7 Quick Takes Friday

 

 

1. Sorry about the Super Light Blogging. 

 

My daughter has helpfully provided the motivation. 

 

2. How is Your Lent Going?

 

Mine is oddly well.  I know I'm turning to prayer more, that's for certain.  The scary wonderful thing is, I can see the effects.  The kids have always claimed I have an unfair friendship with Saint Anthony. They can cite many examples of things lost that he's found for me almost instantaneously upon request.  My oldest daughter jokes that I have an unpaid internship upon my death answering his calls as restitution for all of his intervention.  I told my daughter she could have a deeper relationship with a particular saint if she sought it.  That day, she and her sister had been at odds.  It was day three of deep dispute.  Both had been lectured. Both were urged to reconcile.  Both refused. 

 

Frustrated at the level of discord in the family, I went to both of them and told them each to pray to Our Lady, Undoer of Knots.  Now I know she has that title, and I even understand that title, but I didn't know the origin, nor did I really know why that particular suggestion came to my mind other than, the Holy Spirit knew what we needed.  Less than an hour later, the two who seemed so set in their grudges, so hard in their hearts, had made a real peace. Thank you Mary, Undoer of Knots.   

 

3.  A Miracle Every Day

 

This morning, my daughter came upstairs more chatty than usual, her heart was light.  "I prayed last night to Saint Joan."  She added.  It's her favorite saint.   She'd prayed it would snow.  As soon as she said it, I saw flakes.  There was a swirl of flakes, surrounding our home.  A cloud had parked right over our house and it was snowing, really snowing but only here.   I quipped, "You know, Saint Joan probably said, "This is not really my forte, I'm not normally associated with cold things."  But it was an answer, and the answer was yes.  It was silly and small and yet joyful.  I'm becoming more and more convinced that if we had our eyes open and our hearts as well, we would see the miraculous in the world every day. 

 

4.  Editing is like purgatory. 

 

All your writing sins are revealed, line by line, word by word.  And you spend the editing process trying to fix all the writing sins, knowing because you do not have eternity, that your penance shall be that whatever you fail to fix, will be read by your friends and family.   I'm suddenly regretting gently ribbing my sons for spell check errors like "The Dairy of Anne Frank" and Jesus visiting the sick leopards, and my daughter for the essay, "Why We Need a Book Club at Saint Martians."  Hey Sherry, how's that Buck ov HELL AND coming?

 

5.   Sin is Like McDonald's.

 

Wish I'd had this insight, it came from my daughter who has a particular weakness for their chicken nuggets and fries.  She explained, "You KNOW it's bad for you. You KNOW it has long term bad effects.  You DON'T want those long term effects.  But it looks good and I'm hungry so I'm eating it now."  Catechism through fast food...who knew?..well, I should have, because eating fish on Fridays at any of those places is penance..but then, I'm stupid enough to have eaten fish on a Friday at one of those places.   

 

6.    Not a Scouting Mom

 

Three of my children are currently in scouting programs.  This is the emotional equivalent of existing for 40 days on Filet-O-Fish for me.  One of my children was in the pine wood derby contest. We didn't go to the workshop so his car looked essentially like a block of wood with wheels.  He made it, he painted it, he thought it was beautiful.  Every kid at these things gets an award.   His award said, "Best Block of Wood."   He was still proud. He did not get the veiled insult/irony.  However, this does not make me love scouting more.   

 

7.    Healthy Eating

 

I have two committed athletes who run or exercise daily. I have two others with massive amounts of misinformation but who are trying their darnedest.  My doctor has requested a food diary.  This too feels like confession, every day I'm having to write something like I confess I ate a bowl of cheese grits, a Wendy's spicy chicken and a free chocolate frosty, the leftover Frito's and washed it down with an extra large diet coke.  I also snagged a peppermint patty at the gas station and ate half a Klondike bar because my daughter was full.  It is not fun.  It does explain why my diet is going nowhere fast. 

 

Fortunately, my children have come to my rescue. There is a contest to fill the food pantry at the school.  Yesterday I discovered as I hefted two unusually heavy backpacks into the car, half our can goods have been donated.  How do I explain charity in moderation to an 8, 7 and 5 year old?  I haven't.  They're too happy giving away my soups and beans and pasta and tuna.   Hopefully their generosity will translate to my sveltness.  

 



Home School?

No other aspect of parenting taxes my personal reserves like having to provide oversight during homework time to my kids.

Looking over my daughter’s math book, I spotted an error. “Two plus five doesn’t equal eight, you need to check that problem again.”

She pouts; her eyes begin to water, “I’m stupid! I’m never going to get this, never never never!” She folds her arms and puts her head down on the table and wails.

Over the two years of helping this one with homework, I’ve tried various responses, soothing tones of reassurance, militant aggressive “you’ll learn it and you’ll like it” boot camp, incentive offerings that make me feel like a time share seller. “Add now and get this glorious peanut butter jelly cookie, fresh baked from the oven…add two and get an additional glass of milk, Vitamin D enriched to ensure that even though you are missing prime playing outside time by doing your homework, you won’t get rickets.”

I've even tried praising her every attempt. Because it made me feel vapid, I used song. Cue Perry Cuomo! “You know that doing your work is… Wonderful! It’s Wonderful…so they say…” She'd humph, bury her blonde head on the table and refuse to move. But then, it might have been my singing.

Research within my own home has revealed all approaches equally ineffective, so now I just stay with the time honored, “I’ll get back to you.” when this happens.

“Do you like my essay?” My eldest daughter brings me her first draft. The writing is excellent but the spelling makes it hard to read. I praise her use of words and turn of phrase effusively as she beams. Then, I gently offer to underline the wrong words so she can look them up.

A cloud appears on her face, she draws in a deep breath and screams. “I can’t spell alright? It’s just too hard!”

“I know you can do this.” And I hand her the dictionary
“I don’t want to!” she shouts tearfully and stomps off.

Now this one, I know. She’ll huff, she’ll puff, she’ll pout up and down but in the end, she’ll fix the errors.

The first one had forgotten her pout until the sister’s response reminded her, “Oh yeah, I’m supposed to be upset.” She reboots her sad face.

Buying time, I check on my son.
“How’s it going?”

“RRRahgh.”
Having to read assigned books for school has reduced his verbal expressive skills to annoyed and angry.

“You know, I loved Charlotte’s Web when I was in third grade.” I started.

“Humph! That’s because YOU WERE A GIRL!”
“Am.”

“Whatever! RRRAGHH!” and he thrust the book back in front of his face with a scowl.

O for 3.

I don’t remember fighting this hard with my parents over homework, although I do remember getting poor grades for what felt like forever until I figured out what the teacher wanted. It involved actually paying attention. Who knew?

“I don’t like the book!” my son was insisting. I tried sympathy. I told him about hating “Lord of the Flies.”
“That book sounds cool! Can I read it instead?”

“No.” Ack! Conversation veering out of control. Going in very wrong direction!
“Why not?”

Think fast! Ummmm…..“You’re not old enough.”
“Do we have it?”

Knowing that if I say yes, there will be a wild gleam in his eyes as he then spends the time that should be allocated to discovering the lyrical joys of E.B. White to find the verboten tome that epitomizes adolescent male rage run amok, I swallow and answer honestly, “I don’t think so anymore.” It is vague enough to cause disappointment. I know in a moment, the spark to be contrary will be extinguished by the return to school work.

“I still don’t like this book.” He explains, thumbing the pages.

“That doesn’t matter. This is the book that was assigned. This is the book for the project. Here is the rubric. Just answer the questions.”

Reading the actual assignment for what oddly feels like the first time, he discovers he can make a 3-D poster instead of a report. Suddenly, Charlotte’s Web rocks as he breaks out the scissors, construction paper and glue.

The fourth child is nowhere to be seen. She has used the commotion to escape to the basement. It takes every fiber of parental discipline I have to call down to her to return. I discover she’s been spelling the words for her older sister. They both give me a mild look of, “and I would have gotten away with it too if it weren’t for you and your meddling!” before sitting down.

Meanwhile, the pouter has returned to coloring and may be safely redirected to math once her masterpiece is completed. She bolts through it like a champ and gushes, “This is easy! I’m really smart in math. You were right Mommy!” complete with a very earnest warm hug. Melted beyond my own willingness to admit, Perry unbidden comes back into my head to finish the song.

“It’s wonderful…so they say.”