Priorities

This morning, while waiting for Little Brother's basketball game to start, I was talking with his Cub Scout den leader (whose son was on the opposing team). He mentioned that after next weekend's Blue and Gold Dinner, which will feature the boys' crossover into Boy Scouting, his son probably will not continue in Scouting.

That's a shame.

At first I thought that the boy just didn't feel like Scouting was for him. I told the den leader that my older son had felt that way for a while, and we asked him to just give it a certain amount of time. If he still didn't like it after that time, he could walk away.

Apparently, though, that wasn't the case. This young man is having academic difficulties in school. His parents are considering after-school tutoring to help him improve his reading skills. That's a good course of action to take, and I hope that it helps. But then, the den leader went on, they had decided that if he does go to a tutoring center, he won't be allowed to go to Scouts until his grades improve.

That's an even bigger shame. Before the opening buzzer to the game sounded, I tried to convince this dad that Scouting was definitely worth the investment of time, and that his son would learn about managing his time as part of his Scout training.

I probably failed, unfortunately.

In this town (and many towns surrounding mine) the emphasis is ALL on sports. Little Brother is one of the few boys his age who is held to a strict "one sport per season" limit. I've known several kids who play on two or more teams for the same sport during the same season, and always wondered what happens when the inevitable schedule conflict comes up. The boy in question here plays multiple sports in a season, sometimes on travel teams whose games are an hour or more away. I'm not against sports--my kids are athletes too--but a steady diet of nothing but sports is awfully limiting for an eleven-year-old.

A Scout is trustworthy, loyal, helpful, friendly, courteous, kind, obedient, cheerful, thrifty, brave, clean, and reverent.--the Boy Scout Law

Yes, you'll get some of that in sports. Ultimately, though, the goal in sports is to win. The goal in Scouting is to fulfill that Law. By doing so, it's not only the Scout who wins.

And when a child's punishment for poor grades (or poor conduct) is removal from his Scout troop, he definitely loses.

Day: Made

This afternoon I was handed a packet of thank-you notes written by the 5th grade at Little Brother's school. Every child in his class wrote me a thank-you note last week, during Catholic Schools Week, because I am a weekly volunteer in the school library. The notes were hand-written on stationery that the kids decorated themselves. I know this class well, because I've worked with them for 4 of the 6 years I've helped in the library. This is a great bunch of kids--they've been together since kindergarten and as a group they're pretty tight.

As to the sentiments expressed in the letter, they were often at the corner of Funny and Sweet, because that's where ten-year-olds live. Here are a few of my favorite gems:

"We are all very grateful for you donating your time for the school. You're a very thoughtful person. As they say in Spanish, gracias!"

"It is a massive responsibility for you to go to the library every single Friday."

"Every time you come on a Friday it makes me feel happy inside."

"When you are supporting us we are supporting you."

"I hope you are proud of yourself!"

"I am thankful because you could be doing something other than helping."

"You are the greatest book stamper ever!"

Two kids wrote "Go Notre Dame" on their letters as well. (After all these years together, they know me well. And I know them well enough to know that for one boy, that was a big thing--he's absolutely not a Notre Dame fan. But he wrote it on my letter because he knows that I am.)

And one child made a special point of thanking me for finding a copy of a book she'd been looking for, and setting it aside for her until her class came to the library. That's what it's all about.

That packet of letters made my day. I love helping the school by lending a hand in my favorite place!
Plus, it's good to know that my book-stamping talent has not gone unnoticed.

Not User-Friendly

And now it's time for my annual Re-Registration Rant.

It's time to sign up Middle Sister for her senior year of high school. (All together now:  "She's a senior ALREADY?")

When registration time comes around, the school emails me a link to her account. (Full disclosure:  This account is not maintained by the school, but by the tuition-management service contracted by the diocese. None of the issues I encountered were things the school could have remedied or prevented.) In the email, it said that that if I signed in using this link, it would display my student's information. So I signed in at the link, fortunately remembering my username and password.

I should have known I was in for it when I was asked to enter my returning student's name, despite what the email from the school told me. After filling in that form, I came to a screen that instructed me to click the button labeled "Add Student"--this despite the fact that I'd already filled in the student's name, and that a little link labeled "Start" was next to my daughter's name. I followed the directions, though. Doing so took me back to the ADD screen, which I did not want.

Trying again, I clicked that "Start" link and continued registration.

The form remembers none of the information from previous registrations. Everything must be entered again.

Although I checked the box for "Married" after "Parents' Marital Status" and then the box for "Child lives with both parents" I still could not go on until I filled in Custodial Parent Information. The form is set up so that I would have to designate one of us as Custodial and one as Non-custodial.

I called the customer-service number of the management company that handles the registration website, but I'd have had to wait 12 minutes to (maybe) speak to a person. That's way too long to listen to cheesy "on-hold" music punctuated by smarmy messages reminding me how important my call is to them, so I bailed. I considered calling the school, as I've had to do at least once before when filling out this form and reaching this step. The whole process comes to a screeching halt because the system cannot deal with a child in a traditional two-parent household.

Then I noticed that underneath the boxed for "Name of Custodial Parent" and "Name of Non-custodial Parent" there was a check-box labeled "Not applicable." The same was true for the addresses (and phone numbers) of the custodial and non-custodial parent. Several checked boxes later, I was able to proceed with the next step.

I'm quite sure that it's not very hard to have those "Not applicable" boxes automatically fill in when the box "Child lives with both parents" is checked.

I was asked to fill in my student's religion in two separate places. Similarly, I had to fill in the names of both parents, and our address, several times throughout the process.

If all this is tied to an account that I created years ago, why doesn't it remember any of that information?

I did notice at the end, however, that it had my bank account number on file so it could easily and automatically deduct the registration deposit of $490. That was the only convenient part of the whole process.

That's right:  it doesn't remember my kid, my address, my phone number, my religion, or what to do when both parents live in the same house, but it's got access to my checking account. That's more than a little unsettling.

Cleaning Up My (Linguistic) Act

A few times in the past couple of days, there have been discussions involving swearing. Patrick Madrid, on Tuesday, hosted an episode of "Right Here, Right Now" where he called out people who use profanity in social media (or anywhere, really).  Then, Katharine Grubb, the 10Minute Writer, brought up the topic in the context of her ongoing series on chivalry.

I'm not one to use the F-bomb, but I do have a couple of other "choice" words that could stand to be eradicated from my vocabulary. Especially the whole "taking the Lord's name in vain" thing.

It's been on my mind.

So this morning I was on my way to school, same as any other Friday morning. My timing must have been a bit off, because I got stuck behind a school bus that I don't usually see. As I drove through the neighborhood, that bus kept turning down the same streets I was about to use.

I hate following school buses, especially the ones that go to the early-elementary school, because they take for-ev-er to go anyplace, and kids' moms stand there chatting with the bus driver while the little STOP sign sticks out from the side of the bus and the red lights blink, so I can't pass.

School buses just don't drive with the same sense of urgency I do.

Once again, that bus turned the same way I was about to go.  "Jesus Christ!" I yelled.

Then I thought better of it, figured I'd turn it into a prayer. "Have mercy on us, and on the whole world."

Immediately, the bus made yet another turn--down a street that was not on my route.

Whoa.

Score One for the Big Box

I shop at "big box" stores as much as anyone else. Around here, there doesn't seem to be much of a choice. We don't have a Main Street in town; instead, it's strip malls along a state highway.

But when we (infrequently) host parties, we've always gone to Party Land to get our supplies. Because of the store's location, it's close but inconvenient--less than 1/2 a mile to get there but three times that to get home. It's worth the trip, though; it's a local business and we'd rather purchase plates, cups and tablecloths there than at (insert name of big box store here).

As the kids have gotten older, birthday parties have gone by the wayside, so except for graduations, we haven't needed to visit the party store. I go there every February to stock up on colorful tablecloths for the Cub Scouts' Blue and Gold Dinner.

This year I did that shopping a little early, because Party Land won't be here in February. Just before Christmas, Party City opened directly across the street, in a strip mall owned by the same landlord. It's got the advantage of a location with much more foot traffic.

I told Little Brother when we first saw the signs for Party City that Party Land would close within a year. Unfortunately, it only took a month.

So yesterday I headed over to Party Land before it closes its doors for good--to pick up blue and gold tablecloths for next month's Cub Scout dinner.

As I told TheDad this morning, I felt really crummy doing so. And I don't quite understand why. I needed to get those tablecloths anyway. I was going to buy them at Party Land anyway. I just wasn't going to buy them until February. Yet when I walked into that store yesterday, it was crowded with five times more customers than I'd normally see in the middle of a school day. People were loading up carts with all kinds of things, squealing over going-out-of-business bargains.

All I bought was a dozen or so blue and gold tablecloths. That didn't stop me from feeling rotten as I stood in line behind people with loaded-up shopping carts.

I'm glad that this will be the last year I do a Blue and Gold Dinner. I don't think I could stomach getting those tablecloths at the competition.

And now my town will have one more empty storefront as one more family business owned by a local guy for over 25 years will close its doors.

That doesn't really feel like progress to me.

Future Green Builder Of America (and maybe a deacon too)

Little Brother spent most of the car ride to and from tonight's play rehearsal to discuss his future aspirations. He wants to play professional soccer and then become a deacon--if it doesn't take too long to prepare for Holy Orders. He also wants to be a doctor. (I didn't bother to burst his bubble by telling him that it's probably quicker to prepare for the diaconate than for a career in medicine.)

As we passed a new neighborhood-under-construction, he mentioned that one of his classmates might move there. "The builders took all the trees down," he observed. "What do you think they did with them? Will they use those trees to build the houses?"

"They don't build houses that way anymore," I told him. "I don't know what they do with the trees; they might grind them up right there, or they might take them someplace else to use for firewood or something. But the builder is going to get his materials from a lumberyard that has everything already processed."

"That's a bad way to build houses," he commented. "When I grow up and become a Builder of Houses, I'm going to use the trees I cut down to make part of the houses. And if I have any leftovers, I'll give them away so someone can make notebooks."

Library Tales

I was the substitute for the librarian/computer teacher at Little Brother's school today. I'm there every Friday anyway as a volunteer helper, so I know the routine--but it is different when you're on your own.

Someday I want to bring my resume along, because there's a pre-K aide who seems to think I'm generally clueless and inexperienced. It's true that I haven't taught 4-year-olds before, but I am a certified teacher who has taught grades 1, 2, 5, 7, 8, 9, 10 and college. Maybe I'm misinterpreting her remarks that I was "brave" to go it alone today. Brave or not, I'm qualified to do the job.

The day kicked off with a very pleasant second-grade class. They like to tattle, but that's their only issue. I don't like tattling so I don't reward it, and that drives them crazy. I love this bunch of kids, though, and we had a good time and enjoyed a story after they checked out their books.

Normally when the librarian brings a class into the computer room I stay in the library to shelve books, make bookmarks or organize displays. When I'm substituting, those tasks wait until the kids are back in their classrooms, and I'm in the computer room with them as they work on projects. I enjoy helping them with their research, though their keyword skills can make me crazy. The 5th grade is studying explorers and using Pages to make brochures with biographical information. Some of them needed assistance, like the boy who found that googling "Cartier" didn't produce the results he was looking for. "Does 'Cartier' mean something else?" he wondered.

One of his classmates, meanwhile, was mystified by her explorer's cause of death. She wanted to know the definition of "dysentery." I asked if she really wanted to know, because it was kind of gross, but she insisted that she wanted to know...so I told her. She was horrified. "People died from that?"

"Well, in the 18th century, yes," I said. "It's not like they could just take some Immodium. They didn't have all the medicines we have now."

I should apologize right here and now to the 5th-grade teacher for my "TMI" description of this disease. I'm kind of curious about how it will play in the final report.

I expected the eighth grade to give me more trouble than they did, after I wore a Notre Dame shirt to school last week and the boys all yelled "Roll Tide!" I was prepared to eat crow over Monday's game, but a couple of kids made quick remarks and then that was over with. They were chatty, but busy, and our biggest problem was that no one could figure out how to print a Powerpoint slide in "portrait" instead of "landscape." Finally I gave up and just told them to save their work until the librarian returns and can show them how.

After two 20-minute whirlwind classes with the 4-year-olds it was time for lunch duty, where I supervised the beverage table and then wandered around the cafeteria making sure kids ate their lunches. I called one 3rd-grader by name, which surprised his classmates who then quizzed me on the name of every kid in the class. I got them all except the new boy, and since I haven't seen these kids since June, I was pretty pleased with that.

Then I had half an hour to eat my own lunch before heading back to greet the kindergarten. Everyone checked out books, then we read a story. They enjoyed the story so much that they didn't even notice their teacher returning to pick them up.

The biggest wrinkle in the day came after all my classes were done, because the 4th graders came in to use the iPads. The secretary had given me the code to the locked cabinet, but there's a trick to opening that lock and I couldn't figure it out. I sent up a distress signal in the form of a text message to the librarian, who clued me in on what to do and the cabinet opened right up. And then I had the chance to kick off my shoes and go on Lysol Patrol in the computer room, wiping down tables, chairs, keyboards and mice. Oddly enough for this time of year, I didn't have to run Tissue Patrol all day--there was no visible snot. I used the cleaning time to listen to a podcast on my phone. Now the computer room and library are neat and clean and ready for the librarian to return on Monday.

And I am tired.

I Played My Best for Him

I love Christmas carols--always have. If you ask me to choose my top 3, it's an easy choice:  "O Holy Night," "Silent Night," and "The Little Drummer Boy."

That last one hardly fits into the category of "traditional Christmas carols," but I can't help it. That song makes me cry every time--always has. I don't think I've ever been able to sing the line, "I played my best for him" without choking up.

The Little Drummer Boy gets it right. He brings his gift--not something that can be opened, but his talent--and he gives his best effort to honor the newborn King. As a musician, it's what I try to do, Sunday after Sunday. And I love that after the Little Drummer Boy offers his humble gift, Baby Jesus smiles at him.

Pass me a tissue, please.

Why would I choose bongo drums to illustrate this post? In art, the Little Drummer Boy is always pictured with a snare, sometimes slung around his neck, and drumsticks in his hands.

But my Little Drummer Boy (AKA Little Brother) has bongo drums. We sang "The Little Drummer Boy" on Tuesday at church and will do so again today. (It's not "orthodox;" it's not in the hymnal, but it's better theology than a bunch of what is in there.) Little Brother has learned to play the song on his drums. On Tuesday he knelt beside the guitarists and nailed that drum part, even meriting a thumbs-up from Bill, a former drummer who's very particular about how percussion is played.

I love that my kids have had the opportunity to offer their musical gifts in worship, to play their best--even when they're beginners musically. I teared up on Tuesday when my Little Drummer Boy played his best, right alongside me. And it's pretty much a given that I'll cry again today.

The Blame Game

This was the first year EVER that one of my kids was an altar server on Christmas, despite their collective 8+ years of service. Little Brother was so excited to be serving in a special day.

So excited, in fact, that he fainted in the middle of the Our Father. TheDad and Middle Sister ran right over to him (she's a sprinter and is not afraid to use her abilities in church when her brother is passed out on the floor.)

From where I was standing in the musicians' area (not a choir loft by any stretch of the imagination--more like a choir prison) I couldn't see him at all, so by the time someone got my attention, there were two other people plus my husband and daughter helping him out.

Our neighbor, a middle-schooler also in the choir, was sitting behind me, so I sent her down to Little Brother with my water bottle.

As it turns out, he was fine--just overheated and dehydrated. Those robes are not made with breathable fabric.

Tonight, he tried to blame his fainting spell on our friend Mr. H, who had teased him before Mass about the hairstyle he's trying to grow into and pressed down on his head to make the hair stop sticking straight up. The kid looks like Spaceman Spiff.

Big Brother and I were having none of it. His defense: "Abraham Lincoln was shot in the head and he DIED 24 hours later. So I could faint from this."

Posted with Blogsy

Incorruptible...or Just Incorrigible?

Because sometimes you just need to laugh in the midst of it all.

I know I can use a laugh today. Maybe you could, too. So here's the latest Little-Brotherism.

On Friday night, I was trying to convince him to be an altar-server for Saturday's funeral. There wouldn't be a coffin, I told him (in case that was spooking him about the whole thing) because Mary had been cremated.

Apparently he didn't know what cremation is, so I had to explain that. The concept horrified him.

"When I die, I want to be all together, with my bones and everything," he informed me. "And you know what I want? One of those glass coffins, you know, like the saints have...with the little air conditioners inside to keep them fresh."

Someone's been studying St. John Neumann at school, I see.

But I had to burst the kid's bubble and let him know that those things don't come with air conditioning.

In all seriousness, it's good to know that he's aiming high. He speaks very matter-of-factly about possibilities for sainthood. I can't take credit for putting that idea into his head, but I'm certainly glad that it's there.

Making Sense of It All

Yesterday was an extraordinarily difficult day.

I already knew I'd be spending the evening attending a wake service for one of the Secular Franciscans who'd passed away after a long illness. Much as we are relieved that her suffering has ended, we mourn her loss and grieve with her family.

When I stopped at the parish office for a Mass card, the secretary was mourning for one of her own family members who'd passed away. All I could do was squeeze her hand across the counter as she wept...I've been praying for her since then.

One of the other Secular Franciscans has a birthday today. She will spend it at a funeral for her longtime friend and neighbor.

Little Brother had a half day, so he got home around 1, and in the middle of arguing with him about what constitutes a "clean" family room, I started seeing news reports about the horrible events in Newtown, CT. People on social media were saying, "hug your kids" and my 10-year-old is accusing me of not loving him because I wouldn't let him play a video game before he'd finished his chore.

28 people died in Connecticut yesterday. The story just kept getting worse and worse. The media interviewed traumatized little kids and mis-identified the shooter.

And the parents of 20 little children will have to get through Christmas without those children. They will be wishing for the opportunity to tell their child to clean up his toys.

After dinner I went to the funeral home for the wake, where the deacon wisely began the prayer service with a prayer for the New England community that had suffered such a tragedy. And we all agreed that Mary M, a mom of 6 and grandmother of 9, was probably welcoming those little children to Heaven yesterday.

I was glad, last night, to have all my kids under the same roof when I went to sleep. I hope that they know every day that I love them. Even when I take away their video games, make them clean up their own messes, and enforce curfews. Someday they will realize that I do these things BECAUSE I love them, that I wouldn't be loving them very much at all if I didn't.

Today, when they wake up, I will hug them all just a little harder. There is just no way to understand this. All I can do is try to be better at loving my family. And I pray for Mary, for the people of Newtown, CT, and for our parish secretary, Mary's family, our Franciscan community and all others who grieve.

Eternal rest grant unto them, O Lord, and may perpetual light shine upon them. May their souls and the souls of all the faithful departed, through the mercy of God, rest in peace.

And may the Lord comfort those who mourn.

Updated to add:  I was asked in the comments how to get to the point of praying for the shooter. I don't know. I just don't. But Friar Charles has a good starting point here.

Posted with Blogsy

I Confess

I fail at Confession.

Sometimes I feel like Confession fails me.

I definitely have to stop attending those "communal Penance services." It's like drive-by Confession, and it's never a good experience--which is why I let two or three years go by between Confessions, until I feel absolutely driven to seek absolution, and I drag myself there.

For me, "communal Penance services" are a near occasion of sin. (So why do I go? Because they're not on Saturday afternoons, which are always so nutty that I can never manage to get to Confession for the 45 minutes our parish offers it at that time.)

If it were up to me, these services would be simple affairs consisting of a hymn or two, a Scripture reading or two, and a short homily from Father explaining how to make a good examination of conscience. After that, everyone lines up for Confession.

Here's how it went last night:

• Arrive and find a pew. Listen to announcement by cantor that if you forgot a "worship aid" you should raise your hand and a "team member" would bring one to you.
• Hymn, Liturgy of the Word, prayer.
• A combination skit/prayer/examination of conscience in which 6 costumed actors represented Isaiah, John the Baptist, Zechariah, Elizabeth, Mary and Jesus and lectors read prayers relating the examination of conscience to each of these Biblical figures.
• Lineup for Confession. After the initial scramble to get in line for your favorite priest, I waited 40 minutes, only to end up with the hard-of-hearing priest who was older than Moses and looked like he might not survive the night. (Good thing the church has its own defibrillator. I was afraid we might have to use it.)
• Parting gift. After absolution, Father handed me a handy-dandy refrigerator magnet "to remember this evening by."

I don't need "worship aids," "team members," costumed actors with props, and refrigerator magnets. And frankly, I don't want them. For me, they get in the way.

I know I shouldn't be snarky, and I'll need to go to Confession again over that. To be fair, the service was well-done. Good music, well-prepared readers, good flow. But it felt like a performance, not a prelude to a sacrament.

In the end, the grace of the sacrament is enough--which brings to mind this prayer by St. Ignatius of Loyola:

Take, O Lord, and receive all my liberty, my memory, my understanding and my will; all that I have and possess. You have given them to me; to you, O Lord, I restore them. All things are yours: Dispose of them according to your will. Give me your love and your grace; for this is enough for me.

Question du Jour

...or, more accurately, del día.

I sent Little Brother off to scrub toilets after he finished his homework. He's always been a fan of that job.

While he was busy creating toilets full of bubbles, he noticed the bilingual label on the Comet. "It says '20% más'. What does 'más' mean?"

"In Spanish? It means 'more'," I replied.

More scrubbing, then:  "Do people in Spain have toilets?"

A Holiday By Any Other Name

It's that time of year again, and this year I'm just tired of it. This morning's paper carried the announcement that my township will be lighting its "Holiday Tree" later this week.

At least they waited until December, but that's a rant for another day.

Yes, they called it a "Holiday Tree" in the announcement. But honestly, whom do they think they're fooling? Santa's going to arrive (via fire truck, not reindeer sleigh) and there will probably be candy canes. That, plus the decorated tree and musical entertainment by the middle-school chorus gives everyone the first clue:  this is not Labor Day.

Call it what you want; we all know what the holiday in question is. And I don't think that ranting about the problem is going to fix it.

This Advent and Christmas season, I encourage you to remember the reason for the season, cheesy though that expression may be.

Take time to listen to some sacred music. My Advent soundtrack this year, in addition to the rehearsal music for the Festival of Lessons and Carols in which I'm participating, is Advent at Ephesus. I got my copy a week ago; today I'll listen to it for the first time. If a church or school near you is hosting a Festival of Lessons and Carols, don't miss it!

Light the Advent wreath.

Study the Gospel of Luke.

Make a Jesse Tree.

Decorate gradually, and keep those decorations up past December 26. We don't "undecorate" around here until after Epiphany.

Pray.

And have some fun. Watch the Christmas specials on TV or DVD. Don't miss Charlie Brown or the Grinch.

I wish you a blessed Advent and Christmas season!

Tiber River Review: Style, Sex and Substance

Don't let your pride get in the way of your reading this encouraging book. I'll admit that mine did, for a while; I'm pretty sure that most of the 10 contributors are a good bit younger than I am. But after reading several excerpts of Style, Sex and Substance online, I was convinced that while the women whose essays are featured in this book may be younger than me, they've got plenty of wisdom to share. The writing is honest and real, and by the end of each chapter you'll feel that its author is a new, trusted friend.

Don't let the title fool you; I found that this book is a whole lot more about "substance" than sex. Yes, there are humorous, real-life stories (and I loved those!) There are also reflection questions at the end of each chapter that would work as well for small-group study as they do for individual reflection and journaling. A small sampling of these include:

• sins vs. quirks
• nurturing yourself
• putting your schedule in order
• fostering intimacy in marriage
• personal holiness for single women
• making rash judgements
• healthy friendship
• building your marriage
• goals for motherhood
• the Christian life and popular culture

Not all chapters are for every woman at every time, but this book doesn't need to be read start-to-finish to be appreciated. Start with the introduction and chapter 1, then pick and choose as the Spirit moves you. You'll be hooked, and you'll want to keep this book around for encouragement in the various seasons of your life as a Catholic woman.

Style, Sex and Substance would be a great gift for a young woman just starting out on her own, a bride-to-be, a new mom or even a "woman of a certain age" like myself who's in need of a new perspective.

After all, there's always something new to be learned--even from women who are younger than you.

My compliments to editor Hallie Lord and all the contributors to this excellent book.

You can purchase this book here.

I wrote this review of Style, Sex and Substance for the Tiber River Blogger Review program, created by Aquinas and More Catholic Goods. For more information and to purchase, please visit Aquinas and More Catholic Goods. Tiber River is the first Catholic book review site, started in 2000 to help you make informed decisions about Catholic book purchases.

A review copy of the book was provided to me. I did not receive other compensation for this review.

If You Bake It, They Will Eat It

This year, Little Brother is a member of his school's chapter of the National Junior Beta Club. They have frequent service projects and fund-raisers, the proceeds of which are donated to charity.

This morning he let me know that next week, the Beta Club will be having a lunchtime bake sale. "There's a paper in my classroom, Mom. It's on the 6th and the 7th and we're supposed to bring in baked goods....Will you bake a good?"

Talking Football

This afternoon I went to parent-teacher conferences at Little Brother's school.

He's earned all A's, so I wasn't worried too much about his grades. But I figured it was my parental duty to put in an appearance, and it would be a good time to touch base with his teacher about his emotional health, given the disruptions of the past few weeks. She's aware of most of them, and assured me that he's been fine at school.

She also let me know that "he's been talking A LOT about Notre Dame." No surprise there. I've been talking a lot about Notre Dame myself. Frankly, I think I've done my job right if I've passed along the proper fan allegiance to the next generation. And I worked hard for the right to be an Irish fan.

My parents are staunch members of the "Fighting Irish Subway Alumni." Both devout fans of Notre Dame (but alums of Seton Hall), they were pleased when I applied to graduate school there.

I was accepted at ND, Purdue and SUNY Binghamton. Clearly I was not basing my choice of university on "balmy winter climate." (What WAS I thinking back in 1986?)

Once the acceptance letters came in, my dad informed me that I would be going to Notre Dame. That was that. I'd gotten in at his dream school, apparently.

I showed up on the campus of Notre Dame in August of 1987, never having seen a football game--ANY football game--in my life. One of my roommates was a band assistant. All three of my roommates were horrified that here I was at Notre Dame and I knew nothing of football and didn't even care. I do like bands, though, so they insisted that I watch the games on our tiny TV so I could see the band.

I attended one game (ND vs Navy on Halloween of 1987.) The Irish won, 56-13. No, I didn't remember the score--I just looked it up. I remember that they won; that one of my non-band roommates was at the game too, very patiently explaining what a "first down" was; that in the student section, no one sat during the game. We all stood on the bleachers the whole time.

It was great.

25 years later, I still prefer basketball and there are still football rules I don't get, though I do understand "first down" now. But I taught my kids early (and often) that in my football world, it's Notre Dame vs. "The Bad Guys." I never actually said that, but that's what Big Brother took away from it when he was four or five. Let's just say I never bothered to correct that assumption.

Until Little Brother started moonlighting as Mr. SportsCenter, I never even paid attention to other schools' teams. But this kid is a walking, talking sports encyclopedia who inhales football (and soccer) trivia like it's oxygen. He knows who's ranked where, what teams have injured QBs and who's favored to win next week's matchups. I, on the other hand, know that Notre Dame home games are on NBC.

I've enjoyed this football season immensely so far and look forward to this weekend's game. I might even stay up late to watch the whole thing.

After all, I have earned the right to be a fan. I've stuck with my team during the bad years, and I'm going to relish this one.

Keeping Score

I keep tallying up, in my head, the ways in which I believe I am "doing my best" in my current situation.

It is comforting, I admit, to note that little by little, my "best" includes yet another thing I wouldn't have thought I'd be able to do. (Willing is a whole other matter, still.)

But to be perfectly honest, I won't be "doing my best" until I stop keeping score.

Pondering in my Heart

The phrase "pondered it in her heart" struck me twice today. The first time was at Mass this morning. I'm not sure whether it was something Father said during the reflection on the Gospel or if it just popped into my head; the second time was just now when I was listening to episode 2 of The Catholics Next Door's "rebooted" podcast and Jennifer spoke those words.

I stopped listening midsentence (the great thing about podcasts is that you can hit that PAUSE button and then come back to it later) because I needed to think about this.

In Luke's Gospel, Mary is described as "pondering these things in her heart" (Luke 2:19). When that phrase first caught my attention this morning, I started thinking about the things I ponder in my heart.

For the most part, they're not the good things. They're not the happy things. Is it because I am a glass-half-empty kind of girl? The things I ponder, the things I dwell upon in my heart, are the troubles big and small that I allow to consume my attention, steal my focus and determine my mood.

Right now, there's a whole lot on my plate. Some are things I can't fix, like my husband's health. Some are things I find myself blaming others for, and we won't get into those in this space. I'm carrying a lot of resentment around right now, and that's sucking the life out of my ability to be a good wife, mom, family member and friend. My plate is full, and my heart is full--and for the most part, my heart is not filled with good things.

I was sweeping and washing the floor this afternoon; it was so easy to clean up the dirt that had gathered in the corners and under the chairs. If only it were that easy to clean the corners of my heart, where I have allowed resentment and anger to fill up the space that should be full of good thoughts.

Electioneering

It's all politics, all the time around here tonight. TheDad lives for this stuff and is even ignoring an upcoming nor'easter in favor of election returns. Little Brother's school had a mock election today among grades 4 and up, so he's interested in watching the elections as well (though I suspect he wants to stay up late so he can play Minecraft with the news in the background.

And Middle Sister asked what channel would have the elections (pretty much everything but ESPN, kid) because she's taking US History 2 this year and her teacher expects the class to pay attention to this. Along with a real-life civics lesson, she's also getting a geography challenge; her teacher gave the kids unmarked outline maps and wants them to label the states according to the results.

He'll get no argument from me, but my older two kids missed the geography boat in their early educations. I insisted that Big Brother sign up for a geography class in high school and he later conceded that he'd learned a lot of important information.

When Middle Sister complained that she didn't know which states were which, I informed her that she'd be selecting Geography as her first-choice elective next year, and if she didn't, I wouldn't sign her course-selection card. There was loud protesting, but I'm not giving in, even though Grandma stuck up for Middle Sister and said that it's not important to know where the states are. (Thanks for that.)

Big Brother said he'd pass on watching election returns at college, because he figured that watching these in a public place could get tense. Besides, he's got stage crew.

And I've got a couple of interesting books and a bowl of Halloween candy to occupy my attention. I voted, and there's nothing I can do about this now.

Posted with Blogsy