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.