Productivity On the Go

...because when you're a Soccer Mom and a Stage Mom, sometimes you just have no choice.

After-dinner hours around here used to include washing dishes, hanging around, reading a book and having ice cream before presiding over showers, tooth-brushing and other going-to-sleep rituals. Now the kids are older and busier. And while Middle Sister, as a high-school sophomore, can be dropped off at sports practices and play rehearsals, the same is not true for nine-year-old Little Brother. Someone's got to stay with him. More often than not, that someone is Mom.

7 PM is my slow time of day, when I'm just concentrating on staying awake long enough to make sure that Little Brother brushes ALL his teeth. Not anymore. Now I'm headed for rehearsals that last until 10 or later! The director had dangled the carrot of "sensitivity to his bedtime when school starts" but what neither she (nor I) realized when she asked him to audition was that this was affecting my bedtime too.

I'm trying to get some stuff done when I'm sitting in a straight chair in a small rehearsal space for 3 hours on end. The other day I had a stack of the "Personal Journal" sections from The Wall Street Journal. I love to read those but don't always get the chance, and they pile up in a corner. It's not like most of them have time-sensitive articles. I got through a whole month's worth on Tuesday night.

Tonight I'm bringing my copy of Apocalypse Chow and my shopping list; a hurricane is on the way here and I want to have some ideas of how to cook and otherwise prepare in case we lose power. If I finish that, I've got Michele Buckman's Death Panels with me too--although that book is downright terrifying.

It's pretty impressive what I can get done, even without Wi-Fi.

But no matter how productive I manage to be at rehearsal, I'm still going to walk out of there with "Mame" stuck in my head.

Who's In There?

Lisa Hendey of CatholicMom.com has a new book coming out soon!  Titled A Book of Saints for Catholic Moms, this book highlights "52 companions for your heart, mind, body and soul."

But who's among the 52?  I can think of lots of possibilities.  Not having seen this book before, I don't know if Lisa Hendey chose to discuss only female saints, only saints who were moms, only modern saints...there are so many ways to go here.

I'm hoping, though, that she included a chapter on that go-to patroness of homemakers, St. Martha.  I've got a soft spot for St. Martha, and I imagine that many moms feel the same.  (I think Jesus did, too--or he wouldn't have told her to get over it when her sister wasn't helping with the dishes.)

This book will be published by Ave Maria Press on November 1 of this year.  I'm looking forward to it!

Hail, Holy Queen

In honor of today's celebration of the Queenship of Mary, here's a how-to for my favorite variation of the Rosary:  the Franciscan Crown.

It's got that name because, according to legend, the Blessed Mother asked an aspiring Franciscan friar to weave her a crown of prayers.

The Franciscan Crown is a 7-decade Rosary.  If you don't have a 7-decade set, use your regular Rosary and just backtrack a bit.  Unlike the regular Rosary, you start at the medal and end at the cross.

For each decade, pray 1 Our Father, 10 Hail Marys and 1 Gloria.

Here are the meditations for each decade:

1. The first Joy in the Crown of Mary is the joy of Our Lady at the Annunciation.  "Behold the handmaid of the Lord; be it done to me according to Your word."  May I become your humble servant, Lord.
2. The second Joy in the Crown of Mary is the joy of Our Lady at the Visitation.  "Rising up, Mary went into the hill country and saluted her cousin Elizabeth."  Grant us true love of neighbor, Lord.
3. The third Joy in the Crown of Mary is the joy of Our Lady at the Birth of Jesus and the Adoration of the Magi.  "She brought forth her first-born son...and laid him in a manger."  Give us true poverty of spirit, Lord.
4. The fourth Joy in the Crown of Mary is the joy of Our Lady at the Presentation and Purification.  "They carried him to Jerusalem to present him to the Lord...as it is written in the law of the Lord."  Help me obey all just laws.
5. The fifth Joy in the Crown of Mary is the joy of Our Lady at the Finding of Jesus in the Temple.  "Not finding him, they returned to Jerusalem seeking him."  May I never lose you through serious sin, Lord.
6. The sixth Joy in the Crown of Mary is the joy of Our Lady at the Resurrection of Jesus.  "The Lord is not here; He is risen."  May we share your glory, Lord.
7. The seventh Joy in the Crown of Mary is the joy of Our Lady at her Assumption into Heaven and her Coronation.  "A woman clothed with the sun; upon her head a crown of twelve stars."  Mary, may we share your crown of eternal life.

After you have prayed the seven decades, pray two more Hail Marys to make a total of 72--honoring the 72 years of Mary's life (according to legend).  Then, for the intentions of the Holy Father, pray one Our Father, one Hail Mary and one Gloria.

Friar Charles has some more details on the Franciscan Crown.  You don't have to be a Franciscan to pray this beautiful devotion.  Join me today, in honor of the Queenship of Mary.

Another Altar-Server Debut

Adventure Boy showed up at my house 2 hours before we leave for church (don't panic--we go to noon Mass, so he wasn't here at the crack of dawn...THIS time).  His hair was (mostly) combed.  He was, for him, formally dressed in a golf shirt and cargo pants and basketball sneakers--a step up from flip-flops.  And he announced that he was coming to church with us.

A couple of hours earlier, Little Brother had woken up, and he came downstairs announcing that he wasn't going to be an altar server anymore.  Last time he served, it was VERY hot in church, and our altar robes are made of a fabric that's closer to burlap than it is to seersucker.  It was his first day flying solo as a server, there was a baptism of twins during the Mass, and he passed out right before the Lamb of God.

I couldn't even go over to help him out, since half our folk group was on vacation and I was leading the band.  But at least 5 others came to his rescue and got TheDad, who didn't have Little Brother in his line of sight.  Once he was hydrated and out of that hot robe, he was fine.  (A Slurpee helped.)

Anyway, Little Brother was pretty nervous about getting back on the horse.  And apparently on the way to church, he and Adventure Boy cooked up a plan.

When I got to church (I leave earlier than the non-musicians in the family) Father asked me how Little Brother was.  I explained that he was fine, but nervous; I hoped that there would be a pre-Mass pep talk in the sacristy.  I saw Little Brother and Adventure Boy arrive, and both headed into the sacristy.  The next thing I knew, the two of them were wearing their robes and marching up to get the candles off the altar so they could carry them in the procession.

I'm not sure what Father was thinking, letting those two carry LIT candles.  There was some during-the-Mass coaching going on (Adventure Boy wasn't holding the finger towel the right way, apparently) and quite a bit of fidgeting by the boys.  Little Brother noticed me watching him and would occasionally flash me a thumbs-up to let me know that he was feeling fine.

Two very proud altar servers carried LIT candles off the altar after Mass and (a little too quickly) led the procession out.  TheDad and I are very proud parents--and godparents.

And after Mass, Father asked TheDad (AKA The Cubmaster) to encourage the other Cub Scouts who are old enough to consider being altar servers.

You Go, Girl!

It's time to give credit where credit is overdue.  I'm proud of my daughter and what she has made of this summer.  While she has had plenty of time to hang out with friends, eat pizza, swim, and stay up late watching movies, she has also made time to get involved in a couple of interesting activities.

After discovering that field hockey is not her thing (she was good at the sport but didn't like the team atmosphere--very sorority-like), she decided to pursue soccer this fall.  The last time Middle Sister played soccer, she was 6.  Our town is big on soccer; we produced a player on the most recent women's Olympic soccer team.  And apparently soccer parents in this town are big on how much playing time their kids get, because there were only two extra kids per team.  6-year-olds play on full-size fields, and with very few substitutes, 6-year-olds get tired pretty quickly.  Middle Sister didn't want to sign up for soccer the next year, and we didn't push it.

But now, as a sophomore in high school, she wants to try it.  So we invested in the cleats and the shin guards and the soccer ball and the week of soccer camp--and we'll see how it goes once practices start.  She seems to like it, and I have to give her credit for starting a new sport at 15 when most kids her age have been playing for 10 years already.  She says she's made some "newbie mistakes," even some funny ones, but she has been eager to try, working to improve, and trying to make up for her lack of technique and finesse with heart and determination.

And she hasn't gotten a lot of rest this week after spending 6 hours a day in the hot sun playing soccer--because she's been spending her evenings at the community theatre with her brother.  They're both in the theatre's Intern Company, a summer program of about 40 teens that produces a play.  The kids write, direct, compose music, build sets, design special effects, advertise, sell tickets--they do it all, and have been working hard since June.  Middle Sister is running the light boards for the play, which ends its run tomorrow night, and she also helped build and paint sets.  She's been having a great time.

Finally, she spent a week pet-sitting for our neighbor.  They have a lizard (that required live insects for food), a guinea pig, and a dog.  The dog spent most of the week here, and she really did a good job caring for him.  He was very sad without his family, and Middle Sister tried everything short of feeding him from the table (she was super-strict about that) to make him happy.  Sometimes her pet-sitting responsibilities interfered with her social life, but she didn't complain or beg someone else to do her job.

No, she hasn't yet completed (or even started, for that matter) her math packet or her summer-reading book. But I don't think she's wasted her time this summer.  She's still got a couple of weeks to buckle down and get the schoolwork done.

A VBS Letdown

Our parish participates in a community Vacation Bible School with 3 other churches:  Lutheran, Moravian and Episcopal.  They've been doing this for years.  And for years (probably 15 years, give or take a couple) my kids have participated.

We're done now.  Little Brother, at 9, has pretty much aged out of VBS.   He grudgingly decided to sign up this year because a few of his friends would be there.  But he persevered through the whole week.

I can't say enough about the hard work by all the volunteers (ranging from older tweens to senior citizens).  The decorations were amazing, though that panda is pretty creepy.  The four churches got together to donate materials for crafts and food for snacks.  And the music was pretty fun.  I didn't receive any reports about snacks that represented the plague of boils or leprosy, which is an improvement from previous years, though there were complaints the day the snack contained copious amounts of Cheese in a Can.

Yesterday Middle Sister and I attended the "finale show" of VBS.  As usual, it was Hot and Crowded, and you have to sit in certain places in the Very Tiny Church or the VBS police will make you move (though the seats are not marked; one year I had to try 3 different locations before I sat somewhere acceptable).  The VBS kids did a good job of singing the songs and waiting patiently during a few Technical Difficulties.

The audience, however, was another matter.  The little boy in the pew directly in front of us spent the entire hour kicking, punching, smacking and pushing his mother/grandmother (I'm not sure which).  This child was no more than 3 1/2 (and he was a little, wiry guy), and the grown woman with him was actually cringing as he beat on her.  Middle Sister was horrified.  The little boy directly behind me spent most of the hour kicking the back of my pew.  3 adults were with him.  Nobody stopped  him.

After the show, the kids trooped off to pick up the craft projects they made during the week, and Middle Sister and I waited in the parking lot with our neighbor.  I mentioned the behavior of the little boy in front of us.  She responded that her kids had come home every day reporting bad behavior on the part of the VBS participants, so she wasn't surprised.

What is that child going to be like when he's 8, 12, 16, 20 if before the age of 4 he is beating on his adult caregiver?  In church, no less.

Sigh.

Today's Weirdness is Brought to you by Twitter

When you've only got 140 characters to play with, it's hard to express things.

And when you're a newspaper, using your Twitter feed to share headlines for story after story after story, you might wind up with the following CONSECUTIVE posts:

Pair charged with stealing wire in Medford
Missing Medford man found safe and unharmed

If you're reading that newspaper's Twitter feed, you might very easily (and probably wrongly) conclude that there was some connection between those 2 stories.  You might even imagine a very interesting story behind the story.  I'm sure it was much more interesting than what actually happened.

Book Review: Seamus O'Flynn

It's the coming-of-age story of an Irish-Catholic New York City boy during the Great Depression and World War II.  It could be your great-uncle or grandfather telling the story, if you're Irish.  It's a young boy's version of A Tree Grows in Brooklyn.

Bill Tobin's book Seamus O'Flynn is an engaging story that reads like a memoir.  Subtitled "New York Diaries of an Immigrant Son 1931-1945," this book chronicles young Seamus' adventures, from the first day of school to pickup baseball games.  Bill Tobin eloquently describes all of Seamus' haunts:  his apartment building, a few wooded areas in the Bronx, his favorite swimming spots.

Life is not easy for a child of immigrant parents during the Depression and war, and the reader learns of Seamus' struggles with hunger as well as his technique for avoiding subway turnstiles.  There are funny moments, sad moments, and a seemingly-gratuitious moment of abuse by a priest (I really felt that the story could have done without that one--it just feeds into stereotypes).

Overall, it's a good novel that feels like a biography.  I had to keep reminding myself that it's fiction.  If you liked Angela's Ashes, you'll like this book.

Letter Perfect

The kids are on notice.

That stack below the sign contains 6 towels that have been left here over the course of the summer.  I don't launder them anymore--I just hang them on the line, fold them, and pile them next to the Lost & Found basket that contains someone's bug spray, someone's swim goggles, someone's sunglasses.  When kids come over here I interrogate them about whose towels these are.  No one knows--but the teenagers use them anyway (ewwwwwwwww).

I wonder if any of these towels will miraculously find a home in the days to come, or if the ManageMOM will get to dispose of them as she sees fit?

Real Person, Real Saint

Today is the feast of Saint Martha, one of my very favorite saints.

It's the saints like Martha that give me hope for ordinary people like me.  So many times we put the saints on a pedestal.  We think that they were always perfect, always praying, always doing the right thing.

People tend to do that with their heroes, saintly or otherwise.

But we never get the chance to put Saint Martha on a pedestal.  She starts right off by ratting out her sister to Jesus, their honored guest.  And Jesus gives it right back.  He lets her know that she is just way too stressed out and that she's letting her anxiety get in the way of her hospitality.

I've had way too many "Martha moments," and I'm not talking about Martha Stewart.  I'm talking about the Screaming Meemie Party Mom who often inhabits my house before we have company.  It isn't pretty.  It isn't fun, for me or anyone else.  I'm sure Saint Martha wasn't having fun that day either, especially when she was embarrassed in front of all her guests as Jesus took her to task.

She redeemed herself later, though, when she confidently proclaimed her faith in Jesus and who He was.

Saint Martha reminds me that saints are, in fact, real people with real faults, real challenges, real attitudes and real faith.

Saint Martha is the patron of cooks, servants, homemakers, single women, laundry workers, innkeepers, dieticians and travelers.

Read an interview with Julie Davis, another Saint Martha fan, right here!

Image credit

Poetry Fan?

This morning I came upon a quote from one of my very favorite poems.  Despite the fact that I was an English major in college and grad school, I've never been a poetry reader.  Yet again and again, I've run into two or three poems by Gerard Manley Hopkins, and that makes me realize that there can be magic in poetry.

Here's Pied Beauty:

GLORY be to God for dappled things—
For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow;
For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;
Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches’ wings;
Landscape plotted and pieced—fold, fallow, and plough;	5
And áll trádes, their gear and tackle and trim.
All things counter, original, spare, strange;
Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)
With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;
He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:	10
Praise him. --Gerard Manley Hopkins, 1918

Maybe the rest of the time I've just been reading the wrong poets.

Book Review: In Name Only

Historical fiction is not generally my thing, but once I started reading In Name Only by Ellen Gable (author of Emily's Hope) I was hooked.  The winning combination:  characters I could believe in, an interesting plot, and a setting in 1876 Philadelphia!  I love books with a local flavor, and even had my Philly map spread out so I could follow the characters' paths through the city.

I found myself rooting for several of the characters--even ones I didn't like at the beginning of the novel.  Here's the story:  an orphaned teenager who spent most of her childhood and teenage years caring for her chronically-ill father travels to Philadelphia to live with relatives after his death.  On the train, she meets a caring young man and his crass older brother, who turn out to be her neighbors.  Caroline believes her life is destined to be a fairy tale--until tragedy strikes, and the unexpected happens.

This novel covers a wide range of topics:  Catholicism, alcoholism, difficult pregnancies, social conventions and more.  The characters' personalities grew and matured throughout the novel, and the historical detail pointed to diligent research on the part of the author.  Ellen Gable really made this time period come alive in the book.

This novel has a lot to recommend it--and I definitely recommend it.  I'm looking forward to the author's next book, due out in September.

Fine Print: I won a free electronic edition of this book as part of an online giveaway. I received no compensation for this review, and the opinion expressed here is entirely my own.

It's Good to Know

I first started working as a home-instruction tutor when Big Brother was about 3 years old.  I'm still listed as a tutor with one of the 3 districts in which I worked; the other two have contracted out the home tutoring.  While I'm not often assigned students anymore, I do enjoy the one-on-one work with a student who is too ill/injured/postpartum/pregnant/anxious/depressed to attend school.  (Yes, I've had students in each of these categories--as well as a few discipline cases and a couple of malingerers.)  There are students I've only taught for 2 weeks or so before they return to school.  Most of them, I never hear about again.

Every once in a while I run into one of my students, who lived here in town and had a baby girl during her senior year of high school.  I was paid to be her English tutor, but I also did a good bit of informal encouragement; this young mom was breastfeeding her daughter, keeping up with her classes, and handling quite a bit of the housework.  She later married the father of her baby and they have another child as well; now she's a stay-at-home mom, although she did work quite hard when her little girl was young, managing a Domino's Pizza.  Her resilience, determination and dedication served her and her family well, and it touches my heart that every so often, SHE recognizes ME.  She is eager to tell me how things went for her family and I love to hear how well they are all doing.

Today's local paper features a story about one of my former students.  I taught her for an entire spring, when she first became ill during her junior year of high school.  I remember cancellations due to specialist visits and medical tests.  She never felt well but she tried hard to stick with the schoolwork.  She's 27 now, married, and recently received a kidney transplant from her older sister.  There are complications with her disease, though.

If you read down to the end of the article, you'll see that she recently attended a Mass of Healing at the Shrine of St. John Neumann in Philadelphia--and her family welcomes prayers.  It's lovely to see that in the paper, and my former student Christine can count on mine.  It's good to know how things are going, and it's good to know that although 11th-grade English is long over, there is still something I can do to help.

Deliver Me from the Mall

Whoever wrote the lyrics, "Someone told me it's all happenin' at the zoo" had clearly never been to the Cherry Hill Mall.

I go to malls as infrequently as I possibly can.  And I hate to shop on Sundays.  But I had promised to take Middle Sister to the mall for jeans, and if we went today, we wouldn't have to bring Little Brother along.

The clothes shopping was actually quite pleasant.  She tried to find some jeans for me, but that was a lost cause in the store we were in.  I did find a cute pair of capri pants, a scarf and a peasant blouse that I liked--all on sale.  And she got her jeans.

Then we headed to Forever 21, where I expected to see the kind of clothes aspiring hookers would wear.  I was happily surprised to see plenty of very sweet tops, with feminine lines and floral patterns.  I don't follow fashion--is "sweet and girly" suddenly back in?  I sure hope so.

The rest of the time, I was people-watching while Middle Sister spent her own money, that she earned pet-sitting for our neighbors this week.  Being all "browsed out," I sat on a bench while she shopped--there's only so much blaring rap music and perfumed air I can handle in one afternoon, and I'd hit my limit.  You can do a lot of people-watching when you sit on a bench at the mall for 20 minutes, and you see some scary stuff.

A family stopped outside Victoria's Secret:  mom, dad and two little boys.  Mom took the younger one into the store with her, despite his loud protests, saying, "Mommy needs you!  You have to help Mommy put on her panties!"

An impossibly skinny girl tottered past, dressed head to ankle in "junior hooker" garb--and shoes that would be more-likely found on a denizen of a retirement home.

And doesn't it say something about the clientele of a particular store when you have to show your ID to use your own credit card?

I'll stick to internet shopping, thanks.  The only people-watching I'll have to do is staring out the window, waiting for the UPS truck.

Christmas in July

Little Brother and 3 friends are sitting here, deep in negotiations about what to play.  While they work out how to pair off for "teams" in a game, one of the kids is paging through a church hymnal left on the table after choir practice the other day.

"How about we play on teams for one round and all together for another round," one friend suggests.

Meanwhile, another child is announcing the next hymn--and they all drop the discussion of teams and open up a music book and start singing "Go Tell It On The Mountain."

Their great enthusiasm makes up for their lack of perfect pitch (not to mention tempo.)

Sing on, kids!

Following Up on the Sultan and the Dilemma

Thank you all so much for your words of advice as I made the decision.  A fellow Franciscan, Lisa of Franciscan Focus, suggested checking into a book called St. Francis and the Conversion of the Muslims.  When I visited the website she recommended, I found a link to an interview with the author.

I printed out this interview and brought it to the meeting.  I decided to head this member off at the pass.  I handed her the printout and told her that I knew she'd be interested in reading this, and if she thought that this book would be beneficial to the fraternity, we'd order a copy for the fraternity library.  The idea of guest speakers was not mentioned.  She was happy to receive the interview and said she'd let me know if she thought we'd be interested in the book.

So there we are!

The Sultan and the Dilemma

As the minister of my local Secular Franciscan fraternity, I don't make decisions in a vacuum, but there are decisions that I have to be the one to make.  When decisions are made, the good of the whole fraternity must be considered--it's like being a parent in that way (except that in my fraternity, I'm actually the "baby" of the family!)

One of our members has brought up again and again that she wants to invite a Muslim to speak to our fraternity as part of our ongoing formation.  She has not really answered the question of what topic she would want a Muslim to speak about.  She has no particular Muslim in mind--she's thinking of cold-calling a local mosque to invite someone.

I know that this member is concerned that all Muslims are being painted with a broad brush as a result of 9/11 and the War on Terror.  I know that she is convinced that, as Franciscans, we are to be peacemakers.  And I know that she is aware that St. Francis himself met with the Sultan during one of the Crusades.

But there are a few things that I don't believe she knows.  When St. Francis met with the Sultan, he fully expected to become a martyr as a result of that meeting.  While he did not consider the Sultan his "enemy," he had no illusions about what would probably happen to him--even though that did not turn out to be the case.  He was not insulting toward the Sultan's faith, but neither did he pull any punches about his own faith and that he hoped to lead the Sultan to the right way to God.   He saw the Sultan as his brother, but he also saw an opportunity to attempt a conversion.

Someone once called me "practical," which at times seems at odds with what it means to be a Franciscan.  St. Francis was, usually, anything but practical.  Yet I worry that this member's proposal would not be for the good of the fraternity.  With no particular speaker or topic in mind, that opens the door to who-knows-what--IF she could even get someone to agree to attend the meeting.  And as no one in the fraternity has any relationships with any Muslims, we do not know if the random person she finds to ask is truly faithful to Muslim spirituality.

And, frankly, this might sound a little insular or provincial or whatever, but I believe that there is plenty for us to learn and discover and by which to be inspired right here within our own Faith.  We don't need to look outside our own yard for more traditions, more rituals, more ways to prayer.  There's plenty right here that we have yet to get to know.

This is going to come up again tomorrow at the meeting--I'd love to hear someone else's thoughts!

To Be Fair

I don't want to paint all 15-year-olds with the same broad brush.  I arrived home from an errand today to find Middle Sister and two friends (one girl, one guy) in the pool.  TheDad told me that when the visitors arrived, they came in (without being asked) to say hello before swimming.

We had some grilled hamburgers, baked beans and salad for dinner.  The teens ate, talked, laughed, and then bused their own dishes without being asked--politely checking with me to see where I wanted them to put the dirty plates.  Before leaving, they both thanked us for the meal and the swim.

Visitors like THOSE are welcome anytime.

You've Got Some 'Splaining to Do

Little Brother has a friend here for a sleepover tonight.  Many of his classmates are surprised, when they come over, to learn that Little Brother has a Big Brother, since during the school year, Big Brother isn't around much.

"Big Brother, when did you graduate from St. Charles?" the friend asked.

"I never went to St. Charles," Big Brother replied.

The horrified response:  "Why NOT?"

Little Brother explained:  "We didn't know about it."

Um, well, that's really not the story, but Little Brother was too young at just-turned-four to have a grip on the real situation.

Gourmet Meal

Our neighbors got home from vacation very late Wednesday night.  Little Brother was thrilled to see his two friends again--he's really been missing them.

I was making a huge batch of spaghetti and meatballs, so I invited the whole family to come for dinner.  This way, the mom could have a break from cooking on her first day back (I knew she was busy concentrating on laundry).

She insisted on bringing a salad to contribute to the meal, and Little Brother enjoyed the croutons that came along with the salad.

This morning he noticed that the rest of the bag of croutons was still on my kitchen table.  "Did the neighbors leave the croutons here?" he asked.  "I really liked those.  I ate, like, 5 handfuls of croutons last night.  They were soooooooooooooo good."

Zits hits the nail on the head

I'm beating Ellen to the Friday Funny today.  We have a few things in common, including a connection to our local diocesan high school and a love for the movie My Cousin Vinny.  And we both enjoy the Zits comic, which chronicles life with teen boys--the kind of teen boys who are basically good kids but just, in their own way, completely oblivious.  That comic makes me laugh, because there are so many times I can picture the exact situation.

Here's today's Zits:

That's life with Big Brother.  Except he has an old beat-up Hyundai, not a van.

And here's one from earlier in the week, which is a good description of Middle Sister's friends:

I could totally picture some of them doing this--which is why they require more supervision than 15-year-olds want to have.  In some ways, these kids are just like toddlers, only larger and stronger (and thankfully, potty trained).

He's Been Waiting for This Day

Pardon the blurry shot--we had the
flash turned off.

...and so have I.

Little Brother has wanted to be an altar server for oh, so long.  He was a toddler when Big Brother began altar-serving, and even though TheDad sat with him waaaaaaaaaay in the back of the church and I was up front with the musicians, I'd hear Little Brother at Consecration time:  "Big Brother's ringing the bells!"

At the end of Mass, the altar servers would process to the back of the church, where Father would leave the procession and the servers would turn the corner and go down the side aisle to the front, leave the cross in the sacristy and then proceed to put away the altar linens.  It wasn't long before Little Brother joined that parade, and the "Hat Lady" would allow him to put the finger towels into the laundry hamper in the sacristy.  She had her eye on him; no, not just the eye that watched over the altar servers and made sure they served reverently, but the one that paid attention to children in church who seemed to have more than the usual spark of interest.

Middle Sister has been serving for several years now--so many years that she's just about outgrown the longest altar-server robe the church has.  And Little Brother has wanted to serve.  He asked, at the beginning of this school year, only to be told that he should wait until fourth grade.  Well, third grade is over and this morning he came running down the stairs to see if he can be an altar server now.

"You can ask Father about that when we get to church," I told him, making no promises.

When we arrived, we saw that the pastor was not assigned to our Mass today--instead, it was the assistant, who thought it would be just fine if Little Brother served.  So Middle Sister helped him find a robe in the right size and showed him all the ropes, including how to carry the cross in the entrance procession.  He did quite well for his first day, and after the closing prayer Father H announced to everyone that it was Little Brother's first day as an altar server.

He's eager to do it again.  I'm grateful that Father H did not brush him off but instead encouraged and allowed him to serve.  And how cool is it that he got his "on the job training" from Middle Sister?

I think the "Hat Lady" would be proud.  I know I am.

A Rose by Any Other Name

Little Brother was just helping me unload the dishwasher. Picking up a slotted spoon, he asked, "Mom, where does the FILTER SPOON go?"

Just for the Record

I'm not taking away the refrigerator magnets.  Other than this one time, they've been a source of fun for the kids and I do want to keep it that way.

But before the teens reappear next week, I'm open to suggestion for what the next message (posted by me) should read.

An Empty Nest, an Apology, a Reprieve, and a Thank You

This week, the only kid we'll have at home with us is Little Brother.  The other two kids are off on vacation with their friends who generously invited them along.  Lucky kids!  I won't miss the all-day, everyday consumption of Dr. Pepper, Ellio's pizza, and pretzels that seems to happen when my teenagers are around, but I'll miss their company nonetheless.  So will Little Brother.  (I'm trying to plan a little extra fun into his week).  That's the Empty Nest part.

The young man with the colorful vocabulary has come forward to apologize.  We're glad about that.  And he was rather eloquent about it as well, expressing his regrets for his lack of respect to my daughter, to me, and to my family.  That's the Apology part.

And now we've got six more days before there will be any teenagers around here.  That will give everyone a chance to cool down, and--I hope--a fresh start next weekend.  I've got a big sense of relief right now.  I'm glad that a confession and an apology took place before Middle Sister departed for the shore.  I'm glad for the opportunity to take a bit of a break so I can start fresh next week.  And I'm glad we stuck to our guns on this issue, even though my daughter doesn't "get" what the big deal was.  Hopefully, one day she will.  And that's the Reprieve part.

Finally, the Thanks part, in which I express my gratitude to you for your show of support in the comments, and for the prayers that I am certain strengthened me through the rest of this week.  Thank you ever so much!

Inspiring Me Today

Great affairs do not disturb us so much as a great number of little ones; therefore, receive these also with calmness, and try to attend to them in order, one after another, without perturbation. Thus, you will gain great merit by them. -- St. Francis de Sales

I found this very timely quote over at Faith & Family Live.  While blogger Kelly Dolin was discussing life with toddlers, it's no less true when you've got teens and grade-schoolers in the house.

After I found myself defeated, again and again, by the "little things" this week, I need the inspiration.  It's not like there have been any major crises.  But it's been a tough week, that has included:

• Little Brother running a fever of 103.7, complete with a spell of vomiting.
• An extended-family medical issue that culminated in a 2-day houseguest.
• A bunch of teenagers who don't follow the "say hello to the adult at home" rule when they show up to swim.  They also don't bring their own towels, and they empty my porch refrigerator of all beverages.  And they leave their mess behind.
• A teenager (yet to be identified) who thinks it's funny to spell out one of George Carlin's "7 words you can't say on TV" with the ABC magnets we keep near the porch refrigerator.  (Usually those are used to wish a friend a happy birthday.)
• Adventure Boy vomiting on the pool deck (but fortunately not in the pool itself.)

It hasn't been pretty, and I haven't handled all of this well.  And some of it's not over yet.  Now we have to play hardball with a bunch of 15-year-olds until someone apologizes for his use of filthy vocabulary and lack of respect of us and our daughter.

I think I'm going to have to pull out my Francis de Sales book and see if he has any more advice for people like me, who can handle big things pretty well, but let the little things pile up and pile up and pile up until they lose it completely.  It's going to be a long summer, and I'll need all the grace I can get.

Mr. Malaprop Rides Again

As we sat and chatted around the dinner table, one of the Big Kids mentioned the name of a friend.

"Does your friend have any brothers or sisters?" TheDad asked.

"No," replied the Big Kid.

Little Brother piped up:  "She's SINGLE?"

Impartial

Earlier this month I reported for Jury Duty.  While it was a big inconvenience, managed only because Big Brother was already home from college and able to retrieve Little Brother from the school bus in the afternoon, I don't regret participating.

However, I am relieved that after 3 days of voir dire--involving 500 jurors--I was not selected to hear the case.  After listening to the indictment, I was quite sure that there was no way I'd be able to be an impartial juror.

The two defendants were indicted on nearly 50 counts involving the sexual abuse of four teenagers over the course of several years.  One defendant was a police officer in a neighboring town.  One woman left the courtroom in tears after telling the judge that she could not serve as a juror in such a case.  The two defense attorneys managed to get any juror with children over the age of 2 tossed out of the pool right then and there.

I was at the end of the random list of 500 jurors--and one of the last 13 who had not yet been interviewed (50 questions per juror) by the time all attorneys agreed that an acceptable jury had been seated.  But I figured that if I had made it to the interview process, they wouldn't like my answer to the question regarding my ability to hear this case impartially.

I have two children and seven nieces and nephews in the same age group as the victims in this case (plus my older son and older nephew who are both now over 18).  My husband and I are both deeply involved in volunteer work with children.  And I was ready to be perfectly honest with the judge, the prosecutor and the defense attorney that I did not believe that I could put my first instinct--to protect a child--aside in a situation like this.

I was not ready to say that the defendants were automatically guilty, as I believe in and respect the principles on which our justice system is based.  But I could not be fair about it, and that's just the way it is.

Unfortunately, this case did not come to trial last week as planned.  The day before the trial, one of the defense attorneys perished in a house fire caused, fire marshals suspect, by smoking in bed.  Now the jury that had been assembled has been excused and the whole thing will start all over again.  Next year.

If children were victimized in that situation ending in 2008, their nightmare is going to continue another year as they wait for justice.  If the two adults were falsely accused, their nightmare will continue.  Either way, it's not good.

When it comes to backyard disputes over whose turn it is to use the Super Soaker or who made the mess, I'm as impartial as they come.  (You can share it, or it's mine; and I don't care who made the mess--I just care that you pick it up when I tell you to.)  But this is way more than a fight over a water gun or the scattered pieces of a board game.  The stakes are too high.  Both sides deserve what I could not give them.

Both sides deserve prayer too, and I struggled to remind myself of that during the reading of the indictment and the juror interviews that followed.  I struggled even more after I was excused from the case and went home to google the gory details--and those details were quite gory.

Even if the adults in this case are found to be innocent, there are many adults who are not.  Today, pray for them and for the children who are their victims.  And pray for those falsely accused and for their accusers.  It's heartbreaking.

I Concede

Sometimes I get frustrated when my husband doesn't do things the way I'd do them.

OK, I always get frustrated when my husband doesn't do things the way I'd do them.

Controlling much?

(I spent half my time on jury duty last week rethinking their systems and figuring out how to eliminate potential jurors more quickly.  Yeah--I'd say I'm controlling.)

It's a good thing my husband puts up with me.

I'm the nuts and bolts around here; he's the dreams.  I worry about the practical stuff like what's for dinner and who has to be where and who's driving them there and how long has Little Brother been playing on that Game Boy, anyway?  He wishes for exciting vacations and gives in to Little Brother's "five more minutes" requests and lets the kids have sleepovers.  He says "yes" when I want to say "no."

And when Little Brother and Adventure Boy have a sleepover that involves making "forts" out of all the cushions in the family room, he lets them.  And when they're too scared to sleep in the family room when everyone else is upstairs, he sleeps down there too, on the couch.  On Father's Day.  And then when we go out to a restaurant for Father's Day, he invites Adventure Boy to come along.

It's a good thing that we have him in our lives.  He might make me crazy sometimes, but we really do need that balance, that other side, that he brings to things.

Happy Father's Day to my husband, TheDad!

Teach Your Children Well

My Big Kids know how to use utensils, but I can't figure out where I went wrong with Little Brother.  I have never met a child so resistant to the use of a knife and fork.  The kid even eats ice cream with his fingers if you don't stop him.

Overheard at my dinner table tonight:

"Little Brother, ravioli is not a finger food."

"It is if you fold it up like a taco!"

That didn't fly...we made him pick up his fork.

You can lead a child to silverware, but you can't make him like it.

Small Consolation

Eeek, I have just qualified for the Bad Mommy Award.  Looked up at the clock and realized it's 9:30 and Little Brother is not yet in bed.

So as I packed him off to bed, I mentioned that I hope he isn't grumpy in the morning.

"It's your fault, Mom," he reminded me.  "YOU didn't tell me it was time to go to bed."

"You were being so quiet, I didn't even realize you were up," I said.

"I like to be quiet."

"REALLY?"  (That's news to me.  He's rarely quiet.)

"It's good to be quiet," he continued.  "I think I'll be quiet more often.  Maybe tomorrow I'll even be quiet in class."

With 4 days left in the school year, I'm sure that's a great comfort to his teacher.

They Don't Make Them Like That Anymore

This morning TheDad and I are on our way to a funeral in our old neighborhood.

When we bought our first home, we were one of only two or three young families on the block.  Most of our neighbors were retired military.  Although it was hard not to have kids around for Big Brother to play with--and I didn't know anyone else with kids, since we were brand-new to the area code, we had lovely neighbors.

The people across the street, with the well-tended home, were "Mr. John" and "Miss Martha" to Big Brother.  Mr. John had served over 25 years in the Marines, including deployments during two wars.  He was in his late sixties by the time we moved in to the neighborhood.

Every day, Mr. John inspected every inch of his yard and sidewalk, sweeping up leaves and bits of trash.  He always had a friendly word as I wandered by with the stroller, taking Big Brother and, later, Middle Sister, for a walk around town.

The only things that were ever out of place in his immaculately-groomed yard were the plastic Easter eggs--filled with pocket change and dollar bills--that he strewed around every Easter before his grandkids came for dinner.  In the fall, a leaf would barely hit the ground before Mr. John had swept it up.

TheDad has always looked forward to their Christmas card, which is less a card than a booklet filled with inspirational stories and poems.  After receiving it, he'd give them a call and see how they were doing.  He'd also call after every snowstorm--and once or twice he just drove to the old neighborhood to help Mr. John shovel his driveway and walk.  And we'd run into them at our church carnival and Polish dinner, because they loved the pierogi!

Today we'll say farewell to the man who, with his wife, took care of five-year-old Big Brother so I could bring Middle Sister to the ER for stitches in her forehead when she cut it on the edge of the coffee table; who always took time out of his sweeping or raking or mowing or relaxing in a lawn chair to come down the driveway and greet us as we passed on our many walks through the neighborhood.

Rest in peace, Mr. John.  We were blessed to have a neighbor like you.

Young Architects?

Little Brother has two visitors, who happen to be brothers.  They've been enjoying each other's company for the past couple of hours, playing board games and Yu-Gi-Oh cards.

These boys live at the far end of our neighborhood, in a similar-style home.  And they've been endlessly fascinated by the similarities and differences in our houses.  Just now, they were walking around with Little Brother, observing that in their house, there's a piano in the spot where we have a bookcase.  They covered the whole house this way.  It's been really funny to listen to the three of them on their little house tour.

Growth Curve

During the past two weeks I've been rehearsing for Sunday's performance of Marty Haugen's Song of Mark, a musical production based on the Gospel of Mark, with a group of musicians and singers that I don't ordinarily work with. It's been a wonderful and interesting experience.

Playing with a new group is always a challenge, and that's good, because when you play with the same people week after week, you start to know what to expect. It takes playing with different people to make a musician grow.

I'm not an excellent musician by any stretch of the imagination. Once I was out of college, I haven't been in a position where I could play my guitar every day. It was more like one or two times per week. That's not conducive to growing as a musician either. And while I had enough basic piano lessons to know how to read music, I'm a self-taught guitarist. The director of this production teaches music and can play just about any instrument. Frankly, if she weren't so nice, I'd be really intimidated.

It's nice being a part of a musical production with my kids. All 3 are taking part. Big Brother is playing electric bass, and Middle Sister and Little Brother are both in the children's chorus. Since there are only about 20 in the entire cast and orchestra, we make up 1/5 of the people involved in this event.

All the music is new to me, and Haugen's music is always a challenge. One of the other guitarists from my Sunday folk group observed that Haugen must hate guitarists when I showed her some of the music, written in tortuous keys and including chords like E-flat, Gm, and the like.  Many of the songs are 6 or 8 pages long, so I also had to learn to work in page turns!

I have loved the opportunity to go and play for almost two solid hours at a time--though my arms are really feeling it.  I'm playing along with a pianist, a keyboard, and Big Brother on the bass.  With only one guitar, I don't have much room for error.  That's a challenge too.

I think the challenge is good for me.  And certainly playing is good for me.  And some of the songs are really, really good.  Here's the refrain from my favorite one:

When the day of our God has come to pass,
The skies will ring out with the angels' song.
The last will be first and the first will be last
When the day of our God comes,
The wondrous day of our God.

That's been stuck in my head for days--and there's nothing wrong with that.

Storytime Ooops!

One of my favorite parts about helping in the school library is storytime. Because the kindergarten and first grade only get 45 minutes to divide between library and computer class, we don't get to have storytime every week.

Today, though, the librarian was helping to chaperone the 8th grade trip, and I was flying solo in the library. The lesson plan she left for me included storytime for both of the primary-grade classes I'd see. Bonus: I got to pick the story!

The first-graders had let us know earlier this year that they are big fans of Tomie dePaola. Me too--I've enjoyed his picture books since the time I used to read them to Big Brother. So I went to the bookshelf and chose one of Big Brother's favorites: Tom.

In this story, a little boy's grandfather shows his mischievous side, giving Tommy two chicken feet. Tommy takes them to school and uses them to scare his classmates--and a teacher.

We were just getting to the good part when the first-grade teacher walked into the library to collect her students. And there I was, reading all about how this little boy caused a little playground mayhem with a couple of chicken feet.

So...what do you think the odds are that I'll be asked to substitute again?

Oddest Memorial Day Ever

It began normally enough. We woke up and got ready to attend the Memorial Day parade in the next town. Big Brother and Middle Sister were helping the Boy Scouts, who cook and serve hot dogs (888 this year!) and cold beverages to all who march and attend the parade. TheDad and Little Brother were marching with the Cub Scouts. I was the only one in the family who actually watched the parade this year.

And that part was weird. I didn't have Middle Sister to people-watch with, and parades are almost as good as carnivals in drawing out some pretty strange people. Homeless-looking old men who picked up candy that was tossed in the street--and handed it to nearby children. Women "of a certain age" who still shop at stores like Forever 21. Other women (older than "a certain age") who go for the star-spangled look: full red, white, and blue glitter from head to toe. And quite a few pit bulls. I didn't have Little Brother to clap along to the bands and beg me to buy him a pretzel/water/balloon/flag/pop gun/Silly String/noisemaker/all of the above. Hope springs eternal with that one: we bring our own snacks and drinks and I never buy the junk.

After the parade, we came home and a bunch of Little Brother's friends came over here to swim. I was in the middle of the laundry stream, and found that the utility sink was half-full of water and it wasn't draining at all. I finally forced TheDad out of the pool to try to snake out the drain.

He concluded that we had to call a professional.

We waited 3 hours for the professional to not show up or call back, and then we called a different professional who got here in 30 minutes, took care of the problem, and required a nice fat check from us because plumbers on Memorial Day are expensive.

I began admiring my Parade Tan, which consists of sunburn on 1 1/2 knees.

Meanwhile I took Middle Sister and Little Brother to rehearsal for "Song of Mark" at church (they're in the children's chorus, I'm accompanying on guitar) and Big Brother's friends came over to swim and eat.

We ran the whole show in a non-air-conditioned church and then I came home to the dishes that had piled up all day because I wasn't able to do any dishes since we couldn't use the water.

Now there are 7 college students trying to play Guitar Hero quietly because Little Brother is sleeping. Good luck with that.

Big Brother bought a lemon meringue pie to feed his friends. I think I'll go have a nice big slice.

Dead Giveaway

I was all over this article on home organization at BHG.com (Better Homes & Gardens) until I got to page 7: the Living Room Art Station.

So what's wrong with this picture?

Parents will see the problem immediately.

White carpet. Paint on a low, accessible-to-toddlers shelf. Presumably there is a playroom or family room somewhere else in the house. I'm sure there must be a kitchen somewhere--one that doesn't have a white carpet.

Clearly the people who came up with this brilliant idea have never spent any time with small children. (To her credit, Middle Sister saw the trouble with this room instantly.)

Image credit: BHG.com

Spot On

As always, the Zits comic nails life with a teenage boy.

He returned home from college 3 weeks ago. Last night he asked me if I'd seen a certain item of clothing. I hadn't. He said he knew he'd brought it home from school...I suggested it might be in his footlocker.

He replied, "Didn't you empty that out?"

Uh...NO.

Still-unpacked bags and crates of class notes litter his room and beyond. I imagine it'll stay that way until August 19 if I let it (he returns to school on the 20th.)

Time to crack down. He's a good kid--a real good kid. But he's definitely got a clutter problem.

Long summer ahead!

With a swimming pool comes great responsibility. As I type this, there are 6 kids in the pool. Only one of them lives here. The more time they spend in the pool, the more time I need to be outside on the porch. I am a terrible swimmer and have gone two years without even putting on a bathing suit, but I have to be the combination lifeguard, peacekeeper, referee, towel police, and monitor of four-letter-words.

The Street Urchins and Little Brother were surprised today when I informed them that baseballs are not pool toys.

It's going to take something stronger than a caramel latte to get me through these summer days.

In Case of Rapture, We're Planning a Sleepover

Big Brother just finished telling Little Brother and Adventure Boy all about the Rapture that's scheduled to happen just before 6 PM Eastern, according to Harold Camping of Family Radio. The boys considered the possibilities.

Little Brother (to Adventure Boy): Sleeping over tonight?

Adventure Boy: YEAH!...oh wait, there's not gonna BE a tonight.

Little Brother: You can just stay here for the rest of your life.

Base Hit

Little Brother just emptied his schoolbag and brought his lunch box to the kitchen. Then he came out here to show me the plastic container that I used to pack his sandwich this morning. (Containers prevent sandwiches from getting squished, and I also don't have to buy so many sandwich bags this way).

The container was shattered all along the back.

"What did you do to your lunchbox, jump on it?" I asked.

"No...it was home plate."

Dare Not to Compare

On Wednesdays, Little Brother's class has gym Phys Ed. The kids in his school wear gym clothes to school all day on their gym days. It gives me a nice little buffer zone to get his regular uniforms all clean and ready for the rest of the week.

Last Wednesday, though, Little Brother's class had a field trip, and they were required to wear "dress" uniforms. That threw off my whole routine--and I woke up Thursday morning only to realize that there were no clean uniforms for Little Brother that day.

Little Brother is nine years old. There is no such thing as a "gently used" uniform when it comes to nine-year-old boys. So re-wearing the previous day's clothes was completely out of the question. He leaves the house in the morning looking reasonably neat and returns looking like Pigpen from Peanuts.

He told me that kids have just worn their gym clothes to school in that situation, and their moms write a note to the teacher. So that's what I did. When he came home, I asked what his teacher had said. He said she laughed--which is about what I figured would happen.

This morning I saw his teacher when I was on my way in to school to volunteer. She told me that it made her day to get that note, because she doesn't always have it together, and it was a relief to know that some other mom didn't have it together all the time either.

I was rather shocked that she thinks I have things even close to all together. And then I realized that I always thought she did. I've known this teacher for 8 or 9 years, as two of our older children have been in the same class.

We see the surface of other people's lives, and that little bit that we show to other people is only the tip of our own personal iceberg. Yet we compare ourselves, basing our self-esteem on what little we see of what someone else is, has, and does. The grass is always greener on the other side of the fence; the other line always moves faster.

And then it becomes a great relief to see that someone else is human too; that they are in the very same boat we are; that we all get behind on the laundry sometimes.

Wouldn't it be a great gift to ourselves if we'd just dare NOT to compare once in a while? Wouldn't it be a great gift to those to whom we are comparing ourselves, as well? After all, they're probably behind on laundry, and that's OK.

Wishful Thinking

Little Brother just headed down to the basement, where we have our pantry bomb shelter.

"Mommy?"  I heard his muffled voice call from downstairs.

"What?"

"Where are the goldfish?"

"What goldfish?"

"The goldfish you bought at ShopRite."

"I didn't buy any goldfish..."

"The chocolate goldfish!!"

"I didn't buy any chocolate ones either!"

This Kid Needs a Village

TheDad is not fond of the expression "it takes a village to raise a child."  To him, it represents the invasion of government into a family's life and structure.

But when it comes right down to it, TheDad exemplifies the expression when you think of it as meaning that friends and neighbors have an influence, even a vital role, in a child's life and upbringing.

Adventure Boy has been having a rough time lately.  And while we don't see as much of him now that he's 9 and involved in sports--and there are other boys on the block now, so we're not the only game in town--indications are still strong that he sees us as part of his family.

We're his God-family.  TheDad and I are his godparents, and he calls Little Brother his God-brother.

In the past couple of days, we learned just how much it meant to him when TheDad used to bring Adventure Boy to church.  That pretty much fell off when our parish started holding CCD (oops, Faith Formation) on Sundays--including a Mass--so he hasn't come to church with us for quite a while.  Apparently he misses it.

All 3 of our kids are busy during Mass.  The boys are with me in the Folk Group.  Middle Sister is an altar server.  So TheDad is in the pew by himself.

Today, though, he'll have company.  Adventure Boy is coming to church with TheDad.

I know that I have resented this child's ubiquitous presence more often than not.  But I have to remember to lose the selfish attitude and allow an emotionally needy little boy to share my family's life.  We're his village right now, and he needs us.

The Kool-Aid Mom Lays Down the Law

Over the weekend, TheDad and the Big Kids opened the backyard pool for the summer. It's not warm enough to swim, but the Street Urchins who hang around with Little Brother have already been showing up at the door in their swimsuits, towels in hand. (I'm guessing they remember my ironclad rule from last summer: no towel, no swim.)

That's not the only rule I'm going to have to enforce, however. This mom is really tired of people leaving stuff around for me to pick up. They're all old enough to clean up after themselves. And if they won't bother to get their friends to clean up, then they can clean up after their friends as well.

And then there's the whole "availability" issue. When people are in the pool, I have to supervise. Even if they know how to swim. Even though I really don't swim well at all. Having a pool brings a huge amount of responsibility with it. I'm not a fan of the Street Urchins' tactic of "arrive home from school, change into swimsuit, and show up at my house." So...my red light/green light sign has gone back on the front door.

This sign has been around since Little Brother and Adventure Boy were preschoolers. I took one of those foam door hanger things and drew 3 circles on each side. On one side, I colored in the top circle red. In the other 2 circles I wrote "Play Later." Then on the flip side, I colored the bottom circle green and wrote "Friends Welcome." Even pre-readers get the idea. (Little Brother is not authorized to change the sign without my permission.)

I don't want to be unwelcoming, but neither do I want to be the entire neighborhood's maid, lifeguard, and free babysitter. A few limits are a good thing.

Happy Mother's Day!

One of the best things about Mother's Day is the charming cards, notes, letters and crafts that young kids make in school to honor their moms. I still have quite a few of those "keepers" from the big kids, though a couple of crepe-paper flowers have disintegrated with time. But I only have one child who's still young enough to make these in school.

With that, I bring you Little Brother's Mother's Day card and letter to me.

He made the card in Spanish class, and it's the only Spanglish greeting card I've ever received:

!Feliz dia de las madres!
Te amo...Little Brother
Roses are red, Violets are blue,
You love me and I love you!

This was adorned not only with a cute picture, but a sticker of a white duck with the words "Right On!"

He also wrote me a letter, using his best cursive writing.  Attached to this letter (making it more than a little top-heavy) is a lily made from his cut-out handprint and a pipe cleaner.

Dear Mom,
Happy Mother's Day! It's been 19 years as a mom. I love you more than anything. (Except for Dad, Big Brother and Middle Sister.) You're the best mom a kid could have. You're the best, remember that.
Love,
Little Brother

I love how he very charmingly hedged his bets in that letter, not wanting to play favorites or anything.

Hope your Mother's Day is a sweet one!

Much-Needed Perspective

At Mass yesterday, the message in the homily was, "God does a lot with a little." Not only did we hear about Jesus feeding the multitudes on nothing but some little boy's lunch, but we also reflected on the commitment of those early apostles. They were not Roman lawyers, Greek philosophers, or Asian mystics, Father D told us, though certainly Jesus could have chosen such apostles had he wished to. No, they were ordinary people: fishermen and tax collectors. Maybe, Father suggested, this is because such people would not let their egos get in the way of Jesus' message.

Ouch. I've been guilty of that one lately. We just came through the Triduum and Easter, which means that it was time for my Semi-Annual Musical Pity Party. I sing and play guitar with the Folk Group. We operate on the "Keep It Simple" theory of liturgical music. Keep it simple, and people will feel welcome to sing along with you. It works for us. But our parish also has an Adult Choir. They like things more complicated and elaborate in that choir. And that's the choir that gets to sing at Christmas, and the Triduum, and Easter.

We didn't get asked to participate in the Triduum in any way. We were not invited to join in with the Adult Choir for the Great Three Days.

And it hurt. Boy, did it hurt. I went to Holy Thursday Mass and really felt it. And since Big Brother was playing at another church on Good Friday, we went to the service there. By the time the Easter Vigil rolled around, I was so completely upset that I even skipped the Easter Fire. I just didn't think I could be there without losing it entirely. Even on Easter morning, I was having a rough time.

"You'll feel better after you go to Mass and sing," TheDad assured me. And he was right. I needed to get there, put on my guitar, and belt out the Gloria with everything I could muster. After that, I did feel a lot better.

This is all about humility, really. It all boils down to God doing a lot with a little. Our Folk Group may not have been asked to do anything at all for the Great Three Days. But Sunday after Sunday when we're there at 12:00 Mass, we give it our all. We're not always pitch-perfect, and sometimes a guitarist will (loudly) strike the wrong chord. Yet when we sing the Gloria, we mean it. And people are singing the Gloria with us. That's what we're there for.

It's time for me to let go of the feeling of resentment that we're not "good enough" for the Triduum and just rejoice in the fact that we help people pray though music, Sunday after Sunday after Sunday. Maybe we just have a little talent, but if we get out of the way, God can do a lot with it.

Mr. Musical Malaprop

Little Brother is 9, which means that he is still given to cute mispronunciations--only now they're of the polysyllabic variety. (I'm really going to miss that when he grows up.)

He took me to breakfast this morning at Chick-Fil-A, just he and I, and one of the workers had been a cast member of The Wizard of Oz with him. Naturally, the whole way home, we sang songs from the play. I think we sang our way through the whole "Munchkinland" scene.

And he's not just an actor--he's a future director. As we finished "We're Off to See the Wizard," he informed me that this is the part where everyone exits the stage. "When we're walking off the stage, we descendo the music," I was told.

Find a Different Pattern

Little Brother came home from school and reported that they had gone to Mass for First Friday.

"We sang, Allaluia, Alleluia, Let the Holy Anthem Rise," he told me.

"Hey, we sang that at daily Mass where I was too!"

"That's cool," he replied. "We also sang The Stripe is O'er."

(Because in Catholic school, they wear plaid.)

Book Review: My Teenage Werewolf

This book warranted more than the sentence or three that I give the other books I've read.  That's partly because of my strong reaction to it, and partly because of the strong reactions I got from my teenage daughter and another teenage girl who was visiting and saw it on the coffee table.

Both of them were offended by the title:  My Teenage Werewolf.  And when they found out the premise of the book, they were no less offended.  Author Lauren Kessler wants to "understand" her 12-year-old daughter better, so she shadows the girl at school, summer camp, at the mall, and on athletic fields.

My daughter was horrified--and relieved to discover that I had no intentions of similarly invading her life.  Even if there was a book deal involved.  Perhaps especially if there was a book deal involved.  (A lot never gets said here, because my daughter is 15, and I need to respect her privacy.)

I read the book because I wanted to find out how this mom managed to "embed" herself in her daughter's academic and athletic world.  How did she talk a school principal into allowing her to follow her daughter around all day?  And if she spent her day following her daughter around, how did she get anything else done? (There was frequent mention of lattes in the book, so I'm guessing copious amounts of caffeine were involved.)

I'm the first to admit that I don't have the ideal relationship with my teenage daughter.  We butt heads a lot.  Sometimes it's hard to remember that I'm the adult here, and that part of being 15 is being irrational, mercurial, and even selfish at times.  But part of being 15 is also being industrious, generous and energetic--all of which she is, and often in surprising ways.

Teenagers are on their way to growing up, and they are trying to make their way in a challenging world.  While I agree that it's a good thing--actually, a necessary thing--for parents to be involved and engaged in their kids' lives, I know that as teenagers learn to do more and be more, parents need to step back and let that happen.  Within reason, of course.  There's less hand-holding and more listening, often for things that are not said.  I felt that Kessler was busy trying to relive her own teenage years through her daughter, and that's never a good idea.  Other times I felt that Kessler was using her daughter as a means to an end (see "book deal" above.)  That's not a good idea either.

I'm not looking for the "ultimate bonding experience" with my daughter.  Sometimes I'll settle for enjoying our mutual favorite Panera sandwich, Asiago bagel with veggie cream cheese, with her.

Disclaimer:  This is a completely uncompensated review. I borrowed the book from the library.

Not Your Bus

Little Brother is the only kid in the neighborhood who doesn't have school this week.  That's because he's the only Catholic-school kid in the neighborhood.  Everyone else went back to school today.

While he could have slept in, Little Brother is not that kind of kid.  There are video games to be played, and Nerf slam-dunks to be practiced.

Besides, he thought he'd lord it over all his friends, since they have school today and he doesn't.

When he followed TheDad out to his car to say goodbye for the day, he saw people gathering at the bus stop.  But he came in to watch a few more minutes of SportsCenter.

And suddenly, the school bus was pulling away from the curb, and it was too late for him to brag about his week off to his friends.

"Mom," he shouted accusingly, "you were supposed to tell me when the bus got here."

Since when am I responsible for reminding my children to meet a school bus that isn't theirs, so they can brag to their friends?  If they want to act like that, they certainly don't need my help.

"I only issue reminders for buses you're supposed to be riding," I informed him.

Slowly but Surely...Spring Cleaning

I'm using the 3-bag method to clean up in here today.

• 1 paper grocery bag for recyclable paper
• 1 tote bag for stuff that belongs in another room
• 1 trash bag

So far so good!  I've discovered that I do, indeed, have a desktop.  It is brown.  It is not dusty, because there was no room for any dust to land on there!

I found a couple of things I didn't know were missing, and my bag of stuff to relocate is by far the fullest of the 3 bags.

The rest of the house still needs work--lots of work.  But my little corner of the world is well on its way to neatness.

Alleluia

Alleluia!  He is risen!  Blessings to you this Easter!

On Good Friday

We adore you, O Christ, and we praise you, because by your holy cross you have redeemed the world.

Pragmatic Sacrifice

There is just so much sacrificing a 9-year-old can do.

Case in point: Middle Sister had a friend sleep over last night. Despite the fact that there's a trundle bed in Middle Sister's room, we woke up this morning to find her friend snoozing on the family-room couch. That's where the TV is.

Little Brother wanted to watch TV.

While I was making his breakfast, he complained about the fact that he can't watch TV this morning.

"It's Good Friday today, bud. It's a day of sacrifice."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, sacrifice is giving up something important, especially when it helps other people. What did Jesus sacrifice on Good Friday?"

"His life," he said, as he gave me a big hug.

"So I think you can manage to miss your TV show this morning," I told him.

He nodded, thinking about that for a bit. "It's OK, Mom," he said. "My show comes on again at 10:30. Do you think she'll be up by then?"

It Might Get Loud

The Boy Next Door and a few other friends are over here to hang out with Middle Sister. They're all freshmen in high school, which means that while these guys enjoy going to school dances, they also enjoy staging Nerf wars with Little Brother.

Middle Sister came in here a few minutes ago to ask me to get Little Brother off the porch, where she was sitting with her friends.

"Find a friend your own age," I told Little Brother.

But the friends piped up, "No, we're having fun! He should stay here."

"Yeah," Little Brother chimed in. "They're like the brothers I never had."

"You have a brother," I reminded him.

So Little Brother remains on the porch (or in the yard--I just saw a bunch of these guys run by the window) with Middle Sister and the guys. There he is, right in the thick of things. And while it's noisy out there on the porch, I really don't mind having this bunch over. As long as they remember to put their empty soda cans in the recycling bin, they're welcome here.

Not So Grumpy

Sometimes you just have to break your own fashion rules.

I figure that I'm not young enough to pull off T-shirts with slogans or sweat shirts with pictures. I make an exception for Notre Dame and any school/team spirit wear associated with my kids, but that's it.

And I'm not a big Disney fan.

But a few months ago I found a fleece with my favorite Dwarf's picture on it, along with the words "I'm GRUMPY." At the time, I joked that I was buying it so that on days when I was feeling grumpy, I could issue a warning to my family.

That's not how it has turned out, though. When I wear this fleece, my grumpy mood tends to evaporate. The picture makes me smile, and it's hard to be grumpy when you're smiling. It's a weird way to get an attitude adjustment, but it works for me.

I should wear this shirt every day. I'm sure it would never pass the test on "What Not To Wear," but that's OK.

Why I'm Thankful Today

Today didn't start out so great, but I do have plenty to be thankful for. I wasn't feeling well yesterday so most of the afternoon was spent on the couch with the heating pad. Fortunately I have a laptop so I was able to get my work done. Also fortunately, I have a husband who can turn a blind eye to a fair amount of clutter that happens when I don't bother getting after the kids who've left a "Hansel and Gretl" trail of shoes, sandals, sweatshirts, novels, pretzel bags, jars of change, school projects and books for projects-in-progress all over the place. I also, fortunately, have a husband who is more than willing to take us to the Chinese buffet when I confess that I'm just not in the mood to cook any dinner.

So there were dishes to wash this morning before I could have coffee (I needed a clean coffee cup, after all). It's never fun to wake up and find dishes in the sink. But Little Brother got fed, dressed, combed, and out the door with a minimum of drama. Middle Sister did not miss the bus or forget her lunch.

I missed daily Mass because I had a GYN appointment. Not my yearly (that's coming up in 3 weeks) but a visit because I've been having problems. Again. Silly me for thinking that the hysterectomy would take care of all the problems.

The nurse weighed me before she took my blood pressure. BIG mistake.

The doctor kept me waiting for an hour. But then she kept other patients waiting while she listened to my concerns, asked detailed questions about my symptoms, checked on dates, reviewed past test results, and settled on a plan for where we go from here. I felt like I had been heard and that my concerns were respected.

So I left the doctor's office two full hours after my appointment time. (Good thing I had my Kindle with me!) I was two blocks from the mall, and I decided to run in and check to see if the shoes I had seen on sale last time I was there were still available. Hey, a little retail therapy never hurts. Especially when shoes are involved. As luck would have it, the shoe rack at the Lands' End Shop in Sears had ONE pair left of my "old faithful" sneakers--and they were in my size. Even better, they were on super clearance: $55 sneakers marked down to $6.99. AND they had ONE pair of a slightly dressier boat shoe left, again in my size, again marked down to $6.99 from $50.

I may have 3 medical appointments scheduled within the next 3 weeks, but at least my feet will look good when I get there.