Yes, now we get down to business. This honest post, I feel, has been coming for a while, but if the subject makes you nervous, you are no doubt staring at my blog like two men once stared at me in a restaurant as I fumbled with my shirt, a blanket and a baby, their expressions clearly crying foul: She's not going to do that right by us - surely not? Is she? Over breakfast? Where do we look? What do we do? Please, no. Nooooooo!
Yes, I'm going to do it, and, hopefully, not as clumsily or nervously as I tried to over that greasy breakfast. I'm going to talk about breastfeeding at long last because of THIS POST by Alison Lee from Writing, Wishing. I think her article is very insightful, and I agree with much of it. Nursing is a very convenient way to comfort, nourish and connect with your child.
As a new mother I held a strange belief that babies should be nursed to a year and no further. That was the magic number. Ha! I learned, as any parent eventually does, that when it comes to raising children, there is no magic number and there is no yellow brick road of enlightenment. With my firstborn, my son Berto, I did indeed wean close to a year - but because I was already expecting my first daughter.
His last nurse was a quick good-bye at 13 months. He nursed, then popped off to stare at my breast with a confused, reproving expression. He got back on, realized quickly nothing was forthcoming, gave the breast a last puzzled look, and turned his back on it permanently. The spigot was broken; there was no more milk or what little milk there was tasted funny. He was over it and not heartbroken at all.
Then came my little girl into this world, my little bronze-skinned angel. She loved her nurses, but she never got all plump and rolly-polly like other infants. When I ran to the church nursery after her baptism to feed my very cranky and hungry daughter, I felt I was being judged by my relatives for continuing to nurse a one-year-old. My sister-in-law's words - "Once a baby starts walking and talking, that's when you have to cut them off!" - were playing in my head.
I had already stared cutting out feedings at about nine or 10 months, scheduling one every week or two to remove from the offerings. But my mother, after all the crowds of relatives had dispersed home, was sitting with our Ana, and she said very wisely, "Hillary, she's not ready to be weaned. I wouldn't wean her just yet if I were you."
Ana was nestled against her grandmother's side and was making tiny, self-comforting sucking motions with her mouth.
"But I already started....I can't go back now," I protested.
I wish I had listened to my mom. I caused my Ana and myself such heartache, because I didn't. I stubbornly persisted in weaning, and I don't know what I was doing wrong, but there was something. My breasts would still get engorged with milk between the feedings. And then at night, I would stand outside my daughter's door as my husband tried to comfort her to sleep without breasts, and my heart would bleed until sometimes I couldn't stand it and gave in, incurring my husband's wrath for wasting his efforts as I rushed to pick her up.
I would do it all differently now. I would listen to my wise mother. Ana's last nurse still haunts me - and, yes, I mean that. I want to cry just thinking about it. Technically, she was already weaned, but my breasts were so swollen one day when I came out of the shower that I drew her onto my lap just to gain relief from the pressure. The little look on her face was so surprised, so relieved, and so grateful. She nursed eagerly that last time at 14 months, but it shouldn't have been her last feeding.
For months after Ana was weaned, she made self-consoling sucking motions with her mouth whenever she sat by me or even another woman. She lost weight, because she still hadn't transitioned completely to solid foods - something which is completely my fault and makes me angry with myself and remorseful when I remember it. Sometimes she would only take cow's milk for breakfast, and when we showed up to her 15 month appointment with the pediatrician, the nurse practitioner was very concerned about her weight, and so I felt I was an absolutely horrible mother for not ensuring my daughter was getting all she needed.
Ana was sad and not eating properly. And I was sad, depressed.
Somehow in weaning Ana, I think I must have caused an imbalance in my hormones, because I went through a period of serious depression where I felt quite bad about myself as a mother, wife, person. This was acerbated by the fact that I realized my breasts were utterly altered by nursing. I was a full two sizes smaller (less than an A, I was considering buying training bras) and droopy after just two little ones, so my body-image suffered badly, vain creature that I am! Not only that, but my body chemistry seemed completely haywire as well. Only later did I discover that post-partum depression can sometimes occur after weaning your nursing infant. It certainly explains the emotional upheaval I experienced.
But regardless of miniscule breasts and post-partum depression, my biggest regret by far was not nursing my daughter longer for HER emotional and physical well-being. One day, years later when my daughter had entered elementary school, I cried to one of my dearest friends about Ana's experience of weaning and about the fact that I didn't just continue to nurse her until she was closer to two. I felt I had cheated her and could never make it right. That may seem silly to some that I could still have raw emotions about the traumatic weaning of my daughter so long after, but I suspect many mothers have their own memories, their own regrets that make them equally emotional when they recall them.
I did learn from that experience, at least. With my next two babies, I had no pre-conceived timetable. My Ella and my Danny Sam both nursed until they were around two years old, and I don't regret it. It was a blessing for them and for myself not to struggle with expectations but to just go with the flow.
In the end my advice to my daughters someday or to any new mothers now would be to listen to your needs and those of you children when nursing your little ones. It is a compromise, a balance of their well-being and yours. Reject pre-conceived ideas of your own and ignore the interfering opinions of others - especially if they have no children themselves. Nursing is not simply about nutrition. It is about the essential bonding between mother and child. I used to have people accuse my baby of using me as a pacifier. Well, and so what? I was made to comfort my child in a unique and very effective way. I do not believe you can spoil a child with love, attention, by holding them too much or nursing them too often and on demand. On the contrary, too many toys and a lack of discipline are how we spoil our children. I think the more love you show, the more attention you give, the more you hold them and the longer you nurse them, the happier, more confident and healthier they will likely be. Every family's story is different, and I understand nursing is not possible for everyone. But do your best with what you've got, and don't plan ahead too rigidly. The life of a parent is full of surprises.
And, sadly, some regret.
Monday, August 25, 2014
Thursday, August 21, 2014
Short, mostly unedited: Picture
Every year around Thanksgiving my husband and I grab one of our friends and ask nicely, "Can you talk a picture of our family in front of this tree/cactus/flowering shrub?" If our relatives and friends are lucky, this photo ends up as our Christmas card. It may be the only family picture we take all year. We have never had a professional portrait taken of us all together.
This trend started with the wedding. Even then we were not willing to pay a professional. A friend of my sister's offered to take both the engagement and wedding pics, and we gladly accepted. The pictures were not bad at all, but they were not the glossy, perfectly-staged, marvelously-lit, photo-shopped masterpieces of so many other couples.
And so it continues, not a single perfect family portrait. Not one couple's picture that makes us look like stunning, impossibly perfect movie stars.
Yeah, sure, we've gotten school pics of the kids - but not both fall and spring. We've gotten sport pictures, but not a whole portfolio. We've gone on vacation and caught cute moments, but often we've gone to capture those sweet stills of time and realized we forgot our camera. That has been a chronic problem.
One time when coming home from vacation, I told the kids not to worry. If they wanted to see pictures of themselves, they could always ask Aunt Vinca. We know she takes lots of pictures of her loved ones.
Alright, that was a joke. It's not as bad as that. We usually take 10 or so pictures on birthdays and five on Christmas morning. But we, regrettably, never even thought to take the month-by-month-baby-growth snapshots. And just this year I realized that I didn't perform that essential mommy task of capturing my little angels as they flitted off back to school that first morning. I mistakenly thought that tradition ended with kindergarten.
This awkward list of my deficiencies in camera manipulation could get me kicked out of certain Mom's clubs, I'm pretty certain.
But, still, I regret I didn't get those back-to-school pics this year (and I felt guilty as heck when I realized I was maybe the only mom who didn't post such adorable time-keepers on Facebook). I also wish I had more photos of me and my man making out for the lens in a field of wildflowers (if we were ever in a field of wildflowers?) or just smiling and clasping hands on a beach. And I certainly wish I didn't have to tell my dad that, sorry, we don't have any fancy pictures of Daniel, because he's not in school yet.
The only thing I can say in my defense is that all my years of growing up in Tennessee, my parents had the same four pictures of their kids up on the living room shelf. They never switched them out for more recent renderings. They were taken all in the same year, and we were for 11 years frozen in time just outside the kitchen door. I will always see myself as a chubby, golden-brown haired, slightly cross-eyed four-year-old.
Okay, that's not a very good defense in this age of never-ceasing technological advancement. Maybe I'm just not a photographer; it's not my medium. A picture is worth a thousand words, but even five hundred words do more than take a picture.
I love my kids madly, but the proof is in the time playing or conversing with, the discipline of, and the raising up of these timeless treasures known as our children, not in the family portraits. And you can bet that I have grabbed that camera to capture their sweet, silly, messy, outrageous and candid moments - provided the battery wasn't dead when I found it. And, yes, some of my favorite photos are from vacation when I snapped away happily as my family was collecting shells, jumping waves, or standing by exotic animals. But there have been times when a camera felt like a burden and the absence of its demanding weight felt like the freedom to enjoy the moment more thoroughly and more presently.
Still, this October our family will, for the first time ever, have a family portrait taken, and you can bet Danny will have his own glossy headshot.
So if you are a close relative, and I do actually remember to send out these pictures with the Christmas cards, don't ever say I never gave you nothin'. I may even send out the last two years of school and sports pics with them. Never fear, though, we won't let the professional photography go to our head. On Thanksgiving we'll still have our picture taken in our friend's backyard by some cypress tree or rose bush - just for old time's sake.
This trend started with the wedding. Even then we were not willing to pay a professional. A friend of my sister's offered to take both the engagement and wedding pics, and we gladly accepted. The pictures were not bad at all, but they were not the glossy, perfectly-staged, marvelously-lit, photo-shopped masterpieces of so many other couples.
 |
| Not movie stars, but very happy |
And so it continues, not a single perfect family portrait. Not one couple's picture that makes us look like stunning, impossibly perfect movie stars.
Yeah, sure, we've gotten school pics of the kids - but not both fall and spring. We've gotten sport pictures, but not a whole portfolio. We've gone on vacation and caught cute moments, but often we've gone to capture those sweet stills of time and realized we forgot our camera. That has been a chronic problem.
One time when coming home from vacation, I told the kids not to worry. If they wanted to see pictures of themselves, they could always ask Aunt Vinca. We know she takes lots of pictures of her loved ones.
Alright, that was a joke. It's not as bad as that. We usually take 10 or so pictures on birthdays and five on Christmas morning. But we, regrettably, never even thought to take the month-by-month-baby-growth snapshots. And just this year I realized that I didn't perform that essential mommy task of capturing my little angels as they flitted off back to school that first morning. I mistakenly thought that tradition ended with kindergarten.
This awkward list of my deficiencies in camera manipulation could get me kicked out of certain Mom's clubs, I'm pretty certain.
But, still, I regret I didn't get those back-to-school pics this year (and I felt guilty as heck when I realized I was maybe the only mom who didn't post such adorable time-keepers on Facebook). I also wish I had more photos of me and my man making out for the lens in a field of wildflowers (if we were ever in a field of wildflowers?) or just smiling and clasping hands on a beach. And I certainly wish I didn't have to tell my dad that, sorry, we don't have any fancy pictures of Daniel, because he's not in school yet.
The only thing I can say in my defense is that all my years of growing up in Tennessee, my parents had the same four pictures of their kids up on the living room shelf. They never switched them out for more recent renderings. They were taken all in the same year, and we were for 11 years frozen in time just outside the kitchen door. I will always see myself as a chubby, golden-brown haired, slightly cross-eyed four-year-old.
Okay, that's not a very good defense in this age of never-ceasing technological advancement. Maybe I'm just not a photographer; it's not my medium. A picture is worth a thousand words, but even five hundred words do more than take a picture.
I love my kids madly, but the proof is in the time playing or conversing with, the discipline of, and the raising up of these timeless treasures known as our children, not in the family portraits. And you can bet that I have grabbed that camera to capture their sweet, silly, messy, outrageous and candid moments - provided the battery wasn't dead when I found it. And, yes, some of my favorite photos are from vacation when I snapped away happily as my family was collecting shells, jumping waves, or standing by exotic animals. But there have been times when a camera felt like a burden and the absence of its demanding weight felt like the freedom to enjoy the moment more thoroughly and more presently.
Still, this October our family will, for the first time ever, have a family portrait taken, and you can bet Danny will have his own glossy headshot.
So if you are a close relative, and I do actually remember to send out these pictures with the Christmas cards, don't ever say I never gave you nothin'. I may even send out the last two years of school and sports pics with them. Never fear, though, we won't let the professional photography go to our head. On Thanksgiving we'll still have our picture taken in our friend's backyard by some cypress tree or rose bush - just for old time's sake.
Wednesday, August 20, 2014
Memory
My son just walloped me at Memory again, and this time I was really trying.
Of course, the first game I helped the little fellar out by regularly interjecting, "Um, no, I don't think so...wait! now think...you just turned it over!" I may have even given up a couple matches that I actually remembered correctly. He beat me 10-7. Before the second game, however, I clearly stated, "Daniel, I'm not playing around this time. Mama's really going to try to win. I'm going to play hard and try to beat you."
I was defeated, and the score was identical: 10-7.
Gosh, I don't know how that happened, and maybe that's the problem. Perhaps the day will come when I lose at Memory, not because I have fewer matches, but because I can't quite recall what the game is about. I have chronic Mommy brain. At least, I think that's what is. It's better than another diagnosis.
Do you have Mommy's brain, too? Here are possible symptoms:
Taking your husband sippy cups of milk when the toddler asks for something to drink
Trying to hand your kids steaming cups of coffee on Sunday mornings
Standing in any room of your house, but most often the kitchen, and asking yourself repeatedly, "Now, why am I in here? What was I doing?"
Tapping your head like Winnie the Pooh and repeating, "Think, think, think."
Asking desperately every school morning, "Has anyone seen my purse?!
Forgetting to pick up your kids on a half day
Gray hair
Here are the causes, as far as I can tell:
Wildly fluctuating hormones due to multiple pregnancies
Toddlers knocking your head about too many times after sneaking into your bed at night for years
The inability to concentrate, truly concentrate, on just one of your children, because The Others insist on interrupting
Indulging in too many unfinished chocolate cupcakes from kids' birthday parties
Not enough adult interaction
No good sleep
At present there is no known cure. Perhaps one day they'll discover it in some miracle plant in the Amazon. For now, I'm afraid, the only proper precautions to take against it growing steadily worse are to play endless games of Memory with your preschooler before his nap to keep your brain sharpish, and then, after you lose again, to promptly zonk out with him in order to forget the humiliation as you rock him to sleep.
Just don't forget to pick up your older kids from school.
Of course, the first game I helped the little fellar out by regularly interjecting, "Um, no, I don't think so...wait! now think...you just turned it over!" I may have even given up a couple matches that I actually remembered correctly. He beat me 10-7. Before the second game, however, I clearly stated, "Daniel, I'm not playing around this time. Mama's really going to try to win. I'm going to play hard and try to beat you."
I was defeated, and the score was identical: 10-7.
Gosh, I don't know how that happened, and maybe that's the problem. Perhaps the day will come when I lose at Memory, not because I have fewer matches, but because I can't quite recall what the game is about. I have chronic Mommy brain. At least, I think that's what is. It's better than another diagnosis.
Do you have Mommy's brain, too? Here are possible symptoms:
Taking your husband sippy cups of milk when the toddler asks for something to drink
Trying to hand your kids steaming cups of coffee on Sunday mornings
Standing in any room of your house, but most often the kitchen, and asking yourself repeatedly, "Now, why am I in here? What was I doing?"
Tapping your head like Winnie the Pooh and repeating, "Think, think, think."
Asking desperately every school morning, "Has anyone seen my purse?!
Forgetting to pick up your kids on a half day
Gray hair
Here are the causes, as far as I can tell:
Wildly fluctuating hormones due to multiple pregnancies
Toddlers knocking your head about too many times after sneaking into your bed at night for years
The inability to concentrate, truly concentrate, on just one of your children, because The Others insist on interrupting
Indulging in too many unfinished chocolate cupcakes from kids' birthday parties
Not enough adult interaction
No good sleep
At present there is no known cure. Perhaps one day they'll discover it in some miracle plant in the Amazon. For now, I'm afraid, the only proper precautions to take against it growing steadily worse are to play endless games of Memory with your preschooler before his nap to keep your brain sharpish, and then, after you lose again, to promptly zonk out with him in order to forget the humiliation as you rock him to sleep.
Just don't forget to pick up your older kids from school.
Saturday, August 16, 2014
Offering It Up for Dad
On that day, as evening drew on, he said to them, "Let us cross to the other side." Leaving the crowd, they took him with them in the boat just as he was. And other boats were with him. A violent squall came up and waves were breaking over the boat, so that it was already filling up. Jesus was in the stern, asleep on a cushion. They woke him and said to him, "Teacher do you not care that we are perishing?" He woke up, rebuked the wind, and said to the sea, "Quiet! Be still!" The wind ceased and there was great calm. Then he asked them, "Why are you terrified? Do you not yet have faith?" They were filled with great awe and said to one another, "Who then is this whom even wind and sea obey?"
Mark 4:35-41 (NAB)
What will separate us from the love of Christ? Will anguish, or distress, or persecution, or famine, or nakedness, or peril, or the sword?
No, in all these things we conquer overwhelmingly through him who loved us. For I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor present things, nor future things, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.
Romans 8:35, 37-39 (NAB)
I have been very worried about my dad. In March he had a terrible fall - just from standing up too suddenly after crouching on the floor to watch his grandson play. When he regained consciousness and the paramedics were called, it was obvious he had broken both his jaw and nose, broken teeth and had bitten his bottom lip nearly off. He was a little disoriented and probably suffered a concussion, but he refused to go to the hospital - just like that time in Tennessee when he was bitten by a copperhead on the foot.
Since then, it seems like it has been one thing after another for Dad - all while trying to finish the last book in his Kelven's Riddle series. He was ill in May with a serious ear infection. When he came to visit our family in early June, he had a lingering headache from his fall and then got terrible nausea and a fever from some kind of virus. He became sick with a bad cold during our trip to San Saba, Texas for my sister Annie's wedding, and just this past month during a visit with his family in Idaho, that headache grew and exploded until he endured a miserable flight home and then didn't get in to see a doctor until more than three days later. Now he is suffering from an acute bacterial infection of the head and neck.
My sister Vinca, who saw how sick Papa was in Idaho and has been very troubled, called to give me an update yesterday, for which I am so grateful. I didn't know how ill he was. Dad's immune system has been wrecked by all the assaults on it, so he can't see anybody, on doctor's orders, but Mom for two-three months at least. Talking on the phone is excruciating for him, because his ears are in terrible pain.
I can't physically do anything to help, can't even talk to him to gain reassurance for my own selfish comfort. It is my lot to worry. Yet I can't just fret and agonize and do nothing at all.
Yesterday, I offered it up in prayers. I offered it up. My worry is nothing compared to the suffering of my dad these several months, but if anyone can use all this anxiety, this sorrow, this regret and this love I feel to help Dad, it is Jesus.
I'm not expressing this well at all. I had never encountered the idea of offering it up before a few years ago, but I like it. I like to think that if I give something to Jesus Christ - no matter how little - to use to help heal someone I dearly, dearly love, that he won't turn me down, that he'll let me help in this small way, uniting myself with His love for that person, with His love for Dad.
Pray for my dad, Daniel, please if you would. God bless you, friends, and thank you.
Mark 4:35-41 (NAB)
What will separate us from the love of Christ? Will anguish, or distress, or persecution, or famine, or nakedness, or peril, or the sword?
No, in all these things we conquer overwhelmingly through him who loved us. For I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor present things, nor future things, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.
Romans 8:35, 37-39 (NAB)
I have been very worried about my dad. In March he had a terrible fall - just from standing up too suddenly after crouching on the floor to watch his grandson play. When he regained consciousness and the paramedics were called, it was obvious he had broken both his jaw and nose, broken teeth and had bitten his bottom lip nearly off. He was a little disoriented and probably suffered a concussion, but he refused to go to the hospital - just like that time in Tennessee when he was bitten by a copperhead on the foot.
Since then, it seems like it has been one thing after another for Dad - all while trying to finish the last book in his Kelven's Riddle series. He was ill in May with a serious ear infection. When he came to visit our family in early June, he had a lingering headache from his fall and then got terrible nausea and a fever from some kind of virus. He became sick with a bad cold during our trip to San Saba, Texas for my sister Annie's wedding, and just this past month during a visit with his family in Idaho, that headache grew and exploded until he endured a miserable flight home and then didn't get in to see a doctor until more than three days later. Now he is suffering from an acute bacterial infection of the head and neck.
My sister Vinca, who saw how sick Papa was in Idaho and has been very troubled, called to give me an update yesterday, for which I am so grateful. I didn't know how ill he was. Dad's immune system has been wrecked by all the assaults on it, so he can't see anybody, on doctor's orders, but Mom for two-three months at least. Talking on the phone is excruciating for him, because his ears are in terrible pain.
I can't physically do anything to help, can't even talk to him to gain reassurance for my own selfish comfort. It is my lot to worry. Yet I can't just fret and agonize and do nothing at all.
Yesterday, I offered it up in prayers. I offered it up. My worry is nothing compared to the suffering of my dad these several months, but if anyone can use all this anxiety, this sorrow, this regret and this love I feel to help Dad, it is Jesus.
I'm not expressing this well at all. I had never encountered the idea of offering it up before a few years ago, but I like it. I like to think that if I give something to Jesus Christ - no matter how little - to use to help heal someone I dearly, dearly love, that he won't turn me down, that he'll let me help in this small way, uniting myself with His love for that person, with His love for Dad.
Pray for my dad, Daniel, please if you would. God bless you, friends, and thank you.
Wednesday, August 13, 2014
Sunlight On the Forest Floor: Hope
No one doubts that an ordinary man can get on with this world; but we demand not strength enough to get on with it, but strength enough to get it on. Can he hate it enough to change it, and yet love it enough to think it worth changing? Can he look up at its colossal good without once feeling acquiescence? Can he look up at it colossal evil without once feeling despair? Can he, in short, be at once not only a pessimist and an optimist, but a fanatical pessimist and a fanatical optimist? Is he enough of a pagan to die for the world, and enough of a Christian to die to it?
_From Orthodoxy by G.K. Chesterton
A modern-day parable:
The Devil takes a man on a tour of hell and proudly shows off all his storehouses brimming with sin. There is lust and jealousy, anger and envy, and so on - a large storehouse for each big sin. But the man points out another storehouse larger by far than all the rest. "What do you keep in there?" he asks. "Oh, that," responds the Devil, "that holds the smallest but most effective seed of all. That is overflowing with discouragement."
_ From the Second Edition of the Catholic Faith Handbook for Youth
_Jesus Christ
I am one of those people who consistently struggles against dicouragement in looking up at the colossal evil in this world. It's difficult to retain hope in the face of a daily onslaught of news stories about the rampant injustice and malice. For this reason I long ago gave up watching nightly news, but I can't quite convince myself that avoiding the news section of the newspaper is a good idea - despite the fact that every time I read about something happening here, in India, the Middle East, Africa, Central America or Ukraine, I court the idea that evil is winning.
And that is a crying sin.
If I ever truly accepted that notion, I would be guilty of despair. So my work is to hope and pray. And then I must ask myself the really hard and telling question: What can I do? Obviously, I must love my human family enough to think the world worth changing, and how? By showing great love and making the personal sacrifices of a fellow sinner.
Yesterday I read two amazing stories of people who hoped while standing face to face with evil. One was Immaculee Ilibagiza, a survivor of the Rwandan genocide who hid with a group of women in a tiny bathroom for three months. Another was the tale of a priest, a missionary to the Native American population in Canada, who told the good news to and then baptized an Iroquois that was being slowly tortured to death by the Huron tribe. This French missionary, Brebeuf, was later tortured to death along with a fellow priest by the Iroquois that attacked the Huron village in which they were staying. Brebeuf preached to his torturers until they gagged him. His story and countless more from human history - yes, even ancient times - prove that the problem of evil has always been.
And yet people like Immaculee spread hope, love, and forgiveness after the most desperate and seemingly hopeless situations. She wrote that the Devil many times told her to give up, to call out so her persecutors could find her and kill her like hundreds of thousands of others, but she clung to the rosary her father had passed on to her shortly before he was murdered and kept praying and clinging to hope.
It's important for sheltered me not to isolate myself in blissful ignorance, true, but it's important for me to also regularly expose myself to healthy doses of courage, great love and every day human kindness testimonies, too. Hope is there. It's there in the groups of young men patrolling the streets of Cairo to keep other men from harassing or assaulting women. It's there at Dartmouth College where a professor is fighting to change the rape culture that exists on that campus. It's there in Christian-sponsored preschools in Central America where there are high gates with razor-wire to keep out the drug gangs and loving teachers within to keep up the hope and laughter.
It's there in the simplest things: in the smile you give to a grumpy neighbor, when you stop to ask a person involved in an accident if they're okay, in the compliment you pay to a friend on a rough day. The love of God is in all these things.
And, yes, it's even there in that funny (but clean!) story you read on the Internet today.
That was not much of a segue, I know, but I also came across this yesterday: Cheer Up or Dry Up: Proverbs 17: 22. from the humor writer at Whoa! Susannah. I think the project is an excellent idea; we all need to lift our spirits on a regular basis, and, I confess, it is also affirming for a sometimes-humor writer like me. Maybe I'll lighten things up here tomorrow.
I also really loved this post on The Optimism of Jesus by a A Lady In France. It moved me, because I do believe he is the ultimate optimist, our Redeemer, and I need to take more than a few lessons from him.
_From Orthodoxy by G.K. Chesterton
A modern-day parable:
The Devil takes a man on a tour of hell and proudly shows off all his storehouses brimming with sin. There is lust and jealousy, anger and envy, and so on - a large storehouse for each big sin. But the man points out another storehouse larger by far than all the rest. "What do you keep in there?" he asks. "Oh, that," responds the Devil, "that holds the smallest but most effective seed of all. That is overflowing with discouragement."
_ From the Second Edition of the Catholic Faith Handbook for Youth
In the world you will have trouble, but take courage, I have conquered the world.
_Jesus Christ
I am one of those people who consistently struggles against dicouragement in looking up at the colossal evil in this world. It's difficult to retain hope in the face of a daily onslaught of news stories about the rampant injustice and malice. For this reason I long ago gave up watching nightly news, but I can't quite convince myself that avoiding the news section of the newspaper is a good idea - despite the fact that every time I read about something happening here, in India, the Middle East, Africa, Central America or Ukraine, I court the idea that evil is winning.
And that is a crying sin.
If I ever truly accepted that notion, I would be guilty of despair. So my work is to hope and pray. And then I must ask myself the really hard and telling question: What can I do? Obviously, I must love my human family enough to think the world worth changing, and how? By showing great love and making the personal sacrifices of a fellow sinner.
Yesterday I read two amazing stories of people who hoped while standing face to face with evil. One was Immaculee Ilibagiza, a survivor of the Rwandan genocide who hid with a group of women in a tiny bathroom for three months. Another was the tale of a priest, a missionary to the Native American population in Canada, who told the good news to and then baptized an Iroquois that was being slowly tortured to death by the Huron tribe. This French missionary, Brebeuf, was later tortured to death along with a fellow priest by the Iroquois that attacked the Huron village in which they were staying. Brebeuf preached to his torturers until they gagged him. His story and countless more from human history - yes, even ancient times - prove that the problem of evil has always been.
And yet people like Immaculee spread hope, love, and forgiveness after the most desperate and seemingly hopeless situations. She wrote that the Devil many times told her to give up, to call out so her persecutors could find her and kill her like hundreds of thousands of others, but she clung to the rosary her father had passed on to her shortly before he was murdered and kept praying and clinging to hope.
It's important for sheltered me not to isolate myself in blissful ignorance, true, but it's important for me to also regularly expose myself to healthy doses of courage, great love and every day human kindness testimonies, too. Hope is there. It's there in the groups of young men patrolling the streets of Cairo to keep other men from harassing or assaulting women. It's there at Dartmouth College where a professor is fighting to change the rape culture that exists on that campus. It's there in Christian-sponsored preschools in Central America where there are high gates with razor-wire to keep out the drug gangs and loving teachers within to keep up the hope and laughter.
It's there in the simplest things: in the smile you give to a grumpy neighbor, when you stop to ask a person involved in an accident if they're okay, in the compliment you pay to a friend on a rough day. The love of God is in all these things.
And, yes, it's even there in that funny (but clean!) story you read on the Internet today.
That was not much of a segue, I know, but I also came across this yesterday: Cheer Up or Dry Up: Proverbs 17: 22. from the humor writer at Whoa! Susannah. I think the project is an excellent idea; we all need to lift our spirits on a regular basis, and, I confess, it is also affirming for a sometimes-humor writer like me. Maybe I'll lighten things up here tomorrow.
I also really loved this post on The Optimism of Jesus by a A Lady In France. It moved me, because I do believe he is the ultimate optimist, our Redeemer, and I need to take more than a few lessons from him.
Friday, August 8, 2014
All You Need is Love....and each other
I'm a very imperfect person. I suppose I first truly realized this when I became a parent. It's like that line in the Billy Joel song, She's Always A Woman:
She'll bring out the best and the worst you can be
Ladidah, ladidah. Forget about that pretty lady who'll cut you and laugh while you're bleeding. It's the kids who can really do a number on you. Though The Beatles were right, all you need is love - especially in this great adventure of raising the next generation - you'll also need more patience and fortitude than is humanly possible to raise a child, and then exponentially more if you have more little rascals. Parenting is not for sissies. And just in case I haven't quoted enough famous people, I'm going to drag Solomon in here and his very sage advice to Train up a child in the way that he should go, and when he is old, he will not depart from it. Solomon's words are a big comfort to parents who have told their children to put things back in their proper place at least one trillion times. Though we know they will never willingly do so in our homes, we are fairly confident that when they are elderly, their houses will be well-organized and immaculate - before the grandkids come and wreck it.
Ah, don't get me wrong now. Children are a blessing, and I feel sorry for those who do not view them as such, but more importantly, I feel sorry for their children. And Love, love, love is all you really need to make a beginning of this most important job. But then you must try - and I stress try daily, hourly - to kill your selfishness, your self-centeredness, your laziness, and your constant craving for peace, sleep and a nice house.
You must also do your darndest to pour solid values, robust good sense, and a concern for others into their little beings. (I am no expert, but I suspect all this good stuff springs from God, and if he is no part of the equation, the job will be very difficult indeed.) And if regularly reading parenting books and articles helps, then do it for heaven's sake! Mine your friends and elders for nuggets of wisdom. Don't be ashamed. I thought parenting was instinctual until I became one. Then I searched out all the sound advice that I could to help me when I was at my rope's end.
There are a few things I have learned along the way to raising four citizens of this world, and I will share some of my paltry knowledge with any fellow parents, as others have shared their wisdom with me. But I have a long way to go, you know. Sadly, I find I am still a very selfish, self-centered being who loves peace and quiet.
Put things back where they belong
No, I do not mean just in our homes. I mean in the world at large. Every time we go to the grocery store, our children should see us place our cart in the cart return. When we take them to the children's store and they want to try on all the miniature sunglasses, they need to understand that what they get down, they must place back. We should remind them repeatedly to put their trash in the proper receptacles.
Why? It's not enough to tell our kids not to litter. They must grasp that littering disrespects other people; other people look at our mess, and they have to clean up after us. Our kids should not walk through life expecting waitresses and store clerks and strangers at large to pick up after them. Not unless we want them to be total brats.
Talk - now!
Yes, before it's too late. If you want your kids to know why you believe certain things, if you want them to have your values instead of scrounging around for what their friends or the media has to offer, you must talk to them on a regular basis. This is one of the greatest things my own dad did for his kids. The day is full of teaching moments, after all - not moments to instill hate or bigotry, but moments to guide your children in building a solid foundation for themselves in a shape-shifting society. Do not leave them to mercy of others.
Forget me; think us
Yes, "me time" is important, or you will surely blow a gasket. But "us time" is vital. There are many, many times as a parent when you must forget yourself to play that game of football in the back yard when it's so dang hot; to snuggle up to an anxious little one in the dark and ask her about her day; to read, play or dance when there are piles of dishes and loads of laundry you'd like to get out of your hair (boy, I struggle with this one!); to put down that book and really listen to your child (boy, do I really struggle with this one!); and to talk to a preteen about issues at school or with you. The whole world is dependent on "Us". We must invest precious time in each other to build a better society, especially in the hearts of our kids.
Dinner, everybody!
Family dinner time is priceless. I have heard a bazillion knock-knock jokes from my kids at the dining room table, sung several silly songs with them. My kids have asked about my childhood, and I've told them a bit of family history. Discussions about God, drugs, life choices, and college have happened at our old table with its finish ruined by hot plates, cold glasses, and fresh pizza boxes. I have even learned about my son's crush there. Trust me, turn off that stupid TV or smartphone and really invest in the not-so-silent but oh-so-golden family dinner hour. Don't be a media drone, unaware of where your family is headed.
A structured life
No one thrives in chaos, children least of all. I am a firm believer in bedtime routines, for instance. The television must be off; the lights are lowered; teeth are brushed; and books are read. Family routines inspire kids to organize their lives and create healthy habits around the necessities of living well - disciplines they'll need in the craziness of life.
Here are links to some great articles that explain why routine is so important to kids:
Love, love, love your kids, and love your spouse most of all, and may God bless us all with the grace to admit our mistakes and the courage to keep striving. The world depends on our efforts.
Monday, August 4, 2014
Facebook and My Habitual Failure to Launch
My family and friends might not believe it, but I have thoughts, too - ideas and dreams even. I just don't share them on Facebook.
Call me lazy. Call me a social media klutz. Tell me I need a smartphone, so I can stay "connected". Just don't slam me for having no reflections on life, because I do, my friends. Here are the slew, and I mean slew, of things I meant to share on Facebook in July:
Either I messed up the ratio of ingredients - easy to mend - or it's a surefire sign that my man is meant to do all the cooking from now on. I'm going with that last one.
One night over dinner I was telling my husband how Daniel knocked me into it as I was attempting to revive it, and it skewered my fingers with some of its bone-dry needles. I cried out, "I knew this bonsai didn't like me! It's like, 'I'd rather die than stay here with you, Lady!' "
Berto held up a forkful of food and pointed. "Or you'd rather kill it than have to take care of it."
Matthew eyes widened as he added, waving his fork accusingly, "Now normally Berto's not right when he says stuff like that, honey, but you got to admit - that's got a ring of truth."
"It's not true! I love my Bonsai. My poor little, beautiful tree." I turned sad eyes upon it to prove my point.
But our little Ella Belle had the last word:
"Maybe it's not a tree," she said. "Maybe it's a bush."
That explains everything.
No, I don't love to cook, but I do love the ingredients of this brilliant, simple meal:
Cheese, two or three varieties
Crackers, two kinds (one should be fancy)
Fruit (grapes, melon slices and strawberries recommended)
Sliced meat - optional
Crusty bread - optional
Raw veggies - always a good idea
Wine - very good idea
Enjoy!
But this was just one wee hair, and as I bent over, peering into the mirror, Matthew had just the solution for it: he brutally yanked it out and cried, "There!"
**************
Ooops, that was only five - hardly a slew. Oh, well...maybe I'm just not social media material.
Call me lazy. Call me a social media klutz. Tell me I need a smartphone, so I can stay "connected". Just don't slam me for having no reflections on life, because I do, my friends. Here are the slew, and I mean slew, of things I meant to share on Facebook in July:
The Lamb Chop Litmus Test for Home Cooks
My husband made a lovely lamb chop dinner for Mother's Day. It had fresh mint and rosemary and a white-wine cream sauce. I loved it, and I tried to replicate it. It was NOT the same.Either I messed up the ratio of ingredients - easy to mend - or it's a surefire sign that my man is meant to do all the cooking from now on. I'm going with that last one.
The Bonsai Trial (Like So Many Others)
Yep, my beautiful bonsai is already dying. It took me barely a month to destroy it.One night over dinner I was telling my husband how Daniel knocked me into it as I was attempting to revive it, and it skewered my fingers with some of its bone-dry needles. I cried out, "I knew this bonsai didn't like me! It's like, 'I'd rather die than stay here with you, Lady!' "
Berto held up a forkful of food and pointed. "Or you'd rather kill it than have to take care of it."
Matthew eyes widened as he added, waving his fork accusingly, "Now normally Berto's not right when he says stuff like that, honey, but you got to admit - that's got a ring of truth."
"It's not true! I love my Bonsai. My poor little, beautiful tree." I turned sad eyes upon it to prove my point.
But our little Ella Belle had the last word:
"Maybe it's not a tree," she said. "Maybe it's a bush."
That explains everything.
My Favo-right Meal
When I gave birth to Ella, I had the best meal I've ever had in my life; a nurse brought me a platter of cheese and fresh fruit. It hit the spot, and there is no spot worth hitting quite like the one belonging to a woman post-labor.No, I don't love to cook, but I do love the ingredients of this brilliant, simple meal:
Cheese, two or three varieties
Crackers, two kinds (one should be fancy)
Fruit (grapes, melon slices and strawberries recommended)
Sliced meat - optional
Crusty bread - optional
Raw veggies - always a good idea
Wine - very good idea
Enjoy!
Happy
All you need to be happy is the opportunity to watch your kids, even the 11-year-old, dance to the Happy song.You look old
I found my first gray hair. I mean, really, it was iron lady material, coarse and shiny. Matthew has always claimed that I would finally start dying my hair when it turned gray. I have always protested that I shall not if it comes in as I hope: a thick, stylish skunk stripe (wait...that does sound stylish, right?)But this was just one wee hair, and as I bent over, peering into the mirror, Matthew had just the solution for it: he brutally yanked it out and cried, "There!"
**************
Ooops, that was only five - hardly a slew. Oh, well...maybe I'm just not social media material.
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