This afternoon, while my little boy was napping, I was on this blasted computer attempting to look up a nun's performance on Italy's version of The Voice.
That sounds rather harmless, and so it is, I suppose, but after watching a couple videos and reading a couple articles, I was feeling sucked into the world of perpetual noise.
I might not have felt noise-sick if every site I clicked on did not have a million other extremely frivolous stories lined up on their sidebar to entice you into the rabbit hole. The nun's story I like, but the pictures trying to convince me to read about celebrities' latest meltdowns, most recent significant others or clothing choices, I could easily do without.
Oh, the noise, noise, noise, noise! I am a regular technology Grinch. You could find me someday, a disconnected hobo, sitting in a city park with a sign that reads, "Technology overload bad - revive Mother Nature". I wish my home page on the Internet could be a sweet, simple blank screen with a blinking search bar.
But my homepage is like any other. It is jam-packed with pictures of famous, often foolish, people, has bite-sized articles on how to look better, feel better, manage finances, improve your outlook, tell if your spouse is happy, buy shoes online, and polls asking you how you feel about the latest stupid thing someone has said or done. The real news (does that exist anymore?) is rare, and it is nearly always depressing. But I would take the "real news" about real-life human issues over the fluff designed to distract us any day.
This weekend I read a USA Today newspaper article about Millennial moms, in which group I am technically included, and it detailed how these moms are changing the face of motherhood through technology. They are using Pinterest to look up scientific experiments, fun party recipes, cool craft ideas. They use apps on their smartphones to manage their baby's sleep schedule, breastfeeding schedule (huh?) and track doctor's appointments. Bloggers, they share their experiences, their joys and advice with other moms in the online community. They are plugged in, radiating all that fabulous information out for the edification of children and the art of motherhood. And they post numerous pictures on social media sites for distant family to enjoy.
I began to feel guilty as I read that old-fashioned newspaper. I rail against technology, how it is making us dumber socially, emotionally, and yes, I feel, intellectually. I rail against all the parents I see with their heads down over a phone, completely ignoring what their kids are doing - often because they've given their kids an I Pad to entertain them. Yet, how many times have I used this amazing available "social" technology to find a great meal for my family? Not often. How many pictures of my absolutely gorgeous children do I share on Facebook? Not many. How many fantastic crafts have I pulled from Pinterest to do with my children? None. I admit, I just don't have an affinity for it, and I am baffled by those who find their joy in it, but perhaps the main problem is that I simply do not know how to make the most of this brave new world in media.
So, yes, indeed - I am a mom who can be found with her nose in a week-old newspaper instead of her phone, but if I am still shrugging off my pestering children, so I can "just finish this article", the difference is the same. Yes, I still rely on a shelf of real-life cookbooks, but if I'm just making the same thing over and over, perhaps I should skip the nonsense on my home page to look for an online recipe to bring a bit more excitement to mealtimes. As for games and crafts, you are quite likely to find me playing classics such as Red Light/Green Light, and once upon a time before this house began to drive me bonkers with its mess, I could be found fairly often cutting and gluing construction paper projects with my kids. But I wonder....what are these new-fangled crafts people are raving about on their Facebook pages, glow-in-the-dark treasure hunts or fun birthday surprises, accompanied by gloating pictures? Maybe, yes maybe, I should try one of those.
Still...woman, know thyself. I know that the more time I spend on the Internet, the more out of sorts I become - even if I am simply reading articles or posts by writers I admire. I'm not certain why this is, but I assuredly know that I cannot just meander around aimlessly, even if it is a simple mental stroll through friends' Facebook posts. I know my life could not be run by apps.
I am happiest when I only log in just a few times a week into my email. I don't go on Facebook unless I want to post or need to communicate with someone, but once there, it is a fight to return to reality, I confess. And perhaps the best decision for me personally was never to come on this blog merely to check stats. It is very discouraging and will squash any inspiration that is freshly percolating, and it is, regardless, a complete waste of my time. Yet, it always feels good to write, to have written here, and that doesn't induce Internet-sickness at all.
Where is my point, you ask? Well, I admire these courageous women who understand how to use the technology given them to be better moms. I admire them because it appears they do not waste time hardly at all or use it as an excuse to avoid their overactive kids but instead garner wonderful ideas for their little ones' development and happiness. Now that is surely not evil. Technology is not all bad.
Do not expect me to start posting pics of our latest family craft on Facebook (or any pics on Facebook - lost our camera again), however, but I do think I may be inspired to look up more recipes and crafts and try more of the good, clean ideas people put out there to share with the whole human community. After all, if Pope Francis can make good use of the Internet, my friends, so can I.
You might also like: Nature Good, Technology Bad
Friday, May 16, 2014
Tuesday, May 13, 2014
Treasured Spaces
I wish my kids had a tree house. Heck! I wish I had a tree house.
A family friend built one for his daughters. It was quite simple but sturdy, properly made with a rope ladder going up through the floor and with windows on each side. He said he hoped that soon the tree's branches would engulf it, so it could be a hideaway.
We have an African Sumac tree in our backyard, a lovely creature with branches not at all stingy with their shade and expanse. A fungus is slowly stripping the bark from it, however, and will likely kill it, so I wonder if its branches are strong enough for such an abode of childhood.
Every Arizona summer the poor thing suffers in the afternoon sun. Would we dare add to its burden?
But, oh, the memories it does provide and the great potential to provide more!
In Tennessee, my siblings and I had a chicken coop for our playhouse. We didn't have to share it with the chickens, for there weren't any. It was a grey, weather-beaten old thing, a relic of a by-gone time. It stood in a hollow that served as the property's landfill (yes, we were that far out in the boonies). On the path into the hollow was a sassafras tree. I used to love to crush its leaves between my palms and then smell the wonderful aroma of them as I passed. The coop had two levels. The first had a dirt floor and was very boring, nothing to see but four dour walls unless you looked up to your right at the open second floor. The only way to reach this second level was to climb a very knobby support beam on the eastern wall. It was brutal, because your hands and legs would get jabbed and scrapped as you made your ascent, and splinters were a likely souvenir of your efforts. Still, once you grasped the lip of that second floor, you were able to stand and gaze out across the field to the woods or the house from behind a half wall. You still had a roof to make you feel as if you were in a secret space and to shield you from rain.
It took me years to climb that beam by myself. I was either stranded on that boring, bare, enclosed dirt floor, or I was hoisted up the beam with help from my siblings. When the day came that I could scramble up to that open, lovely space all by myself, it was a right of passage; I had achieved equality and freedom. Those were the days when my brother Natie and I would take his pop gun rifle up and play cowboys and Indians. Our imaginations were as open as the view from east to west, the view to the landfill thankfully blocked by the solid north-facing wall. Because the denizens of Nature were playing their games before us in the field, there was always something to inspire.
Each of us kids must have gone up to the old chicken coup by ourselves sometimes, too, seeking escape in solitude, in catching the breeze in our hair, in listening to the sounds of thousands of insects, in surveying our verdant Southern home.
I wish my kids had something like that. I've dreamed of what they might have. For instance, I've pictured a large, airy room with tables, chairs, paints, clay and bookshelves filled with all the great tales of childhood lining the wall - a playroom for them and their friends where the messy, adventurous pursuits of childhood reign supreme or where a quiet read can be had in a charming window seat. Such a space seems so much more likely than an abandoned-chicken-coop hideout in the city. Our house in this city is small, however. There is no such room, no room for such a space when our kids can barely navigate the bedrooms they share. And, really, isn't a place outdoors, in the bright light and fresher air, always better for adventure anyway?
Our enormous eucalyptus trees in the front yard offer some inspiration with their large drooping branches that nearly trail the ground now. Sitting between them you can look up and feel transported to somewhere secret and alone. Often my youngest two will go stand in the midst of their cascade of satiny, burgundy-trimmed leaves after I pick up the kids from school. They try to hide behind the wide trunks with their planks of peeling bark before I can exit the van. It never fails that I ask, "Where's Ella and Daniel?" before I think to look for the peek of tennis shoes there. It's the faintest whisper of a secret place, I suppose, but I wish they had something more.
A family friend built one for his daughters. It was quite simple but sturdy, properly made with a rope ladder going up through the floor and with windows on each side. He said he hoped that soon the tree's branches would engulf it, so it could be a hideaway.
We have an African Sumac tree in our backyard, a lovely creature with branches not at all stingy with their shade and expanse. A fungus is slowly stripping the bark from it, however, and will likely kill it, so I wonder if its branches are strong enough for such an abode of childhood.
Every Arizona summer the poor thing suffers in the afternoon sun. Would we dare add to its burden?
But, oh, the memories it does provide and the great potential to provide more!
In Tennessee, my siblings and I had a chicken coop for our playhouse. We didn't have to share it with the chickens, for there weren't any. It was a grey, weather-beaten old thing, a relic of a by-gone time. It stood in a hollow that served as the property's landfill (yes, we were that far out in the boonies). On the path into the hollow was a sassafras tree. I used to love to crush its leaves between my palms and then smell the wonderful aroma of them as I passed. The coop had two levels. The first had a dirt floor and was very boring, nothing to see but four dour walls unless you looked up to your right at the open second floor. The only way to reach this second level was to climb a very knobby support beam on the eastern wall. It was brutal, because your hands and legs would get jabbed and scrapped as you made your ascent, and splinters were a likely souvenir of your efforts. Still, once you grasped the lip of that second floor, you were able to stand and gaze out across the field to the woods or the house from behind a half wall. You still had a roof to make you feel as if you were in a secret space and to shield you from rain.
It took me years to climb that beam by myself. I was either stranded on that boring, bare, enclosed dirt floor, or I was hoisted up the beam with help from my siblings. When the day came that I could scramble up to that open, lovely space all by myself, it was a right of passage; I had achieved equality and freedom. Those were the days when my brother Natie and I would take his pop gun rifle up and play cowboys and Indians. Our imaginations were as open as the view from east to west, the view to the landfill thankfully blocked by the solid north-facing wall. Because the denizens of Nature were playing their games before us in the field, there was always something to inspire.
Each of us kids must have gone up to the old chicken coup by ourselves sometimes, too, seeking escape in solitude, in catching the breeze in our hair, in listening to the sounds of thousands of insects, in surveying our verdant Southern home.
I wish my kids had something like that. I've dreamed of what they might have. For instance, I've pictured a large, airy room with tables, chairs, paints, clay and bookshelves filled with all the great tales of childhood lining the wall - a playroom for them and their friends where the messy, adventurous pursuits of childhood reign supreme or where a quiet read can be had in a charming window seat. Such a space seems so much more likely than an abandoned-chicken-coop hideout in the city. Our house in this city is small, however. There is no such room, no room for such a space when our kids can barely navigate the bedrooms they share. And, really, isn't a place outdoors, in the bright light and fresher air, always better for adventure anyway?
Our enormous eucalyptus trees in the front yard offer some inspiration with their large drooping branches that nearly trail the ground now. Sitting between them you can look up and feel transported to somewhere secret and alone. Often my youngest two will go stand in the midst of their cascade of satiny, burgundy-trimmed leaves after I pick up the kids from school. They try to hide behind the wide trunks with their planks of peeling bark before I can exit the van. It never fails that I ask, "Where's Ella and Daniel?" before I think to look for the peek of tennis shoes there. It's the faintest whisper of a secret place, I suppose, but I wish they had something more.
With nary a chicken coop in sight, I do really wish they had a tree house.
Wednesday, May 7, 2014
Blessed with Work
One morning as we were on the way to school, I spoke to my kids about the need for them to help out more around the house, so Mama doesn't go crazy. We're a family, and families help each other.
Berto, my eldest, responded with, "I hate working! Just slow, boring walking around picking up stuff. If I'm going to work, I want to be playing sports. It's more exciting."
I think my blood went from tepid to boiling in less than five seconds. In his words I heard the cry of a generation so in love with their electronics with which they waste a great deal of their time and with the multiple freebies from their parents that they do not value personal effort, work ethic and proper communication. It wasn't the first time my son had said, "But I hate work!" as an excuse, either.
The first time it happened was a summer or two ago when the children and I were out in the front yard, clearing up storm debris from our eucalyptus trees. Berto was responsible for sweeping our neighbor's driveway while the rest of the kids were supposed to pick up bark and twigs from their grass and our rocks. Berto gave a half-hearted attempt to his task, complaining as he did so, before pronouncing it done, and the younger ones were soon off on larks, not helping one bit.
I frankly told Berto the job he'd done was pitiful, and then showed him the proper way of sweeping a neighbor's driveway - much more thoroughly and with more energy. As I scolded all of them for leaving the work to their mama, Ana came and scooped up a couple pieces of bark guiltily before deserting moments later to collect rocks. Ella was simply running around in the hot morning sun.
Boy, was I ever mad.
I marched those kids inside, and I took a welcome seat in the recliner, demanding that they all line up in front of me. A couple of them tried to sit on the couch with sullen faces, but I quickly cried, "Nope, nope! Mama's the only one who gets to sit right now. I did all the work. You guys are going to stand right there in front of me until I'm done talking!"
And I talked alright, in the tradition of my own dad's lectures. I talked about how work is an essential part of existence, that it creates a sense of self-worth and builds confidence even in the youngest person, that it is healthy exercise, and that it is absolutely necessary to achieve dreams.
And then is about when Berto interjected, "But I hate work!"
I think my jaw dropped. It was one of the silliest things I'd ever heard, though I'm certain many children, including myself, have said it before him.
Once I recovered, I answered, "Do you think anybody loves it?" And then I lectured for many more good long minutes.
When my Berto repeated this excuse on the car ride to school, I believe my outburst went like this:
"Berto, that is the most ridiculous excuse I have ever heard, and this is the second time I've heard you say it! Don't you ever let me hear you say that again. You can think it all you want, but you better not let me catch you saying it! Do you think any of us like work? Work is necessary. If nobody worked, the world would be a mess. When I was eight-years-old, I was already hand washing dishes, and by the time I was a teenager - no, an adolescent - I was pretty much cleaning the whole house, because Grandmama worked with Paca all day in the woods. And that includes mopping floors and scrubbing bathrooms, too! And Aunt Vinca did it before me! Your Aunt Annie and Uncle Natie were out in the woods rolling wreaths with Paca and Grandmama and digging roots, too. And we didn't even work as hard as the generations of children before us! They had to help out on their family's farm, getting up at dawn to feed and groom the animals and working in the fields, too. Just read Little House on the Prairie, for crying out loud!"
And then I may have said some unkind things about the current generation feeling entitled to everything with little to no effort on their part to earn any of it, how I had read many articles about bosses bemoaning the fact, and how I would be danged if any of my kids grew up to be the pampered, spoiled young adults who expect everyone to hand them life on a platter, without proper communication or even taking their eyes off their phones, and who get a rude awakening when they realize the world doesn't give a damn about their expectations.
Deep breath...
Of course, then I realized that maybe, just maybe, I should say something about my own flaws, like the fact that although I value work as good exercise (even carrying laundry back in tiny piles, room by room, in order to get the most steps in for my day) and honest employment, and I actually like some kinds of work much better than others, I have a terrible tendency to complain that my work is never done and never stays done.
For instance, I can be heard saying things like, "Why is this sink so filthy? I just cleaned it yesterday!" on a regular basis.
I confessed I find our small home overwhelming sometimes to the point of near inertia, of defeat, for I cannot let go of the fight for one instant or the house will be overrun by school papers, junk mail, dirty or outgrown clothes, dust, debris, toys, grime and piles of dishes on every flat surface, but it doesn't help the crusade at all to complain, as I so often do, that it is never clean. I admitted that I don't love to cook (steamed broccoli, raw carrots or canned green beans for a side again, anyone?), that to make a mess of a kitchen when the house is still in disarray is no picnic, but that I just need to close my trap, put my smile on and do the best I can, because cooking is a way of showing love for my family.
Cooking is love...cooking is love....cooking is love...(repeat as often as necessary until empowered to whip up something new and unusual and elaborate for dinner that two-thirds of your kids will promptly refuse to eat but that you will stubbornly shovel in even if it is absolutely revolting).
I told my children I'm attempting to alter my thinking and to curb my speeches of frustration. There is a scene in one of my favorite romantic comedies, Return To Me, in which the heroine, Grace, asks her grandfather if he needs any help, and he responds, "No...no, darling - not at all. I'm blessed with work."
Blessed with work - yeeesss, hmm: not complaining, as I am prone to do, just valiantly maintaining constant effort against the tide and thanking God that you have the health to continue to do so. What if we all saw it that way and taught our children the value of what they can accomplish through labor? We may never grow to love work, but we can at least learn to appreciate the results it brings - and not just the tangible physical benefits but the boost to our mental and emotional health as well. After all, there is nothing quite like an honest day's work, especially if a good part of it is spent in the service of others.
Berto, my eldest, responded with, "I hate working! Just slow, boring walking around picking up stuff. If I'm going to work, I want to be playing sports. It's more exciting."
I think my blood went from tepid to boiling in less than five seconds. In his words I heard the cry of a generation so in love with their electronics with which they waste a great deal of their time and with the multiple freebies from their parents that they do not value personal effort, work ethic and proper communication. It wasn't the first time my son had said, "But I hate work!" as an excuse, either.
The first time it happened was a summer or two ago when the children and I were out in the front yard, clearing up storm debris from our eucalyptus trees. Berto was responsible for sweeping our neighbor's driveway while the rest of the kids were supposed to pick up bark and twigs from their grass and our rocks. Berto gave a half-hearted attempt to his task, complaining as he did so, before pronouncing it done, and the younger ones were soon off on larks, not helping one bit.
I frankly told Berto the job he'd done was pitiful, and then showed him the proper way of sweeping a neighbor's driveway - much more thoroughly and with more energy. As I scolded all of them for leaving the work to their mama, Ana came and scooped up a couple pieces of bark guiltily before deserting moments later to collect rocks. Ella was simply running around in the hot morning sun.
Boy, was I ever mad.
I marched those kids inside, and I took a welcome seat in the recliner, demanding that they all line up in front of me. A couple of them tried to sit on the couch with sullen faces, but I quickly cried, "Nope, nope! Mama's the only one who gets to sit right now. I did all the work. You guys are going to stand right there in front of me until I'm done talking!"
And I talked alright, in the tradition of my own dad's lectures. I talked about how work is an essential part of existence, that it creates a sense of self-worth and builds confidence even in the youngest person, that it is healthy exercise, and that it is absolutely necessary to achieve dreams.
And then is about when Berto interjected, "But I hate work!"
I think my jaw dropped. It was one of the silliest things I'd ever heard, though I'm certain many children, including myself, have said it before him.
Once I recovered, I answered, "Do you think anybody loves it?" And then I lectured for many more good long minutes.
When my Berto repeated this excuse on the car ride to school, I believe my outburst went like this:
"Berto, that is the most ridiculous excuse I have ever heard, and this is the second time I've heard you say it! Don't you ever let me hear you say that again. You can think it all you want, but you better not let me catch you saying it! Do you think any of us like work? Work is necessary. If nobody worked, the world would be a mess. When I was eight-years-old, I was already hand washing dishes, and by the time I was a teenager - no, an adolescent - I was pretty much cleaning the whole house, because Grandmama worked with Paca all day in the woods. And that includes mopping floors and scrubbing bathrooms, too! And Aunt Vinca did it before me! Your Aunt Annie and Uncle Natie were out in the woods rolling wreaths with Paca and Grandmama and digging roots, too. And we didn't even work as hard as the generations of children before us! They had to help out on their family's farm, getting up at dawn to feed and groom the animals and working in the fields, too. Just read Little House on the Prairie, for crying out loud!"
And then I may have said some unkind things about the current generation feeling entitled to everything with little to no effort on their part to earn any of it, how I had read many articles about bosses bemoaning the fact, and how I would be danged if any of my kids grew up to be the pampered, spoiled young adults who expect everyone to hand them life on a platter, without proper communication or even taking their eyes off their phones, and who get a rude awakening when they realize the world doesn't give a damn about their expectations.
Deep breath...
Of course, then I realized that maybe, just maybe, I should say something about my own flaws, like the fact that although I value work as good exercise (even carrying laundry back in tiny piles, room by room, in order to get the most steps in for my day) and honest employment, and I actually like some kinds of work much better than others, I have a terrible tendency to complain that my work is never done and never stays done.
For instance, I can be heard saying things like, "Why is this sink so filthy? I just cleaned it yesterday!" on a regular basis.
I confessed I find our small home overwhelming sometimes to the point of near inertia, of defeat, for I cannot let go of the fight for one instant or the house will be overrun by school papers, junk mail, dirty or outgrown clothes, dust, debris, toys, grime and piles of dishes on every flat surface, but it doesn't help the crusade at all to complain, as I so often do, that it is never clean. I admitted that I don't love to cook (steamed broccoli, raw carrots or canned green beans for a side again, anyone?), that to make a mess of a kitchen when the house is still in disarray is no picnic, but that I just need to close my trap, put my smile on and do the best I can, because cooking is a way of showing love for my family.
Cooking is love...cooking is love....cooking is love...(repeat as often as necessary until empowered to whip up something new and unusual and elaborate for dinner that two-thirds of your kids will promptly refuse to eat but that you will stubbornly shovel in even if it is absolutely revolting).
I told my children I'm attempting to alter my thinking and to curb my speeches of frustration. There is a scene in one of my favorite romantic comedies, Return To Me, in which the heroine, Grace, asks her grandfather if he needs any help, and he responds, "No...no, darling - not at all. I'm blessed with work."
Blessed with work - yeeesss, hmm: not complaining, as I am prone to do, just valiantly maintaining constant effort against the tide and thanking God that you have the health to continue to do so. What if we all saw it that way and taught our children the value of what they can accomplish through labor? We may never grow to love work, but we can at least learn to appreciate the results it brings - and not just the tangible physical benefits but the boost to our mental and emotional health as well. After all, there is nothing quite like an honest day's work, especially if a good part of it is spent in the service of others.
Monday, May 5, 2014
Gripping
I walked down the candy aisle of a neighborhood store last week and saw, to my dismay, that all the chocolate crème eggs were gone.
"No...no..." I uttered woefully as my four children watched me shove boxes around in the 75% off Easter candy, frantic for my fix.
They must be buried. Yes, surely, so I looked behind every chocolate bunny and cross, every box of egg-shaped confections. But they were gone.
Gone.
How was I supposed to battle my dejection, for what now could feed my chocolate addiction with so little inconvenience and such yumminess? Darn it! I should have bought more boxes when they were a mere 50% off.
Never mind that for the last month, while stuffing myself with boxes of chocolate eggs and English tea every Sunday, I had been feeling sluggish. My fatigue had gotten so bad that at first I wondered if there was an underlying health issue that was going to call my card any day. Then it occurred to me that I might possibly - just possibly - be suffering from a dangerous cocktail of chocolate-crème/high-fructose-corn-syrup poisoning. And, not for the first time in my life, I daydreamed about what life could be like without chocolate and sugar.
I might be truly healthy inside, as energetic as a two-year-old, own fewer wrinkles, and have substantially smaller grocery bills if I could just learn to give up the sweets.
This led me to consider other things I hold dear. Being the broadminded, expert daydreamer I am, I pondered an array of plagues on my freedom. I wondered what life could be like if I could renounce every other silly little addiction that keeps me grasping at trifles as if my life depended on them.
For instance, what might happen if could I give up the TV series Lost? A recent addiction, it already grips me in such a way that I try to hurry my kids to bed as soon as I can many nights. And it is really a double whammy, because I cannot resist the chance to finally sit and veg in the evenings, and I cannot bear to ignore the siren call of a good mystery, every episode of Lost being a good mystery!
But if, just if, I could vanquish the urge to find out what happens next, I might be more successful in many things. I might write here more often. I might improve my mind by studying constellations, learning all their names. I might play more games with my kids on Saturday afternoons.
And what if I could give up all mysteries - detective novels, crime shows? Maybe then I could stop assuming that every car that remains behind me too long on my route home is following me and stop thinking of new, crafty ways to lose the hounds.
Yet...what if, instead of giving up completely that which brings me pleasure, I really practiced moderation in all things? - ate only one chocolate crème egg at Eastertime, only watched an episode of Lost a week, only ate sweets - and just one slice or one square - on special occasions? What if I only desired those things that could improve my well-being and bring more happiness to my family? What would life look like then?
Well, then I might be free, free to be the hardworking, healthy, successful, unselfish, wife/mother/writer I was always meant to be.
A moderate...democratic...in all things.
"No...no..." I uttered woefully as my four children watched me shove boxes around in the 75% off Easter candy, frantic for my fix.
They must be buried. Yes, surely, so I looked behind every chocolate bunny and cross, every box of egg-shaped confections. But they were gone.
Gone.
How was I supposed to battle my dejection, for what now could feed my chocolate addiction with so little inconvenience and such yumminess? Darn it! I should have bought more boxes when they were a mere 50% off.
Never mind that for the last month, while stuffing myself with boxes of chocolate eggs and English tea every Sunday, I had been feeling sluggish. My fatigue had gotten so bad that at first I wondered if there was an underlying health issue that was going to call my card any day. Then it occurred to me that I might possibly - just possibly - be suffering from a dangerous cocktail of chocolate-crème/high-fructose-corn-syrup poisoning. And, not for the first time in my life, I daydreamed about what life could be like without chocolate and sugar.
I might be truly healthy inside, as energetic as a two-year-old, own fewer wrinkles, and have substantially smaller grocery bills if I could just learn to give up the sweets.
This led me to consider other things I hold dear. Being the broadminded, expert daydreamer I am, I pondered an array of plagues on my freedom. I wondered what life could be like if I could renounce every other silly little addiction that keeps me grasping at trifles as if my life depended on them.
For instance, what might happen if could I give up the TV series Lost? A recent addiction, it already grips me in such a way that I try to hurry my kids to bed as soon as I can many nights. And it is really a double whammy, because I cannot resist the chance to finally sit and veg in the evenings, and I cannot bear to ignore the siren call of a good mystery, every episode of Lost being a good mystery!
But if, just if, I could vanquish the urge to find out what happens next, I might be more successful in many things. I might write here more often. I might improve my mind by studying constellations, learning all their names. I might play more games with my kids on Saturday afternoons.
And what if I could give up all mysteries - detective novels, crime shows? Maybe then I could stop assuming that every car that remains behind me too long on my route home is following me and stop thinking of new, crafty ways to lose the hounds.
Yet...what if, instead of giving up completely that which brings me pleasure, I really practiced moderation in all things? - ate only one chocolate crème egg at Eastertime, only watched an episode of Lost a week, only ate sweets - and just one slice or one square - on special occasions? What if I only desired those things that could improve my well-being and bring more happiness to my family? What would life look like then?
Well, then I might be free, free to be the hardworking, healthy, successful, unselfish, wife/mother/writer I was always meant to be.
A moderate...democratic...in all things.
Thursday, May 1, 2014
Junk
I have cloth baby diapers I use for dish towels. I cut up holey socks and use them as cleaning rags. Now, some people might call that cheap and gross. I like to say I'm environmentally-conscious.
Okay, listen, the diapers were never used. I tried maybe once to wrangle those things on my baby, and then said, "Eh, no." So I had to find another use for them to ease my conscience. Voila! Dish towels.
My cheap environmentalism is why my brother-in-law, while visiting, held up a sliced peaches jar from Costco and said sarcastically, "Classy drinking glasses!" We weren't ashamed. By using those jars with their convenient measurement lines instead of buying real glasses, we had a multi-use, up-cycled item. They were measurement cups for baking, storage containers when we screwed on their metal lids, and lovely country-living tableware.
They were all that until I broke them - another reason this queen of disaster doesn't invest in classy or "quality" dishes too often.
However, my environmentalism doesn't just spring from my innate frugality (cheap is a rude word, friends) or mild anti-consumerism. It comes, too, from my obsessive-compulsive terror of landfills.
Don't laugh at me. We all have something. For some, it's emissions, and they'd rather walk barefoot to work both ways up a steep hill...in a dust storm...with no deodorant on....than drive a car. For some it's chemicals, and they'd rather pay their kids to pull every weed and be strangled by the Bermuda thatch in their borders than lift one finger to spray harmful weed killer on those pernicious plants or that devil grass. Or they'd rather use gallons upon gallons of vinegar trying to eradicate smells from their guest bathroom than pour one tablespoon of the readily-available toxic bathroom cleaner (the kind that has to be taken to a chemical disposal plant) in their toilet bowls. And, of course, there's the water-conservation issue. Some people actually tolerate xeriscaping or nonscaping, turn off the shower to shiver while lathering up, and only bathe their kids every other day in order to conserve water.
(Okay, all those people are me - except the driving thing. I don't drive much because I hate errands and there's plenty to do at home - all those weeds!)
There was a picture of a landfill in the newspaper that I meant to show my children in order to scare the carp out of them, but dang it all! I forgot and recycled the article.
I wanted to make a point about all the waste in the world, all the mountains of garbage.
Every time my kids break a hanger in this house, I make an example out of it as I say, "Do you know where this has to go now? Do you?" I wave the broken remnants around before I spit out, "It can't be recycled; it has to go to the landfill!"
It would help if they knew what a landfill looks like.
The idea of landlocked seas of trash puts the fear of junk in me. Goody bags from kids' parties make me crazy - all those cheap plastic "goodies" soon become debris. The rare occasions when we patronize certain fast-food restaurants, I refuse the toys that come with specific meals; if they give them to me anyway, I hand them back. I recycle torn, stained clothes in a textile bin. We have a toaster oven with a door that's been broken for years that we have to wedge closed while using. A 1970s TV stand given to us by Grandma is now our shoe closet, and we have a play-fort slide propped up against the tree limb in our backyard. (The play fort itself, having been through two families before us, became structurally unsound to the point where we considered having friends sign disclaimers before letting theirs kids climb on it. We got rid of it but kept the huge slide.) I am opposed to consumerism, because it breeds clutter and junk - stuff we don't need in our lives.
And yet...I am a huge hypocrite like everyone else. Every time I cook a frozen pizza - twice a month at least - I feel guilty as I throw away the plastic wrapping and waterproof cardboard box that can't be recycled. There's plenty of food packaging to worry about in this household, though we recycle what we can, and I do make homemade pizza and bread dough often....ish. And every time I forget to bring my own canvas bags to the store (which is every single time) I'm awash in guilt as I wonder what the heck I can do with fifty more bags.
But I'm trying; I'm trying. Because that picture of the landfill? Scary. Plus, we can only use it for another hundred years....
Okay, listen, the diapers were never used. I tried maybe once to wrangle those things on my baby, and then said, "Eh, no." So I had to find another use for them to ease my conscience. Voila! Dish towels.
My cheap environmentalism is why my brother-in-law, while visiting, held up a sliced peaches jar from Costco and said sarcastically, "Classy drinking glasses!" We weren't ashamed. By using those jars with their convenient measurement lines instead of buying real glasses, we had a multi-use, up-cycled item. They were measurement cups for baking, storage containers when we screwed on their metal lids, and lovely country-living tableware.
They were all that until I broke them - another reason this queen of disaster doesn't invest in classy or "quality" dishes too often.
However, my environmentalism doesn't just spring from my innate frugality (cheap is a rude word, friends) or mild anti-consumerism. It comes, too, from my obsessive-compulsive terror of landfills.
Don't laugh at me. We all have something. For some, it's emissions, and they'd rather walk barefoot to work both ways up a steep hill...in a dust storm...with no deodorant on....than drive a car. For some it's chemicals, and they'd rather pay their kids to pull every weed and be strangled by the Bermuda thatch in their borders than lift one finger to spray harmful weed killer on those pernicious plants or that devil grass. Or they'd rather use gallons upon gallons of vinegar trying to eradicate smells from their guest bathroom than pour one tablespoon of the readily-available toxic bathroom cleaner (the kind that has to be taken to a chemical disposal plant) in their toilet bowls. And, of course, there's the water-conservation issue. Some people actually tolerate xeriscaping or nonscaping, turn off the shower to shiver while lathering up, and only bathe their kids every other day in order to conserve water.
(Okay, all those people are me - except the driving thing. I don't drive much because I hate errands and there's plenty to do at home - all those weeds!)
There was a picture of a landfill in the newspaper that I meant to show my children in order to scare the carp out of them, but dang it all! I forgot and recycled the article.
I wanted to make a point about all the waste in the world, all the mountains of garbage.
Every time my kids break a hanger in this house, I make an example out of it as I say, "Do you know where this has to go now? Do you?" I wave the broken remnants around before I spit out, "It can't be recycled; it has to go to the landfill!"
It would help if they knew what a landfill looks like.
The idea of landlocked seas of trash puts the fear of junk in me. Goody bags from kids' parties make me crazy - all those cheap plastic "goodies" soon become debris. The rare occasions when we patronize certain fast-food restaurants, I refuse the toys that come with specific meals; if they give them to me anyway, I hand them back. I recycle torn, stained clothes in a textile bin. We have a toaster oven with a door that's been broken for years that we have to wedge closed while using. A 1970s TV stand given to us by Grandma is now our shoe closet, and we have a play-fort slide propped up against the tree limb in our backyard. (The play fort itself, having been through two families before us, became structurally unsound to the point where we considered having friends sign disclaimers before letting theirs kids climb on it. We got rid of it but kept the huge slide.) I am opposed to consumerism, because it breeds clutter and junk - stuff we don't need in our lives.
And yet...I am a huge hypocrite like everyone else. Every time I cook a frozen pizza - twice a month at least - I feel guilty as I throw away the plastic wrapping and waterproof cardboard box that can't be recycled. There's plenty of food packaging to worry about in this household, though we recycle what we can, and I do make homemade pizza and bread dough often....ish. And every time I forget to bring my own canvas bags to the store (which is every single time) I'm awash in guilt as I wonder what the heck I can do with fifty more bags.
But I'm trying; I'm trying. Because that picture of the landfill? Scary. Plus, we can only use it for another hundred years....
Tuesday, April 22, 2014
Happy Easter
The week before Easter is a busy one for Catholics. Palm Sunday finds us singing Hosanna! as we enter the church with palms behind the priest, remembering Christ's triumphant entrance into Jerusalem on the back of a humble donkey. There is Holy Thursday Mass when we commemorate Jesus washing the feet of his 12 disciples. On Good Friday we read the Passion, as on Palm Sunday, and there is a procession with a wooden cross up the center aisle of the church. Then, at last, comes Holy Saturday night and Easter morning.
My son Berto had his feet washed, with 11 other members of various parish ministries, on Holy Thursday. He was very nervous about it, but Matthew and I told him to imagine Christ washing his feet and to reflect on something in his life with which he would like Jesus' help, or to think of someone he believes could use Jesus' help (can't we all?). Before he and I left for church, we read in John what Jesus told his disciples after cleansing their feet, "I have given you a model to follow, so that as I have done for you, you should also do."
I smiled at Berto as he sat on the altar steps in bare feet, one of just two children seated in the twelve chairs there with their white basins, pitchers and towels beneath.
"Mom," he said afterward. "Looking around, I realized that I have young feet." Then he chuckled.
It's not what I hoped he would get out of it, but oh well.
******************************
On Good Friday I prayed a lot and took deep breaths every few minutes as I studied. I would be narrating the Lord's Passion that night at Mass, and it was my turn to be nervous to the point of feeling faint. And so I prayed for courage and understanding and for God's blessing so that I could glorify his name. I asked for Mother Mary to be with me. I asked Jesus to hold my hand.
Dear friends have told me I have a childlike faith. Perhaps that is my gift. I don't have stellar understanding. I do not write brilliant faith posts. I talk far too much when I should really be silent most of the time. But I have a childlike faith in and immense love for Christ Jesus, and so I asked him to hold my hand as I read of his Passion and crucifixion. When there were moments of silence during the narration, I pleaded, Don't leave me now. Keep holding my hand.
He did, though he suffered through it all for us, and I was merely reading about it. I was amazed; I always am. I am anxious and restless, praying to the Holy Spirit for courage, until I stand behind that ambo to read. My legs might tremble still, but I can speak clearly and, by the grace of God, help to impart understanding of His Word.
Ana served that night, and on the way home we were both feeling joyful, though perhaps we should have kept it for Easter. We were simply grateful to serve. I asked her how it felt to go to the back of the church with the deacons to bring Holy Communion and to be one of the first to venerate the cross and told her she did a wonderful job. She told me that when I read it was as if Jesus was speaking.
I didn't respond to that right away. It seemed impossible since I am a woman, but it choked me up nonetheless. And all I could think of was how I felt exactly the same way when I listened to my dad reading the Bible during my childhood.
*******************************
Throughout this year numerous people have come up to Matthew and me at church and told us how much they enjoy watching our kids altar serve, particularly Ana. She always has a broad smile on her face when she is up in the sanctuary or on the altar steps, and her joy is contagious judging from the many comments made to her parents. Berto is much more stoic and dignified, and that is his special way of serving.
On Holy Saturday one mother in the parish said, "What has made my year is your daughter. That's where it's at: singing altar servers!"
She was speaking of the way in which our Ana girl had belted out the hymn, Table of Plenty, while waiting with Berto and the deacon on the steps for the gifts to be brought forward.
Matthew and I had noticed it, too. Our little girl had her mouth wide open in praise and was moving her head about with gusto as she sang the chorus:
Come to the feast of heaven and earth
Come to the table of plenty!
God will provide for all that we need
Here at the table of plenty!
She was so in the moment that Matthew and I had to laugh, though silently of course, and we glanced over at our friend Adolfo next to us, and he was also grinning. She was certainly doing her part to spread the joy of Easter!
********************************
Every year I'll try to share a song of Keith Green's. I was raised on his music, and he is still my favorite gospel singer and a very talented pianist/songwriter as well. He wrote several songs based on Jesus' parables, such as the Prodigal Song Suite, and they are all beautiful, so enjoy.
There is a Redeemer by Keith and Melody Green
Happy Easter, readers and friends!
My son Berto had his feet washed, with 11 other members of various parish ministries, on Holy Thursday. He was very nervous about it, but Matthew and I told him to imagine Christ washing his feet and to reflect on something in his life with which he would like Jesus' help, or to think of someone he believes could use Jesus' help (can't we all?). Before he and I left for church, we read in John what Jesus told his disciples after cleansing their feet, "I have given you a model to follow, so that as I have done for you, you should also do."
I smiled at Berto as he sat on the altar steps in bare feet, one of just two children seated in the twelve chairs there with their white basins, pitchers and towels beneath.
"Mom," he said afterward. "Looking around, I realized that I have young feet." Then he chuckled.
It's not what I hoped he would get out of it, but oh well.
******************************
On Good Friday I prayed a lot and took deep breaths every few minutes as I studied. I would be narrating the Lord's Passion that night at Mass, and it was my turn to be nervous to the point of feeling faint. And so I prayed for courage and understanding and for God's blessing so that I could glorify his name. I asked for Mother Mary to be with me. I asked Jesus to hold my hand.
Dear friends have told me I have a childlike faith. Perhaps that is my gift. I don't have stellar understanding. I do not write brilliant faith posts. I talk far too much when I should really be silent most of the time. But I have a childlike faith in and immense love for Christ Jesus, and so I asked him to hold my hand as I read of his Passion and crucifixion. When there were moments of silence during the narration, I pleaded, Don't leave me now. Keep holding my hand.
He did, though he suffered through it all for us, and I was merely reading about it. I was amazed; I always am. I am anxious and restless, praying to the Holy Spirit for courage, until I stand behind that ambo to read. My legs might tremble still, but I can speak clearly and, by the grace of God, help to impart understanding of His Word.
Ana served that night, and on the way home we were both feeling joyful, though perhaps we should have kept it for Easter. We were simply grateful to serve. I asked her how it felt to go to the back of the church with the deacons to bring Holy Communion and to be one of the first to venerate the cross and told her she did a wonderful job. She told me that when I read it was as if Jesus was speaking.
I didn't respond to that right away. It seemed impossible since I am a woman, but it choked me up nonetheless. And all I could think of was how I felt exactly the same way when I listened to my dad reading the Bible during my childhood.
*******************************
Throughout this year numerous people have come up to Matthew and me at church and told us how much they enjoy watching our kids altar serve, particularly Ana. She always has a broad smile on her face when she is up in the sanctuary or on the altar steps, and her joy is contagious judging from the many comments made to her parents. Berto is much more stoic and dignified, and that is his special way of serving.
On Holy Saturday one mother in the parish said, "What has made my year is your daughter. That's where it's at: singing altar servers!"
She was speaking of the way in which our Ana girl had belted out the hymn, Table of Plenty, while waiting with Berto and the deacon on the steps for the gifts to be brought forward.
Matthew and I had noticed it, too. Our little girl had her mouth wide open in praise and was moving her head about with gusto as she sang the chorus:
Come to the feast of heaven and earth
Come to the table of plenty!
God will provide for all that we need
Here at the table of plenty!
She was so in the moment that Matthew and I had to laugh, though silently of course, and we glanced over at our friend Adolfo next to us, and he was also grinning. She was certainly doing her part to spread the joy of Easter!
********************************
Every year I'll try to share a song of Keith Green's. I was raised on his music, and he is still my favorite gospel singer and a very talented pianist/songwriter as well. He wrote several songs based on Jesus' parables, such as the Prodigal Song Suite, and they are all beautiful, so enjoy.
There is a Redeemer by Keith and Melody Green
Happy Easter, readers and friends!
Monday, April 14, 2014
# 3 Three Funny Things
My little Danny Sammy, standing with chin up and hands on hips, often repeats to our Berto, his big bro, "We are dudes!"
Berto taught him this mantra, because although Danny and Ella Boo are fantastic friends who play house all the day long (and terrible enemies), Berto wanted Daniel to know that guys are very different from girls. You know the old saying: they're made of snakes and snail goo and sharp rocks and puppy dog fleas and cool machinery, or whatever that old rhyme says.
So when the girls and I cry at the end of the movie Hachi, and Berto is rolling his eyes and Daniel is looking bewildered and completely insensitive, it's a, "We don't cry...because we're dudes. Right, Daniel?" Same thing goes for squeals over pretty clothes on shopping trips - their mantra is spoken with the same kind of thanksgiving and relief.
And Daniel always responds proudly to his hero, "Yeah, we are dudes!"
One night it morphed into something more in keeping with the times. While putting Danny to bed, I tried to ease Ella Boo's fears about an upcoming, special trip for her uncle's wedding by calling to her, "Mama and Papa will keep you all safe. It's going to be fun, and all you girls are going to be flower girls. Just think about that!"
"All of us?" asked Daniel.
"You're not a girl, Danny!" replied Booey from the other room, giggling.
"No," he said. "We're going to be flower dudes!"
**************************
We pray Our Father in the car on the way to school each morning. During one hard week I added a personal plea of, "And may God help Mama to understand, because I feel like I have no understanding, so may he help me grasp some truth!"
And Analisa said simply and immediately, "Jesus is the truth."
"Oh, Ana..."began Berto in typical exasperation.
"No, you know what?" I interrupted cheerfully. "That may be just what God wanted me to hear this morning. Jesus said I am the way, the truth and the life. And he also said out of the mouth of babes!"
"Out of the mouth of babes?"
"Yes, Berto - like children, babies."
"Oh!"
I started laughing. "Berto, you thought Jesus meant out of the mouth of hot chicks?"
He grinned at me
I merrily laughed it up all through car line. God had blessed me with a simple answer and humor through my children. It was going to be a brighter day.
***************************
We're getting ready to paint our house for the first time in eleven + years. There's just one problem.
Handprints.
There are muddy handprints all over the storage cupboards above the back patio. Years ago, on a post-rainy day, Berto and Ana stuck their hands in the fresh, lovely mud in the yard, and with not a papa or a mama in sight, they went up and down the back wall of the house and the cupboards, laughing and laying down their childish signatures in brown, gooey, prolific glory.
We heard them, and we caught them red-handed. Matthew wanted to be mad but couldn't, because I started giggling and became infatuated with the little handprints as their sheepish faces looked up at ours. I somehow convinced Matthew not to attempt to wash them away. They dried in the brutal desert heat, becoming frozen in time.
Our friend Ryan, a painting contractor, left these clay marks of childhood alone the day he power-washed our house. Yet he and my husband warned me that we need to paint those cupboards, or they will stick out like a sore thumb on our newly painted home.
Our house has aged. Berto and Ana have grown. But those handprints haven't changed. Every once in a while I notice them and smile.
So I'll take a picture. Then we may have all the kids dip their hands in the green trim paint and sign the cupboards afresh. Because, hey, if I ever achieve sanctity (which is about as likely as my kids remaining children forever), I might become the Patron Saint of Grumpiness as Berto suggested, but I'm also a good candidate for the Patron Saint of sentimental fools.
This post was based on Clare Law's blog, Three Beautiful Things. I always enjoy visiting her site, because I never fail to be reminded to enjoy each day and to take the time to relish all the silly, cute, sweet, unusual and beautiful things my kids do. It's all about accumulating the laugh lines and the memories.
Berto taught him this mantra, because although Danny and Ella Boo are fantastic friends who play house all the day long (and terrible enemies), Berto wanted Daniel to know that guys are very different from girls. You know the old saying: they're made of snakes and snail goo and sharp rocks and puppy dog fleas and cool machinery, or whatever that old rhyme says.
So when the girls and I cry at the end of the movie Hachi, and Berto is rolling his eyes and Daniel is looking bewildered and completely insensitive, it's a, "We don't cry...because we're dudes. Right, Daniel?" Same thing goes for squeals over pretty clothes on shopping trips - their mantra is spoken with the same kind of thanksgiving and relief.
And Daniel always responds proudly to his hero, "Yeah, we are dudes!"
One night it morphed into something more in keeping with the times. While putting Danny to bed, I tried to ease Ella Boo's fears about an upcoming, special trip for her uncle's wedding by calling to her, "Mama and Papa will keep you all safe. It's going to be fun, and all you girls are going to be flower girls. Just think about that!"
"All of us?" asked Daniel.
"You're not a girl, Danny!" replied Booey from the other room, giggling.
"No," he said. "We're going to be flower dudes!"
**************************
We pray Our Father in the car on the way to school each morning. During one hard week I added a personal plea of, "And may God help Mama to understand, because I feel like I have no understanding, so may he help me grasp some truth!"
And Analisa said simply and immediately, "Jesus is the truth."
"Oh, Ana..."began Berto in typical exasperation.
"No, you know what?" I interrupted cheerfully. "That may be just what God wanted me to hear this morning. Jesus said I am the way, the truth and the life. And he also said out of the mouth of babes!"
"Out of the mouth of babes?"
"Yes, Berto - like children, babies."
"Oh!"
I started laughing. "Berto, you thought Jesus meant out of the mouth of hot chicks?"
He grinned at me
I merrily laughed it up all through car line. God had blessed me with a simple answer and humor through my children. It was going to be a brighter day.
***************************
We're getting ready to paint our house for the first time in eleven + years. There's just one problem.
Handprints.
There are muddy handprints all over the storage cupboards above the back patio. Years ago, on a post-rainy day, Berto and Ana stuck their hands in the fresh, lovely mud in the yard, and with not a papa or a mama in sight, they went up and down the back wall of the house and the cupboards, laughing and laying down their childish signatures in brown, gooey, prolific glory.
We heard them, and we caught them red-handed. Matthew wanted to be mad but couldn't, because I started giggling and became infatuated with the little handprints as their sheepish faces looked up at ours. I somehow convinced Matthew not to attempt to wash them away. They dried in the brutal desert heat, becoming frozen in time.
Our friend Ryan, a painting contractor, left these clay marks of childhood alone the day he power-washed our house. Yet he and my husband warned me that we need to paint those cupboards, or they will stick out like a sore thumb on our newly painted home.
Our house has aged. Berto and Ana have grown. But those handprints haven't changed. Every once in a while I notice them and smile.
So I'll take a picture. Then we may have all the kids dip their hands in the green trim paint and sign the cupboards afresh. Because, hey, if I ever achieve sanctity (which is about as likely as my kids remaining children forever), I might become the Patron Saint of Grumpiness as Berto suggested, but I'm also a good candidate for the Patron Saint of sentimental fools.
This post was based on Clare Law's blog, Three Beautiful Things. I always enjoy visiting her site, because I never fail to be reminded to enjoy each day and to take the time to relish all the silly, cute, sweet, unusual and beautiful things my kids do. It's all about accumulating the laugh lines and the memories.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)