and fauna for neighbors. When our daughter screamed in the bathroom, “Something is slithering at me.” We knew there was only one thing she meant.

My husband captured the snake in a brown paper bag and I praised his man-god hunting skills. Then we worried the whole incident would set potty training back for years. I knew I wasn't going to use that facility anymore.

I have however, finally come into my own, for I am the Samauri exterminator of all flying insects. Flies, wasps, bees and mosquitos, anything with wings that darkens our door doesn’t stand a chance against dead-eye Mom. The kids take my title seriously and have been keeping a running tally. Hunting my quarry, I am known for the quick and merciless strike. However, zealotry in this activity can have its downside. It seems I hit the sweet spot on the window the other day, and now, well, the winged creatures of the world have their own private exit and entrance.

Until it’s repaired, here’s hoping they are as slow to catch on to it as Mickey.

For Pest Free humor, try clicking Humor-Blogs.com , let them know you laughed. I'm number 83 at this point.

Mom's Middle Name is Icarus

Motherhood is a lifelong lesson in humility. In the beginning, you surrender your body. When you first see the child face to face, any part of your heart still your own gets engulfed. But the ego takes a while to whittle down to nothingness, and that comes with the long haul of raising a human being.

I’ve lost two pounds of pride in the past week.

Monday, I was supposed to feel smart. After all, I had an article in the Washington Post. It was my second ever.

Then my nine year old son asked me to play Stratego.

He schooled me.

I didn’t get even close.
The first game, he found my flag in three easy moves using scouts.

The second game, I snapped at him for watching as I arranged my pieces, certain I was telegraphing the location of my flag with every flick of a hand. I tried doing a shell game as I shuffled pieces but then I got confused. He mowed down one row and just flooded the back side, destroying my carefully laid defenses. I believe my casualty rate was 80% and 20% for him. Maybe General Custard had it worse, but few can chalk up such appalling numbers on a field of battle in such consistent play and not be removed from command.

My son tried to console me. “Maybe next time, you’ll do better.” He smiled. “It’s the first two times I’ve won.” He grinned again. He had been playing his dad and older brother. I wondered if the Stratego skill was on the Y chromosome. My son eagerly set up the game again.

“How about chess?” I offered.
No.
“Scrabble?”
Nyet.
“Go Fish?”
He gave me a pittying look and shook his head.

The phone rang. Desperate for a reprieve from another beating, I pounced on the receiver. I would have consented to hear a sales pitch for timeshares at that point but as luck had it, it was my husband. “Hey Honey, I got you several papers. The article looks good.” I temporarily basked in glory again. “She was smart once.” I thought.

My son jumped on the phone. “Dad! Dad! I crushed Mom! It was beautiful! She never had a clue where my flag was and I Won!” Back to Earth.

My other son came into the room, looked at my reactive set up to the prior game’s obliteration and started giving me pointers. Proof that it really had been as bad as I thought; my victorious son did not protest my getting help. He even offered some strategic tips. Fifteen minutes of tutorial on feints and defenses, strategic losses and the effective use of the spy and I still lost splendidly. Again. And Again. And Again. Now I know there are games where you have to lose multiple times to grasp the concept, games like Chess and Go, Hearts and Spades, but after a perfect record of 0 and 6, my son must have felt bad, as he didn’t ask for another game.

Maybe I wasn’t enough of a challenge. He disappeared for a while. Just when I was starting to feel perky again about my piece in the Post, my son returned with a new game board under his arm. “You need to work on strategy Mom. So I thought maybe we should play checkers instead.”

I’m not telling who won, but the scale says I lost another pound.

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Video Games, A Family Intervention

My kids love video games.

We have admittedly fed this love, because we enjoy a good round of Smash Brothers or Mario Cart as much as anyone. It’s cathartic to occasionally beat your children in an area they consider themselves to be “grand masters.” When I schooled my son recently on Soulsword, he was most gracious. “She grew up on Mortal Combat and Kung Fu Battle and Gauntlet.” He explained to his awe struck sisters. Being a gracious mom back, I said, “Yes, young grasshopper, you have much to learn.” My son didn’t know his mom could trash talk either.

Being a child of the 80’s, I have fond memories of blowing wads of quarters on Ms. Pac Man, Centipede and Donkey Kong Jr. I was the Jedi master of the Star Wars game, back when all you had to hit was line drawing outlines of those tie fighters, which really meant something because I was…shocker…a girl! I was one with the force then, and sometimes, even now the mitochondrion rally to my side.

My husband and I have brought our children up on the classics, Frogger and Paperboy, and told them of the lost favorites like Indian Jones and the Temple of Doom, or the classic Gauntlet, wherein we were both frequently told, “Never have I seen such bravery.” when we would launch into suicide missions against hordes of orcs once we were out of spare change. The fondness in our voices at those times indicated tacit approval for this activity as a form of recreation.

Unfortunately for our offspring, games and game systems change and people sometimes grow up. Being grown up, we get the fun job of imposing limits in life; bed time, what’s for dinner, what’s for snack, what they can wear to church and how much they can watch television. However, in the arena of video games, we have admittedly, shown our human frailty. With seven of eight kiddos preoccupied with no mental or physical power supplied by a supervising adult, it’s hard not to succumb to sloth too.

With the baby safely tucked in her crib, my husband and I would race to our respective computers and begin our own plunge into the opiate that video games provided. Originally, we showed characteristic adult restraint, setting a proscribed time limit for this indulgent activity that was strictly observed. Then one day, the timer went off and I turned it off and instead of barking the usual, “Game over. Time’s up.” I returned to the computer to finish my round of spider solitaire. The kids stayed in Nintendo Land and my husband walloped on the French with his massive Roman navy in an island based scenario of Civilizations.

Hours drifted by and we ordered pizza. The baby played in the room with us, supplied with hugs and cuddles, occasional bottles and diapers and a pick me up as needed. The day shot by and everyone had vacated reality for all of 8 hours. We felt exhilarated and drained at the same time. We had frittered a day. Here in 2008we had managed to beat the demands that we always be doing with a unplanned unstructured day of pure indulgence that cost only the price of ordering three pizzas plus cheesy bread.

The next day was sort of a hangover, the price of our day of hooky. Laundry, dishes, grocery shopping, homework projects and gardening all acted as silent critical editorials for our day of indulging the Id. Naturally, we did what any beginning addict does, we made excuses, did a quick cursory attempt at each of the problems and then rushed back to our addiction of choice. Another wasted day, but this one did not thrill as much as the first when the work week returned. For a time, we keep this mentally and physically destructive but entirely legal habit under control. It was limited to a weekend only pursuit, we would binge play on Saturday and Sunday.

I stopped scheduling weekend activities.

However, the creeping addiction of virtual crack provided by fake worlds and fantastic swords kept trying to pry open the rest of the week and eventually succeeded. Homework finished, they would rush to their screen of choice. I wasn’t much better, feeding the baby as I played on my laptop in the kitchen.

Fortunately, we have many actors in our family and the one least invested performed an intervention of sorts. It was partially due, as all interventions actually are, to the increasing level of sloth by those supposedly providing guidance, supervision and care. Having requested a glass of water and received none, my two year old decided to help herself. She got a paper cup from the closet. She took it to the sink. She filled it to the brim and quenched her thirst .

Smacking her lips with satisfaction, she walked over to where her siblings sat pushing buttons and cheering on their latest hero, Link. Toddlers are called toddlers for a reason. Sippy cups are used for a reason. Toddlers carrying sippy cups can trip all day and not spill a drop. Toddlers carrying nearly full paper cups trip and electronic equipment designed to provide hours of entertainment do not like the results.

The cry went out too late but there it was, a 6x6 inch cube of plastic rendered unusable by virtue of one of the basic necessities of life and the “we presume” innocence of a two year old. Looking at the remains of the once beloved box, the children shook their heads in disbelief as we all recovered from our madness and remembered again the taste of barbeque, the spray of the pool waterslide and the glory of listening to baseball on the radio that should fill the hours of summer.

Never has a toy fallen from grace so quickly. Never has a recovery come so instantaneously. The next few weeks passed in a blur of summer activities that made me proud to be a parent and put the whole video crack addiction behind us. It was just a bad bump in parenting and family dynamics, a fall, the result of our fallen nature, from which we had emerged stronger.

Then the kids started a lemonade stand. I was feeling so proud of them for inventing a way to enjoy the day until I saw the sign. “Raising Money for our OWN Wii. 50 cents a cup. Donations Welcome.”

And I know, I may have to give the baby a glass of lemonade one day.

Today's Four Horsemen of Notre Dame

Yesterday, I took my oldest four to see Pope Benedict XVI at Washington National Park. It was a profound moment to be part of a mass with 46 thousand faithful and the pontiff.

The only issue, leaving the stadium, there were protesting evangelists who had six feet tall banners declaring "IF YOU BELIEVE THE POPE, YOU ARE GOING TO HELL" and "WHERE IN THE BIBLE DO YOU FIND PRAYING TO MARY, PURGATORY, INDULGENCES? YOU HAVE BEEN LIED TO!" While I was irritated to be accosted instantly upon leaving a beautiful mass, I explained to my children, this was part of the beauty of the country we lived in, anyone could say and believe anything.

I would have been content with the live and let live benevolence if the man had not then produced a bullhorn and started accosting anyone wearing a pro-Pope Benedict t-shirt...including small children. My small children were home with their father, but I growled that a grown man thought a five year old was a fair target for his vitriol. Still, I had to be an example. My oldest was fifteen. He saw the incident and wanted to take the man on, "He's spouting inaccuracies..." he would attack on substance, toe to toe. I told him "No."

The densely packed street made movement slow, allowing the man to shout and shout and shout, wearing down my goodwill and willingness to be charitable. "The Church wanted to Kill Martin Luther..."

My son shot back, "He died of natural causes." The man didn't know who said it, but felt called to call us "Sheep." The kids looked to me...I pointed out that in the parable, Jesus separated the sheep from the goats --sheep were good things. They looked mollified...slightly.

My oldest two took out their papal flags and waved them deliberately, starting something of a silent cascade behind them in protest of yellow banners. The man grew bolder in his assertions of our foolishness.

Finally, I growled to the man next to me...if he attacks my children, I'm going Old Testament. Wrath of God..." The man had been talking to me about the music, he was part of the choir. "But we're supposed to turn the other cheek."

"Yes," I countered, "But luckily, we're Catholic so if we don't, there's always confession..."

Looking at the man now pointing at teens and saying, "You're on the wrong path. This pope lies."

The man nodded his head. "I wonder if I could find a priest..." he asked aloud.
...the kids laughed..."Of course, there's the little problem with remorse...that might take a few days." The choir now was laughing.

We were almost past the very angry man when he started in on Mary, Mother of God. Other women and men in the choir were debating what to do, discussing what was the holy response. I did like the answer by someone, "Just punch him." I had to agree, it seemed the most effective or at least emotionally satisfying.

The kids were clearly troubled by this new attack, so as a group, we huddled and said a vocal "Hail Mary, followed by Notre Dame Our Mother, Pray for Him." Go Irish!

Mental Dim Sum and Sons

No unifying theme today, just some odds and ends I found amusing and in some cases, profound.
If you've never eaten Dim Sum, think of having a dinner entirely of appetizers. Heart's Delight or Jewels that tug on the heart is the concept to consider here --Tapas, or French courses, the idea is little snatches of yumminess that satisfy.

First: Happy birthday to my four year old. He's potty trained, so I can officially celebrate the anniversary of his birth. He told me, I'm allowed.

Second: We went out to dinner last night and the waiter showed up with a sunday and Sombrero for my birthday boy. When they put on the hat, he stuck his lower lip out and shrunk down to the size of a ball, he looked like a Mexican mushoom with that big hat on his head, but when the ice cream showed up...suddenly that hat was his very favor thing.

Third: And now a word from our sponsor. I don't get many comments. I don't get huge amounts of traffic. Aproximately 20 or so people visit this blog a day. The high water mark was 106 and that was with a serious plug from the Ironic Catholic, a brilliant blog I admire greatly.

The other day, I knew I had arrived on the blogosphere. I got my first Spam comment. I have printed it here minus their plugs to give due homage to the people who indicated I had entered the big leagues...it was in response to the Sous Chef piece.

"3/10/08
A critical underpinning of a healthy diet is unque... A critical underpinning of a healthy diet is unquestionably the consumption of fresh vegetables and fruits. Unfortunately, many adults do not like these fine foods - so kids are the concern. Anyone interested in getting kids to develop a friendly attitude towards fruits and vegetables should take a look at a new book called “Insert title here.” Great for kids of all ages – children even learn their alphabet through produce poems and then go on to more mature activities. Out only six months it is already being used in educational programs. It is coauthored by best-selling food writer Sir SPAM A Lot and Other Notable Quotable writer SPAM Jr. You can learn more at SPAM SPAM SPAM AND MORE SPAM.com
Publish Reject "

I'm sure it's a splendiferous book, postively "unque" and I'd have even given it a looksee if I thought a human had read my post.

And lasty,
Why I should really be both terribly pleased and worried:

Found my middle son's artwork.
He had drawn a rosary.

He made a list entitled "Pray For Every Night"
Here is the list, punctuation included.

1. boy twins.
2. Mom and Dad.
3. poor people.
4. My brother.
5. Everyone!!

I am in big big big trouble.

Don't forget, you can find more laughs at http://www.humor-blogs.com/! They're funny even when I'm not.

Stand Up!

When I proposed the idea of doing stand up to my 14 year old son, he said,
"You should do it Mom."

I tried out some material. He laughed. Of course, I am his mother and I do give him a nice allowance. He's not exactly objective you understand.

So every morning I drive him to high school. In two years, he'll have a license and then my life will be radically better.

"Son #1, take child #6 to activity #47."

"I'll be a chauffeur?" He asked.
"As long as you have my car keys."
My son was silent as he wrestled with this revelation.

"How is it you turn every joy into an errand?" he finally asked.

"See, I've been 16. It won't matter that you're chugging kids all across town. You'll be so pumped. You'll say, "Hey Mom, do any of my siblings have an evening activity that you don't want to deal with? I'll be glad to drive."

"It won't matter that you drive to the same places I've been taking you for years. It won't matter that it is only ten miles from home. You'll pull into the parking lot of your elementary school and you'll drop off your brother for Cub Scouts and be thinking....(drop voice half an octave) THIS IS SO COOL.....I'm driving....with the windows down....and the radio on.....it's 23 degrees outside....It's still cool.....there's my elementary school Spanish teacher....yeah....I remember you....I had a "C" in your class....it kept me off the Principal's list....I've got a two ton vehicle at my disposal.....(Raises voice artificially high, waving) "Hello Mrs. Bailey...." (Drop voice again) I'll just rev the engine....just to make her nervous."

I am a mother of...counts on fingers...five, six..no eight, EIGHT? yes eight children.....I was never very good at math.

See...if I had been good at arithmetic, I'd understand exponents and multiplication and compound interest.

You're thinking...where is she going with this I know. Hang with me.

See, if I had paid better attention in math, I'd know that if it takes three hours to do the laundry for one child, one for wash, one for dry, one for fold and put away....that having a home with ten people, plus sheets and towels would take....counts on fingers...wait a minute...carry the 2....and...okay, 36 hours. That's Day ONE.

If I got math and it's tricky things with numbers, I'd know that fixing four meals a day for seven people, (Breakfast, lunch, dinner +snacks), that that comes out to 40 meals a day, Times Seven which results in 280 plates served in a week. If each meal takes an hour, that's 28 hours spent in meal prep. DAY TWO.

Now it gets tricky. See...I've spent 54 hours feeding people and doing laundry and I haven't brushed my teeth...and I don't know if anyone noticed, but there wasn't any sleep in those two days either....

I'm not sure if I should be operating heavy machinery at this point, but driving is a big part of my every day too. I estimate three hours are spent in the car and an additional three getting kids into and out of it. Six hours a day equals 42 a week...there are 168 hours in a week. I'm up to 106 and haven't showered.

It's getting bad.

But hey. I still have 42 hours left.

The reason I bring this up...is that I'm here. I haven't had to cook a meal..I haven't had to do some laundry...I have all this free time on my hands...so naturally I thought...Let's do some standup comedy.

It's either that or step into the back of the hotel and ask if I can do some dishes...I have all this time! I'm thinking of taking up learning cuneiform. Really, there's all these unscheduled minutes. What do I do? I've already brushed my teeth six times today...just because I can.

I'm here.

When I told people I was going to a writing conference in Dayton. They looked at me funny. "What are you going to do with the kids?" they asked.

I looked at them. "What?"

"I mean...we own a microwave.
...And a TV.
...They have a phone."

"Did you get a babysitter?"
"No."

"No?"
"No. I'm not paying their father ten bucks an hour to watch the kids. I'm just not doing it.....He did ask."

"I agreed to order pizza....

They'll be fine."

“When you have eight kids, you get asked a lot of odd questions. From really odd people. Don’t you know how this works? Are you going to have any more?

Questions that I naturally like answering to complete and total strangers on a regular basis.

The worst of it though was when I went shopping for a twelve passenger van.

“Are you part of a church or something?”
“No, it’s for my family.”

“So, you need a vehicle that big?”

“Yes.”

“Really?” His voice is getting squeaky and high.

“Really. “

“What? Do you and your husband just every few years get the urge?”
And I said….”Yes.”

“He’s really, really …really really….really really ….good.” Raise eyebrow.

Now my husband is my editor and vets my writing and stand-up bits whenever he gets the chance.

He said I should really have another really in there…just for comic effect you understand.

Love you Sweetie!

Aren't we all on the B-team Most of the Time?

Growing up attending Catholic elementary school and high school (and college and grad school too, but that’s another matter), there was only one extracurricular activity available for social outlets in the seventies. Sports. This worked well if you were tall, athletic, coordinated, had stamina, strength, popularity or hustle. Nowhere in that list are the qualities, sense of humor or good with words. I dreamed of making the “A team.”

Then eighty’s television sort of hijacked that phrase to connote a black and red van with a Mr. T.

But the status of “B team” has remained unchallenged. Living in a county where birthing is considered a competitive sport, there have been systemic attempts to destroy the very essence of a “B-team.” These parents worry their kids self esteem will be irreparably damaged if they suffer the humiliation of knowing someone else is better at something than they. These attempts have failed even more impressively than the b-teams themselves.

Method #1: Not keeping score. Like that worked. Anyone who has ever been at a pee-wee soccer game where the parents don’t keep score was not paying attention. Just go up to a parent of a kid who does well. “My kid scored six goals!” Just go to a parent of a kid who did poorly. “She tried really hard. That team was tough. “ “She let in six goals!” the dad will whisper with hints of despair while mentally planning on going to the nearest sporting goods store to buy a net and a new soccer ball and spend the rest of the day coaching his offspring on how to be a goalie. The parents can deny the reality on paper by not writing down a score, but they and the kid doing the end zone dance after snack and the one moping in her cupcakes know the truth.

Method #2: A Team by any other name. Team I and Team II, that didn’t work for obvious reasons. Apples and Oranges? Red and Blue? Naming the teams as equals never worked. Why? Because the instant a scrimmage starts up, Everyone knows who the athletic kids are. This is an American oddity, that we fear acknowledging excellence for fear of putting down everyone else. We don’t want a kid to be a ball hog. However, the kids on the team know “He can shoot, he can score.” Guess what they do, feed the ball to the hog.

Method #3: Revisionist Theory in Application. Twenty first century values demand that all heroes be fallen ones, and all lesser or supporting casts be simply as of yet undiscovered vastly underrated prospects. I've seen people on the sideline praise the slightest moment of competence by a poor player stumbling down the court as being "Michael Jordanesque" while the true ace player of the team hustles to capture the bad bounce pass from said teammate. The mental yoga that these adults engage in is amazing. It’s like parents doing a high five with a kid for bringing home a “C.”

Then, reality reasserts itself. With two minutes left in a tight game, the kids on the bench were shouting, “NO, pass it to Her! HER!” Ball sharing was for when you were up by ten or more with no time left.

Method #4: Marxism. Some people at my son’s school tried doing an even exchange, in basketball. Each coach got two prime players, two decent players, two coachable players , one headache and one hopeless. Both teams had losing seasons. Losing seasons are okay. The kids will live. The pizza at the end of the season party still tastes as good. In the adults, however, there is a note of desperation in that creeps into even the most zealous advocate of communism in the sporting world as they stare at the prospects of another 0-8 season.

The problem with "A teams" is they require a High Physical standard. It's intangible but identifable. Today in America, we are discouraged from even acknowledging anything but excellence. Some parents unfortunately swallow this Kool-Aid. Children and their accomplishments have become part of the adult resume. "Hello, my name is ....and my kids are currently learning German, Russian, Sanskrit, making mock replicas of the seven wonders of the world out of toothpicks and training for the Olympics. They performed tap dance at the State House last year for the Easter Egg Roll and are ranked amongst Who's Better than Who in American Parents' Magazine. Want to see my web site? It has a day by day documentary plus commentary on their struggles to write the next great American novel."

Parents, being obsessive in their love for their children, often fail to recognize that a C is not an A, no matter how much you love them. Someone who can't shoot, can't dribble and can't pass should not be on the A team any more than someone who spells "towards" twoard should be given full points on a spelling test. We can't helicopter/spell check our children out of all their faults and weaknesses. If we do, we'll fail them morally and academically, as surely as "The Dairy of Anne Frank" can slip by Microsoft Word's spell check in a book report.

Fortunately, reality has a way of correcting these issues, even if it takes a season to do so.

No one wanted another perfect losing season. After that year, the coaches reasserted themselves in the draft picks, calling them A and B teams and everyone was clear on the matter.

Some parents were fuming mad that their kids weren’t on the A teams.

Intervention Time Out

The head coach/director however was having none of it. Rather than talk to irrational people rationally about being reasonable, he tacked up a picture of “Mr. T” with the caption, “I pity the fool who argues with me. You’re on the team, be it A or B! Anyone who argues will take the blame. He or she will be banned from the game. “

Both teams had winning seasons. Eating pizza in celebration, I swore I heard the coach/cyo director say, “I love it when a plan comes together.”


EDITOR'S NOTE and LEGAL DISCLAIMER: Please remember this is a humor blog. Any resemblance to reality is unintentional except to the extent it makes you laugh.

Leftovers...

Today's offering is verbal stuffing, bits of this and that, mixed to make something really excellent to eat, but not often.

On Thanksgiving morning at six o'clock, the alarm went off.
"Come on Love, we have to dress and stuff the turkeys."
"Feed and clothe the kids, right." he smiled as he hit the alarm.

First a serving of Turkey...

Friday, emerging from the food comas, I happened to smirk at a bag of pecans that warned, "Processed on machines that may have processed nuts from trees." It reminded me of the recall in New Hampsire of Eggnog, where the feds insisted the products be removed from shelves as they lacked sufficient warning...MAY CONTAIN EGGS. Somebody must have egged the government on to do this, or else someone isn't using their noggin.

Mashed Potatoes for Brains...

Pulling out the hotdogs to make lunch, I observed the following label. "Child Safety: When serving hot dogs to young children, cut hot dogs lengthwise, then into small, easy to swallow pieces. Children should eat while seated and be under adult supervision. Please contact us at 1-866...for more information." I called the number to ask whether they could send someone over to supervise. They haven't gotten back to me.

Cranberries...

This year, retailers have recognized that "Happy Holidays" and "Season's Greetings" aren't cutting it with the vast shopping public that may actually be purchasing things to celebrate a religious observance. "Winter trees" flopped big time last year. Determined not to offend, some not so bright bulbs have opted for "Yuletide Season." Guess it's okay to acknowledge pagan religions, after all, there are so many druids running around.

Dessert....

Cutting cake to celebrate my husband's birthday caused our three year old to come a running. "Who's the cake for?" he asked. Our other children cued up for servings. "My favorite child first." their father replied and added with a wink, "Who's my favorite child?" The older four began to smile and one of them volunteered "All of us." but John grabbed the slice and said "ME. I'm your favorite." and hunkered down on the slice.

Gravy....

On the issue of favorites, a favorite story of my dad's. When asked by one of his sons, which of his nine children did he love the most, my grandfather told the story of how he couldn't be a priest because he had lost part of his thumb. He held up his hands. "You see I have nine fingers." he said. "I love and need them all."

Happy Thanksgiving!

How Not to Bring Your Children to Mass

Bringing small children to mass is always an adventure. Jesus wasn’t kidding when he said “Suffer the little children to come to me.” Some days, even the bribe of donuts after church fails to secure a toddler’s cooperation. As a veteran of these faith trials, I offer the following suggestions to make the weekly obligation more child friendly and faith filled.

Don’t Pretend You aren’t going to mass. This means the kids shouldn’t be loaded up with such items as ipods, gameboys, multiple cars, blocks and barbies. Books can be a lifesaver, but even reading should be somewhat selective. Any child that can read, should follow along in the misselette. Any child that can’t read, might be diverted by a picture bible or Catholic oriented story, or by a quiet reading of the gospel to them privately. Toddlers may need a toy or two to keep them busy, such toys should be hard to lose, noiseless and ultimately, so toddler oriented that older children won’t be watching them play with envy in their hearts.

Feed them at home. Some parents walk into mass with a plan of throwing food at their children to keep them quiet. Armed with bags from the local fast food establishment containing anything from lollipops to pancakes, they figure as long as the kids are quiet, it doesn’t matter if they’re eating. Bringing food for health reasons is one thing, but Mass is a communal experience and every sane child that sees another child chowing down on food in the cry room is thinking the same thing. “I want some.”

Don't pretend they’re not kids. Expecting children to sit quietly, eyes front, silent and well behaved for an entire sixty minutes is not recognizing children are children. They will have moments of great reverence and in the next two seconds, have an elbow fight with their sibling over pew space. One will sing loudly to emphasize the fact that the other is not singing. Breaking the mass down into parts helps a child to cope with the length of the liturgy better. Opening song to Gospel is one part, homily to Offertory hymn is a second part, Offertory to Our Father, Kiss of Peace to Go in Peace.

Having a reward system for making it through each of these four sections of the mass helps a child to settle into the liturgy and anticipate what comes. Earning a star for each section of the mass warrants a trip to the park, a donut, or at the very least, public praise.

Don't pretend they’re not your kids. This technique doesn’t work well if you attend mass regularly at the parish. Besides, even at a strange parish, siblings will out you if you pretend you know nothing about the toddler that is screaming on the floor and that gets awkward.

Be present yourself. Being present to your children at mass will help them be present to others at mass. After all, as the parents, we’re the first example. Dress nicely. Be on time. Sing the songs. Read along with emerging reader. Explain what is happening at the Liturgy of the Word and in the Eucharistic Prayer. Encourage the older children to join the choir, altar serve or act as readers. Invest them in being part of the mass just as assertively as one would basketball or academics, to instill in them the idea that this is sacred. This is who we are. This is what we believe.

Finally, when mass is ended, and we say “Thanks be to God,” mean it not because you’ve survived another week of going to mass with a two year old, but because you welcome the week ahead, having received food for the journey.