We're Always Both And

By now nearly everyone knows, Hillary Clinton said that some of us are "irredeemable."  I would submit, the candidate for President is correct and yet not.  For she thinks only some of us are irredeemable.

Sitting in mass today, I heard the story of the Prodigal son, of the two sons who both misunderstood the Father's love, and yet both were the beneficiaries.  That is the true reality we face, both as a people and to a person.  I couldn't help but notice all the families struggling with children at the mass. I know this battle, it is a universal one.  This day, my kids kept trading off who would sit next to me, eventually resulting in two sharing a chair, one sharing my lap, and one glommed onto my left shoulder rendering me unable to move. They did in turn each need to go to the bathroom, which gave me a few moments to try and really attend, but I kept seeing the families.

I saw parents trying to hold those they loved more than life itself and pay attention, some having to take their kids back to the cry room, others attempting to tough it out.   They were trying to love with great fervor, squirmy little people who didn't want to obey, didn't want to follow, didn't want to be quiet, didn't want to do anything their parents wanted.  Yet, the parents held them, kissed them, prayed with them and for them, and spent all of their energy on what seemed like a meaningless endeavor to the outside world, trying to help them behave at mass.   They didn't stop loving their misbehaving children, not doing what they wanted, not doing the Father's will.  Some might describe the acting out of these kids all over the mass, as deplorable.   It did not stop the parents love, their children's disobedience.

What we need and don't have and haven't had in some time, is a leader or a person running for leadership, who loves those not voting for the "proper party." Additionally, ideology driven media, celebrities, politicians, social media, and all other means of communication, tend to stir the sense of us, them, and promote hating the other as irrational, unreasonable, uneducated, stupid, crazy, evil, corrupt, awful, sinful, and instantly tainting of anyone who doesn't fit whatever the group think deems appropriate.  I don't hear anyone disagreeing that someone in this country is irredeemable, only disagreeing about who's on the list.

The reality is, we're all on the list.  We are both irredeemable by our limitations and sins, and innately worthy of honor, being made in God's image and thus daughters and sons, heirs to God's kingdom.   We love with great fervor, but often, we throw that fervor into everything else except our neighbors.  So yes, Hillary is right when she says anyone is deplorable.  I am, as is everyone who votes for Trump, Hillary, or anyone else or no one else, anywhere in this world, any time in this world.  We are all broken.  We are all prodigal children who sometime are the older sibling getting mad because there's a party and it wasn't thrown for us to show everyone else how good we are or more accurately, how bad everyone else is by comparison.

We are all, irredeemable or would be, save for that great unfathomable fact, God loves us.  What we have to remember, both as citizens and as individuals, is that great truth, that mysterious truth of God's love for us, is true for all of us, for each of us, at all times. There is no one who is irredeemable save that soul which refuses redemption.  God's mercy is not a safety net, but the hand of the father, reaching out to each of his children, offering grace, divine help, redemption.

We are all both and.  What's great, what's wonderful, is God has invited all of us to the party, where He will show the world how much He loves us.  All we have to do, is be willing to come in to the feast.  

P.S. I saw the parents of the squirmy kids.  They bought their children donuts.

Over at Aleteia Today

Please come read, comment and share. I am squaring off against Bon Jovi today.  Mental note, never post a blog from your i-phone, it will make you sound like a supreme moron. Bon jo I....seriously?

Something Else, Something More

My parenting skills run between the urgent, "We need to do something!"and the slothful, "Do we have to do something?" with my reaction to most events in life being something like, "We should have done something more."  and "Why didn't we do something?"  and when the kids do something spectacular, being in awe and thinking, "I've done nothing to merit this."

"They're something.  They're something special."   Yesterday, they were something.

The other day, I had a mountain of paperwork. It had taken over my room, and it took all day to clear it out.  I was stressed.  So stressed, my oldest daughter told me, my aura of stress permeated the house.  She told me to sit for five seconds.  I started doing the dishes.  She told me to sit on the couch for five minutes. I started folding the clothes.  She told me to stop.  She said, "You're tired. You're actually, exhausted." She took out her phone.  "For optimum results, you need either a twenty, fifty or ninety minute nap."  She explained the results of 1) refreshed, quick wake up, 2) refreshed, quick wake up, improved memory, 3) refreshed, quick wake up, improved memory, actual rest.

When I objected the third time, she set the timer and sent me to my room.

While I slept, they scurried, all of them about the house.  There was a post-it on my door.  DO NOT ENTER UNLESS DEAD! to cut out the psuedo emergencies several children created to gain access.

The oldest son went out with the mission, procure dinner.

The rest of the children...folded and got rid of the laundry.  There had been 8 baskets and three couches plus the floor covered.  It now looks like this: 

They also cleared off the table near the front, the table that had been bulging with papers and files and notebooks and book bags and I don't know what else.  Two daughters remade it into a prayer table.  It now looks like this:

And to top it all off, they left a note for me on the dry erase board.

This: 

We sat, said grace and feasted.  The kids had pizza.  Two of the older ones had wings, and I had a Stir Fry Japanese Noodle bowl with pot stickers from Noodles and Company.   They also bought me a diet coke.  

Sometimes, reality breaks your heart with love.   And when it does, it's really something else.  Something more.  Have a great Friday!

At the Catholic Stand

Over the weekend, I had a piece at the Catholic Stand. Didn't get to link up to it, and then because I posted already on Tuesday, I thought I'd showcase the piece today, on Wednesday.  Enjoy.  It's on  a subject near and dear to my heart, the welcoming as opposed to wanting of children.

Toasting Today's Sunday Funnies

My children seldom concern themselves with what day of the week it is unless there is a birthday, vacation or field trip pending. As such, Sunday mornings feel like every other morning.  My five year old son comes down the stairs, observes that no one is up yet, feels peckish but knows he's not supposed to help himself.  Being helpful, he brings the loaf of bread or at least a few slices to our closed door and slips them under the door.   "MOMMMMMMmmmmmmm." he gently calls until I respond.

And it does have to be me. 

The other day, after three pieces of not yet toast failed to wake me, he began chanting, "Mom, mom, mom mom mom mom Mommmmmmm."  I shuffled to brush my teeth.  "Mom. Mom. Mom. Mom. Mom."  he kept calling.  His father answered his call.  "What do you want Paul?"

The answer was everything. What did he want?
"Mommmmmmmmmmmmmm."

Coming of Age and Coming Clean

Recently, I watched Fr. Barron's series on Catholicism. It's quite good.  At one point, he takes us to tour the room where Saint Katharine Drexel worked and lived.  He shows relics, examples of her extreme poverty including stubbed pencils.  She gave away everything and wasted nothing.

I need more spiritual growth to reach her level.

This week, we ran out of grown up toothpaste and I'd not replaced it yet.  Alas, the Spiderman blue goo doesn't cut it for me.  Granted, I keep it in my bathroom so when the kids are done with their bath, brushing folds easily into the routine, but after two days, I wanted adult something. I looked around at my house.  Shampoo? Yellow Baby stuff.  Menu?  Simple plain kid friendly food.  Television?  The most adult we get is Dr. Who, and that's limited viewing.  The last movie I saw...Monster's University.   The last book I read ...okay, it was aloud at story time for them, but Lily's Big Day.  The part of me that recognizes she's been on this earth 47 years rebelled. The Spiderman goo represented the absence of an adult life, a relic of what I lacked.

If wine and coffee had been in the house yesterday, I would have blended them into a smoothie and drunk it as proof to the universe, yes, I'm of age, I'm an adult, and there ought to be foods and things in my house that don't scream wash and wear, sippy cup and crayon.  

Rather than create a toxic beverage sure to make me and anyone who thinks about it too long ill,  I grabbed my coupon for free bonus bucks at our local pharmacy, (yes, I'm living large), and bought myself a deluxe souped up tricked out tube of pearly whitening stuff.  I locked myself in the bathroom and allowed for two minutes of pure adult brushing teeth pleasure, interrupted only twice by the little people outside, beating on the door to gain access. One to join me (I said No) and offered the goo but he declined, and the other, to ask if she could watch.  I let her.  But I'd done it. I had something not hand me down, not childish. I had a tube of not rated G toothpaste.

That night, after I'd tucked in everyone, done the dishes, encouraged the teen still working, locked the doors and turned off the lights, I began my bedtime routine only to discover, my little tube of refuge gone!  The list of suspects in my head lay three deep, all three in opposite ends of the house, such that if I really wanted this, I'd have to go about the home when sleep beckoned.  That Spiderman goo started to look acceptable.  But "No!" I told myself, this was a matter of principle.

"No!" again I said, walking to the first bathroom, finding it bare of said item.
Again "No!" when I went downstairs to check the girls bathroom for the toothpaste.
Naturally, it lay upstairs, next to the sink in my son's lavatory.   He lay sleeping. Wake and lecture or take and run.  I opted for the later.

But I left him the Spiderman goo. He had the grace not to ask what happened to his tooth cleaning options the next morning, but I smiled an extra dazzling white at him when I asked, "Did you brush your teeth?"

I'll probably be stuck in Purgatory writing "I shall not spite my teenager about taking my toothpaste." using stubby pencils under the direction of Saint Katherine, or having to brush away my sins with Spiderman blue tooth goo.

Hot Cross Buns, Thaw of the Chicken, All is Grace

ThismorningIhadtogetupatsixtomake8lunches, 10 breakfasts and get everyone who somehow forgot to lay out their clothes last night to have what they needed to get dressed for school before taking 7 in the car to go drop off and not forget the three band instruments or coats because it was chilly before coming back to tell the bus driver Paul wouldn't be going to school today.  Why? Because we had to get an oil change on the car (last time pre-Disney trip) and then drive to College Park so we could pick up the oldest and take him to the Board of Education for 20 minutes where he could pay 7 dollars to get his fingerprinted for going to observe in a classroom as part of his classwork. 

Now I don't have a GPS.  So naturally, I got lost.  Twice.  Before getting to my son.  Then we scrambled to grab lunch and get him back to the campus so I could drive back home.  Traffic was bad so I had to dead reckon but when that didn't work I called my oldest son and had him GPS me back onto the right road.  My second son developed an eye twitch so he was scheduled to get that checked.  Against all odds, we made it to the doctor's for the blood work, we hope it's just a vitamin deficiency or a relic of a silent strep.   The daughter I thought was staying late after school didn't  have to, but did need a pick up.   That worked out as I could let her babysit while I drove to drop off dinner for a friend's family (I'd promised) and then pick up the kids from band and my other daughter who did have to stay late, from the metro.

Issuing a ruling that no matter how much you love music, you cannot practice the trombone inside the car, whether parked or moving, proved difficult to enforce when the violator is in the back row. He's figured out a way to be diligent, seemingly virtuous and annoy his siblings at the same time.  My oldest daughter wants more food because her lunch was light. Running through the drive thru, we get two bean burritos and I issue a ruling about a fight namely that I value peace over justice and therefore want silence rather than fights over who can read aloud in the car.  I get home and my second son scolds me for not picking them up earlier so he could run.  Mind you, he's still going to run, it's just later than he would PREFER to run.  To teach me a lesson, he wears his gorilla mask to scare my youngest two while I'm handing out snack.  He misses out on snack.  I remember that it is another friend's birthday.  Jot down a note to bring by card and present. 

As I sit typing while the beans and rice are cooking and consoling my son who got told his trombone playing on the first day sounds like what a older brother would say a younger brother's first day of trombone sounds like, the weight of everything starts to crash in on me.  But the day is saved as my youngest son stops everyone in their tracks by voluntarily going into the bathroom. It is the first time he has initiated toilet training.  The momentary bliss shatters as the timer goes off, the toddler not in the bathroom objects to Mommy being out of sight, and there is a battle over the computer.   The six year old wants to play starfall, the seven year old, ABC mouse, the 9 year old, Cool Math games.  All three want educational enrichment, what's the Solomon Mom ruling in this case?  GO READ A BOOK!

My second daughter returns from her run. I'm thinking, I understand the appeal of running, of being by yourself, unreachable for 20 minutes. Then I remember how much I hate the feeling of my feet to the pavement.  Still, it's a day when the idea of jogging seems somehow preferable to the speed of life. 

My third son proclaims after practicing his first 20 minutes that the Trombone is the greatest instrument in the world.  For him, life right now is perfect.  My six year old devolves into tears at a check minus as we go over her homework folder.  The five year old sees the folded laundry in the living room and begins moving the baskets. He's decided it is his task.  Since he cannot do it alone, the others follow to assist.  Peace reasserts itself.  Moods shift in our home like the tides.

Then I go back to my friend who is only a week a widow.  She is still moving.  Despite death being so near, life did not stop for her either.  It just is.  Pain, big and small, struggles, grand and minute, and still, there are meals and errands and homework and noise that must be endured, must be done with something more than tolerance.  As I see her, she is a rock of grace. She does not run from having to be a rock.

There are days when the only reason I'm still moving is somehow, someone somewhere said the rosary for me.  It is all grace, the grace of the busy, of the still, of the mourning and the everyday, of the allness of how life seems to need to stop and yet keeps going. It is a profound severe mercy, a profound severe mercy to be alive and to go about the business of living with all of its humor and silliness and pain and mundaneness and important things all mushed together.  People say all is grace and the reality of life is, all of this running about and living is grace; all of the seasons, all of the sufferings, all of the everything, even the messiest of parts that include children scrambling to fight over stairs and gorilla masks and donuts, bills and insurance and homework.   It's just, we lack the eyes to see clearly, all the gifts of every day because we are so busy trying to go on living, without realizing the great grace that is life.

7 Quick Takes

1.  Blogging may have been light, but writing has not been.  This week The Book of Penelope got an outline. (Ye Gads!)  She also got two parallel themes.  There are index cards with semi-legible writing on them outlining the journey of the Odyssey with the simultaneous "Meanwhile back at the ranch" plot lines.  She grew from 25k to 31.7 in a week. 

2.  Writing may have been heavy but I'm not.  I've enlisted my second daughter as a personal trainer. She is ruthless. She is motivated, and she gets to boss me around.  I've done 600 more sit ups than I have since I took consecutive years of gym. 

3.   Hello, I'm your mother and I'll be driving you today.  This week we started summer school and so I've been dropping Paul off at one school, Regina off at another, and of course, both start at the same time.  Why oh why have I not received the gift of bi location?

4.  It's less than a week from another birthday.  My son turns 14.  It's funny. When I gave him a sheet of paper and a pen and said, "What do you want?" he drew a blank and wrote chocolate chip cookie dough.  I have some ideas and I'm sure he'll think of some before long, but it was neat that he felt at home enough to simply not have a known heart's desire that he lacked. 

5.  This week, we also ventured into the great unknown, podcasting. Sometimes I get motor mouthed, and the desire to use metaphor to illustrate effect is a favorite tool of mine.  I do wish I'd been a touch more reflective and choosy with my words but for a first try, they liked it.  I'll post it here when it is done being edited.  

6.   Puns.  The other night, we were having dinner and started fruit punning. I can't remember how my daughter got durian to work but we did orange, kiwi, dragon, apple, grape, quince, apricot, cherry, berry, and banana. I do remember my son complaining about not being able to think of some choice ones. He was massaging words to craft one around star fruit.  I told him I was surprised it had stumped him. I'd thought he would be my star fruit punner.  Then I ran out of the room and called it a day. 

7.  Today, my two year old was playing with dolls. She placed the baby in a high chair and went back to the other room.  She brought back a math computer my older daughter owns for multiplication drills.  She opened it up like a laptop, patted the baby doll's head and started typing.  It might be time to put the laptop away. 

Struggles that Don't Make Great Reading

5) We are out of diet coke.  I'd get the kids in the car and drive to the store but I lack the energy.  Why? We are out of diet coke.

4) Staying on a diet where all you eat are proteins and veggies means, if you step on the scale the next morning and the number hasn't gone down, you feel robbed. Personally.  I could have had this weight today and eaten a candy bar but instead....I got eggs.  Not happy.

3) The laundry takes over sofa.  The urge to bag it up even though it is clean and take it to the laundry mat where I can pay someone to fold it is strong. I'd pay my kids to do it but there isn't enough money in the federal government's dreams to make them want to possibly have to touch their brother's or sister's underwear. 

2) My children apparently suffer from the same fatigue as me even though they haven't developed an addiction to caffeine yet.  That's my only explanation for their leaving the towels and clothing from yesterday on the floor and the lights on in the bathroom.  Exhaustion. Yes. That's my explanation and I'm sticking to it. 

1) Fights over the TV.  The children have learned that one of three things shall happen:  a) the tv goes off. (This is the most likely).  b) all children involved will be given the chore of laundry. (See #2).  and c) I will control the TV, and as such, I shall be watching the Food Network or some bor-ring movie that you won't like. 

I may have to go out on an emergency run for diet coke.

Should I Be Concerned?

Facebook friends have seen this already.

The other day it snowed and my kids made a snowman.

Then the sun came out over the weekend and melted all the snow. 

So my kids made this.

The soul of Calvin and Hobbes is alive and well in my progeny.

Better Parenting via Science Theory**

There are several scientific theories that would have been discovered faster if only the world of science had allowed for mothers to be part of the discussion much earlier in history.

Nature seeks homeostasis: This is a truism. Every time I wash my floor, a child attempts to reassert the natural sticky feeling their feet have become accustomed to, by spilling something impossibly hard to clean up within ten minutes of the floor actually drying. Olive oil, maple syrup, and salt are amongst three of the most memorable illustrations of this theory in practice.

Opposites Attract: Clean white wall. Permanent Black Marker. Any questions? I mean, other than from my own mother asking why in heaven’s name do I even own a permanent black marker, or from my mother-in-law, where is this clean white wall you speak of?

Chaos Theory: Some individuals would stipulate that a child's very essence illustrates Chaos Theory's validity, independent of space, time or setting. Some individuals don't yet know the untrammeled power of a hungry child. For those who are still confused by chaos theory, perhaps a live demonstration is in order.  Please come on over to my house at five o'clock and try to fix dinner.  I will take a nap. 

Matter cannot be created or destroyed, only transformed.

Exhibit A: my son’s laundry.
Exhibit B: An orange oversized tee he got in 3rd grade that defies all maternal efforts to transform or destroy. Handing it down has not stopped the older child from retrieving it for his wardrobe. Purchasing new shirts has produced no measurable effect. Now that it is, arguably, a bit tight around the arms, he still resents the fact that his mom has twice attempted to give it to goodwill. The shirt in question is currently stored in a secret bunker under his bed and heavily guarded by legos, books, smelly socks and other items that if discovered, would lead his mother to despair.

Time is relative theory: The simple errand of driving to school normally takes twenty minutes. Starting at 8:39 a.m. after Mom has whisked away breakfast materials and begun the getting dressed routine for all occupants still home, there is a tearful phone call from her third grade son. “Today is bake sale day and I didn’t bring any cookies.” Thinking about the frozen cookie dough in the freezer, Mom stupidly agrees to bring something by 10:30, as the bake sale starts at 11.

While in the process of getting the toddlers dressed, Mom throws the cookies in the oven, locates shoes, puts three unmatched socks in the laundry basket, flushes an abandoned toilet, puts milk away, turns off the lights, removes four bikes and two whiffle ball bats from the driveway, takes the cookies out of the oven, straps the two toddlers (who both want cookies) in their car seats and the baby and then signs a form for a package being delivered before starting the car.

Once in the car, Mom remembers that the aforementioned cookies are still in the kitchen. Retrieving the cookies, the phone will ring; it will be the same child asking if you are bringing the cookies. While inside, Mom will spot permission slip that needs to be dropped off and feel so virtuous for multi-tasking, she will run to her closet to gather the dry cleaning. Leaving for the second time, Mom gets half way down the driveway before realizing; she brought her purse in, but not out. In the few seconds Mom is in the house, the phone rings again, she forces herself to ignore it. Grabbing a prescription bottle on the counter that is about to run out, Mom returns to the car with her purse, cell phone and a diet coke. Triple checking to make sure she has all her children, her errands, and all required equipment for those errands, she drives.

It is part of the law of nature that she will then hit every red light plus have to navigate one traffic jam owing to a cop issuing a ticket and a second at a train crossing. She arrives around 12:15. The bake sale is over, and the volunteer has several dozen frozen dough baked cookies left over. When she checks the message on her answering machine at home from the phone call she ignored, it was her son saying “Never mind, third grade isn’t doing the bake sale this week, it’s fourth grade.”

Theory of Gravity: How annoyed your mother will be after enduring the above mentioned scenario versus. how much she loves you.

Next week: Scientific Law in Relationships:

Theory of Constancy: The level of stress in a marriage is constant, the level felt by the individuals within the marriage, is fluid.
** Originally ran on January 20, 2008, back when I only had 8 children. What a piker! 

Holy Wars

Every parent who has ever gone to the five o'clock it's-now-or -never mass with children knows that sometimes, the phrase "The mass is over, go in peace." is answered with "Thanks be to God." a bit more earnestly than the rest of the congregation.

This week I've been struggling with writer's block.  Thankfully, or not so much, my kids have opted to provide today's story.  

We went to one of our not so regular masses, at the church near our prior home.  The church has an theatre in the round sort of feel to it and arriving as the opening music was in its second verse, we scooted along the back wall to the side pew that gave us an unobstructed and unshared pew that buttressed the far wall of the building.  This gave us a side view of the priest and the entire congregation, it also meant leaving the mass for any reason would also be visible to the entire population, so perhaps we chose poorly. 

My husband and oldest son each holding one of the diaper set opted for the back of the back of the church where other people with squirmy babies and noisy toddlers hang.   I didn't feel I'd been cheated, after all I had the 15, 13, 11, 9, 7, 5 and 4 year old.  I figured we could manage.  Admittedly, I'd preemptively short circuited my five year old's temper by refusing to allow her to wear a baseball cap or bring a hot wheel into mass.

Two minutes in: The five year old decides she can't sit with me and walks to the very end of the pew so that she's a good 20 feet from all of us.  It is purposeful and even masterful as she's at the edge of the altar, almost daring me to come and get her.  I opt to hope this is the full extent of her rebellion.  Prayer is my best defense and since we're in church, I go with it. Please God let her behave. Please God let her calm down. Please God let her just sit there. 

Sometimes the answer is No.  I look over.  She's mad that I'm not in hot pursuit.  She tries swinging her legs.  I'm still not moving.  I'm not even mouthing "Sit still."  So she ups the ante. She lays down.  She's wearing shorts and  she's laying down on the pew.  We have now crossed my threshold toleration point for naughtiness.  I try to calmly like there's nothing to see here people walk over and take her hand.  She's not interested in obeying so she assumes the floppy boneless child pose.  I pick her up at which point she begins protesting aloud and loudly, "I don't want to go with you."  I get a few sympathetic head bobs from the dads and moms as she kicks at the pew.  I opt for the coward's way out, I take her to her dad. 

Five minutes in:  The four year old taps me during the first reading.I have to go to the bathroom. Not wanting to walk back out after I just came back in, I send the 13 to escort the 4 during the responsorial psalm.

Ten minutes in: 11 year old asks if he can go get water.  I say "No." because it's the homily. 

It's Offertory time.  My purse is the source of great distress as I don't have enough bills to go around.  Seven year old son is sulking. Nine year old daughter is preening because she got to put in the check.  The next round of sibling aggression has begun.  We kneel.

Now I know kids can fight over anything. I've heard the "Mom, she's looking at me." and the "Mom, she's breathing in a sarcastic way." complaints before. But today marked a new low in passive aggressive non virtuous displays of piety as my son and daughter begin inching down the open aisle where once my five year old lay, each trying to silently hiss at the other not to edge in front.  It is a battle that proceeds for a good five feet before I noticed because I'd momentarily attempted to give my full attention to the mass. 

Now I've got a few options as they continue kneel walking and glaring at each other.  I can ignore.  Not ideal as the scene is public and not without audio. "Stop trying to pass me. I'm praying!" she whispered loudly.  "I'm just trying to watch the priest." the other deadpans with an overly arch look of I'm so holy and you're not as he inches past her.  "I beat you. I win." he adds.   She's stiff arming him as she knee walks further.   I've tried signaling for them to stop but they're deep in sibling irritation right now and so mom is on the ignore button. 

There is nothing for it so I get up for the second time this mass and march forward to grab with a hug one of them and a hand the other and march them back to seats in between two of their sisters and me.  It's near the consecration so I can't give them the "I Will Kill You or Worse" look, I opt for the more effective though not as heart felt, "If you act up again, it's bedtime as soon as you get home." whisper.  They are in mental lock down as I deliberately speak aloud the Our Father with decided emphasis on "FORGIVE US OUR TRESPASSES." and "LEAD US NOT INTO TEMPTATION."  One of them properly recognizes the editorial within the prayer from his mother and gives me a guilty "I'm sorry" look.  The other, I squeeze her hand when the priest says, "I give you peace, my peace I leave you."  and they shake with the coolness that only recently fighting brothers and sisters can muster when adults are watching. 

We always stay through the last song and so I do, though several of mine are ready to bolt.  They're hungry and a few saw friends in the communion line and some are just wanting to get back outside where they can resume hostilities.  I make them stay, if only to give me a few moments more with the allies of the Church and the mass against kid wars.   A man comes up to us smiling and compliments me on how well my children behaved during church and speaks of how he raised seven.  I decide either he wasn't watching or maybe he was and wants to make sure I feel better.   "Thank you." my children get out before I can respond. 

And then, basking in the glow of an unsolicited compliment from a stranger, the kids ask, "Hey Mom, since we were pretty good at mass, can we get donuts?" 

The Cure for Seasonal Foodie Obsession Disorder

I suffer from seasonal foodie obsession disorder or SFOD.

Last summer when I went to the pick your own produce farm, it started. I’ll began by picking too many strawberries, inducing me to once again consider learning how to make jam. I bought the fancy jam jars and pectin and little hand produced book on how to make jellies and preserves. Then I started reading the recipe and my brain froze up, so I just fed the kids waffles with berries for dinner two nights in a row and used up the excess that way.

The jars sat in the closet next to the jars I bought and forgot about the year before. I promised myself I'd make it up to them the next time I went berry picking.

Then, a friend invited me on an innocent trip to the Amish market I never knew about. Perusing all those freshly cleaned chickens and gorgeous fresh chops, I impulsively purchased enough meat to survive a nuclear winter.

“Sherry? What good is it to purchase fresh meat if we’re just going to freeze it?” My husband asked.

Up to my neck in butcher block paper, I just smiled. “You’ll thank me once you taste it.” I promised as I fired up the grill for a mixed feast of roasted goodies. "Could you taste the difference?" I asked eagerly. "Not really." my husband admitted. The kids shook their heads, but hey, they weren't upset, chops off the grill were awesome. I was certain a steady diet of it would eventually enlighten their palates.

Over the next few weeks, I began scanning those gourmet catalogs from the mail, my eyes lingering over the Bee Hive Pizza Oven Outside Grill and the specially imported knives guaranteed to cut through even bone. My husband found the strategically placed dog eared pages of some on his side of the bed. “Sherr?”

“Well, my birthday’s coming up…just in case you need any ideas.”

We went to the public library and I checked out seventeen different cook books, to try things out. Driving my son home from baseball practice, I discovered NPR’s “The Splendid Table” and a few other radio cooking shows which became my substitute for music in the afternoon. I could feel myself slipping into the obsessive compulsive gourmet cook want-a-be as I filled out the form for my buy one, get five free magazine subscriptions, all of them dealing with food. It began to interfere with regular life, as I now required draconian type silence from my toddlers when the morning shows did their 10 minute cooking spot, and I growled whenever someone switched it from the Food channel.

The local grocery store was no longer sufficient for our family’s daily repast. Shopping for the proper ingredients required three separate visits to get the true staples, one at the specialty shop in the scary strip mall, one in the market only open on Thursday and a special pilgrimage on the freeway to the one store in the tri-state area with the RIGHT basalmic vinegar, saffron, organic eggs and creme fraise. Eventually, my needs could only be met by the outrageously-beyond-all-sense-over-priced gourmet stores where the vegetables are so bright, they're probably hand painted with acrylics at the New York school of Art. Witnessed scrutinizing a clutch of bananas for color, firmness and consistency and pulling off only the acceptable ones to create my own bunch; my family began to feel unease.

What stopped the long skid into bankruptcy that summer was the harsh cold reality of my children. They could humor my fledging steps into multi-hued pasta as long as I covered it with enough olive oil and cheese. They indulged my attempt at rosemary potatoes, as I served grilled pork tenderloin on the side. However, they drew the line at goat cheese wrapped in radicchio and pinned together by a tooth pick with a piece of Italian bacon.

My husband had called home to say he’d be working late when I served this latest elegant creation, thus the kids decided to perform an intervention. They stood there, bowls in hand, armed with spoons and a large box of sugar frosted cereal. The oldest had already poured each child their preferred portion and the second stood ready with the milk. “We’re fixing our own dinner Mom.” They explained.

“But what about my Italian appetizer?”
“You can have it Mom.” The oldest gallantly offered.
“Enjoy.” said his younger brother.

And there I sat, eating smoked goat cheese, wrapped in wilted purple lettuce, pulling off the toothpick to tug at the chewy bacon. After the third appetizer, I conceded that perhaps I had gone too far. Placing the remainder in plastic wrap for their father, I pledged to keep my foodie impulses in check by always ensuring some element of dinner was readily identifiable to children under the age of 12.

“Are you sure?” My second daughter asked, hands on her hips. She always has been a bit of a skeptic.

“I promise.” I nodded meekly. “Please, pass the frosted flakes.”

And I’ve kept that promise throughout the year but then today in the mail, I found a flyer. “Berry Picking starts Tuesday!” Maybe this year, I’ll make my own jam.

Why Even if I had a GPS, I'd Still Get Lost for not Listening Closely Enough

By coincidence, my safe driver discount and new insurance card came in the mail today.

A conversation in the car.

"Hey Mom! Can you count to 100?"  "Yes."
"Now?"  "No."

 "How about you count to 100 by 9's."
"9-18-27-36-45-54-63-72-81-90-99" 
"Can you count to 100 by seven's?"
"Mommm? I'm hungry."
                                     "We just had breakfast."
"But I'm still hungry.  There's a McDonald's. It's right there. I see it."
"No."
"But I'm starving starving starving."

             "Where are we going?"
                     "We're going to..."
"I bet we're going to the library.  Last time I went to the library, we got a book and I lost it but then I found it and it's in my book shelf. It's on zebras." 

"You lost a book?

What book?"
"I don't remember. So are we going to the library? or for ice cream?" "Neither, we're going to..."
"Hey MOM! I can count by fives.  5-10-23.  Can you help me count by fives?" "Still hungry."
"What's seven plus 15?"
 "What is this a quiz?"
"Mommm! Can you count by fives with me?"
"5101520253035404550556065707580859095100 AMEN!"
"Mom! You said Amen! and we're not even doing prayers." Giggles start.  "She's not saying prayers." the other two start giggling.  "Amen!"  "5678910AMEN!"  "3 AMEN!"  "75 AMEN!" More giggles.

"Hey Mom?"
"What?"
"Where Are we going?" "22 Amen!" "55555Amen!" Giggle giggle giggle.

..."Mom?"

And I realize I honestly can't remember.
"Can we get lunch?"  "AMEN!"

**I made a wrong turn trying to get to my pediatrician's office of now going on 13 years as a result of attempting to remember all of this...the things I do for you people.

File under Don't Ask....and Please Don't Tell Me

Today, I went to the freezer in our garage and found a bag.

In the bag was a blue balloon.

The balloon was roughly the size of a 3 pound chicken.  It was inflated but flat on one side.  I touched it and found it was rock hard.  Some child had filled the balloon with water.  It had half frozen and then popped leaving the shell of the balloon covering a block of ice with water cupped within.  

I have an idea who.  I have no idea why.  

I have decided ignorance is best in this circumstance.  

The Deeper Why of Our Hearts

Sometimes I read things and my heart aches that the Internet does not allow for a greater connection with strangers who unknowingly or otherwise speak out their hearts.  Today, I read two articles, one of which discussed the loss that phantom parents discover when at 44, they are told that they cannot bear children and the biological window no longer exists; and that the pill which kept them "safe" now has left them with a stack of accomplishments that do not include the title "Mom." Then I read a piece by Rachel Campos Duffy on Parent Dish about what she wished she had said when Barbara Walters interviewed her on THE VIEW and asked "Did you ever think, 'I wish I had a career and I didn't have six kids?"  It was a loaded question.

Now the Texan in me flared a bit and I recalled a friend who said back when I was a teacher, "My parents had too many kids." about her family.  Admittedly, I was a zealous and undiplomatic 24 year old and went for the jugular, "Which sibling do you think shouldn't have been born?  Because that's what you are saying SHOULD have happened."  She was shocked and then stammered, "I mean, it was hard."  I agreed, it sounded difficult and this was back before I had any, but the answer stuck for her and for me. She suddenly held the thought of her whole family in a different light.   20 years later, her face and that moment remain sketched in my head and came back right with that question.   I didn't know the deeper WHY I was articulating about my own life; indeed I would have been terrified if I had known, I only knew what I knew, she loved her brothers and sisters more than anything, she just wanted more because she wasn't feeling very special that day.


So now I have my own reversion of what I wish I'd said then but lacked in tact or wisdom or experience; because it was rough.  I wince at it today.   What you think you KNOW at 20, is not what you MIGHT think at 30 or 40 or whatever age, and none of it may be what your heart actually knows.  What you feel about your past, about your present, about your parents, about your future, is not stone. We do not always understand the deeper WHYs of our lives.

To exist is to think that you have an understanding of how you will always be, but we also know from simply the process of life, that our lives can change, can turn, can be transformed in an instant, via tragedy, love, an epiphany, inspiration, a teacher, a friend, a need that we see that must be met. For the shepherds; there was this star in the sky.  For the Kings, they had been following the heavens and so saw it, but the journey there was more than they expected; and the vision not to return to Herod and willingness to trust that vision after seeing the Christ Child, must have been an act of real courage; to rely not on charts and maps and books and knowledge, but the deeper whys of their hearts. 

It's a hard lesson to accept, whether 20 or 44 or 60 or 80, we cannot know what we do not know; and we cannot know what we have not glimpsed or experienced. Personally, I find I must relearn it on a daily basis, but my children are good educators on that point!   They are always asking Why and they are always teaching me Why.

We only know what we have learned, what we want and what we feel; and that learning is ongoing. Our wants change more often than we suspect or are willing to admit, and our feelings are more transitory than we imagine; what makes us steady is our understanding of those feelings, of those wants and the WHY behind them; and the ethics/morals/scruples that reign them in and allow our selves to be fixed like stars in the heaven, that reveal to others who we really are.  Our deeper hearts GET the WHY of ourselves, even if the surface areas of our brains and hearts do not. Most of us are in that town of Bethlehem living our lives with our doors shut, not knowing that in a manger if we just looked outside, is the Christ child waiting to be adored.

Like the woman asked by Barbara about the road she didn't take, do I ever wish I got the degree?  Do I wish it were done?  Not at the expense of even one less seat at the table.  The Deeper Whys of these people require greater focus and attention than any Ph.D.  I have some degrees and you know what I do with them?  I dust them.   The insides of those snug homes that didn't host the Holy family needed dusting too; but the stable like Mary's heart, remained open. 

The lesson of true permanence in life, is love.   Everything else gathers dust; the accomplishment is made, the case is closed, the book ends, the race is finished; but relationships like memories and stories resonate over generations. Thus I repeat stories and phrases and vignettes told to me that my grand parents lived or told. I remember truths that have been shared and retaught and retaught and retaught for each generation, so that the faith life becomes deeper than the marrow of one's bones; across centuries and generations and the blindness of any one individual within the process of coping with being. The shepherds told their wives, the kings told their court and family; and the story of that first Christmas is remembered and celebrated and relived every year.  The memories generated each year will be to someone as clear as the moment they were created; just like the conversation.  No dusting necessary. 
 
Love changes life, people change our lives, relationship cannot help but alter our perceptions and understandings and worldview. The trick I hope the women who mourn what they do not have or that discover what they have is less than they wanted even though they KNEW at the time, is to start today being willing to be altered by others; to allow the deeper WHYS of themselves to be explored. Whether we get to the manger by coming in from tending sheep or years of scanning and tracking the stars is largely irrelevant; the important thing is to look out, see the star, hear the angels singing and go out of our snug homes, our safe places, our controlled worlds, and allow the Holy Family to transform everything.  
 
Happy Third week of Advent!

It is Not a Zebra

This week, while I could bask in the triumph of having finally put together my daughter's room or having the junk hauled away, I am grateful for all the others in my life.   This week, my daughter started seeing double and the teacher and the nurse were concerned.  They called me.  I called the pediatrician.   I admit, I wasn't too excited about a head ache and blurry vision, I thought...she needs glasses.  I'm direct like that; eyes are the problem, ergo, we fix the eyes.  But this type of problem scared the doctors, so we were sent to the ER, and things got crazy. 

Thankfully, I have Great Aunts who happen to be great persons.  One came and helped with the kids on the first day, one came to stay for several days after that to add coverage.  We also have great friends who rallied to bring food and provide taxi service to my kids to try and keep the "normal" in our lives like basketball and play practice and school.   One friend brought pizza, another brought fruit, a third offered to hold up a sign to welcome my aunt at the metro and give her a ride to our home.  Meanwhile, I got to stay at the hospital and worry.  I did very well at this job. 

She had a Cat scan, an MRI with sedation, a lumbar puncture (spinal tap), blood drawn, x-ray and multiple eye and hand eye coordination tests.  They found....nothing. 

They sent her to a specialist who tested her eyes for over 2 hours.  
They found....nothing.

Now we are groping through the murky unknown world of the unknown, trying to assess and gather all we can to figure out why she sees two of me.  I explained, "We both love you."  I also joked that I needed to be two people so I could be both at home and with her.   It was a long 36 hours at the hospital to come up with simply....what this is not.  

So we still don't know what this is, but I am grateful for what this is not, given the possibilities outlined to me --stroke, cancer, tumors. So we will keep looking to figure out what this animal is....playing a game of 20 questions, but we do know, it is not a zebra.  Praying to Saint Anthony to help them find out the answer.  

Impossible

"With all your kids, giving them what they need must be impossible."  my friend observed over the phone after I'd told what I thought was a funny tale about how it had been a long hard and difficult day managing them.   I was caught up short.  Her words echoed my sometimes fears, but as I explained, it wasn't impossible, it was however impossible if I did not sublimate my will.  "And they sublimate theirs." she added.   Again I disagreed, "It's not their job to sublimate to me, it's mine to them. On my best day and in my best moments, I serve them."  What she was alluding to, was my not best moments and I could think of scads just from that day, but the quote, "With God, all things are possible." floated to my head though I could not say it in that moment. 

It was a phone conversation, and what I felt flooded my heart and brain.  I knew whether I had one or ten, I remained inadequate.  I cannot fill anyone completely, for I am a flawed and incomplete child myself and my attempts at service are those of an ungrateful servant at best.  

In that moment, I saw myself plunging into an ocean, not to drown but to be immersed, surrounded, enveloped lovingly by the waters around me.  God was that ocean.  Being pulled deeper by grace even as I sought to drown in the small shallowness of sin was the daily struggle I faced; especially when the cares of the day, the needs of all nine, of the home, of the world required that I act and act and act again.  I kept wanting thanks when what I was doing was no more than what was needed and required.

 "Who among you would say to your servant who has just come in from plowing or tending sheep in the field,'Come here immediately and take your place at table'? Would he not rather say to him,'Prepare something for me to eat. Put on your apron and wait on me while I eat and drink. You may eat and drink when I am finished'? Is he grateful to that servant because he did what was commanded? So should it be with you."  I both love and hate it when the Gospel so closely mirrors my reality that I cannot escape it without denial. 

But how?  What my friend had said had the ring of reality to it; after all it was true, I couldn't do everything.  I tried rattling off the various clever systems or methods we'd devised over the year for laundry, for dishes, for chores, for homework, for schedules, for menus.  They somehow felt like pale weak answers to a strong hard question.   These were methods of providing for needs, but they didn't address the deeper resonating longings that some of my children might be hungry for and I not know because I was so busy trying just to triage through our basic obligations.  

And I remembered another friend who told me, "Whenever you doubt yourself, remember that God really loves your heart infinitely and let that be your guide."  I tried to explain that it isn't impossible, just some days hard and some days, unsuccessful.  But each day, we try again.   

The conversation moved on to other more mundane things and eventually ended, but the image of the ocean, and of my resistance to the word "impossible" and yet it's truthfulness remained.  Hanging up the phone, I looked about at the house, 9 loads of laundry needed doing and the dishes from that afternoon still had to be unloaded so the next run could start and there was paper work to fill out and little available for dinner.  "Impossible" whispered at me, "just agree it's impossible."  There was homework to sign and help a child correct, a squabble over the tv remote in the other room, two boys I'd stopped from making water balloons who were decidedly up to it again, and hour seven of what seemed like an endless number to work on the basement.   "Impossible."  The word lingered like smoke in the air, daring me to agree to breathe in it's toxic embrace, to be smothered rather than surrounded.  To be choked rather than refreshed and enveloped; yet it seemed so reasonable to think it.

And I prayed, for I feared I'd inhale.  "Show me how."

The daughter who struggled so mightily with school that my tale of her troubles had in part prompted my friend's comments, came into the kitchen.  She noticed me wrestling with the dishwasher and began unloading without a request.  In a few minutes, she remarked, "This drawer needs organizing." and began work in earnest.  Twenty minutes later, three drawers were cleared out, cleaned and orderly and she beamed, "I'm becoming good at organizing." She had surprised herself and me with this sudden spurt of clarity.  She went to tackle more and promised to help me get the kitchen in order.  When I asked "Why?" She smiled and said, "Because you're a good mom." and I felt humbled by such praise. 

My three year old came into the room.  "What's for dinner tonight Mom?" she asked.  I remembered we had some chicken.  I'd use the one box of pasta as a starch and could throw together a salad and microwave frozen broccoli.  I rattled off the menu.  She nodded and looked at the table.  "We'll need a few more chairs."  I looked at the table.  We had five, she was right we'd need four more for all who were home and Paul would be in his high chair.  I started cooking.  She left the room.   She came back pushing a chair.  Putting it in place, she left again.  I watched fascinated.  She dragged in a second seat.  I hadn't asked this, this was her gift and I felt a hint of the ocean around me as she brought in the third folding chair and commandeered her brother to get the final one.  She then surveyed her work with satisfaction.   I was floored when she began setting the table with paper plates, forks and napkins.  No one had taught her this; she had simply picked it up from being.

After dinner, it happened again when my oldest daughter unbeckoned began doing the dishes.  I had not asked and it is not her custom.  It was a gift.   As she simply went about the task of cleaning up from the meal while I got the littles dressed for bed, I felt the waves lovingly lapping everywhere.  

And so it is, that to feed these nine and the one not yet born, to keep them on task and well, happy in heart, mind and body is nothing more than part of that list of things which the Master has commanded be done.  And what dawns in my brain is I do not do this alone or in isolation; for they are all with me and we are doing this, not I, not just my husband and me, not just any of us, but all of us in union with God.   God has given this gift of this family to all of us, so God knows there is a way for each of them including me to be nourished if only I would cease trying to carve out my nitch and allow myself to instead be fitted in His heart.

The Perfection Found in My Chaos

First, to those visiting from Creative Minority Report, Welcome to my blog!

“You have how many?” I had seven in the store. “Nine.” The clerk began showing us off to her fellow workers as if they had not heard and could not see the stroller and two toddlers led by two olders and one boy who was trying desperately to figure out how not to be associated with us while his brother posed and preened in the three way mirror.

The woman helping us buy uniforms for the school year told my oldest daughter, “Your mother is a saint. You do know that right?” I caught her eyes. She was barely concealing her urge to roll them. This particular teen has a steel trap mind and as she said when she was five, “I never forget anything.” Then and now when I’m reminded of this fact, a deep chill runs up my spine and I know if I ever need to go to confession and am struggling with making a proper assessment of my failings, she can provide an annotated list for my convenience. Even though these words were meant as a compliment, they irk. First, if a case were ever to be opened on my behalf for canonization, the first ones to testify against it would be my children.

Second, I know that motherhood is hard whether you have one or nine. It’s 24-7, it’s without end and there are times when the tasks involved grind you to exhaustion and beyond. I know many mothers I wish I could emulate more; my own for example –she plans. I follow up understanding how much easier whatever it is I am doing would have been if I’d only planned. My mother-in-law is another shining star. She is thorough and thoughtful. I’m fitfully creative and live perpetually with the hope that the thought counts enough even if the birthday card is three days…alright…weeks…late getting into the mail.

I know moms who are so present to their children, I’m envious. I try doing it and both the kids and I get bored of each other or one group of kids wants me to be a judge and another, the designated monster or a third, the set home base. I’m an accessory to their play and a refuge, not a colleague or collaborator. I also know moms of one and two with ample dollops of charity for others to spare; charity I think of only after witnessing them. And I know mothers of six that I watch with awe who arrive on time and well dressed and combed and think, one day, I hope I can be that together and know that my current course and speed aren’t going in that direction no matter how much I flail.

But the polished present planning playing careful mother I’m not is not because of the how many I have. It never was the number that has prevented me from being a planner or thorough and thoughtful or charitable or present, for the number has continued changing, but the constant in the equation has been me. Instead, they’ve got this dreamy fitful enthusiastic and sometimes together mom who spends too much time on my computer, doesn’t write things down and when she does, she doesn’t check her calendar. I know because when we got back to the car and loaded everyone in, I asked my daughter, “Do comments like that bother you?” and she shook her head no and said, “Don’t worry Mom. I know you’re no saint.” And rattled off examples of my many failings, all 100% accurate.

She patted my shoulder but somehow that didn’t make me feel better. When you get a reminder of your sins, it’s a cue to at least make sure you aren’t stagnating spiritually so I talked to one of my go to priests about the trials of trying to raise 9 without discouraging any of them from practicing their faith throughout adulthood because of the obvious work load involved.

He told me to pray and remember “You know, some days, just staying sane is sufficient.” I told him I thought that was setting the bar a bit low.

But today, my four year old is dancing on a chair in her swim suit. No one told her we were going swimming, she just felt it might happen and because her mother is an impulsive person, it might. The three year old comes into the room. “Do you want to potty train today?” I ask. “No, I need to color.” And she marches to the table to demand paper for her latest magnum opus. My eight year old comes down to explain she stayed up reading and writing and illustrating a book and my eleven year old triumphantly explains how he beat his dad and older brother last night in an epic hour long magic game.
 
These whimsies won’t get them scholarships and aren’t brag worthy to strangers in the way that “we just got back from the semi-finals in 10U baseball” or she’s performing at the Kennedy Center in the junior orchestra or he’s spending the summer studying immersion Sanskrit, but I wouldn’t change or trade those for this blessed abundant and lavish creative chaos I’ve both promoted and created. They’re my triumphs of ordinary time. And while this work won’t generate a tv spot where one of mine flashes a victorious smile and says, “Thanks Mom.” I can look at them in the midst of their clutter, crayons and music dance and song and feel my heart burst as I whisper a prayer to hold onto this moment and say, “Thanks God for these kids.” And mean it with all my heart.

Too Many

This past weekend, I took my son to a party. I didn't know the family so I stayed. Eventually, the conversation took place. It almost always takes place any time I go somewhere new. "How many children do you have?" And when I answered, “Nine.” The response was, "You have too many." I made a joke and went out to help with games. I am not mad at the person who said this, it happens too often to spend time being mad. But I would not have been at that party if I hadn't been willing to have child number six. And even back then, people said, "Too many."

Eventually, he sought me out and revealed he was one of six. He never explained why I had too many, but I worried one day my children will say, "Too many" to some other mother because they didn't feel satisfied with home. I hope not. I hope they go to school and out into the world and come home feeling filled; that love for them brims over everywhere and there's always time and hugs and attention that is simply theirs and theirs alone. We try. We will fail but we will never cease trying.

"Too many." "Did you plan this?" "I guess it's okay if you can afford it.""What about me time?" all these statements are ways of asking the same thing, "Why didn't you limit yourself with this age of birth control? Why aren't you now?"

Simple. We're supposed to pour our whole selves out and not leave one drop. Jesus doesn't send any of the 5000 away. Even though He had enough for just his 12. We're supposed to practice loving infinitely here in order to be ready for when we have forever in the presence of the one who is Love. God would not say, "Too many" and so we should not either.

Going to mass, sometimes my husband and I take shifts and I feel the absence of my "too many" so much so, it is more distracting than if I had to manage those too many others that aren't present. As a kid, whenever we went to reunions, I always counted who came and noted who couldn't; and I pined for whoever didn't show. I always wanted everyone; and I was even happier when we could add extras to the everyone that was there. That moreness was in the food and the music and the people at the party and I would wrap myself in that feeling of being surrounded by so many I loved.

So when I got to visit my family in Texas, I still felt the absence of those who were nearby but not able to be with us and still missed that my total joy was not possible because so many of the sources of my happiness were somewhere else. Heaven will eliminate that great separation from everyone we love or have loved or who have loved us. We will be a seamless garment of Christ. Utopia is not a lack of want or need, but a society peopled by souls who rejoice in not merely service but in the opportunity to serve out of love for the One who is Love and it is a state of society only possible through love.

We will all get to be fishers of souls on Earth when we get to Heaven, trying to make sure we get everyone where they need to be by our prayers and our petitions; but that means we must practice catching souls today as well. We can never have too many then, and so we cannot love too many then or now.

Blessed Mother Teresa observed the multitude hungry for love that are everywhere and asked us to find our own Calcutta, and make it something brighter. It is love that never places limits on how long we serve or how long we submit or how long we wait in joyful hope. Love will demand that we meet physical needs of those around us; love will demand that we know them; and love will demand that we serve them willingly. It is the only real choice we make in life, not to love the few we know which in turn will make us unable to bear the moreness of still more others; or to embrace everyone possible, ever expanding towards infinity.

I wish I'd known what to say at the party to the statement, "Too many." but I'm grateful for the opportunity to reflect and discern the answer:
"No such thing."

P.S. For the record, not expecting. Just in case anyone was reading between the lines and getting either excited or nervous.