Be grateful? Let me find the many ways...

An offering of Thanksgiving flowers from Matthew, my husband

Thanksgiving is truly a great holiday; the feasting, the family, the friends, the counting of blessings and the sharing of goods and talents, not just in preparing food but in spreading joy to those less fortunate, all make it a day we Americans should cherish and celebrate.

Of course we should reflect on our big blessings that day as we (if we are lucky) sip Beaujolais Nouveau and gaze on a perfectly roasted bird, but we all know that building an attitude of every day gratitude that lasts through good times and bad is really where it's at if we want to be amicable and generous the whole year.

The simple things in life are the backbone of joy.

Fruit is one of those simple things for which I have no trouble being grateful. Our family usually has plenty in the house, including berries. My children love their fruit, and I am glad to know they are consuming it, because I believe they will be much healthier.

I am truly thankful for fruit.

My gratitude in having a nice, warm bed also increases as I get older.

Likewise, I am grateful for big trees and birdsong, sunsets, my little home, vehicles that run, water in the desert and always and especially for my large family, my healthy children.

I feel blessed that I know peace to a far greater degree in this country than I would know in many other places of the world.

Okay, I guess I mentioned some pretty big things there.

But there are things and circumstances that I have a much more difficult time bringing in line with everyday gratitude: housework, our family's busy schedule, my husband's blasted smartphone.

Though I despise the tendency I have to complain, I nevertheless cave more often than I wish. So I try diligently to turn my own rotten attitude on its head.

For instance, if I am balking at the never ending housework, then I try to say (out loud, mind you, for my kids to hear), "But thank God I have the health to do it!"

I know how it feels to be temporarily unable to perform the simplest tasks, so overall health is indeed something to treasure and extol while we have it.

As for the fact that every evening of the week after school and work and volunteer hours, our family is running to this or that practice or class, splitting up to go separate ways when I just wish we could be together calmly, it's hard for me to be grateful for that time apart. My childhood was nothing like that. But, after all, what is that time for? It's for the development of our four children. We don't believe at all in over scheduling them, but the one activity (or two) that each is in contributes to running around.

Yet, I am glad we have the money to put them in those activities. I am grateful that they are getting abundant exercise in sports practices instead of sitting at home in front of screens. I am happy to see my children outside for a good part of Saturday at their own or their siblings' games. I am privileged to see them pursuing their interests.

As for my man's phone, I grit my teeth and I try to bear its presence, because what does it represent despite the fact that its steals my husband's gaze and attention? It represents a good job with benefits that provides very well for this family, and he rightly needs it because he has a team that looks to him for guidance while working different hours and days. He's a busy, important guy who mentors and guides.

So thanks for the smartphone, business world!

I guess...humbug...grrrrrrrr....

I'm still not inviting it to Thanksgiving dinner.

Being a mother

A couple of weeks ago, on a particularly strife-filled day with the kids, I exclaimed, "Being a mother is the worst job in the world!"

At least, that's what I hope I said. I am still not certain whether I said "a mother" or "your mother".

When I confessed this to a priest I know well, he raised his eyebrows with a very surprised look on his face.

Yep. It's just something you should never say as a mother, and it's not how I truly feel at all - at least not 99.9 percent of the time. Most of the time I am very grateful that I get to play games with my kids in the morning and afternoon; have spontaneous conversations about important things and feelings during breakfast or on the way to school; goof around, talk in silly voices, and share our weird dreams; and to simply be there, smiling at their small or grand special moments while looking in their lovable, youthful faces.

But being a mother is a very hard job indeed. Here you are, a human with her own many imperfections and weaknesses, and you must raise little humans with their own imperfections and weaknesses. Somehow, they have to turn out more than alright, despite the fact that while raising them to be decent people, you're struggling all the while to be a decent human being yourself.

Sometimes...just sometimes, mind you...it feels humanly impossible to do this job. Like those times when all your children seem to want to do is tattle on each other, threaten each other with broom handles, say biting things to each other, call each other names and argue while doing anything at all together.

And you? Well, you're sick of hearing only a selected part of the story; telling your kids it is never okay to touch another person in a way they don't like; reminding them that family is family, and they should be grateful God blessed them with siblings; and that you will never tolerate them calling each other dumb, stupid or any other adjective that insults someone's dignity or damages their sense of worth.

All that tension and repetition is exhausting.

There are times when I wonder if working parents comprehend just what their children's paid caregivers, teachers or helping grandparents must do all day. All the boo-boos they must fix. All the sleep, nutrition and potty issues they must deal with patiently. All the arguments, temper tantrums and epic battles they must defuse. All the disciplinary challenges among different personalities they must confront effectively. All the repetitive conversations about right and wrong and making good choices.

The continual forming of children.

To be fair, they can probably guess pretty well based on the challenges they face each night, tired from a different sort of work.

Besides, we remind ourselves that the flip side to all that stress is found in the many gifts of the moment: the hilarious or revealing conversations, the laughter, the snuggles, the thank yous and pleases from a well-provided-for child, life in the moment of a child's excited, bashful, mischievous, grateful or grinning face.

Being a mother is a vital job. It's a vocation. A calling. It's essentially asking God for a share in his generative, life-affirming work and professing your dedication to it afresh each day.

It's based on Love. It has to be, or it would indeed seem like one of the most pitiable jobs in the world.

But it's not.

When you wistfully remember the adorable, helpless little creature your child was from the womb and recognize that with the important and consistent help of your flawed but nurturing efforts your child is blossoming and learning to become a kind, helpful, thoughtful and loving person, you realize yet again.

It's the best.

Choices

I dropped my cellphone. It slipped from my too-full hands and crashed at the Wal-Mart checkout. It was the second time it happened that day. Poor little, underappreciated device, I casually picked it up and shoved its battery back in, replacing its rear end to restore its dignity.

The young male cashier commented, "I love how you just pick it up, like 'no big deal'. If that was a smartphone I would have been freaking out, like 'Everybody remain calm!'."

I laughed. "I don't have a smartphone, but my son really wants one."

"My little brother is only maybe a little bigger than him," he said, indicating my five-year-old Danny I supposed. "And he has a smartphone, an I Pad, two tablets."

"I was talking about my twelve-year-old," I responded.

"Oh," the genial young man replied, confused. "Well, uh...have a nice day."

What was left for him to say at that impasse of philosophies? That conversation illustrates my idea of a healthy world and the current, mad trend. Does anybody left in this technological age believe in choices? In consumer wisdom and conservation of resources? Or the idea to earn through effort and sacrifice what you desire?

Hmmm. We give I Pads and tablets to toddlers. We plant phones in the hands of often foolish adolescents who do not understand privacy and courtesy as it was understood just within the last century and who do not appreciate what is simply handed to them. We listen to acquaintances complain about the cost of gas in shepherding their children to activities, or credit card debt, or mortgages, meanwhile holding in their hands an "indispensable" and very pricey smartphone or tablet.

Yes, my Berto, at the ripe old age of twelve, wants a cellphone. No, excuse me, a smartphone. He moans when we announce he can have a flip phone like mine when activities get too great, and he must go many places without us. He wants a smartphone. Anything less would be embarrassing.
He asked if he could have one if he helped pay for it, but his dad pointed out that it is not just about the sticker price of such an expensive gadget, it is the money we will pay monthly for data, talk, and texting service. But every last one of his friends has a smartphone! I believe him, though it makes me shake my head and moan in turn.

I understand peer pressure. I understand that phones are the new status symbol. So why will we not get him a cellphone? Well, my philosophy on life does not allow for status symbols, first of all. But it is also for the same reason that I tell my preschooler no, we can't get a balloon or toy at the grocery store, because balloons and toys are for special occasions. It is for the same reason that I tell my younger children that, no, we can't eat out at a fast food restaurant today, because we just got take-out as a family last week, and to eat out every week or every few days would be financially foolish. It is for the same reason that my children keep their school backpacks for at least a couple years or until they wear out.

No, that reason is not that I am a meanie head. It is that I dislike consumerism, and I dislike a throw-away mentality (and, yes, that includes exchanging an electronic gadget for a new one simply because a more advanced version has come out, or trashing a backpack merely because it is so "last year"), and I dislike going into debt by nickeling and diming myself to death over things that do not matter.

I believe in choices. If we buy that bigger house, we cannot take a fancy family vacation months later. If I got Starbucks last week, I will not get it this week. We do not need more toys - ever! - because most toys do not help a child grow their imagination, only serving to clutter our lives and our home with useless junk. No, we will not have a TV in every room, and definitely not in the bedrooms. We only need one computer in this family. My kids cannot have a huge birthday party with their friends and a ton of presents from us and go out to dinner. If they have the party or take two or three friends on a fun outing, they receive only birthday books from Mama and Papa.

But it's about so much more. It is about being aware of the world around us. I am convinced that if we all read the news, the real news, every day, we would not feel the urge to get that bigger house, sleeker car, brand new gadget, or even that junk food that we crave. For in reading about an African slum quarantined because of Ebola in which the thousands of residents only have three restrooms between them, we become aware of our foolish claims. In reading the words of a young boy in a refugee camp as he cries that he has no parents, no education, and no hope, we become more aware of our self-absorption. In seeing the pictures of minorities driven out of their homes by extremists, we become aware of what truly matters, and we recollect the words of a wise man who said, "Live simply, so that others may simply live."

The conversation with my children about these vital matters are frequent, and I confess I am perhaps too heavy-handed. Yet, in speaking to them about how we, here in America, run to the grocery store on a whim, because we are "out of ice cream" or "we need that Irish soda bread with the raisins" for our St. Patrick's day dinner, juxtaposing that with families living in Haiti who are eating dirt biscuits for their dinner and kids in Africa who are getting worms from poor drinking water and AIDS orphans living several to a mud hut, they can see, I fervently hope, just how spoiled we are and how we should really try not to be. We can then choose together not to make that trip to the store for things that are so obviously superfluous to our health and happiness.

You have heard about this "entitlement generation". Perhaps we have all become part of it. But what if we could save ourselves? What if we could change our kids' perspectives by teaching them that life is about choices? What if we instilled in their minds that status symbols passed out like stickers are worthless, but effort, solidarity and integrity are everything? What if we could all sacrifice pleasures and wants now and then in order to afford a greater charitable offering? We might then be able to fight the plague of consumerism, clutter and unreasonable expectations that are attacking the sense of what is truly necessary and enriching and destroying the spirit of hard work and sacrifice that our grandparents and parents exemplified.

Yes, I am crazy, and, yes, I have my own consumer weaknesses. I wish I could get a Starbucks every day! I balk at cooking dinner most nights. If chocolate is on sale, I'll grab it. And I have at times desired that bigger, nicer home. No one has yet or ever will walk into my home, and declare it to be gorgeous, beautifully decorated and exquisitely furnished. Our house is small; most of our furniture is second-hand and repurposed; and nearly everything on my walls or shelves that could be termed "décor" was given to me by family members or friends - therefore not complementary but full of sentimental significance. And that is suitable. Alas, I'm too frugal to buckle under pressure for appearances. The antidote is in acknowledging the poverty in the world around me. And so every day I thank God for our health, our home, our food, our safety, our overwhelming blessings that may seem so plain and unadorned to the world's eyes.

And what of my beautiful, intelligent oldest son? Well, we didn't refuse him a smartphone, because we don't love him. We didn't get him one yet, because we do love him. You can spoil kids with things, but you can never spoil them with love or attention. (Hold that baby as long as you like!) I have assured him that by not caving to the world's superficial expectations of him, by not burying his mind in myriad electronic distractions, he will someday grow to be a successful leader and team player, able to look into others' eyes while communicating effectively (for which characteristic other parents have already praised him), full of the solid values and soft skills with which every human being should be armed against vanity, dissipation and selfishness.

What is important, after all? It's all about choices.

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.

On My Plan to Gain Independence and End the Wash, Rinse and Dry Cycle of Misery

Can hand washing dishes change your life? Grant a new perspective? Give you a healthier, more luminous complexion? Buffer arms? More patience and forbearance? Make you a better housekeeper? A better person? A brilliant thinker?!

I believe so. I'm out to prove it, and I'm my own guinea pig - me and my kids.

Down with the dishwasher! I say. Overthrow the tyranny of major appliances! is my battle cry.

Does this mean I'm hunched over a fire pit in the backyard, slow roasting meals on flames and baking in the coals? No, no. Does it mean I'm keeping my super-salted meat and other perishables in a cellar 10 feet under? Nah. Washing my clothes in the bathtub, scrubbing them with stones from the landscaping? No way in Arizona (which is close enough)! I'm just done with my nemesis, that evil manipulator of my time and a chronic liar: the Dishwasher.

The beauty of my plan is that I don't have to replace it. I just wave my hand, say a few affirming words and Voila! In its place I now have a very fancy, ultra-expensive, built-into-the-counter drying rack. Ever heard of such a thing? Well, neither had I; though, I tell you, it's quite handy.

Yeah, yeah, some would say, Well, what about the germs? Those nasty, nasty germs? How do you intend to sanitize your dishes without a high temp/sani-rinse/heated dry cycle? My reply would be, just when did our standards get so high? Are we that civilized? Are public pools and Porta-potties still in existence or what? As for germs, I am a firm believer that what you don't know can't kill you...at least not immediately.

I'm on my fourth day of hand washing. It's humid work, but my complexion is dewy. Yes, it's tedious, menial labor, but I have so much time for quiet contemplation that in a few more years I'll be a great philosopher (was that your secret, Aristotle?). And it's bringing back memories of my childhood, good memories, like my brother hiding silverware behind the lip of the counter, so he wouldn't have to wash it.

As for the housekeeping part, my kitchen is cleaner than it has ever been since the dawn of children in this household. No more metal water bottles standing at attention for days by the sink, begging to be noticed and washed by a generous hand. No more piles of dishes, pleading for their turn in that next run of the dishwasher, if I can be bothered to unload and reload. No more funny smells coming from beneath that never ending but changeable tower of oddly-shaped utensils, lids and plastic in the left of the sink, because I just never seem to reach the end of it or the salmonella slime that is surely there below.

Oh, how many wasted years have I believed the lie that I can't properly wash my own dishes! That I must wait on the "dishwasher"? Now ALL my dishes get washed - every day - by my own two hands! My sink is so sparkly and stainless that I could churn homemade ice cream in the garbage disposal, and how often can one say that? (Would one want to say that? you ask. To which I reply, Yes! Come on over. I'll whip some up!) And since the sink is so often filled with hot soapy water, I wipe down my counters, stovetop and faucet alot more often, too.

Okay, I'll be honest. The rest of our home is suffering some neglect, hanging in the balance of disorder and probable collapse in the next few weeks, if not days, because of the dish labor. But if civilization does collapse in the rest of this house, I am cheered to know that thanks to my valiant and constant efforts, we can all retreat to the spotless, albeit tiny, kitchen with purified water (hey, the food's already here!), a crank radio and bug repellent and wait for someone to rescue us.

Today my son asked when we were going to get a new dishwasher, to which I replied with fervor, "Never! We're never getting a new dishwasher. I am the new dishwasher - mwah-ha-ha!"

And to which my husband responded, "When Mama breaks."

But I am a new woman, freed from the urge to delegate to a machine. And I have been inspired by my eldest daughter Ana to keep up the brave fight, for the most wonderful thing happened as she helped me wash dishes on the first day of my resolution/revolution. I gave an eloquent speech about how her saintly Aunt Vinca has gone without a dishwasher for nigh on twenty years - that if my big sis could do it it, I darn well could, too. As I droned on my precious girl did her chore cheerfully, and my heart expanded with pride when, reaching into the soapy water for some new thing to clean, she exclaimed enthusiastically, "It's like a treasure hunt; you never know what you're gonna find!"

Ah, a fresh perspective. A new era! Freedom! Unless.....

...shudder...

......Mama breaks.