In Honor of the Feast

Today is the Feast of St. Francis. I didn't get to Mass this morning, because I was substitute-teaching at Little Brother's school.

But I told them that I could only do half a day today, because this afternoon, the Secular Franciscans were getting together for a little retreat led by our very own Secular Franciscan Deacon! Together we reflected on being Franciscan, on minority, poverty, commitment and renewal. We closed the retreat with Adoration and Benediction.

So what does it mean to be a Franciscan in today's world? Among other things, it means that we decide to serve rather than to be served; to "rebuild the Church" person by person, and to witness that people are more important than things.

And it means that we seek to surround ourselves with other who are striving for the same goal.

Today I am thankful for my Franciscan family! May this feast, and all days, be blessed.

Tuesdays with Martha

That's SAINT Martha, not Martha Stewart.

The ladies at Suscipio have learned that Tuesday is the day traditionally associated with the devotion to St. Martha, patroness of stressed-out homemakers everywhere.

I've got a soft spot for her myself. And I think it's neat that Tuesday is "her" day, because in my house, Tuesday always seems to be that tough day in Homemaking World. (On Monday, everyone is off to work and school and the house is quiet and I quietly putter around here getting all sorts of things done. On Tuesday...well, Tuesday is always another story with its special brand of crazy, especially during soccer season and even more especially when you have failed to plan ahead because you got caught up reading Catholic sci-fi...but I digress. Time to hide the Kindle until after dinner.)

Click on over to Suscipio if you, too, have a soft spot for St. Martha. Pray the novena for your intentions and for those of all the other women who seek strength, encouragement, and support.

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This, That and The Other Thing: Freelance Edition

You know what's cool? When they pay you to rant about stuff that you'd probably rant about anyway. At least, that's what I get to do over at one of my shopping blogs. As long as I can segue over to a coupon at the end, it's all good. Over there today, I tell the story of what happened last night when Middle Sister was getting ready for her friend's birthday party.

You know what's not cool? Learning a real-life lesson about intellectual property...the hard way. I was hired to write some articles for websites that focus on building a personal brand and developing an "online portfolio." I was asked to provide a biography and a photo. About two weeks after completing those articles, more were requested. I visited the websites to get an idea of other content on the topics I was assigned, and I found one of my articles from the first batch, attributed to someone else who (according to the person who hired me) is a fictional persona. Let it be known that in the future I will be a lot more protective of the copyright on any of my writing, because clearly I cannot claim authorship of those articles for my own online portfolio. Notice the irony there?

That led to a whole big dilemma for me last weekend, culminating in my decision not to do any more work for that group of websites. I was very afraid that I would burn a bridge, because I do have a very good working relationship with the person who hired me to do that and several other projects. Fortunately she was understanding (and as surprised as I was about what happened) and she asked me if I'd like to continue working on future projects with her (yay!)

It was a tough couple of days, but my husband and kids stood behind me and encouraged me not to work for someone who would put a different person's name on my articles even if it meant a loss of business. And once I sent out that email explaining why I would not do more work for that website group, I felt so good. I knew I had made the right decision and was so happy to learn that I have not burned a bridge when it comes to other projects.

Book Review: WorkShift

It's a book that came along at just the right time for me: the beginning of a new school year is always a great time to put things into perspective and get a handle on a new routine. Add to that a HUGE increase in the writing projects I've got going, and there's potential for a just-as-huge increase in unscheduled craziness, fatigue and resentment.

(As background, because I don't talk about this here much: I do social-media work for a local video-production company, am a shopping content editor for Internet Brands, and do other freelance writing and SEO projects as well as my commitment to Catholicmom.com's Tech Talk column and 4 hours per week volunteer service in Little Brother's school library. The writing work is part-time, on my schedule, and the money's not huge but it works for my family's situation at this time.)

On the day I started reading WorkShift, I was elbow-deep in a to-do list with no energy (or motivation) to get any of it done. I figured that time spent with this book would be time well-spent. The many, many real-life examples inspired me. There were moms with infants, moms with kids in grade school, moms in many lines of work.

Of course, no situation completely matched mine, but that's not really the point. It's good to know that there are plenty of families out there who are making it work--finding ways to keep moms at home for their families yet enabling them to contribute to the family budget, stay active professionally, and work creatively.

Five years ago today I wouldn't have dreamed that I'd actually be earning money by writing--without even having to leave my own home to do it. Of course, there are some projects that are more fun than others, but as my husband always says, "They call it work for a reason."

What I need to remember is that no work project is worth resenting a twice-a-week soccer-practice schedule (though I do reserve the right to be exasperated when Coach keeps the kids on the field after it's too dark to see each other, the ball, the goal or the coach).

As I read this book, I found myself grabbing Post-It notes and index cards so I could scribble down ideas for how to set up a work schedule this year that leaves room for family, flexibility, and even a little fun. And then I reached the final chapter, where author Anne Bogel has listed plenty of resources (both print and online) to help do just that. The additional structure that I'm going to try to plug into my workday should benefit me, my family and my employers.

Are you interested in reading WorkShift? You can purchase it through ejunkie or Amazon. It's available in ebook format for Kindle or as a PDF you can read at your computer (or even print out). It sells for $8.

The fine print: I received an ebook copy of WorkShift and if you purchase the book through ejunkie I will receive a small commission. I did not receive any other compensation for this review, and the opinions are mine alone.

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A Whole New Meaning

One thing I love about our church is the cross. A Franciscan parish from the time it was founded in 1913, our church has a huge San Damiano Cross on the wall behind the altar. It's more than a cross--it's an icon, and every little detail has meaning. Read all about it, then gaze upon a large San Damiano Cross if you can find one. It's a wonderful meditation.

It's such a wonderful road to prayer, in fact, that I hesitate a bit to share this story. But I thought it was funny, so I'm going to tell it anyway.

The altar servers at our parish often wear a little cross over their albs. But the crosses aren't all the same. Some have the words "Altar Server" inscribed on them. Others are San Damiano crosses. On Sunday, Little Brother got himself vested for altar serving, then came out to wait by me in the choir area. After I fixed his collar (an every-Sunday occurrence) I told him that I was glad he was wearing the San Damiano cross because it's my favorite one.

He wanted to know why, and I showed him that it matched the cross on the wall in the church. He'd never noticed it before (possibly because he usually sits with the musicians who don't have a good view of it) and I pointed out some of the figures on the cross.

Then I mentioned the "angels with halos" at the very top. Suddenly he got interested. "Halo people?" he asked. "I thought those were only in video games!"

Signs of Affection

Last night I entered into complicated negotiations with Little Brother. I'll be seeing him at school today (and every Friday) and there is that delicate matter of parental affection to be dealt with.

For the past year, he hasn't wanted me to wait for the bus with him in the mornings. I do miss that; he's the only kid at the bus stop at that time, and we used to have some nice little chats.

And while I used to get a hug (maybe two) from him on those school days when I volunteered in the library, last night it was made pretty clear that I'm not to expect that this year. At 10, Little Brother thinks he's too big to hug his mom in public. He grudgingly suggested that I could muss his hair a little bit.

Usually the librarian schedules me to volunteer on the day when Little Brother's class will be in the library. I appreciate this and so does he (and I think she does too, as this is a big and, well, loud group. They're good kids--but they are noisy.) When he was in second grade, she needed me on a different day, but when his class was on the way into the art room next to the library, his teacher would let him run into the library and give me a hug.

Those were the good old days.

I mourned this on Twitter last night: "Sign your "baby" is getting old: you have to negotiate an acceptable sign of affection in advance of seeing him at school tomorrow."

The prevailing opinion on Twitter was that I should tackle and hug (and/or kiss) the kid anyway; after all, "real men kiss their moms" and I am the one who pays his bills. The truth is, Twitter, I don't tend to be boisterous like that.

At least he still hugged me when he said goodnight, after all those negotiations.

At least he still wants me to help at his school--with his class.

And at least he has library in the mornings, before the hair that he is so graciously allowing me to touch gets too sweaty from the playground football game at recess.

Tiber River Review: The Truth About Therese

A saint who died when she was only about half my age? Who spent 1/3 of her life behind convent walls? How could such a saint possibly inspire anyone whose path in life had taken a very different turn?

While the title and subtitle of this book, The Truth about Therese: An Unflinching Look at Lisieux, the Little Flower, and the Little Way suggest a more "unauthorized biography" feel, that's not what author Henri Gheon achieves in this short biography of St. Therese of Lisieux. Instead, he writes of the many difficulties she endured, even after she achieved her dream of becoming a Carmelite at a very young age.

My favorite chapter of this book was the first one, "My Initial Resistance to St. Therese," because I have felt the same resistance. I was more captivated by this saint as a teenager; the older I have become, the more distant I have felt from her. But this book, especially in the later chapters, does much to bring out the spiritual battles that St. Therese fought throughout her life. While my battles are surely different, there is much that I can learn from St. Therese's actions and attitudes about how to endure such spiritual warfare.

Through this book, I learned that St. Therese was more than a spoiled child, more than a goody-goody; I learned of her Little Way and how it can be put into practice. Most importantly, I learned that sainthood doesn't come easy to anyone--but that's no reason to stop striving for it.

The foreward by Philippe Maxence is short but not to be missed.

Perhaps because it was translated from the French, and surely because it was originally written in 1934, this book is not an easy read. Vocabulary, sentence structure and turn of phrase are challenging to the reader.

The fine print:  I wrote this review of The Truth About Therese for the free Catholic book review program, created by Aquinas and More Catholic Goods.
Aquinas and More is the largest on-line Catholic bookstore.
I receive free product samples as compensation for writing reviews for Tiber River. 

Works in Progress

Things my kids have learned this summer: How to make Jambalaya. Algebra. Acting. Making tuna salad and muffin pizza.

Things my kids have not learned this summer: Turning lights and tv off when they leave a room. Closing drawers and doors to cabinets and closets. Eating with silverware (still to be mastered by one child)

So they can cook, compute and emote, but they still act like they were raised by wolves.

There is much work yet to be done.

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Fat Police

This morning, Little Brother and I went grocery shopping. Everything went well for the first 3/4 of the trip. We got nectarines, cucumbers, melon, bananas, celery, Cheerios, peanut butter, cookies (I had a coupon) and EVOO. Then we got to the dairy aisle, and that's where things got ugly.

I reached for a gallon of milk, the kind with the red top that screams, "Full fat!" at the casual observer, and my skinny 10-year-old took me to task.

It's got to be the propaganda that's behind it. First of all, the kid doesn't even drink milk--hasn't in more than 8 years. I am the main consumer of that weekly gallon of milk, and I like my milk whole, thankyouverymuch. But boy, was I in trouble. "Why don't you buy 2%, Mom?"

"Because I don't like 2%. I like Real Milk." We went along this way for a while, as I wheeled the cart along and picked up a pound of Real Butter and 18 Real Eggs and then headed toward the Coffee Nirvana section, where I once again bemoaned the fact that ShopRite never has quarts of light cream anymore.

"Half-and-half is just as good, Mom," said my young Food Policeman.

"No, believe me, half-and-half is not just as good," I sighed as I placed a quart of half-and-half in the cart sadly.

"Mom, I agree with that governor of New York about this," he commented. (I think he meant "mayor," but whatever. I was arguing for my Real Milk, not accuracy regarding government officials.)

Kid, I'm all for healthy, which is why I bought nectarines, cucumbers, melon, bananas, celery, Cheerios and peanut butter, and also the EVOO. But when it comes to dairy, I'm a full-fat kind of girl. And no one, not any governor or mayor or president or surgeon general or doctor on TV is going to tell me not to have my nice big glass of milk with dinner every night.

Real milk. With the red top. Ice cold. It's the only way. I'm willing to sit down with the Fat Police over a cold one and discuss this, and I will not back down.

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Of Goodbyes, Long and Short, and Birthdays

Yesterday was my husband's birthday. Three years ago it stopped being a happy occasion.

On his birthday three years ago, we stood next to each other, all lined up in fancy clothes, alongside his father's casket. Pop had passed away two days before after a short and unexpected illness. Some of the people at the wake remembered that it was my husband's birthday and awkwardly wished him a happy birthday along with offering their condolences.

It was weird, and a pretty crummy way to have to spend a birthday.

The other day we gathered with my mother-in-law, as well as my husband's sister-in-law and 3 nieces, to attend a Mass for Pop. After that we got some pizza. No one made sure there was a cake, or candles. No one even sang or suggested the idea of it. You don't commemorate the anniversary of a death with a birthday cake and a rousing chorus of "Sto Lat*."

My mother-in-law did not call her son yesterday to wish him a happy birthday. I don't know if she remembers that his birthday was Sunday; during the past couple of years it has become apparent that she is suffering from Alzheimer's. On Friday evening, after we got home, my husband confided that it's really hard for him to see his mom like this.

Hard as it was to lose Pop, his illness was mercifully short. In early August of that year, we were arguing with him that he should see a doctor because of a few symptoms he was having. By the 24th he was gone. In between those two points were a horrible couple of weeks in which my husband spent his time shuttling between his job and his parents so that his mom could get to see Pop in the hospital. There was no time to think about what might happen, what it would be like with Pop gone. There was no time to think about anything.

Now, all he has is time. He knows that he is losing a little bit of his mom with each passing day. It's just a question of how many days will pass before a family agreement must be made, because the time will come (sooner rather than later) when she cannot continue to live on her own. In many ways, already, she is no longer "on her own," depending on my husband and his sister-in-law for things like errands, food shopping, paying the bills, doctor visits and filling her medication organizer.

This is an awful way to lose someone.

Right now, what is lost is the short-term memory stuff: the "where did I put my keys" and the taking medicine as scheduled and the writing out of checks to pay bills. But we know what's coming. And the hardest loss of all, I think, will be the loss of the relationship: the time when she no longer remembers her son, when she cannot recognize her grandchildren.

One way (out of many) in which my husband and I are opposite is that he is a relationship person and I am a logistics person. It's something that I admire and am frustrated by, sometimes in the same minute. But while I worry about his mom largely in terms of the logistics, he is grieving, in advance, the loss of the relationship with his mother, even as he must deal with the logistics of her physical needs.

And that is a pretty crummy way to spend a bithday.

*"Sto Lat" is a Polish happy-occasion song. The lyrics, loosely translated, mean "May you live 100 years." In my husband's family, it is always sung at birthdays.

 

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Like a Ninja

Ever since he was a very Little Brother, his nickname has been "Monkey." If it was there, the kid would climb it.

Just now, he woke up and came downstairs.

"What's up, Monk?" I greeted him.

"I'm not a monk," he informed me. "Monks do this all the time," bowing his head and folding his hands in prayer.

"I'll bet some of them altar serve," I commented.

He brightened (I thought the mention of altar-serving did it) and then zipped out of praying-hands mode into full-on Ninja warrior moves--kind of like Tai Chi but speedier.

"Some of them do this," he told me. "Ninja Monks!"

A Rose by Any Other Name

So I was sitting at Little Brother's soccer practice last night when the leaves of the tree next to me caught my eye. Because of the heavy underbrush, I couldn't see the tree trunk, but the leaves were interesting. I have an app for my phone called Leafsnap that lets you take a photo of a leaf and then it analyzes it, offering a few possibilities for leafy identification.

My kids found the leaf on the kitchen table tonight (I had to set the leaf on a white surface or the app doesn't work) and they think they don't need an app to know that the leaf is probably marijuana.

NOT.

It looks quite a bit like it, but according to the app and several websites, what we've got here is a sweetgum tree.

I had no idea those grew north of the Mason-Dixon Line; something about the name "sweetgum tree" just screams "Deep South" to me. Must have been mentioned in a book once.

My kids, however, are standing by their story and offering me assistance with recovery of a whole other sort than I've been working on for the past few months.

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I Do Not Like This, Uncle-Sam-I-Am

There was a blood-donation drive at our parish today, and Middle Sister wanted to donate. She's 16, and that's old enough if she brings along a parent to sign a permission slip. So I took her over there, filled out the form, and sat with her while she read the packet of information and disclaimers that she was handed.

Finally her name was called and we went over to the desk where the nurse was taking medical histories. First Middle Sister had to produce an ID with her date of birth. A school ID wasn't going to do it, and I reminded her that she had her driver's permit in her handbag. Then the nurse told me that I wasn't allowed to be there. Citing "privacy issues," she said that while my daughter gave her medical history, I couldn't be present. I could, however, stand next to the table where they would take the blood out of her arm. That is, if I weren't so squeamish about things like that. (I'll drive you to the ER if you don't make me look at the wound.)

So I had to go sit on the other side of the room while my underage daughter gave her medical history. She is not old enough to get an Advil from the school nurse if she has a migraine without parental permission, let alone donate blood or get her ears pierced (or any other body part). I accompany her to medical appointments. But I AM NOT ALLOWED to listen to my minor child give her medical history.

Can you tell I'm not a fan of this policy? My daughter wasn't asking me to please go away. She didn't seem to care one way or the other, which is comforting to me. If the patient doesn't care that a parent is there during the medical history, why is it a problem for the nurse?

I was only able to find a small amount of information regarding confidentiality on the Red Cross website:

The Red Cross maintains the confidentiality of information we obtain about a donor and will release a donor’s confidential information to his or her parents only with the donor’s consent.

Is this all part of HIPAA, or is this something new? Regardless, I don't like it. Not one bit. If she is young enough to require my signature before she can give blood, she is young enough that I can still listen to her medical history.

And after all that, her iron was JUST shy of the benchmark required for blood donation. So this was all for nothing.

Explanation FAIL

Little Brother and I attended Mass together this morning. He paid attention to the readings and even to Father's homily, which linked the "Magnificat" from the Gospel to both the Visitation and the life of St. Teresa Benedicta (Edith Stein).

That might seem like a stretch, but the gist of it was that "My being proclaims the greatness of the Lord" was central to the Blessed Mother's life as well as to the martyrdom of St. Teresa.

After Mass was over, Little Brother asked me what the name of today's feast was, again. He didn't seem to be too familiar with the concept of the Assumption--especially after listening to a Gospel that told the story of the Visitation.

I told him that when most people die, only their soul goes to Heaven. But the Blessed Mother's soul and body went to heaven upon her death.

It's complicated. I can't wrap my head around this mystery either.

Apparently neither can Little Brother, who then commented: "Mary could FLY? Wow, that's COOL! I want to fly..."

If You Take a Street Urchin to the Diner

If you take a Street Urchin to the diner, it is not advisable to order the Mexican Omelet.  (It's my favorite. Green peppers, onions and Monterey Jack cheese, so says the menu, although in real life it's more likely to be Cheddar.  Either way, it's all good.)

So we went to the diner with Little Brother and Adventure Boy. And I ordered the Mexican Omelet, not knowing any better, because it's my favorite, and it's never been a problem before.

Then again, we don't usually take Street Urchins to the diner.

My omelet was delicious, as usual. And then Adventure Boy, Master of All That Is Tactful, looked at it, made a face and said, "EWWWWWWWWWWWWW! That looks like big green BOOGERS!"

Thanks for that.

Everybody: In the Pool!

I don't know where the Street Urchins summer, but most of them haven't been around here too much (with the exception of Adventure Boy.)  And despite sending my request for contact information home with each of them, I'd only wound up with home phone numbers for two of the four boys on the block.

One of the other boys showed up here today, when Little Brother and two friends were already in the pool.  I handed him a fresh contact sheet and told him to go get it filled out (and to get a towel), and then he could swim.  He told me that he'd lost the other one, but that his mom thought it was a good idea.  He went back home, but 5 minutes later there he was, jumping into my pool without handing me a paper.

I made him get out of the water and sent him home to get it.

I felt bad about that for about 5 seconds.  I have to protect these kids when they are here, and part of that is knowing how to reach their families in case of emergencies.

He came back with the paper filled out, and without a towel.  Adventure Boy doesn't have a towel either.  (I told him to go home and change and get a towel, but he decided to just swim in his clothes.)  And while Mean Mom might provide a few chocolate-chip cookies apres-swim, they're on their own when it comes to towels.

Quick and Random

Thank you for the birthday wishes I received here after TheDad "hacked" my blog on Saturday.  I received some nice presents:  a doughnut pan and extra-large dark chocolate bar from Middle Sister, a Pullman bread pan from Big Brother (yes, I asked for kitchen stuff for my birthday!) and on Sunday, TheDad is taking me into New York City so we can see "Sister Act" on Broadway.  That's going to be fun!

Little Brother and the Street Urchins are making me crazy here.  Two are taking turns with "Bop It" and the third is playing a "Paper Jamz" guitar.  Let it be known that I am not responsible for bringing either of those nefarious, noisy toys into my house.  It's almost at the point where I'm willing to let them play a video game just to shut them up, except that I suspect that this is their evil plan, so I'm holding out as best I can.

I spent 6 hours of my birthday in the car (with my family) so we could go to my sister's and celebrate my niece's graduation.  It was worth the trip.  This is the longest car trip I've taken since right before I had surgery in April, and I'm not gonna lie:  it took its toll.  I had a backache until Monday.  But it was great fun to spend time with my family, and one of my other nieces made me a birthday cake from scratch, featuring the new nickname she and her sister have bestowed upon me.

I am coming to terms with the fact that while my weight has not changed since surgery, things have rearranged a bit, so some of my clothes no longer fit.  Actually, I had to break down and buy a couple of pairs of (gasp!) Mom Jeans, since those are the only ones with a high enough waist to work.  Waistbands and incision scars don't mix well.  Middle Sister is going to be horrified.  But I'm looking at it this way:  most people who have surgery at a cancer center cannot say that they're relatively healthy--I can.  I came out of the whole thing with a large scar, hot flashes every hour, and a fashion challenge.  There is every reason to be grateful, even for the Mom Jeans.

It's about time for a battery-ectomy on a couple of electronic toys...

Today is My Birthday! (....or I shouldn't leave my blogger account open when I go to sleep)

Happy birthday!

(I will be setting the tent up in the back yard, as I think even the couch will not be an option when she wakes up and sees this)

P.S. On August 5th, you are busy.

Your DH
TheDad

Elsewhere

I've got a few things to say about a few things in these places:

• at Catholicmom.com:  Tech Talk:  5 Reasons to Use Springpad.  This is probably the most useful app I have on my phone (and computer).
• at Tjoos.com:  Tuesday Release, in which I express my gratitude for my Big Kids' good taste in music
• also at Tjoos:  Athletic Immunity, this Notre Dame football fan's short take on the NCAA's sanctions of Penn State
• and finally, did you know that hot flashes can be so powerful that they can melt moisturizer right off your face?  I found this out last week:  Midlife Madness

Go ahead and click through!

No Killer Instinct Here

In which I reveal myself as a less-than-committed sports parent.


For the past three weeks, Middle Sister has been attending twice-weekly summer soccer "camp," which runs from 6 to 8 PM, or right during the time in which I'm cooking and serving dinner.  It's also right during prime thunderstorm hours, especially in the heat of July.

Last week, on that very hot day, the team parents got an email:

Coach [name withheld to protect the guilty] is going to try to still have training tonight from 6-8 PM. Hopefully the storms will pass through either before or after the session.

It is suggested that parents stick around or arrange for another parent (or an upperclassman with a car) to account for your daughter in case the storms roll in while we are on the field and we would need to get all of the girls into cars in a hurry.

So we parents are supposed to stick around in our cars in an open parking lot when it's 100 degrees outside during a longer-than-two-hour practice just in case it rains?  That's your genius plan for keeping my kid safe from a possibly dangerous weather situation?

Five minutes later we got another email:  "On second thought, practice is cancelled."

Good.

But tonight, while it's 10 degrees cooler, we've got thunderstorms threatening.  I'm consoling myself with the fact that we live so close to the school that I could probably drive to the parking lot faster than the soccer kids could get there from the field.  And I'm going to keep the phone handy during dinner, because if it gets any darker out there, I want to be ready to zip right over there.

Really, coach, when there's any yellow and red in the radar, it's time to call it a day.

And the thunder rumbles...