Thursday, May 29, 2014

Storytelling Magic - Poignant, Beautiful Stories

I expected to cry for the 15th time as midwives and nuns helped to deliver babies, and I didn't hide my tears watching a humble, good-hearted man and a haughty, well-bred woman stumble through pride, war and social barriers toward love and family life. When a red, adorable puppet talked to a burn victim about what to do with bad emotions when things get very hard, I couldn't help my emotion...and gratitude that such a conversation exists for children in the maelstrom of mindless media. Yet, with all this precedent, I certainly didn't expect to cry one evening about industrious beaver families building a life for themselves. I was surprised even to find myself tearing up as my preschooler sang me a song one afternoon that he had learned in a neighborhood of talking animals.

Such is the power of PBS. Such are the stories it tells, and nothing has yet to match them. While other networks keep fishing for the latest reality-TV farce, the next supernatural crime drama, or the status quo sex-is-cheap sitcom, PBS continues to tell us our history - or that of beavers. It continues to give us beautiful and vibrant visual interpretations of the greatest stories ever written or provide period dramas with subtle social commentary on days gone by. We travel to Antarctica, China, Turkey or Ireland on a dime - and not always to enjoy the view but often to learn more about the human condition.

Lately, the guilt had been bugging me like a pesky full-body rash; I had not supported my local public broadcasting station in some time. There is no excuse. My favorite Mom's Night In television is on PBS: Downton Abbey, Sherlock, Call the Midwife, and almost every other Masterpiece Classic or Masterpiece Mystery show.

I've also joked more then once that I have raised my kids on PBS. And why? Because their children's programming teaches little ones about love, compassion, friendship, family, healthy ways to deal with emotions, saying thank you, washing hands properly, safety, perseverance, good choices - really, just name a positive lesson for your kids to learn, this station has it covered. Knowing that - how grateful I am for all it has given my kids in educational television - caused me the most guilt. What really put me over the edge was when Daniel, my preschooler, came up to me one day and sang this line from Daniel Tiger's Neighborhood (based on Mr. Roger's Neighborhood):

"Thank you
for everything you do-oo!"

And gave me a big hug and smile to boot. What in heck was wrong with me that I had not supported something that taught my preschooler to express gratitude? Entertainment is not just entertainment when it comes to kids. We try to give them age-appropriate, quality fodder for their young minds, and, obviously, my favorite station was doing just that. (Of course, this doesn't mean any of us think it's healthy to just sit our kids in front of the TV all day - no matter what is on. They need books, games, projects and plenty of outside time, too!)

Now I know we're frugal in this family, but I swallowed my ridiculous reservations and talked to my husband about my guilt, pointing out everything our family gains from such a quality public service. I should have done it much sooner. He's a good man who recognizes a good deal. It was an easy sale.

So this morning as I watched Sesame Street with my four kids - yes, even the 11-year-old who told me I had to come watch because they were talking about cellphone addiction - I was grateful to feel pride, not guilt, as we all laughed at the antics of people and puppets alike, enjoying the storytelling with a message that makes PBS a Mom's best friend.

Monday, May 26, 2014

Fifth Baby

"Look at mommy. C'mon, look at me! Just look at the camera. No - stay still. Come back! There, stay there. Look at the camera." Click! "Why did you turn your head, goofball? Let's try again. Sit still now. No, don't jump down! Just look at mommy - please stay!"

I was following my blond-haired, black-eyed baby around to get a good picture. He doesn't understand the camera. He's not a ham. He just wants to lie about like a good-for-nothing and take naps on my couch pillows or lick people's knees. But I really wanted a picture bad, because my boy had just been to the groomer's, and he looked so darn handsome with his new cut.

Yeah, I think you know who I mean.

I never knew I wanted a fifth baby. I mean, I was always looking around for one when I was out, because four kids seems like so many children that even when my four were standing in front of me at the mall or park, responding to their names impatiently, I was still turning my head this way and that to look for their imaginary sibling who had no doubt run off somewhere.

Then we found him about a year ago. Taz was a little scruffy, a little too hyper, and I was afraid he would bite my kids' toes or fingers off in the night for the first couple weeks. For a whole month I wondered why we decided to take him when our sleep had just begun to resemble that of well-rested human beings. I even debated whether we could give him back. He used to pee on the floor or table without so much as an, "Excuse me, if you don't mind..." He threw up on my beautiful red couch right before Thanksgiving - not a pile but a river. When we left him home alone, he redesigned our front window curtains with his claws, leaving them in tatters, and several weeks later he pulled the back curtains out the doggy door and ripped them plum in half. He attacked my son's stuffed Elmo and put the death bite on a poor howler monkey toy on numerous occasions. He nipped a real Rottweiler in the face when I took him out for a bit of air and sunshine.

He just can't play nice with other kids. He's a permanent toddler.

But Taz has the most gorgeous blond/gray/tan/red hair and a sweet, if insecure, disposition. I'm not sure whether he looks more like me or Matthew. (But I suspect me; we both have big noses and shaggy hair.) Sure we have to take him out to use the potty every night late, but he'll let me play with his soft ears and rub his narrow little nose to my heart's content without an, "Awww, Mom!". He loves to play with the bigger kids and only bites when they try to steal his toys. He's our fifth baby....but, sadly, when I tell him to go to Papa, Matthew objects, "I am not that dog's papa!"

I used to make fun of people who said their dog was their baby. Oh, brother, was my thought as I smiled haughtily at their benign insanity. It's only because the poor dears have never had real kids that they can be so delusional!

Now, I'm the one in the funny farm with my furry friend, because I often call Tazzy to me with, "Come to Mama!", or when I'm sitting squeezing his little face in my hands, I pronounce warmly, "Mommy wuves her wittle buddy. Yes, I do!" Maybe I'm experiencing post-baby-years depression, because our youngest, Danny Sam, is over 4 and closer to kindergarten than to first steps.

This fifth-child-is-the-family-dog complex wouldn't be so bad, I guess, if I didn't sometimes call him by our kids' names, or - worse yet - call one of them Tazzy.

Still, I suppose it's a kind of release. I can parent this dog any way I wish. There is no Dr. Sears to make me feel guilty - ha! I can practice bad parenting monologues of frustration with Taz and never feel one bit bad or guilty. I can say something like, "Nobody loves poor Tazzy. I've asked them; I've asked around. I've asked everybody - not one of them! But that's okay, that's okay. You'll survive, huh?" And I can say it with a calm smile, and he just looks back at me appreciatively...or ignores me completely while he strategizes how to get his next slice of cheese.

Anyhow, this reflection on my love of animals, of this Yorkie dog in particular, began on Thursday when I picked him up at the groomer and saw how gorgeous my little fellar was with his little Yorkie beard and stubby tail and soft fur. Who knew I loved this dog so much when he was a greasy, bushy mess with hair falling in his eyes and grass stuck to his belly? Now that he's all chic I want to proudly parade him round the neighborhood in a pair of cheap sunglasses, responding to any smiles with, "That's my boy!" And I just can't wait to introduce him to my folks when they come visit in a week; I know they're going to love him! (Right, Dad?)

Another advantage to having this baby dog in my life? My need to share pictures of my absolutely beautiful children with indifferent strangers has long been unfulfilled, because my husband refuses to allow me to do so here - and I can't say I blame him.

But he never said nothin' 'bout the dog.



Friday, May 23, 2014

Proud Mama of Four Fantabulous (fantastic and fabulous) Kids

While our family was at the park today to celebrate the end of school, our Danny Sam did a set of five monkey bars all by himself!

If you are not gasping or cheering right now, then you are not reacting properly to this fantastic news. The boy is only a bit over four-years-old! Already I am truly convinced that he is destined for outstanding, wildly successful, extraordinary, well-coordinated things - perhaps on planet Mars - because he can also ride his bike with no training wheels around the yard really, really fast. And he just barely learned! You should see that boy take corners with a smile on his blue-eyed face.

**********************

This week our Boo, aka Ella, graduated from kindergarten.

She was very nervous the night before, and at bedtime I laid down to snuggle with her. I don't think I do quite enough of that, just taking quiet moments for them individually.

She must have appreciated my concern for, "You can pick out my dress and fix my hair, Mama," is what she said in the morning.

That sounded quite sweet and suspicious, for Boo likes to fix her own hair without combing or parting it. Then if I balk at the lumps or general disarray on her head she gets extremely offended, pouts, and accuses me of all kinds of meanness hidden behind my innocuous concern in making sure she's properly groomed.

Growing impatient for her appointed hairdresser, she had her sister braid her hair in pigtails without parting it and picked out her own outfit to boot. Her style looked fabulous from the front, but the top and back? Not so much. My objections to the form set off a whole morning of jungle hair warfare. I barely survived to tell the tale!

When I showed up for the graduation, I wore all blue and black: Batman colors for my number 1 Batman fan. I brought two beautiful dresses with me, jewelry and dress shoes just in case Ella wanted them. Walking into her classroom, I noticed immediately that a teacher had taken Boo's hair down in order to fasten her cap to her head with bobby pins more easily; the battles had been for nought. Booey was grateful for the dresses, though, choosing a dark blue fancy number to match me.

She was absolutely beautiful as she sang her favorite song Muscles and Bones in the little auditorium/lunchroom, and her whole family was in the audience, her big brother and sister having come from their classrooms and Papa from work to see her promotion to first grade. My only regret? - that Matthew and I did not think to ask someone to take our picture with our little girl in her cap and gown.

She made excellent grades and behavior marks, learned to read Little Critter books, lost more teeth than I can recall, and also, sadly, outgrew her curly hair this year. Ella Belle, with her very strong personality, is growing up.

*************************

Ana's teacher said to me one afternoon this week, "She kicked the ball over the fence and kept apologizing. I told her there was no need to be sorry about it; she was just playing the game. Ana is a great defender! All the kids want her on their team during recess."

"She is! She is a great defender," I agreed as I hugged Ana. "I've always thought so, but that's good to hear."

With her crazy long legs, how could she not be? I am so glad she's in soccer and that she enjoys it, but I didn't feel that way - not even close - the first time I saw her play.

I wanted to yank her away from the cruel sport, pull her off the field into my arms and keep her safe from that mean ball and those rude, rough kids. In just that one game, the ball was kicked into her head and chest at about 3000 miles per hour, a gigantic boy fell on and crushed her arm, and then she nearly collapsed on the field in exhaustion after running up and down a field continuously for no good reason.

What kind of devil sport is this? I wondered.

But now, coached by her papa for two seasons, my girl is confident on the field. She doesn't feel badly anymore when she steals the ball or accidentally knocks down or kicks a rival player. She runs continually and hardly puffs one bit, and she is a great defender of the goal. I've told her so myself many times after seeing her skill in several games these past two seasons.

"She's going to play in high school," her assistant coach pronounced last week. I think he's right.

**************************

After being madly in love with football for two years, Berto finally gave soccer a whirl this season.

Did I say the game of soccer is all about anticipation? No? Well, if you've ever watched a bunch of men running around an enormous field FOR-EV-ER for the chance in a million that they or a teammate will get the chance to put that stinkin' ball in THAT STINKIN goal and actually make it, then you know what I mean. If you are a crazy soccer fan who watches your favorite team's players - or a parent who watches their favorite kids - running around like dehydrated lunatics chasing down the mirage of netting spanning metal poles, then you know what I mean. The only thing that keeps us going is the anticipation, the blasted dream of a ball on air hitting a pocket of love.

Well, with our boy Berto, the anticipation wasn't such a commodity; nearly every single game he scored a goal.

I kid you not. Is not that miraculous? They're going to call him B-AIR-to when he gets to the MLS. That boy knows how to play forward and rock it, my friends. Yes, his team lost more than won (isn't that good for a boy who got too used to his team annihilating opponents in football?), but he got them goals or assisted the cause on a regular basis. He also played goalie, diving and jumping to bat that ball back down the field.

"The problem with him is that he's good in every position he plays," one of his coaches remarked to me.

We were very honored when Berto got the chance to play in an invite-only tournament here in Phoenix called East-Versus-West. His coach said it was about sportsmanship and behavior but also about skill. Sure enough, Berto scored his team's only goal in their first game. (He was appropriately humble about it, however: "My goal was easy, Mom. It was just me and the goalie.) Sadly, they lost, but they moved on to a shootout at the end of their second game, and they racked up three consecutive goals and won. Berto, though he wouldn't have his turn at the opposing goalie, ran down the field to jump on his fellow players in celebration.

Tuesday, May 20, 2014

Sunlight on the Forest Floor: my journey toward God, trying to see the forest for the trees

Archbishop Fulton J. Sheen once said, "There are not one hundred people in the United States who hate the Catholic Church, but there are millions who hate what they perceive the Catholic Church to be."

I used to be one of those people, though hate is perhaps too strong a word. I had a very strong, very foggy dislike of the Catholic "institution", and for the life of me, I cannot tell you from where or what it stemmed. Perhaps it is hereditary among Protestants. I believe I heard from various people I respected that Catholics were destined for hell, a passage from Revelations entering in here, and I think it's likely that I heard some blunt opinions about Catholicism growing up in the Bible Belt. But I could not have told you why I distrusted the Catholic Church or what exactly they believed about Jesus Christ that was so very different from my faith in Him. I only know my perceptions were called into question when I first learned that the man I would someday marry was Catholic.

I freaked out.

Now, of course, I can look back and laugh at my little tantrum. I can remember fondly my dad saying matter-of-factly, "Hillary, that's the oldest Christian church there is!", and how I felt comforted by that. I can remember the night I first truly received Communion, after attending Mass for 10 years with my husband, and how I was overpowered by God's love and mercy and spent my time in that front pew before the altar, kneeling and sobbing.

Since that night I have learned so very much, much of which I could not have remotely grasped without God's grace and guidance. I have learned just how ignorant I was of everything save the Gospel (and I have my dad to thank with my whole heart that I was not equally ignorant of the Word). Not only did I not read the Old Testament and the Epistles or appreciate their relation to Jesus, I did not understand fully, or even reasonably well, the hallmarks of Protestantism, and I presumed to know Catholic theology based on a legacy of several-hundred-year-old prejudices.

That last statement is definitely not the case for some, but I suspect it is for many Protestants.

I have many relatives and dear friends in many different Protestant denominations, and I have been in many different churches - Methodist, Baptist, Assembly of God, Church of Christ, and Jehovah's Witness (with a dear childhood friend). My favorite Gospel singer, Keith Green, was Protestant. These posts I intend to write regularly are not to disprove the validity of any denomination. I mean to dispel prejudice, misunderstanding and ignorance about the beliefs and practices of the Catholic Church in order to foster greater unity.

Wow, good luck! you might say, but I will try.

And never fear: I will continue to write humor (One of the greatest humorists, Erma Bombeck, was Catholic!) when the mood strikes, and I will write about my little rascals often. Yet I must be able to write what I wish, and often I wish to talk about God. It is something my family did quite a lot of while I was growing up, and it's not healthy, as many of us know, to suppress the Good News.

Friday, May 16, 2014

Technology Good....sometimes

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

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.

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.

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.

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....