Finding Some Silence

Being an introvert, I need some quiet time on a regular basis to recharge my batteries.  My kids don't know from quiet.  My younger two are so extroverted that they practically have others orbiting them on a regular basis.  Little Brother, in particular, needs near-constant company.  And when his friends are here and it's quiet, that's usually not a good thing either.

Between the radio (loud enough to be heard throughout the house), the TV (at a competing decibel level) and the general kid chatter--or bickering--I feel like I'm being assaulted by noise constantly.

I'm not getting to daily Mass like I'd like to (and like I do on average of 4 days a week during the school year), and that doesn't help.  It's hard to listen to my favorite radio show, The Catholics Next Door, because I don't want to add one more sound source to the sensory overload I'm experiencing.  It's like the lyrics from that Harry Nilsson song, "Everybody's Talkin' at Me."

And when everyone's outside, I relish the silence for as long as I can get it.

At Catholicmom.com, Sarah Reinhard brought up the topic of summer parenting.  I mentioned in the comments that with my desk in the middle of the house, in the living room, I run into a lot of sound overload (and a lot of interruptions.)  I've been contemplating a way to find some space elsewhere in the house where I can work in quiet.

This afternoon, I got it all figured out and Middle Sister did the heavy moving.  I've got a bookcase full of books emptied out all over the bed, so I have to get those put away, but there's a small desk in my room near a window that has a backyard view.  It's not going to be my primary work space.  But when things get Just Too Loud here in the heart of my home, it's good to know that I've got a spot where I can (temporarily) retreat.

I can run, but I can't hide.  I can't stay up there all day, tempting though it may be.  That won't do my family any good.  Besides, I'm not so sure I want to be working in the same room where I sleep.  We'll see how it goes.  If nothing else, I'll have sorted through all these books--and that's not a bad thing either.

Guess What!

I totally forgot to talk about this, and I really should have said something TWO WEEKS AGO when it first happened, but I am one of a bunch of new contributors to the "Tech Talk" daily feature at CatholicMom.com!  (How cool is THAT?) 


I'll be writing every other Tuesday about techie topics that are near and dear to my heart as a Catholic, a mom, a Secular Franciscan, a parent of teenagers...


I never considered myself a "Techie," though I suppose the signs were all there.  My younger brother got a computer when I was in high school (a Radio Shack TRS-80, and if you're old enough to know what that is, you're close to my age).  I used that computer as much as he did, learning to write BASIC programs that would print my name 50 times and other useful things like that.  Senior year, I suffered through a half-year of trigonometry so I could enjoy a half-year computer class.  Never popular, I suddenly found myself in demand as students teamed up to work on projects and I was one of the few who knew how to make a computer print my name 50 times.


There wasn't much wiggle room in college for me to take electives, but I took Intro to BASIC as my math requirement (more making computers print my name 50 times) and found room for a one-credit course on computer applications in education.


After two years of teaching, my career path took a turn for the educational-software industry, where I was paid to break software and tell non-English-speaking programmers what I did to break it so they could make the software student-proof.  (I rocked at that job.)  Eventually I freelanced for that company as a software author, writing lesson "scripts."


Down the road, I learned about Internet message boards, blogging, Facebook, Twitter and more.  My husband (who's been a computer programmer since 1995) has kept me in gadgets starting with my very first Palm PDA up through a Kindle, iPad and iPhone.


I enjoy using technology in a variety of ways and look forward to sharing my favorite apps, websites and more, every other Tuesday at CatholicMom.com.  I also look forward to reading what the rest of the "Tech Talk" team shares, and am extremely grateful for this opportunity.


Today's feature is Digital Prayer, in which I talk about the apps you can use to pray the Liturgy of the Hours.

Quite a Ride

So I need a nickname for the gang of teenagers that hangs around my house.  The little guys are the Street Urchins.  The sixteen-year-olds?  What do I call them?

It's been a rather difficult week in Teenage World.  Parenting teenagers definitely resembles a roller-coaster ride.  You're strapped in for the duration (7 years, give or take time for those rocky pre- and post-adolescent stages).  There are the ups and downs, twists and turns, and occasional spins that turn you upside down.

In the past week, we have experienced

• curfew battles
• playing one parent off another
• sulking
• plenty of eye-rolling, stomping up the stairs and slamming of the bedroom door
• The Silent Treatment
• and an ill-fated trip to the mall.

They've got nothing to do and way too much time to do nothing in. The bunch of them went job-hunting--together--after swimming at my house yesterday.  I'm not sure that the best way to look for a job is to show up as a Six-Pack at the pizzeria or Edible Arrangements with wet hair, wearing short shorts and flip-flops.  I asked the kids if any potential employer had wondered if he was expected to hire the whole crew.  (They didn't get why I thought that was funny, or even worth wondering about).

But we've also got a teenager who dissuades her younger brother from styling his hair like Eddie Munster, who "takes" me grocery shopping so she can do all the heavy lifting, pushing and loading that I can't do, who takes 3 AM phone calls from friends in despair over a family member's bad health and questioning the existence and benevolence of God.  While I'm not thrilled over a 3 AM phone call, I am so gratified to know that when her friends have crises like that, they turn to her.  That says a whole lot about my daughter, right there.

I've got to take the bad with the good here.  A spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down.  Ultimately, I think I've got a good kid, and maybe her friends are good kids too, but I don't know them well enough to really determine that.

Today is the feast of St. Aloysius Gonzaga, patron of teenagers.  And they need his intercession and inspiration more than ever.  So today, I prayed for that bunch of teenagers (and they still need a nickname).  And I'm on my way to the supermarket, driven by my very own teenager, to stock the fridge with sodas so her friends will find something cold to drink when they show up later.

image credit

Part of That World

The Little Mermaid was Middle Sister's favorite movie when she was around 3 or 4.  I don't think I've seen, heard or thought about that movie in at least 10 years.

But she borrowed it from a friend and watched it today as a break from a marathon final-exam cramming session.  And really, some of its messages gave me pause.

I've got a beautiful 16-year-old daughter who's strong and strong-willed, who has a bit of a rebellious streak and is definitely a risk-taker.  In other words, I'm raising Ariel.

Does my Ariel think the grass is greener on the other side of some fence?  Does she wish that she were somehow different--different in a way that denies a part of her true self--so that she could fit into a world that is not hers?  Does she think that her life wouldn't be complete unless she fit into that world?  Would she be willing to make a Faustian bargain to get there?

Is this movie's lesson any different from the one we learn in Grease?  Boy is attracted to girl, but she's not good enough to keep "as is."  She has to change so they can be together.

Maybe that's what I like about the movie Legally Blonde (silly though it may be.)  In that one, the girl changes because she thinks it will help her get her boyfriend back.  By the time he comes around, though, she discovers that he's not the man she thought he was--and she decides not to let him get in the way of her goals.

I want my daughter to know that she doesn't have to be Ariel, or Sandy, or even Elle Woods.  I want her to discover how wonderful she is, just because she is Middle Sister.  I want her to discover and develop her unique talents, to use her strength to help others, to love her life.

When In Doubt, Make It Up

My Kindle was on the table, in screen-saver mode.  Many of the screen-saver images feature famous authors.

"Anne Ghoul-berg!"  Little Brother exclaimed when he saw the picture on the screen.

"Who?"  I said, picking up the Kindle.  "This is Agatha Christie."

"Oh!  I thought it was Anne Ghoul-berg," he explained.

"Who's Anne Ghoul-berg?  Where did you hear of her?"

"In my mind," he replied proudly (I should have known).

I switched on the Kindle and resumed reading my book.  After a few quiet moments, Little Brother inquired, "Is there an Anne Ghoul-berg?"

The Lost Boys

What IS it with the kids on this block?

There are four boys on my street who are the same age as Little Brother.  I call them the Street Urchins.  They wind up here a lot, perhaps because I'm the one who lets them in.

They know that if they play at my house, they've got to play by my rules.  Street Urchins who drop the f-bomb in my family room get sent home.  That's me, the Mean Mommy.

This morning, I mentioned to TheDad that last night one of the boys' moms had come here looking for him about an hour after his sisters picked him up.  That's when he told me that he'd heard there were marital problems in that household, and this boy might be moving soon.

One of the other boys lives with his mom and older siblings.  His parents have been on-and-off separated for several years now.  His dad, though, stays involved and is a Cub Scout leader.

I don't really know much about the new kid on the block, other than the fact that his parents just opened their second pizzeria.  He seems to be on his own quite a bit.

And then there's Adventure Boy, who (like his 3 older siblings) is being raised by his grandparents though his mom lives across town.  Sometimes he goes there.  Sometimes he spends a few hours with his dad, and his grandmother reports that the custody issues aren't pretty.  He's been left to his own devices since he was a preschooler.

A week or so ago, two of these boys knocked on my door at 8:20 on a school night, looking to play with Little Brother.  Ten minutes.  That's all I gave them.  Who lets their kids out at 8:20 on a school night?  Who lets their kids disappear after school, never looking for them until they have a baseball game or soccer practice?  Who doesn't call their kids home until after 8 (if then)--kids who have been out since 4 or earlier, who haven't been fed dinner, who haven't been nagged about homework?

Sometimes I think I should stop calling them the Street Urchins and refer to them as the Lost Boys.

I've ranted about these kids again and again and again.  I resent being Mommy to the whole block.  This isn't what I signed up for.

After yesterday's Cheese Ball Debacle, in which two of the Street Urchins thought it would be fun to toss Utz cheese balls into each other's mouths, and then pulverized the ones that missed--all over my back porch--I was more than a little bit hot under the collar.  They come here, make a mess, help themselves to snacks and drinks, make a mess, kick soccer balls at my pool filter and front door, make a mess, and (apparently) never have to go home.  And I resent that.  A lot.

I plan to come down hard on the Street Urchins next time they show up, about the cheese balls.  That is disrespectful to me and to my home, and wasteful of food.  If I'd found the mess before they left, they would have been the ones out on the porch with the ShopVac.  Instead, it was Little Brother.

But after TheDad mentioned that yet another Street Urchin is dealing with problems at home, my heart melted just a little bit.  These kids need what they're not getting at home, I realized.  None of them is in a situation of his own making.

I was wondering, the other day, if refusing to buy Johnson's Baby Shampoo and Starbucks lattes really does any good.  I'm not convinced that it does.  And while I'm happy to be able to afford the big box of diapers every month that I donate to a local crisis-pregnancy center (and I will continue to do so), that effort is a drop in the bucket.

What I need to do is give where it really counts, and that means giving until it hurts.  That means putting up with the Street Urchins and continuing to remind them that baseballs are not Pool Toys and sending them home when the streetlights go on.  It means welcoming them, but setting (and sticking to) limits.  It means praying for them.  It means doing the right thing even when I don't feel like it; even when I'm cranky and resentful and feeling put-upon.  Maybe especially then.

Honestly, this may be the most pro-life thing I can do right now.

In your charity today, please offer a prayer (or several) for the Lost Boys.

Fashion Emergency, Little Brother Style

Little Brother (pointing at the shirt he's wearing now, which is, not surprisingly, dirty):  Mom, can you wash this shirt tonight?
Me:  No.  I don't do laundry on Sundays.
(commence pouting by Little Brother)
Big Brother:  What's his problem?
Me:  He just remembered he has a dress-down day tomorrow and he wants to wear THAT SHIRT that he wears all the time.
Big Brother:  Did you wear that to the last dress-down day?  Then find something else to wear tomorrow.
Little Brother:  No!
Middle Sister:  You can't wear that if you wore it last time.  Never repeat an outfit!
TheDad:  Boys don't wear "outfits."

Boycott Burnout?

This afternoon I was listening to my favorite radio show, The Catholics Next Door, on Sirius XM (totally worth the price of the subscription just for this show, by the way!)  Hosts Greg and Jennifer Willits were discussing boycotts.  I wish they'd allotted more time to this issue.

That topic has been on my mind quite a bit lately.  For about the past 20 years, my family has participated in the Life Decisions International boycott of companies that support Planned Parenthood.  That means no Levi's, no Johnson's Baby Shampoo, no Texaco gas--among so many other things.

And then there's the Dump Starbucks Campaign, triggered by their announcement that same-sex marriage is core to who they are and what they value as a company.  More recently, Target announced that proceeds from a line of Pride T-shirts would fund the Family Equality Council.

Now, I don't get Starbucks much; I don't like their coffee.  If I want a $4 fancy coffee, I'll go to Panera and get my latte there.  But Target is right around the corner and it's my go-to store for a lot of things, replacing Wal-Mart, which is farther away and which has boycott issues of its own regarding labor issues, Chinese suppliers and more.

Maybe I'm just wimping out because this is hitting too close to home.  But it's starting to feel like I won't have anywhere to shop if I support all these boycotts.

Do they do any good?  Do the companies really care if I (not a big spender anyway) spend what I do spend someplace else?  Does anybody care?  After all, the American Cancer Society has been linked to support of Planned Parenthood, yet my parish still participates in the local Relay for Life.

So, am I lazy?  Tired?  Wimpy?  Is the devil on my back?  Or do I need to find another way to make a difference?

No-Win

Last night before she went to bed, Middle Sister told me that she needed to wake up at 6 this morning. "I set my alarm, but come in and make sure I get up," she said. "Don't let me stay asleep. I HAVE to get up."

So at 6 this morning I knocked on her door and got a mumbled response. Opening it a crack, I reminded her that she wanted me to wake her at 6.

"I was up too late last night trying to get my mascara off," she replied sleepily.

"you told me to make sure you got up at 6," I said.

"No."

"You also told me not to take no for an answer."

"Well, I'm saying no," she shot back. At that point I figured that I'm going to lose either way, so I closed her door and went downstairs to enjoy my coffee before she gave me trouble for waking/not waking her--whichever she considered the greater offense at the time.

How's It Going?

I get asked that a lot.

I look like I'm perfectly fine, except during a hot flash (at least a dozen a day) when I more closely resemble a tomato.

As of last Wednesday, I am allowed behind the wheel.

That's where the trouble started.

When you tell someone like me that she can get back behind the wheel, she will probably go right back to her old tricks:  6 errands in one morning because 3 of them were "on the way."

I'm not doing anything I'm not allowed to do, but I seem to be doing too much of the stuff that I am allowed to do.

And therefore, even though I look perfectly fine on the outside, I'm exhausted by this point in the afternoon--even on a day when I don't do too much.

I think I was better off when I wasn't allowed to drive, because I was necessarily limited in things I could do by where I could do things.  Clearly I am way too much of a Type A personality to do recuperation well.

TheDad is awfully good about the fact that he called last night at 7:30 and asked me to have the kids turn on the pool filter, waking me up when the phone rang--and then I hung up the phone and completely forgot about the pool.  "You're still healing," he reminds me patiently.

I keep forgetting about that until I find myself trying to stay awake at 3 in the afternoon and know that the next 6 hours are going to be a struggle.

Because really, except for the scar, which is always covered by my clothing, I look perfectly fine on the outside.

You know what I'm learning?  You can't judge someone who is ambling across a parking lot, right in your path.  You can't assume that because they look perfectly fine on the outside, they're fine on the inside too.  You can't assume that walking doesn't hurt them or that they have the energy to walk faster than that.

I hope I remember that even when I do have the energy to walk faster.

Bite-Sized Prayers

In the past few weeks, my family was blessed by many friends who showed up here with dinner during my hospitalization and recovery at home.  I can't even express how wonderful it has been to be on the receiving end of a meal prepared and delivered with love.

And the kids are still raving about Sally's Magic Chicken--as well they should.  It was delicious.

Every time a casserole dish came through my front door, I made a silent promise to myself that I would repay the favor, or at the very least, pay it forward.  But I didn't expect that my first opportunity to do so would come quite so soon.

After yesterday's follow-up appointment with my surgeon, I've been cleared to drive (though it's still pretty uncomfortable to do that) and to increase activity gradually, except for heavy lifting.  I got back behind the wheel just in time to pick up a few ingredients for a dinner I'm making tonight for my friend Sally.

As I rolled up those turkey enchiladas, I prayed for Sally and her family.  I prayed for the soul of Sally's recently deceased mother.  And it occurred to me that when our friends made us lasagna, pot pie, spaghetti and meatballs, chicken with spinach and linguine, homemade mac & cheese, pot roast, turkey, antipasto and that Magic Chicken, they were probably praying too.  I know that the prayers and love that were stirred into those dinners helped with my healing.  And I hope that the prayers and love that I rolled into those enchiladas help to bring peace to Sally's heart and to her family in this difficult time.

Don't think for a minute that delivering a meal to a family during a difficult time is a silly gesture or, worse, an unwelcome intrusion.  I was guilty of thinking that--until folks did this wonderful service for us.  Now that I know how much it means, I've resolved never to hesitate to help someone out in this way.

After all, there's a prayer in every bite.

7 Quick Takes

So, it's been a whole week since I posted anything, and I saw Hallie's reminder about the Quick Takes and, well, why not?  Here's a look at the randomness of my world.

1.  I started back to "work" this week.  Since "work" for me means freelance writing, I am "working" from the comfort of my own couch.  I am thankful for laptops that allow me not to sit at a desk, because sitting in a straight chair is not comfortable yet.

2.  One of my freelance projects is a blog targeted to new parents.  Normally this project involves product spotlights and occasional recall announcements.  Yesterday I was asked to discuss the whole TIME magazine-attachment parenting debacle.

3.  I got some bread baked yesterday, because we were almost out of bread, and I didn't have time to walk down to 7-11 and get more.  Thanks to my Dough Machine, I made some at home.  Little Brother eats large quantities of toast every morning.  A double batch of Portuguese Easter Bread should do the trick.

4.  It's good to have some energy back, and there are some things I can do around the house now.  If someone gets me everything I need from the lower shelves, I can cook.  If someone carries the laundry to the basement and delivers the baskets of clean clothes, I can do the laundry, this ensuring that my yoga pants don't get put in the dryer and shrink to fit the 8-year-old neighbor.  I need those yoga pants right now!  I'm healing well on the outside and trying very hard to follow directions so I heal well on the inside too.

5.  Big Brother came home from college yesterday.  It's good to have him home.  Last night the Big Kids and I sat around eating ice cream, talking and laughing.  It was great.  But having him here is also good for my blood pressure; his school is in a not-so-great neighborhood of Philadelphia, so I often find myself obsessing over crime and accident reports on the news, google-mapping the address to see if it's anywhere near his dorm.  For the next 3 months, I don't have to do that.

6.  I've got a cookbook giveaway going on over at Mom's Fridge!  Check it out!

7.  Things I miss because I'm recovering:  daily Mass, helping out in the library at Little Brother's school, grocery shopping, track meets.  Things I don't miss:  driving, vacuuming, driving, mopping, driving, washing windows, and did I mention driving?  People have asked me if I'm getting stir-crazy because I can't go anyplace.  Honestly, no.  I can get out and walk; there's a Panera only about 1/4 mile away, so I can walk over there.  I'm sure I cancel out the "healthy" in the walk by bringing home a caramel latte, but I am powerless over the caramel latte.

Remember, the Quick Takes are being hosted at Betty Beguiles this week.  Why not link up?

Book Tour: Catholic Family Fun

It's an honor to be part of Sarah Reinhard's Catholic Family Fun Book Tour!  I was reading something else when this book arrived in the mail, but I dumped that in a hurry. You see, I've been a fan of Sarah's blog since she was mom to only one child (she has three now, like I do.) This book celebrates the fun we all want to have with our families and shows us how things like building a backyard obstacle course, eating breakfast for dinner, and singing camp songs are not only family fun, but Catholic family fun. 

What I like best about Catholic Family Fun is that you don't have to go all "Clark W. Griswold" on your family to incorporate the activities described in this book.  Just build it in; don't force it.

Activities in the book are apropriate for a wide range of ages and can be modified if you (like me) have a big age gap between the kids.  Age gaps mean ability differences and huge variations in interests, and that's an extra challenge when planning family activities.  With that in mind, the ideas in this book are labeled according to duration, cost and prep time.  The rest will vary, depending on how many children (and friends) are involved, and their ages.

Chapters in this book include such topics as silly things to do, story starters, crafts, food, outdoor fun, family field trips, saints, service and prayer.  There's a handy appendix at the back that shows you at a glance how much prep time, money, or run time is needed for each activity.  Of course, your mileage may vary there, given your particular family circumstances, but it's great to have a general idea.  Additional resources include a Facebook page and Catholic Family Fun website, which will be updated regularly with new activities and "extras" to coordinate with the book!

My only problem with this book?  It didn't come along until my youngest child turned 10!  I really could have used it when my Big Kids were little, but nooooooo.  Sarah is young enough that she could have been my Big Kids' babysitter.  For that matter, Sarah is young enough that I could have been her babysitter.  But we're peers in parenting now, and I have a huge respect for her.  Read her books or her blog and you'll find out why.

This is a book that will benefit parents, grandparents, teachers, catechists and friends.  Have fun together, and celebrate being Catholic all at the same time! 

Want your own copy?  Ask for it at your local Catholic bookstore, or visit the Catholic Family Fun website or Sarah's book page for purchasing information.  At $11.95, it's a family-friendly bargain!

I'm a stop on Sarah's Virtual Book Tour!  The only bad thing about the "virtual" part is that I don't get to meet her in person.  But read enough of her work, and you'll feel like you know her already.  If you're late to this Book Tour party, just use the link above to see all the reviews and interviews along the way.  I've found many wonderful "new-to-me" blogs thanks to this tour.

Disclaimer: I received a review copy of this book, but no other compensation, for my participation in this Book Tour. All opinions are mine.

Putting the "Anti" in the Antipasto

A whole lot of dinner showed up here yesterday, thanks to three wonderful friends.  Fortunately, it all arrived early in the day, with cooking instructions, so we didn't have to choose among three hot meals.

One meal came complete with antipasto.  I'm not sure how, but "antipasto" is a foreign concept to the males of this household.  The nature of the dish itself is as much a mystery to them as its pronunciation.

I swear, if someone calls it "ant-EYE-pasta" one more time, there might be violence committed.  I would not be convicted by a jury of my foodie peers--or my linguist ones, either.

Little Brother was a little leery of the idea of antipasto until I told him it was a big "ham-alami."  That's what he calls the ham-and-salami rollups that I sometimes make for his lunches.  When he came over to the table and saw the platter, he was sold.

Except for the Swiss cheese.  (How'd that get in there?)

In any event, it was all delicious and we're looking forward to the equally-delicious-looking main course, which is almost hot enough to eat.

The Media-Savvy Catholic Parent

As the mom of three children, ages 20, 16 and 10, I'm right in the thick of parenting digitally-active kids in an ever-more digitally-active age.  We consume media around here.  I'm probably the only one in the house who reads books anymore--and half the time, they're e-books.  The rest of the family stays informed through television, radio, and various new media.

In my house, you'll find computers, iPods, iPhones, iPads and a Kindle. You'll find video games and a Netflix subscription.  We've got satellite radio and satellite TV.  While I'm the only one who blogs, three of us tweet and four of us Facebook.  The ten-year-old wishes he could, but we think he's too young for that.

And in my house, we're Catholics.  The kids go to Catholic schools (and, in one case, a Catholic university.)  We attend Mass weekly and our children serve as musicians and altar servers.  Our reality includes grace before meals--even when friends come over to visit, my own life as a Secular Franciscan, and "prayers upstairs" with the 10-year-old before he goes to bed each night.

Books like Infinite Bandwith:  Encountering Christ in the Media are encouraging to me as a parent.  Author Eugene Gan discusses the digital realities that our children (whether young children or young adults) encounter each day without being heavy-handed.  Media of all sorts are a part of just about everyone's life, and Gan shows parents ways to use these media tools to help others learn about--and grow closer to--God.  Gan's book explains seven "media keys" to help people approach the use of media in a sensible, faith-filled way, so that the media we consume can nourish our faith and that we can use media to inspire the faith of others.

This review was written as part of The Catholic Company product reviewer program. Visit The Catholic Company to find more information. I received a review copy of this book, but no other compensation, for the purposes of this review.

Communion and Community

Last night I got out of the house for the first time in 8 days. It took me about that long before I was willing to get into a car again! But our once-a-month Saturday-night Mass gig was this weekend at the Big Church, which is only one mile away, so I figured I could do it.

Except for the homily, I stood for the entire Mass. Sitting is difficult. I can't sit gracefully or comfortably. I sit like a cellist who has just had her instrument stolen. And then, of course, there is the Wearing of the Yoga Pants-- just about any other pants are out of the question right now.

But in that church, the musicians are located in a spot where no one sees how you're dressed or that you're pacing around back there during the Creed. So it worked.

I paid for that one-mile car ride, but it was worth it--SO worth it. I paid for the singing, which works the abs more than you might realize. But what I received? Hugs, good wishes, smiles and inquiries about my health from friends, neighbors, fellow musicians, deacon and pastor. The grace of just being there at Mass. The gift of singing at Mass (I was not foolish enough to try to bring my guitar). And the Eucharist, the whole reason I needed to be there.

A friend and fellow Franciscan stopped by last week to bring me Communion. I treasure that. And I treasure yesterday's venture to church as well. These past couple of weeks, I have really been reminded of what it's all about: Communion and community. I am grateful--very grateful--for both.

Power parenting

So Little Brother is in the backyard, playing soccer with two of the Street Urchins (boys his age who live down the block.). I'm listening with half an ear to the goings-on, since twice already this week that soccer ball has scored a direct hit on the pool filter, disconnecting the hose.

And my mom had dinner all ready, so she headed out the back door to call Little Brother in. When he didn't follow, I called him out the window and that's when my mom told me that one of the boys was telling Little Brother to stay outside.

I've found this child ignoring his own mother more than once when she's come to tell him it's time to go. He has flat-out refused to leave with his older sisters one day when they were sent to get him.

In a few short weeks it'll be summertime, and all the Street Urchins will want to swim in my pool. I hate being the Bad Cop all the time, but somebody has to. With a pool in the yard, there are safety issues. You have to supervise and know who's there and who's in the water. You have to make sure they play and swim safely. (And you have to require kids who live on your block to bring their OWN towels.)

I think, before summer, I need to come up with a game plan. Suggestions are welcome.

UPDATE:  Thanks to some GENIUS suggestions in the comments and from a neighbor, I've worked up this template.  Sharing it here for other families in my spot--and I'll amend this as necessary.  But kids will have to leave one with me before they swim here.

From the Department of: At Least He's Honest

Little Brother just wandered through here with his favorite soccer jersey in hand.

"Nannie, thank you for washing this," he told his grandmother.  He'll wear that shirt as often as it's clean, and sometimes when it's not, if he thinks he can get by me.

"Where did you find THAT?" she asked him.

"In the dryer," he answered.

"Wait," I interrupted.  "You tumbled through the dryer to find that?  I hope you didn't tumble any other clothes out onto the floor..."

"I put back the ones that fell on the floor."

To love, honor and obey

Every January, my Secular Franciscan fraternity celebrates with a ritual called Extraction of Saints, in which we are assigned a patron saint for the year, a virtue to develop, a maxim to live by, and another fraternity member to remember in special prayer.

This year, my virtue was Obedience.

I knew I was in for it when that one came along. Ask God for a virtue and He'll generously respond with a challenge to help you get there.

This is not to say that I think God is in any way responsible for the medical condition (endometriosis) that led to my recent surgery. I don't think that's how things work. But that surgery is an opportunity for me to use God's grace to grow in virtue.

It'll be another three weeks, at least, before I'm allowed behind the wheel. I can't be running down the basement stairs, hauling laundry, mopping, vacuuming, and bending over to get heavy pots and pans out of the cabinets.

They sent me a babysitter in the form of Mom for this week, to make sure I don't do anything I shouldn't. Next week, my husband will be working from home with the same end in mind. But I admit, I'm not super-tempted to cheat at this point. Thought about it on Monday, then reconsidered.

The resentment about not being able to do my usual things is evaporating. Offers of help from friends are accepted, tough though it can be for me to let someone do things for me. Grace has been busy, I guess. And I am very blessed, and very grateful.

 

Hello, yes, it's been a while...

Here I am, hanging out on the couch at home. I am recovering well thanks to the insistence of my family that I spend this time resting. They even sent for a babysitter in the form of Mom, because I definitely require that kind of policing.

My house has never been so clean.

Middle Sister held down the fort in the after-school hours quite admirably last week. She cooked, cleaned up, and fussed at the hygiene-averse Little Brother.

Once I recovered from the Evil Epidural from Hell, which kept me semi-anesthetized and completely glazed over for several days before I said no to drugs and kicked the double vision, I was on my feet quickly. My incision is smaller than what I was led to expect, and it's held together by Crazy Glue. (Don't go there. Yes, it's probably appropriate.)

I got very good care at the hospital, but a separate rant about facility design is in order. But the staff? Top notch.

This Time Tomorrow...

I just keep telling myself, "this time tomorrow, it'll all be over."

I'm called for 11:00 at the hospital, for a 1:30 surgery time.  It's clear liquids only, all day today, and nothing after midnight.  Not even water.

My neighbor kindly offered to feed the rest of my family so that I wouldn't have to cook/clean up/smell/watch them all eat dinner.  I'm sitting here with a mug full of nutritious, yet boring, homemade chicken stock.  Or maybe turkey.  I use those interchangeably.  I have the broth in the mug with the picture of a Hershey Kiss on it, vainly hoping that the placebo effect will kick in and make it taste more like chocolate and less like, well, chicken.

My handy-dandy new pocket rosary will be coming along for the ride and I'm sure it will see plenty of praying action this week.

I'm going to have TheDad update my Facebook and Twitter (@franciscanmom) after surgery, but I probably won't be back in this space until I have access to a computer or iPad.  That may wait until I'm home.

You all have my deepest gratitude for each and every prayer and word of encouragement that you have already offered.  Please keep on praying!

Things To Do Before the Weekend

In a way, this is my personal response to Hilary Rosen's comment last night that stay-at-home moms don't "work."

There are a lot of loose ends to tie up around this house before I walk out of here Monday morning and return Thursday or Friday, only to have to lie around with my feet up for a while and let other people do what I usually do around the house.

TheDad wants me to write down all the stuff that he will need to know.  Even then, I know that I'll have kids calling me at the hospital asking me where stuff is and how to do this or that.

Things I MUST get done:

• laundry
• dust and vacuum my bedroom
• write out logistics concerning:  lunches, school bus
• make tutorial cookbook for Middle Sister
• square away the Secular Franciscans for next week's meeting (that's this afternoon's task)
• get my wedding ring removed (and then repaired, so when I'm out of the hospital I can wear it again)
• grocery list and shopping

Things I SHOULD get done:

• make arrangements for Anointing of the Sick
• get ahead (if possible) on the publicity work I do for Room Two Productions
• finish the last bit of freelance work
• check on library books
• clean the bathrooms

Things I'd love to get done but I'm well aware that they "ain't gonna happen:"

• take down curtains, launder them, return them to windows
• launder, starch and iron living-room tablecloths on end tables
• a really detailed vacuuming of the whole house, including Couch Diving
• scrub my kitchen floor before my mother shows up here and does it

All this in the next day and a half, because Saturday is busy and Sunday I'll be doing prep, which means I won't want to be doing any heavy work.

You've Gotta Know the Territory

So I've got the marching orders.  I will be marching into the hospital on Monday, April 16 for surgery and will be in the hospital for 3 or 4 days.  After that, there will be recovery at home.

That means people will be "on my turf."  I'm a very territorial, very independent person.  I don't like other people cooking in my kitchen and taking care of jobs that are supposed to be mine.  (Heck, I don't even like people drinking out of my glass.  My husband completely doesn't get that, but that's how I am.)

The night after I met with my surgeon, I had all these dreams about people being in my way.  I couldn't do anything--even go to sleep--without having people in my path.  It doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out what that was about.

The territory thing, and the needing-assistance thing, are a much bigger concern to me than the actual medical reasons behind this surgery.  I hate asking anyone for help.  I hate that I will need help (a good bit of it, most likely).  I hate that someone else is going to have to drive the kids, cook the meals, wash the laundry, sweep the floor.  Sometimes my own kids will be helping with some of those jobs.  Some of them will fall to TheDad.  And my mom has already announced that she'll be here for a week.

The last time she came here to help me after surgery, she scrubbed my floor on her hands and knees.  I hated that.  If she does it again, I will hate it again.  I know that in the scheme of things I am very, very blessed to (a) still have a mom, (b) have a mom healthy enough to help me, (c) have a mom who is currently in her 3rd or 4th retirement (clearly she is Bret Favre's role model in this regard) so she's free to come and help me, (d) have a mom who wants to come and help me, and (e) have a dad who's willing to drive Mom 125 miles each way so she can come and help me.

I'm really not much in the mood, right now, to let perspective get in the way of my pity party.  Except for the cleaning-of-the-house part, I'm going to miss what I do for my family.  I'm going to miss the cooking and the laundry (especially now that I can hang it outside again) and planting my little herb garden since I was partially successful with it last year and even the driving.  I'm going to miss the writing, since I'm taking some time off from my freelance jobs while I recover.  I'm going to miss playing and singing at church, since Easter was the last time I'll get to do that for a while.

I was reminded today that allowing others to help me opens the door for them to receive grace through their practice of the corporal works of mercy.  I guess, right now, that is as good as it'll get.

Meanwhile, you are not allowed in my kitchen until after I walk out of here on Monday.  It is my territory, and I will chase you.

Easter's Musical Gift

Alleluia, He is risen!  We sang all about it yesterday.  And it was wonderful.

Our parish schedules an extra Mass on Easter to accommodate the expected crowds.  The rest of the schedule is shuffled a bit so that the larger of the two church buildings has the majority of Masses, which makes sense, because you need to fit more people.  Our folk group was playing at the little church at 10 AM.  There hasn't been a 10 AM Mass at the little church in almost 4 years.  So I was a little curious about how well-attended it would be.  Would people forget?  After all, my husband would have headed over to the big church if I hadn't reminded him that we were singing at the little church.  He'd have found a Mass there too, because both churches had a 10:00--but he wouldn't have found us.

It was a full house--and more--in the choir area, because it was a full house--and more--in the church.  My husband and mother-in-law couldn't get seats in the pews, so they sat with us.  So did Big Brother, who didn't have a guitar at home to play (and regretted that, at the last minute).  Middle Sister was serving, of course.  The folk group showed up in force, except for one member who was visiting faraway family.  Best problem in the world to have:  not enough seating for all the musicians and singers.  Fortunately, our church has these great "window seats" in the choir area.  At least 10 people had to use them; all 15 chairs were taken.

And we made our joyful noise.  It feels SO GOOD to lift your voice in "Alleluia" and "Glory to God" after all this time.  This group has a long tradition of singing "All Good Gifts" on Easter (the Godspell version) and though you might think of it as better suited to Thanksgiving, it works for Easter so well:  Easter Mass is all about celebrating, and thanking God, for the enormous and extravagant gift of love, shown through Jesus and His sacrifice.

Even better, we were permitted to sing our very favorite piece:  the Lord's Prayer.  It's a hallmark of our group, but one that we were asked to stop singing when the parishes merged.  A couple of times during Lent, the pastor (who asked us not to sing it anymore) allowed us to sing it.  People love it.  It's right up there with "Amazing Grace" in the Raise the Roof and Sing Along Factor.  And our associate pastor loves it, because it eliminates the whole "barrel through the Lord's Prayer" thing that is his personal pet peeve.

Our associate pastor has been stationed here for more than 7 years, and I think I've seen him actually sing maybe twice in all that time.  Yesterday, he sang along with the Lord's Prayer too.

When we finish the Lord's Prayer, we all get the same feeling:  we have Been To Church.  We have PRAISED.

I got a big basket full of chocolate and sugar for Easter, but the music was definitely a better gift, because it helps me remember the greatest gift.

Alleluia!

Some Easter Randomness

Because when you've been up since 4 AM (for no good reason whatsoever), random is as good as it gets.

I haven't slept past 5:15 in a week.  Anxious much?  Why yes, yes I am.  I'll know tomorrow when my surgery is scheduled.  It'll be either the 16 or the 23, the doctor thinks.  If I don't start getting some sleep soon, I'll be pushing for the 16th, just so I can get some rest faster!

I put together the Easter baskets last night, and delegated the Hiding of the Eggs.  There was a little obsessive checking this morning to make sure that the eggs had, indeed, been hidden.

Big Brother and Middle Sister were both awake when I went to bed last night.  I'm pretty sure they didn't inspect the Easter baskets, because Big Brother's basket still contains eggs filled with candy (I checked that too.)  Middle Sister gets annoyed that her brother doesn't want to hunt for eggs anymore, and last year she emptied his basket and hid all the eggs before he woke up.  We were still finding them early this year (M&Ms. Still good.  Finders keepers.)

I took Little Brother to the outdoor portion of the Easter Vigil last night.  In our parish, the Boy Scouts are in charge of the Easter fire.  Who better to ask?  They know how to build fires, and they know how to "leave no trace" later.  Plus, they're happy to stick around when everyone else has processed into church, and tend that fire until it's out.

Is that an awesome Easter bonfire or what?  People were a lot closer when they first gathered around, but they stepped back pretty quickly.  It was a windy night.

Once everyone was in church, the Scouts brought out the marshmallows and the campfire-pie maker.  Last night's flavor of choice:  apple.  The Scout families and a few friends enjoyed Holy S'mores, featuring imported German chocolate with chili and hazelnuts along with marshmallows toasted over the Easter fire.  Not only do our Boy Scouts know how to make a fire, they know how to cook.

I always encourage parents of little children to bring them for the "Easter fire" part.  But this year it was a little disappointing.  It felt like the Reader's Digest Condensed Version of the Easter Fire.  I don't know if it was the new translation (I doubt that) or what, but there was no assembly of the Easter candle with the little pegs representing the wounds of Christ and the inscription of the year.  That's a fascinating thing for kids (and grownups) to see.  Kids can see the candle being assembled.  Then in church they can go look at it more closely after Mass.  It's something they'll see all year.  Last night, though, there were no little pegs on the candle and the outdoor portion was over in 5 minutes.  It took longer for everyone in the assembly to get their candles lighted and get inside.

We're playing at the 10:00 Mass this year.  That'll throw my whole day off...I'll get home and think it's 1:30.  Some people in our folk group are not "morning people" so this could get interesting.

And if my surgery is next Monday, this will be the last Mass I play for a while.  I won't be able to hold a guitar for a few weeks, and the day before surgery I'll be stuck in the house on a clear liquid diet, so I'll have to hit the 8:00 Mass.  So in a way, I'm hoping for the 23rd so I can play one more week before my little hiatus.  I can't help it; I'm just crazy like that.  Playing guitar in church--that's what I do.  It's a huge part of me.  It's a huge part of how I pray.

So today, I am going to relish every song, every "Alleluia," every chance to lift my voice and glorify God.  Even when the songs and settings are not my favorite ones (and many, today, are not); even when the politically-correct lyric revision distracts (and it will); even when we no longer can sing "The Happy Gloria" because, to our knowledge, it hasn't yet been revised to match the New Translation; even with all of that, it's a privilege and a joy and a gift to do what I do, with the talented musicians and singers in our folk group who have become my close friends over the years.

All together now:  "Alleluia!"

Surreal

I just had the following conversation with my daughter.

Middle Sister (out of nowhere):  I can't chaperone a field trip!

Me:  You're not going to chaperone any field trips.

Middle Sister:  That's because I can't.

Me:  No one asked you to chaperone a field trip.

Middle Sister:  I'm pretty sure it's not even legal.

A Litany of Gratitude

I'm not going to lie; I'm worried about how my appointment with the surgeon is going to go today. I've got a whole bunch of questions to ask.  I wrote them down so I don't forget.  As long as I remember to bring that paper with me, it's all good.

The closer I get to my appointment, the more anxious I get.  The more anxious I get, the more prickly I get.  Right now I'm practically a porcupine.  My poor husband gets the worst of it, and the guy really doesn't need any more stress than he's already got.  I'm pretty sure they should take his blood pressure at the doctor's office today.  Today, I am grateful that he puts up with me when I get like this.

Today, I am grateful that he stayed up half the night working so he can leave the office early and come with me to this appointment.  Even though I act like I want to be all independent and everything, he doesn't take no for an answer when it really counts.

Today, I am grateful for a friend who rearranged the Chess Club Carpool.  It was my turn to drive today, but she's taking that shift.  This way, Little Brother doesn't have to miss his favorite after-school activity.

Today, I am grateful for my neighbor who will be home when Little Brother gets here; if we're not back yet, he can hang out at her house, do his homework and play with her kids until we get home.

Today, I am grateful that my appointment has been moved to 2:00 instead of the original 3:00.  This means we'll have a better chance of beating rush hour on the way home.  Rush hour in Philly can be a bit terrifying.

Today, I am grateful that Middle Sister will be traveling to a track meet after school, even though she's recovering from an injury and can't run yet.  She's got team spirit and she's going to be there to encourage her friends.

Today, I am grateful that Little Brother thinks of everything.

Today, I am grateful for a doctor who listens and who takes my concerns and observations seriously enough to send me to a specialist she considers the best in the business.

Today, I am grateful for the prayers of my parents, family members, cousins, and friends near and far.

Overprepared?

It's time to get ready for the first track meet of the 2012 season. I'm the recorder, or Scribe as I like to call it. I write down every runner's time in every race. It gets hectic but I enjoy it.

This is my third season, so I'm pretty good at knowing what to bring along. I just packed my tote bag with:

collapsible camp stool
gloves
8 pencils
clipboard
Sharpie
2 pens
binder clips
map
directions to the meet
wallet
cell phone
granola bar
small "essentials" bag from my purse, containing Advil, inhaler, lip balm, Swiss Army knife and band-aids. Covers just about every emergency.

It's going to be cold this evening, so it's time to eat up, layer up and get out of here!

The Silver Lining

This weekend was the semi-annual Cub Scout Babka Sale.  It's a LOT of work, especially for Mr. Cubmaster, who drives all the way to Elizabeth (about 90 miles each way) to get the babka, then shuttles it between 2 churches to cover the 4 Masses for the weekend.

It was a whole lot of EXTRA work this weekend because of all the no-shows.  At two of the four Masses, Little Brother was the only Scout there.  Only one other Scout leader was there all weekend.  The pack didn't make much money this year, because we had 26 babka left over (usually we sell out, but people don't want to wait in line, so the key is to have lots of little salespeople to keep things moving.)

I got a distress call from TheDad (Mr. Cubmaster) at 8:30, telling me that no one else had shown up at the 8:00 Mass and that I needed to get over there to staff the tables.  After that, I headed over to the other church to help set up for the 10:00 Mass and sale.  On the way, I heard a new-to-me singer-songwriter on the radio, and he played what has become my New Favorite Song:



I just love it, and I hope you do too. This song says what music means to me. This is why I do what I do, regardless of the way things go in church-music politics. This Palm Sunday, I was reminded of why I am thankful to God--every day--for the gift of music in my life.

And if I hadn't been in the car shuttling between churches to get to a babka sale I wasn't supposed to staff, I would never have heard my New Favorite Song.

So I am thankful for that silver lining today!

Psychic Hotline

Now that she's a sophomore in high school, Middle Sister's been getting a bunch of college mail.  Most of it is postcards directing her to visit college websites, but yesterday she got a big envelope with a folder full of papers inside.

That impressed her.  She actually opened it instead of just tossing it aside like she does with the postcards.  She asked me if I knew where this university was, and I told her that it's near where TheDad works and that one of Big Brother's friends had gone there, as had the friend's older brother.

She asked what the friend had studied at this university.

"Psychology, I think," I replied.

"What IS psychology?" asked Little Brother.

"The study of the mind," I answered in a fake-mysterious tone.

"He's gonna be a PSYCHIC?"

Awaiting My Marching Orders

A tale of woe, told in as many cliches as I can dredge up.

I'm in a bit of a holding pattern these days.  After nearly 2 years of post-hysterectomy complications, which have resulted in (in no particular order) regularly-scheduled pain and bleeding, visits to 2 different GYN-oncologists, 2 MRIs, 1 CAT scan, innumerable ultrasounds of the invasive variety, a few rather unpleasant tests at the urologist's, 1 burst ovarian cyst resulting in 1 missed Trans-Siberian Orchestra concert, and 1 cyst drained "just in time" of 1/2 liter of fluid, my GYN has finally decided that it's time to shut down the rest of the system.  The plan is to remove my ovaries to cut off the estrogen supply that's feeding my endometriosis.

I have a cyst larger than my own fist in my left abdomen (they always show up on the left.)  It's painful, and it takes up a good amount of space.  Hence the wearing of the sweat pants (or, as Little Brother insists on calling them, athletic pants) as much as possible unless I have to actually get out of the car, in which case I suffer through the wearing of the jeans.

Frankly, I'm going to be glad to get this over with.  Even though it means going to a hospital with "Cancer" in its name.  I have not been diagnosed with cancer, but my GYN says that this doctor is the best surgeon to deal with the type of problems I'm having.  I keep telling myself that when I freak out a little bit about the name of the hospital.  I keep telling my husband that when he freaks out about the name of the hospital.  And I hope that none of my kids check the caller ID on the phone, because the word "Cancer" comes up in the name when I get the robo-call to confirm my appointment.

On Tuesday afternoon I'll see the surgeon and receive my marching orders.  Until then, I have no time frame, no plan.  Anyone who knows me knows how crazy that makes me.  I'm guessing that something is going to happen soon, because my GYN said that they'll want to take care of that cyst before it explodes on its own.  It could be done separately, or together--whatever the specialist decides.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch (or more accurately, back at the split-level), I've got a part-time writing gig that would have to go on hiatus, I've got arrangements to make for leadership at Secular Franciscan meetings, I've got kids to drive around, I've got "work to be done--an estate to be run--a boy to raise."  Other than laundry and cooking, the bare minimum is getting done around here because physical stuff like scrubbing, vacuuming, mopping and taking down curtains is painful.  If I feel good enough, I do it.  Otherwise, I let it go.  There's been a good amount of letting it go lately.  There have been afternoon naps, probably because I'm a little too keyed up to sleep well at night.  There's been a lot of comfort eating.

I don't feel like baking cookies, I don't want to start up another sourdough starter, and there's no use making a meal plan for April when I don't know what April's going to bring or when it's going to bring it.  Other than Instant Menopause--I know I'm going to get that after the surgery.  Won't that be fun for everyone lucky enough to live with me?

Meanwhile, I wait, and I worry.  I go to the high-school musical to take my mind off things (50 kids tap-dancing on the biggest stage in the county will do that for you).  On Tuesday, I'll drive to Philly and find out how things are going to go.  And then I'll drive home in rush-hour traffic and get on with it.

I Wish I Had the Guts to Send This Letter

A major religious holiday is coming up.  That's a good clue that it's time for my semi-annual Musical Rant.  I'm pretty sure that Satan knows that this is the best way to get to me.  Feel free to tune out if you're not a church musician.

To the Music Director and Pastor at my parish:

I came home from church tonight to find the forwarded email notifying me that, despite the fact that the Folk Group was assigned to sing the noon Mass on Easter at least two months ago, we've been reassigned to a different time and location, two weeks before Easter itself.

It's nice that you "hope this is not a problem."

People do make holiday plans, and in the Folk Group, you've got a very dedicated bunch of musicians and singers whose family holiday plans revolve around our church schedule.  That schedule is already variable because we have been asked to sing that once-a-month Saturday-evening Mass rather than our traditional Sunday noon time slot.  On Christmas and Easter, we do our best to be there at different-than-usual times because of the nature of the Mass schedule on those days.  Two weeks before Easter, most of us have made our holiday plans.

Reassigning us two weeks before the most important event in the Church year tells us exactly where we fit on the musical totem pole (as if we didn't already know.)  It's disrespectful to us personally and professionally.  I feel like the Samaritan woman who asked Jesus to heal her child, only to be refused because of her nationality.  She replied to Jesus, "But Teacher, even the dogs eat the crumbs that fall from the master's table."  We are the dogs and you are giving us crumbs.  We're expected, I guess, to be happy with whatever crumbs come our way.

And because we're not proud (or tired) we'll take those crumbs.  We'll rearrange family plans.  The musician who works into the wee hours on a Saturday night will drag himself into church because he--as the rest of us do--believes that singing and playing for the glory of God are what matter.

We are not the world's best musicians.  But we more than make up, in attitude and enthusiasm, for the polish and finesse we lack.  We view our role at Mass as being leaders of song, not performers in a show.  Our goal is to help people sing along, to help them feel comfortable enough to sing along, because singing at Mass is a huge part of prayer.  Most of the time, we achieve that goal.

In the several years since the parish merger, we have made many, many accommodations.  We have learned an entirely new repertoire.  We have used chant settings for psalms and other Mass parts as required, even through chant is extremely challenging with only guitar accompaniment.  We have bent over backwards to follow the "once-a-month Saturday night" schedule, even when it means that most of us can't be there because of work and other obligations.  (That's why we had the late Sunday Mass to begin with.)  We have learned and used the Mass settings we were told to use, again, even though guitar is not the best accompaniment for some of these settings.  We've enjoyed learning some of this new music and tolerated other pieces, but we have always learned and used what we were asked to do.

We are not there to put on a show.  We are there to help people to pray through music, to help them give honor and glory to God through music.  We do this by keeping it simple, approachable, and in a key that's in a comfortable range for most people.  We welcome beginners, teenagers, and our own children; that's our investment in the future (and as a parent, I know very well how much such an investment pays off.)

Being a part of the folk group in this parish is an exercise in humility.  I have to say, it gets old finding humble pie under the Christmas tree and in the Easter basket year after year after year.  My husband says that I should just be thankful that we're being reassigned rather than cancelled altogether.  Any way you slice it, though, it still hurts.

I'm sure we'll take the crumbs and we'll be happy to have them.  And we'll sing our hearts out because it's what we do.  But you should know that it hurts to be treated this way, and that I have carried around this unspoken burden for far too long.

You Just Never Know

The Leaning Tower of Beverages

It was a rough night last night at the Tech Week Dinners.  Nothing bad happened or anything, but through a perfect storm of my usually-barely-controlled social anxiety, a heavy introvert tendency, and my current hormonal state, I really wasn't dealing with even a small disturbance in the force field I prefer to generate around myself at all times.

And that force field was breached when the sweet and energetic mom who coordinates these dinners asked me to bring the muffin trays to the table where some other moms were setting out bagels.  Instant Mom-timidation ensued.  I was wearing a red t-shirt, tan capris and running shoes (after all, I was carrying 5-gallon jugs of lemonade, mixing iced tea, and standing for three hours on end.  I was dressed for the job, apron and all.)  They were wearing fashionable wrap dresses, strappy sandals, and coordinating jewelry.  But that's not all.  The Mom-timidators launched into complaints about a lack of tablecloths, centerpieces and matching balloons.  For a pancake-and-bacon dinner for 75 teenagers in a high-school cafeteria.  Then they started lining up the butter, syrup and jelly in perfectly straight lines.

To be fair, these moms did nothing and said nothing that should have bothered/upset/intimidated me.  Really, they didn't.  I'm sure they're perfectly lovely people, but I can't know that because I couldn't stay there.  As soon as I could, I got out of the Mom-timidation Sector and went to my Cozy Corner with the big stack-o-beverage coolers and got busy pouring lemonade and iced tea.  I vented a bit on Twitter, just to blow off a little steam.

A friend came over at one point to tell me some funny stories of things that had happened to her that day.  That was well-timed, though I'm sure she doesn't know it.  (She may have seen those Tweets of Desperation, though).  It gave my brain a break from dwelling on my completely irrational response to the Mom-timidation that I was completely aware I was imagining, but couldn't stop myself from feeling.

When dinner was over, I cleaned up the drink stuff and headed home.  It took a while to wind down from my strange emotional response, which I'm seriously hoping didn't show on my face all evening.  And this morning, I got a quick email from the lovely Tech Week Dinner coordinator, thanking me for showing up, stepping up, and jumping in and getting things done.  She's very faithful and very sincere about thanking people.  And boy, that 3-sentence email could not have come on a better day.

Yet another friend saw those Tweets of Desperation and tweeted me this morning to make sure I was OK.  (yes, and thanks!)

The moral of the story is:  you probably never know the effect you are going to have on people.  So if you have the chance to do so, have a good effect on someone.  Send them that quick "thank you" email.  Give that compliment.  Tell that funny story.  Especially if someone has that Deer-in-the-Headlights look, like I probably did yesterday.

To the folks who came to my rescue, intentionally or not:  thank you!  I love you!

Adventures in Public Parenting

It's Tech Week at the high school; the school play opens a week from Thursday.  That means late-night rehearsals, after-school prop gathering ventures for my daughter, the Prop Mistress, and the ever-popular Tech Week Dinners.  A group of over 20 parents (and a few grandparents for good measure) donates, prepares, serves and cleans up 7 nights of dinner for the whole cast, crew and orchestra.

It was much more hectic last year when the dinner group numbered 140.  This year we're only feeding about half that, so there's really not enough work to go around for the parents who show up.  It's a lot of fun, actually, and I enjoy helping.  The kids are all polite and appreciative.  They pray before eating and thank the parents after with a loud cheer.  And I get to meet some other parents.  Tonight we were trading leads on sources for the girls' uniform tights, including inside information on what brands stand up to the kind of punishment high-school girls dish out.

Little Brother's not in the play this year, but he's at Tech Week Dinners with me because there's no one else at home to watch him at that time.  This year, he's the only kid there.  He eats with the kids, his old buddies from his Munchkin days during Wizard of Oz last spring.  He's even made a few new friends among the freshmen, including one young man who was kicking a soccer ball around with him outside the cafeteria after dinner tonight.

I was helping to put away the drink coolers when we heard a crash.  Sure enough, that soccer ball had sailed through one of the cafeteria windows.  And all the other parents were watching as I ran to the door, spied my son, and ordered, "Get in here."

"Get in here," I heard someone chuckle behind me.  (Seriously?  You're going to laugh at me now?)  Clearly I was on the stage, with an audience of more than 20 parents and grandparents who were clearly glad not to be in my shoes.  So I took it outside, where my little boy and his soccer-playing buddy both assured me that my son wasn't the guilty party.  The young man who'd been playing soccer with him showed me his own feet, trying to convince me that Little Brother's legs aren't powerful enough to have kicked the ball through the window.  After sending Little Brother to the car to put away the soccer ball, I took off my apron and started picking up the few shards of glass that had fallen outside the building.  Did you know that aprons are good for picking up--and holding--broken glass, so you don't cut your hands while you do that job?

The vice principal is also in charge of stage crew, so before long he was in the cafeteria talking to my son and the freshman boy.  Again, lots of parents were watching as I told the vice principal that whether or not Little Brother had kicked it, he had been the one to bring the ball to the dinner, so he should share in the damages.  The other student was trying to take all the blame upon himself, and I insisted (and will follow up) that we divide the bill for the glass replacement.  Little Brother insisted that he would pay for it with his own money.  While a custodian taped cardboard over the broken window, I returned to the kitchen to finish cleaning up.  The parents wanted to know if I was OK.

Aside from a few bonus blood-pressure points, I was fine.  Actually, I was impressed with the freshman who tried to deflect the blame from my child, willing to take all of it (including a financial penalty) on himself.  I was more annoyed with the parents who said, "You shouldn't have to pay for that.  It's a cost of doing business."  No.  It's not.  My kid was playing soccer against the side of a building--in an area where there were windows.  It was an accident waiting to happen and we're all very lucky that no one got hurt.  I was annoyed with myself for not stopping him sooner.  I was annoyed with the parents who laughed at my initial reaction, which I found remarkably restrained, considering.

The soccer ball won't be coming back to Tech Week Dinners.  We will pay our half of the glass bill and Little Brother will have to contribute to that.  And I can't help but wish that the parents who seemed to think that Little Brother and I should let a 15-year-old boy shoulder all the blame for this--and the ones who seemed to think that neither soccer player was at fault at all--had taken a page from that 15-year-old's script.

We parents have our work on display at all times, every time our child leaves the house for the day at school. "By their fruits you shall know them," after all.  I hope that Little Brother learned a lesson or two tonight.  I don't know if the Play Parents did.  And if I ever get to meet the parents of a certain 15-year-old, I'll be sure to tell them that they can be very proud of their son, who politely and immediately claimed and accepted responsibility for his role (and more than his role) in the breaking of that window.

Are We Doing Enough?

This interesting essay "Time for Liberal Catholics to Quit?" comes at a time when I'm already wondering if we're doing enough.

My two older children (ages 16 and 20) are at that point in their lives (and faith) where Church just seems to be a bunch of rules for them to follow; rules that don't have much meaning behind them.  So I feel like we haven't done enough.  They both went to Catholic school, from pre-K through the present (Big Brother's at a Catholic college, even).

So they didn't get it in school.

My guess is that the kids in CCD (oops, sorry, "Faith Formation") get even less.  In our parish, they attend 14 sessions.  14 3-hour sessions, one hour of which is Mass.  So they get 28 hours of instruction, less "move-around time" for a full year.  Are they getting it there?

And clearly the Big Kids didn't get it at home.  We take them to Mass on Sundays and encourage them to serve in different ways.  They see examples of prayer, custom, and involvement in service from us and from others in the community.  But do they connect it to church?

Maybe it's just their age and stage.  But I think that many people never get past this stage.  If the Church doesn't form them well enough to want what is there, they're never going to take a second look.  They may stick around out of laziness, habit, a deep (but unrealized) interior need for the Eucharist and all the rest that they can only get at our church, or even out of arrogance.  They may stay, but they won't love it.

Can we teach them to love their faith?  Can we teach them to live their faith?  Are we doing enough?

Big Mistake, or Just Improv?

Yesterday after daily Mass, a friend caught up with me at the church door.  "Did you read today's Mass readings before coming to church?" she asked me.

Being lucky to get to Mass on time at all (I walked in during the opening prayer yesterday), I admitted that I hadn't.

"I think Father read the wrong Gospel today," she continued.  He read the parable of the Pharisee and the tax collector.

We don't have the missalettes with the daily readings included, so I took out my phone (there's an app for that!)  Sure enough, the Gospel for the day was the story of Jesus driving out the demon from the man who was mute.  I checked today's Gospel to see if perhaps Father had skipped a page, but that wasn't the reading for today either.

So if there's anyone reading who has a clue about why Father might have read a completely different Gospel than the one slated for the day, please comment here.  He's not really the approachable sort when it comes to things like this.

Fashion Emergency

Little Brother's in the middle of one of those growth spurts where an already-slender child suddenly gets taller and even skinner.  So his old pants are too short, and the new ones are too wide.  That's what belts are for, but he doesn't want to hear it.

Friends of ours from church have a son about a year older than Little Brother.  The kid pretty much skipped size 12, growing straight from 10 to 14 in the blink of an eye.  When they offered to hand off a bunch of nearly-new jeans and pants to us, I was happy to accept, and I offered to look through our bins of Big Brother's old stuff to see if we had anything that would fit this tall young man.  That trade worked out for everyone.

Yesterday Little Brother and I went through his drawers of clothing and took out the things that are too small for him now.  I put in several pairs of new jeans and cargo pants.  This morning he tried on three or four pairs, loudly discarding all of them as "too big," "too hard to button," and/or "too baggy."

Middle Sister's attempts at a fashion intervention fell on deaf ears.  Little Brother finally emerged from his room wearing sweat pants.

"Don't just give up and put on sweat pants," Middle Sister groaned.

He protested, "They're not sweats!  They're Athletic Pants!"

Diction-ary

It's been awhile since Little Brother, AKA Mr. Malaprop, has visited this page.

This morning he came downstairs early and asked if he could stay home from school, since it's only a half day.

"No," I told him.  "Besides, you're going to church, and I'll be there."

"But that takes up half the day right there!  We always have to get there early, because my teacher is a parishioner!  He has to set up the Eucharist!"

"Oh, you mean he's a sacristan..."

Cave-In

And the walls came tumbling down.

Not the walls of my home (thank God!) but the emotional walls that I use to hold everything in and keep it all together.  Sometimes there is just way too much for those walls to hold.  And usually it's some stupid little thing that causes them to cave in.

So I made the dinner, and when Middle Sister told me that the pasta was done, I asked her to drain it and call everyone to the table.  And then I headed upstairs where I proceeded to melt down.

After she ate, Middle Sister came upstairs to ask what was wrong and to listen to me vent a bit.  She just listened.  She's a good kid.

I appreciate that she was there, that she gave me the gift of her presence when I was on the edge (or over it, really.)  At the same time, though, I feel like it's not her responsibility to have to help me put the emotional pieces back together.

I'd love to hear what you have to say:  would you let your 16-year-old daughter see you fall apart?

Short-Circuited

Two hours ago, I was at a funeral for Martha, a 92-year-old Secular Franciscan and mother of 7.  Her son, a Franciscan priest, spoke in his homily about how his mother had dedicated her life to raising her children--so much so that when they were grown, she was at a little bit of a loss as to what to do.  He remembered that although there wasn't much money, he and his siblings were always well-taken-care-of.  And I know that she became a kind of surrogate mother to many of the priests from his community, especially those whose mothers had passed away or lived very far away.  But Father B's memories of his mother were deeply rooted in her motherly care.  She loved her children very much and did her best for them always.

One hour ago, I was speeding driving from the funeral to an imaging center, where I was scheduled to have an MRI at 1:00.  It took a long time to get that appointment.  I was two minutes away when my cell phone rang.  It was the school nurse; Little Brother wasn't feeling well, and school nurses don't tend to take chances when kids report bellyaches when there's a Nasty Stomach Virus going around.  I explained where I was and that I would try to reach someone to pick him up.

No one answered the house phone, although Big Brother is home for spring break this week.  He didn't answer his cell phone either.  And my neighbor, my emergency back-up plan, didn't answer her home phone. TheDad works 50 miles away.  So I walked into the reception area at the imaging center and explained my situation.  I asked if there was any way this appointment could be rescheduled.  They were able to accommodate my request, so now I have to wait almost another week to have this test done.  And I'll miss my volunteer time at the school library because of it.

For Martha, family came first.  Around here, it's got to be the same way.  I left Little Brother's birthday celebration last night for a little while so I could attend a prayer service that the Secular Franciscans have at the wake.  But the rest of the family was home, friends were visiting,  and he was having fun.  Because we're all alone in this part of the state, I don't have family close by on whom I can impose with a sick child when I've got something else to do.  Sometimes the back-up plan doesn't work out.

A week or so ago, someone wrote about patient endurance.  Of course, I can't find it now that I'm looking for it.  But that's exactly what I'm called to have right now.

Instead, I spent the entire 15-minute drive (yes, I was speeding) from the imaging center to the school vacillating between two thoughts:  "I hope Little Brother's OK" and "He'd better really be sick after all this."  He doesn't seem too sick, for which I am thankful and irritated all at the same time.  After all, it's not like I was heading out to yoga class or lunch with a friend.  I need to get answers about this health issue, and that's just been put off for another week.

It's frustrating to be short-circuited, especially when you're on your way to an MRI.  (And even more especially when you get home to find that Big Brother had been there all along, but he didn't bother picking up the house phone and his phone was set to "alarm only.")

Father B said today that he will pray to his mother, asking her to go to bat for him in prayer just as she always had done.  I think I will do the same.  After all, she's a mother too (and one with a wonderful sense of humor).

UPDATE:  Finally remembered where I saw the essay on patient endurance.  I need to reread it, especially since it appears more and more that I have raised The Boy Who Cried Wolf.

By Weight, and not by Volume

Remember the fine print on boxes or bags of snacks?  You don't see it so much anymore--I guess we're used to seeing half a package of air when we open something.  But it would read something like:

This product is sold by weight and not by volume.  Some settling of the contents may occur during shipping and handling.

Even as a kid, I realized that this was a lame attempt at heading off at the pass some disgruntled consumer who wanted a package full of snacks, not air.  The disclaimer was never a good thing.

I was reminded of that bit of fine print this morning when I heard the Gospel.

Jesus said to his disciples, "Be merciful, just as your Father is merciful.  Stop judging and you will not be judged.  Stop condemning and you will not be condemned.  Forgive and you will be forgiven.  Give and gifts will be given to you; a good measure, packed together, shaken down, and overflowing, will be poured into your lap.  For the measure with which you measure will in return be measured out to you."  (Luke 6: 36-38)

There's no disclaimer in that Gospel, because God's love and God's gifts don't come with a disclaimer.  He doesn't work that way.

If you bake, you know that weight and volume are not the same in terms of quantity.  In fact, they can be very different.  Depending on how much you "shake down" the cup of flour, you can get about another 1/4 cup in there.  The same is true with brown sugar--"pack" it down and you can really increase the quantity.  Too much (or too little) flour or brown sugar or any other ingredient can really mess up the finished product.  That's why expert bakers insist on measuring by weight rather than by volume.

It's a good thing that God is not a baker, though, because Jesus tells us in today's Gospel that God is not concerned by volume when it comes to love, mercy, forgiveness.  He's going to pack in as much as our cups can hold--and then some, until they are overflowing.

And all that is expected in return is that we try to do the same for the others we encounter.

 

Stuck in the Middle with You

It's the Sandwich Generation Blues.  We are, quite literally, right in the middle of it.

Two out of three of our kids can't drive yet, and one's not old enough to be left at home alone while I run to Shop-Rite.  So I'm still in the middle of the Mom's Taxi Years.  Between the hours of 3 and 9 PM, it's hit or miss whether you'd be able to find me at home.  You're more likely to find me in the jughandle at the intersection with Route 130 on my way to or from the high school.  And that's OK.  It's where I expected to be at this point in my life.

But now, my husband is grappling with the dilemmas his family faces; his mom, a widow, is no longer able to drive due to deteriorating health.  Her ability to live alone is quickly waning--more quickly than she or other family members are willing to admit.  And we live 75 miles away.

It's frustrating and difficult.  I'm juggling kid-transportation, attempting not to think about some unresolved health issues of my own, and generally trying to keep all the wheels spinning here at home while he works hard, manages his mom's finances, and runs a 50-boy Cub Scout pack.  Oftentimes, his head is not in the game when he's here, because he's worrying about other things--important things.

There's a lot of "woulda, coulda, shoulda" going on, a lot of conflict with family members who aren't on the same page.  He keeps most of it to himself; he almost never wants to talk about work, but today he did unload some of the burden of what's been going on within his family.  We had breakfast at the diner, which we'll have to stop doing soon, because this is about to affect our budget in a big way, so we could get out of the house and talk through some of this.

Sometimes I get that guilty feeling because I think I should do more, but I don't want to.  And I don't think it would work out well if I did.  I know he's hurt, though, that I don't.

Meanwhile, I try to keep those wheels spinning here at home.  I try to be flexible (whenever possible) about his extremely erratic arrivals for dinner and sudden changes of plans, though I often fail to be gracious about them.  That's a part of his burden that I should be willing, as well as able, to shoulder.

We're stuck in the middle right now, and he's going to need to be able to lean on me.  I have failed in so many ways.  Now, I pray for the strength he will need, and that I will be strong enough and generous enough to be his support.