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.

Long Day Ahead

I've been up since 4:45, so I'm two hours into the day already.  I've finished my Big Travel Mug of coffee (it's half-caff; I'm easing up) and have moved on to my Big Cup of Water.

There's a lot to do today, which is probably why I was up so early.  Later this morning my Secular Franciscan fraternity will meet with our Regional Minister and others from the Regional Council for our Regional Visitation and Paperwork Jamboree.  It's not supposed to be a stressful time, but because it's outside the norm of our regular meetings, it's a stressful time.  And I'm the fraternity minister, so any missing paperwork is on my head.

I'll be getting there early to unlock the meeting room and put the coffee on--and turn the heat on, since Mother Nature has finally gotten the memo that it's February.

I'll also be getting there early because the back of my van is fully loaded with enough groceries to feed a spaghetti dinner to 105 people, which is what I'm doing tonight.  It's the annual Cub Scout Blue & Gold Dinner.  Fortunately, it's in the same building as my meeting this morning, so I can unload the van once and be done with it.  When the meeting is over, I'll put on my apron, change out of my "confident shoes" and put on my sneakers, and start making spaghetti sauce.  A lot of spaghetti sauce.

Yesterday I rolled and baked 225 meatballs.   That's a lot of meatballs.

When the meeting is over and I have closed up the meeting room, I will appreciate the quiet in the building.  I'll be the only one there for a few hours.  While I open cans of crushed tomatoes and stir in the garlic and oregano, I'll have time to decompress.  Never underestimate the value of cooking as an aid to decompression.  (I get to be Martha and Mary all at the same time--yay for multitasking!)  I made sure to load up some good playlists so I'll have music, and since there will be no one else in the building, I can sing as loudly as I want.  Or I can just enjoy the quiet, which will come to a sudden end when the Cub Scouts show up.

There's a long day ahead, but I've got the tools to get through it:  coffee, an entire bag of fun-size Milky Ways, "confident shoes," an apron, a Sharpie, my favorite music, and prayer.  A lot of prayer.

Rejected

Opposites might attract when it comes to spouses, according to an article in today's Wall Street Journal, but I don't think it works that way in mother-daughter relationships.

Right now I'm responding in a completely irrational manner to my daughter's announcements that, 1, she's going vegetarian for Lent, and, 2, that she doesn't want what I was going to make for dinner tonight either. Completely irrational. Because I'm feeling rejected by this. She doesn't get that. Not only does she not get it, she's mad at me.

But I have lost all steam in the dinner-prep process after she started making herself a bean burrito. We can't both cook in the kitchen at the same time anyway--the room is too small for that. So I left the room. I'm being ridiculously oversensitive and I can't seem to stop it.

Cooking is a big part of the way I nurture my family. I work around the silly preferences (she's off soy sauce; Big Brother doesn't like corn) and the dietary needs (husband with gout, Little Brother with lactose intolerance). I make broccoli that they like instead of Brussels sprouts that I like. I enjoy cooking and making meals that my family likes. And then TheDad skips dinner every Spaghetti Night and Middle Sister (and now Little Brother) announces that tonight's meal is not a favorite.

I cannot believe I'm sitting here losing it over the dinner plan.

 

Monday, Monday

...can't trust that day...

Normally I like Mondays because they signal the beginning of a new week.  Everyone is back to work or school and my house is quiet again and it's back to routine.

I love routine.  It makes my world go 'round.

Mrs. C with my kids, 2004

Today was not a routine Monday.  No one had work or school.  Instead, Middle Sister and I had a funeral to attend (I know!  Another one!!)  This funeral was for the son of the lovely woman who babysat Middle Sister twice a week when she was 4 and I had a part-time teaching job.  At the time, Mrs. C was mourning the loss of her husband, who'd had Alzheimer's; she had cared for him at home for the better part of a decade.  Middle Sister kept her company, learned to play Chinese checkers, took walks around the block with her, and discovered the magic of microwave pancakes thanks to Mrs. C.  With her own grandparents living upwards of 75 miles away, Middle Sister adopted Mrs. C as an extra grandmother.

Today Middle Sister towered over her former babysitter, who had stayed with Big Brother and Middle Sister the night Little Brother was born.  Today, as always, Middle Sister was quick to hug Mrs. C.  And after we sat down in our pew, Middle Sister wondered if she might be needed as an altar server.  Since the parish school closed, they haven't had servers for funerals (that's 8 years ago now.)  Usually one of the deacons, or Mrs. Deacon, or a member of the Bereavement Committee does the job.  But Middle Sister purposefully marched to the sacristy, high heels and all, and asked if she could help.

It was a full-court press on the altar today, with two priests (present and former pastors), one deacon, one server, and another deacon "behind the scenes" babysitting the incense.

The former pastor, whom I haven't seen in almost 10 years, greeted me as he walked by my pew before Mass.  "How are your kids?" he asked me.  I replied that one of them was his altar server for the Mass.  He looked puzzled until I mentioned her name.  "OH MY GOD!!!!!!" was his response.  He hadn't seen her since kindergarten.  She's grown a bit in 10 years.

Being at that Mass today, listening to that former pastor pray and preach was healing for me.  Some priests are good administrators.  Others are good in ministry to the sick and the bereaved.  This priest definitely falls into category "B."  Unfortunately, all of my dealings with him while he was our pastor were in category "A."  There was a lot of hurt that I've been carrying around for about 12 years now, hurt caused by administrative decisions this priest made that I took personally.

Middle Sister isn't the only one who's grown in the past 10 years.

I left that church carrying the burden of grief for Mrs. C, for her daughter-in-law, two grandchildren, and newborn great-granddaughter.  I left behind the burden of hurt that I'd been carrying around, for no good reason, for more than a decade.

I had no idea, walking into that funeral, that once again I'd be made proud of the young woman my daughter is becoming, and that I'd be able to let go of something I didn't need to lug around in the first place.

In your kindness, remember the C. family as they grieve, and pray for eternal rest for Tom, who made serving God through others his life's work--and his life's joy.

Sometimes You've Just Gotta Break the Rules

I have a thing about working on Sundays.  If I don't have to, I don't.

Work that gets done on Sunday is work that can't possibly wait until Monday (or be done ahead on Saturday).  I don't do laundry on Sunday unless there is a True Laundry Emergency.  The same goes for vacuuming and other housecleaning.  After all, when you're a homemaker, you do all that stuff every day of the week.  It's good to remember to take a day of rest, to separate the day in some ways from all the other days.  The same goes for my freelance-writing work.

I do cook on Sunday, but I enjoy that.

Today, though, I emptied out 3 kitchen cabinets, one appliance cart, and one dining-room cabinet.  I took everything out and decided what would go back in--and where it would go.

I present the Leaning Tower of Bakeware.  I can cook 5 1/2 dozen regular-size muffins or cupcakes.  (Not that my oven could hold that many at once, but I've got the pans to make it happen).

And the pots and pans and bowls and colanders and...yikes.  It was like the clown car of kitchen cabinets.  More stuff just kept coming out.

I have a huge bucket (one of those party buckets with the rope handles) OVERFLOWING with stuff that didn't make it back into the cabinets:  stuff that's used maybe once or twice a year, so I'll keep it elsewhere; and stuff that I just don't use, so I'll donate.

Now, all my bakeware is in ONE place.

The rewards of treating Sunday as a day of rest are great.  This afternoon, I worked.  I spent about 2 hours not resting so that I can make my future time spent in the kitchen much more pleasant.  (There's even a tablecloth on the table!)  On a weekday, I don't get 2 hours in the afternoon to do this kind of stuff--I'm too busy being a taxi driver, referee, and nagger-about-homework.

It's taken 12 years to get my kitchen to look this good.

Now I can rest, and enjoy the fruits of my labors.

The Back-to-School Valentine's Night Extravaganza and Long-Hallway Jamboree

I can't begin to tell you how surprised I was to discover that the high school's Back to School Night, scheduled on Valentine's Day, was not very well attended.

A few observations on last night's event (in no particular order):

A proud moment:  one teacher stood at the classroom door, greeting parents and asking the name of their child.  She smiled when we named Middle Sister, said she was a joy in the classroom, and mentioned that she has been very conscientious about adding to the "prayer intentions" blackboard in the front of the room.

I love that teachers have "prayer intentions" blackboards and encourage the students to use them.  (This was NOT a religion teacher, by the way.)  Things like that are the reason we send our kids to Catholic schools.

And I love that my daughter is using that board.

It's a good thing Middle Sister runs track, because her classes are just about as far apart as they possibly could be while still being in the same building.

We ran into lots of people we know as we passed each other in the long hallways.  All the parents got in plenty of cardio last night as we rushed from class to class.  Some were too out of breath to do more than wave.

Moms, in general, walk a lot faster than dads.  Case in point:  we left the French classroom at the same time as another couple we've known for about 15 years.  We moms left the dads in the dust as we all headed to Bio, and the dads could be heard behind us, "They say we walk too slow.  I say they walk too fast."  Note to the dads (including my husband):  there is no such thing was "walking too fast."  You walk way too slow.

The principal wished us a happy Valentine's Day at least three times during the opening remarks.  Overcompensating for a bad scheduling decision, perhaps?  There were no apologies for the bad scheduling--which would have been welcome.

I'm convinced that one of my daughter's teachers has ADD.  Yikes.

Another teacher was a bit distracted because she could hear her kids, who were hanging around in the office across the hall from her classroom.  It was Valentine's Day.  She couldn't get a babysitter--not even her own college-age daughter.  We commiserated with her.  (And really, her kids were not bad at all, just a bit giggly, and if a Catholic school can't be family-friendly and tolerate the presence of a couple of kids around Little Brother's age, then shame on them.)

One teacher made us laugh by faulting the administration for not, at least, serving us pink lemonade on Valentine's Day.

Breaking the Silence

At Mass today, as the lector finished with the first reading and paused for a moment of silence before we began the Responsorial Psalm, I recalled Michelle's post yesterday about silence; specifically, the part about silence during certain times at Mass.  We're not very good at silence in our parish.  People start squirming pretty quickly if the lector takes too long stepping away from the ambo so the cantors can begin to sing.

And then we sang:  "I will praise your name, my king and my God."

When the psalm concluded, the silence was broken not by the lector jumping the gun on the second reading, but by a toddler all the way on the other side of the church:  "YAAAAAAAAAAYYYYYYYYYYYYYY!"

Everyone chuckled, of course:  how cute!

Father looked at everyone, smiled, and said, "Amen!"

And then it was time for the second reading.

Don't Treat Me Like a Fool

It's necessary to get political sometimes.

Usually that's something I leave to TheDad, because he's all into that sort of thing, and I figure that one politically-obsessed person in the household is enough.  I back off--to balance things out.

But that doesn't mean I don't notice.  And it doesn't mean I don't take action when action is necessary.

This is one of those times.

I listened to President Obama's self-congratulatory tone as he announced an "accommodation" to the HHS policy that would leave Catholic hospitals, universities and other institutions no choice but to offer health plans providing contraception, abortion-inducing drugs and sterilization procedures, all of which directly violate Catholic moral teaching.

I listened, and I realized that this "accommodation" makes things worse than it did before.  In the guise of making it LOOK like the Catholic employer would get to opt out, this plan requires that all insurance plans provide these, um, "services."

We all know that there's no free lunch.  We know that somebody's going to have to pay for it.  Ultimately, everybody's going to have to pay for it, because health-care costs will go up in order to pay for it, and that cost will be absorbed by employees.

Who knew that the President of the United States would borrow an argument more age-appropriate for his own children:  "Everybody does it."  99% of American women, he says, have used birth control during their reproductive years.

If that number is even true (and I haven't seen any proof that it is), that doesn't make it any less wrong.

With all due respect, Mr. Obama, would you buy that "everybody does it" line if your daughter used it on you?  Or would you answer, as parents have done for decades, "if everyone was jumping off the Brooklyn Bridge, would you do the same?"

If "everybody" decided to stop paying income taxes, you wouldn't think that "everybody does it" is a very good argument, now would you?

Don't treat me like a fool, Mr. President.  I can see what you're up to, and frankly, it terrifies me.

Jimmy Akin has an excellent analysis at the National Catholic Register.  Read the whole thing, and follow the "take action" link at the bottom.

Rocco Palmo has more on the American bishops' take on this "accommodation."

EVEN MORE:  Here's what the economists think.

Break It To Me Gently

Ladies and gentlemen, we apologize for our inability to bring you the Finale that we promised.
--Leading Player, Pippin

In the play, the promised Grand Finale cannot take place because the title character has chosen something better.  Sometimes it works that way in real life, too.

The production of Pippin in which Little Brother was one of a troupe of only 12 actors has had its two final performances canceled--for good reason.  One of the lead characters (the Leading Player) is mourning the sudden loss of a close family member.  The director wisely decided that the best course of action is to cancel the remaining performances, out of love and respect for this actor.

There are times, and this is one of them, when the show must not go on.

A cast of 12, as you can imagine, gets pretty close-knit after three months of rehearsals.  Most of the actors have known each other for quite a while already.  Definitely, the right thing to do is to close the production and focus on supporting this actor in his time of loss.

This is not the Finale we were promised.  It's not the semi-happy ending you expect for a musical comedy.

The hard part is still ahead.  One actor has to get through this time of grief.  The others will grieve for him.  Cast, crew and band alike will miss the opportunity to celebrate a spectacular Closing Night.  It's not the way they want to say goodbye to each other.

It will be difficult all around.  Little Brother doesn't know yet; I'm putting it off until after school.  I didn't learn of the cancellation until it was almost bedtime last night, and I figured that it would be better not to try to send him off to bed or school right after hearing upsetting news.  (I did tell him that the actor had a death in the family, but that's all he knows at this point.)

Little Brother invests himself very deeply in the cast of a show.  I've seen it happen with The Wizard of Oz and MAME.  Even with this show, after opening weekend was over and there were no more rehearsals, he was sad that he'd have to wait Five Whole Days to see everyone again.

This afternoon I'm going to have to disappoint a little boy.  That's nothing compared to what one actor is going through, but for a nine-year-old, it's still a pretty big thing.  I hope that I can help him put aside his own sadness at closing the play early and focus on someone else's sadness.

When we discussed the question of whether Little Brother would be allowed to audition for this role (the theatre is quite far away and it would be a huge time commitment) my husband observed that being in a play would be a very enriching experience.  At the time, we believed that all it would mean for Little Brother would be growth in confidence and exposure to culture.  We did not expect--surely we should have, but we didn't--that it would also prove to be a time in which he would learn important life lessons.

Rivers belong where they can ramble,
Eagles belong where they can fly.
I've got to be where my spirit can run free
Gotta find my corner of the sky.

In your kindness, remember S. in his time of loss.

Obedience

I can command it (fourth-graders fear me) but living it is another matter.

After all, it's my way or the highway.  Isn't that what we all expect?  It's taken me 40-mumble years, but I am coming around...a little...to the realization that it's not always going to be my way.  Not even close.

Every January, the Secular Franciscans in my fraternity start the year off right.  We pray together, and then each of us is given the name of a patron saint, a virtue to cultivate, a maxim to live by, and a person within the fraternity to hold in prayer through the year.

My virtue this year is Obedience.  (Cue eye-rolling.)  Obedience?  Really?  I follow the rules, except for the speed limit.

There's a little more to it than that, though.  It's the question of attitude.  Like the "how dare they" mentality I get when I'm asked/told/required to do something that really IS the right thing to do, but since it's not what I happen to want to do at the moment, I've got no mind to obey it.

The word "obedience" comes from a Latin root meaning "to hear."  That's what it's all about, really.  That's why, when I'm dealing with fourth graders, I'll sometimes ask them to repeat directions back to me so that I can make sure they heard them correctly.

But what do we hear?  To whom do we listen?  There are so many messages to listen to:  Facebook, Twitter, the news media...I'm reminded of a line from Pippin that asks, "Would a newspaper ever print anything that wasn't true?"  Are we listening to those sources that have our best interests at heart?

Psalm 119 says:  "Train me to observe your law, to keep it with my heart.  Guide me in the path of your commands; for there is my delight.  Bend my heart to your will and not to love of gain."

It's all about "Thy will be done."  And we don't want to have to say that.  But if we really believe that God has our best interests at heart, we will learn to say it.

My prayer this year, then, will not be one written by Saint Francis but instead this one composed by Saint Ignatius of Loyola:

Take Lord, and receive all my liberty, my memory, my understanding, and my entire will, all that I have and possess. Thou hast given all to me. To Thee, O lord, I return it. All is Thine, dispose of it wholly according to Thy will. Give me Thy love and thy grace, for this is sufficient for me.

Heart of Gold

This morning I put on my church clothes, pulled my daughter out of gym class, and took her to her friend's grandfather's funeral.  It was her idea, and there was no way I was going to refuse.

She greeted, and held the door for, her now-retired fifth-grade teacher who arrived at the church just behind us.

She sat on the aisle seat in our pew--the better to reach out and squeeze her friend's arm during the procession.

During the recessional, her friend stopped at our pew to give her a hug, and we stayed outside the church for a few minutes after Mass so she could talk to him before it was time for his family to head to the cemetery.

She gave up her lunchtime, her break time, her "hang out with friends at school" time so that she could be there for one friend for a few minutes.

Last night while we were running errands, she mentioned that she thinks it's silly for her to have to study religion at school.  Her reasoning:  she goes to church, and by this point she should be living it with her life.  At 16, there's still plenty for her to learn, but I saw for myself today (as well as plenty of other times) that she's got a decent handle on living out the Works of Mercy.

You can say what you want about teenagers (and I've had my own frustrations with my teens), but Middle Sister showed me today what she's made of.  I couldn't be prouder.