Category Archives: Family and Love

Skipping a beat

1 Comment

I have to go into the school to pick up my son. It’s kind of a hassle, but that’s the way it works at that-thar school. So I oblige without complaint.

The H man

Every day, Henry greets me with that winning dimpled, still-toothless smile. He was late losing his teeth and lost all the teeth he should have lost beginning at about five or six, the six months after turning eight. They are finally starting to fill in, and he can eat somewhat normally. But I digress.

Henry and I talk on the route out of the school. He always tells me his day was terrible, all with a joyful bounce in his step. He shares with me chatty tidbits about the day. Things I might find shocking in his eyes. (Someone got a blue on the behavior chart, etc.) When we emerge from the building, in just three or four short steps, we are directly in the parking lot. And, without fail, my boy gently glides his fingers into my hand. I don’t reach for him or expect him to. After all, he likes to remind me, he’s almost nine.

And every time, my heart skips a beat. I recognize all too well that these moments are fleeting. Someday, he won’t reach for my hand. He won’t need to (or, dare I say, want to). I may not even notice on that day. (Truthfully, I hope I don’t.) But now I do notice, and consider each time a blessing and a bonus.

Count those blessings!

Battleship sunk

Leave a comment

It’s a direct hit! Baby sunk my battleship.

1. I sit in a restaurant waiting for my breakfast companion. From his highchair, Cliff chucks his toy ambulance, and it hits the only thing on the table (paper-napkin-rolled silverware sets aside): my coffee cup. Direct hit! Complete coffee explosion. Reinforcements have to be called to wipe up the spill.

2. I sit with Lillian and try to help her find a picture in a Marian art book. It’s a painting of the slaughtering of the Holy Innocents. (Yes. I know. I’m stashing money for therapy.) We quietly look at the pages. Then smash, out of no where, baby boy whips a triangular block at me. Direct hit! Right in the nose. Split skin. Blood and everything.

3. In the bathroom, cleaning up the split nose. Viewing damage. Cliffy comes in  blowing booger bubbles from his nose. Sparing the details, it’s disgusting. I grab a tissue, pick him up, his head thrashing to avoid the wipe (he’s had his nose wiped enough for one day). Lickity split. Direct hit! He has a death grip on my glasses. Rips them off my face. I’m dodging his flailing arms for fear one of the temples is going to end up in my eye. Try to save glasses. Nose pad flies off. Spend the rest of the day with a band-aid wrapped around the remnant metal that still gouges a hole into my already wounded nose.

4. Cliff, with all of his excited and apple-cider-full belly pukes on the chenille sofa. Direct hit! No details necessary.

Battle weary, battleship sunk. Never, ever buy chenille furniture, no matter how comfortable it is.

Time management

4 Comments

The other day, dear spouse came home and asked this loaded question: What did you do today?

Okay, that sounds innocent enough. Right? Like inquiring what interesting things we did during the day.

I think the question was a little more motivated by the unloaded grocery bags sitting on the kitchen floor. Defenses: ON.

I needn’t be defensive chimes in dear spouse. He just wanted to know … so, I told him.

Fed children. Made lunches. Said goodbye to children who dress themselves. Dressed baby and toddler. Dressed self. Had to redress baby after he threw up on himself from bouncing on the bed while I dressed. Stripped bed. Rushed to school to watch biggest boy at assembly. Took toddler to school. Came home, unloaded dishwasher. Put baby to sleep. Wrote a thank you note. Played with baby for 45 minutes. Packed baby back in car and drove to fruit market. Shopped. Was delayed by baby’s insistence of me counting as he put things in bags (16 mushrooms!) and long-finger-nailed-but-very-sweet new cashier. Met dear spouse with toddler at home for lunch. Made lunch. Unloaded refrigeratables. Read to toddler and baby. Tried to deal with crying, questionably  miserable toddler. Put children down for nap. Folded laundry. Moved laundry. Loaded dishes. Parents stopped by. Visited with them for 20 minutes. Had to wake baby and toddler to load in car to pick up children who dress themselves. Drove to school one. Waited. Picked up one child. Drove to school two. Waited five minutes. Walked in. Picked up child two. Waited with arguing children in parking lot until it was my turn to exit (15 minutes). Came home. Left children in car while child one dressed for soccer. Took said child to soccer. Took other three children — one that dresses himself, one toddler and one baby to grocery store. Shopped. Came home. Left said children in car and unloaded newly acquired refrigeratables. Put other bags on floor of kitchen with the still unemptied bags from early excursion to fruit market. Got back in van and drove to soccer field. Picked up soccer-playing girl and took her to piano lessons. Drove home. And … there was dear spouse … inquiring … what did you do today?

Nothing much. And you?

(Please note: Showering and personal hygiene are not accidentally omitted  from this list.)

Easy peasy

2 Comments

Not so much.

I went up and took Helen out to dinner on Friday night. It was great. She brought a bunch of her music from classes with her. Showed me these “beautiful chords” from a big choir piece. Some jazz ensemble stuff. Very exciting. She told me stories that made me laugh my bar-room laugh (n’er a dainty giggle from me). We ate. We shopped a little. I drove her back to her dorm. Then, drat, we said goodbye.

Moving in

Um. Excuse me, but is this going to get easier? I cried the whole way home. I’m sure it didn’t help that we were listening to that Taylor Swift song, “The Best Day with You” …

And now I know why the all the trees change in the fall
I know you were on my side even when I was wrong
And I love you for giving me your eyes
For staying back and watching me shine
And I didn’t know if you knew, so I’m takin’ this chance to say
That I had the best day with you today

He’s my brother

Leave a comment

I watched Clifford free fall from the hearth into Henry’s waiting arms. Cliff would chuckle; Henry would rub the baby’s head. Then Clifford was back on his feet, climbing up, ready to do it again (and again and again). I have to admit, I had to stop myself from stopping them. I think I silently gasped each time. Although it’s only about an 18 inch drop, it was a sight to behold: Cliff’s absolute faith that Henry would be there to catch him.

He's my brother

I finally said to Henry, “Wow, he really trusts you.”

“Of course he does,” said Henry. “I’m his brother.”

That is what Christ asks of us. Complete trust. He is, after all, our brother. We should look to him with the simple trust of a little child.

It took a while for me to come to grips with that particular familial relationship with Christ. It sounded a little groovy to me. You know, like people calling each other brother or sister. As in, “Peace, my brotha.” Farrrr out.

But once I finally got it: God father, Christ brother, Heaven home–his place in my day-to-day life forever changed. I finally realized I could put my trust in Him in all things. Big and little. Even when I’m in a free fall. He is, after all, my brother.

At that time the disciples approached Jesus and said, “Who is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven?” He called a child over, placed it in their midst, and said, “Amen, I say to you, unless you turn and become like children,  you will not enter the kingdom of heaven. Whoever humbles himself like this child is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven. And whoever receives one child such as this in my name receives me.” –Mat 18 1-5

10 surprising things

3 Comments

I’m following today’s trend at Faith and Family Live. What the heck.

So here are 10 surprising things about me.

1. I’m lousy at making pie crust. I have tried to master this skill to no avail. I can make a tasty crust. Just not a pretty one. I’ve replaced the tools of the trade repeatedly (blaming them) only to be defeated. I don’t think I have the patience.

2.  I sneak candy in my house and stash it so the kids won’t consume it. I think I’m totally sugar dependent. (Which with my schedule, really isn’t surprising.)

3. I keep my Mrs. Beasley doll in a zippered vinyl bag in my bedroom closet. When I see her, I remember all the comfort she brought me as a child. And every now and then (once a year or so), I take her out and smell her. And she smells exactly the same. Wonderful. I even cried when last year my dear spouse put her in a bin to go in the attic. I was totally dismayed that after 20 years he didn’t understand what she meant to me.

4. I love blue cheese stuffed olives as much as I like candy.

5. I am a library and movie rental loser. (Almost) always late. I’d like to change, but at this point, it’s unlikely. I’ve pretty much stopped renting movies altogether. Even though you’re never late with Blockbuster Online, blah, blah, I think keeping a movie (that you never actually watched) for two months or longer is a little dysfunctional.

6. I’m obsessed with clean ears.

7. I refer to Frank Sinatra as Uncle Frank.

8. Against the direction of my dear spouse, other than clearing off large pieces of remnant food, I hardly rinse the dishes before putting them in the dishwasher.  I let the machine do it. (And for some reason, I secretly celebrate my triumph.)

9. My eyes were blue until I was about 14. Although I appreciate the uniqueness of light green eyes, having blue eyes was a special thing that of my siblings only I shared with my beautiful mother. (Since I look like my father.) I still miss that.

10.  One of my favorite TV shows is Dog the Bounty Hunter

School daze

Leave a comment

And I’m talking about me.

After five years of homeschooling, kids are back in school. Helen’s off and away studying music, Lil in Montessori school. And our lives are drastically different. And I am dazed and confused.

Cherished evening time has become evening rush time. Homework, soccer practice, piano lessons and practice. Today we actually stood around the fridge to pray. Instead of lighting a candle for day one of our novena in lovely nine-candle plate, I ran off a copy of the prayer on a sheet with a table of days so we can check them off. Plunk. Used a magnet and stuck it on the fridge. It felt kind of pathetic. And that made me sad. That’s not what I want.

When we homeschooled, we didn’t have homework. We just had work. We finished and then went on with our lives.  But since we had such a difficult year last year, with Helen’s senior year and all the events associated with that, with college apps and auditions. Not to mention a new baby and (scarily diminished) business. I felt like a homeschooling failure. Or at least inadequate. We didn’t even belong to a group or go on many field trips. I couldn’t begin to contemplate the logistics of any of that. My brain and body were maxed out.

So after lots of prayer and questionable moments of sanity, we decided school would be best.

And I’m not saying it isn’t. Teachers seem great. The kids are adapting beautifully, are well prepared and enjoying their days. But I have to figure out how to cope. If we’re called to be a people set apart, how can we do that when we’re stuck in the throes of all this? Can I still do my very best job keeping faith as the focus in the the lives of these precious gifts from God? How do we add a rosary at night when we’re scrambling to finish dishes, homework and get them to bed on time?

I know we’re only in the second week.

But this is our new normal. At least for now, and we have to figure out how to make it all work.

Prayers would be great. (Ain’t too proud to beg …)

Fly like a bird

3 Comments

Fly Like a Bird (a clip of Helen and me singing at our benefit concert.)

Well, today was the day. The day we moved Helen to school. The moment the  soundtrack to our daily lives changed, forever.

This is the day, as parents, we look forward to. Not because our fledgling is gone, but because she can fly. I can’t feel sadness. How could I? She’s wonderful. But I can feel the pain of separation. And, that is what I think we all fear most and try to avoid. The pain of separation.

Flying high

I could give you a blow- by-blow of the events. From my avoidance (not going upstairs at all through most of this week), to the the tearful goodbyes of the younger sibs, or the sweet note she left for Henry, and the gut-punch sound when it finally hit my dear spouse. We both kept so busy focusing on the process to try to avoid the inevitable feelings of disbelief that we could even be at this stage in our lives. Our daughter could not possibly be leaving our safe little nest.

But she is. And it’s good. (We’re happy she’s not too far away.) It’s her turn to fly,  and our turn to sit back and wonder how high.

Fly like a bird to the Lord, my soul.
I want to soar like an eagle.
Though I may journey far away from home,
I know I’ll never be alone.

O God, you know who I am.
You know my hopes and my dreams.
In my pondering and fears,
in my joy and in my tears,
O God, your presence is real.

Where can I run from your love?
Where can I hide from my God?
From the dawn of morning’s light
to the darkness of the night,
O God, your presence is real.

–Ken Canedo

A sneeze in time

Leave a comment

Shouldn’t there be a quota for sneezing in a single day? Week or month? And I promise–if asked–I would be generous in assigning the quota. You know, if it were up to me.

I’d be okay with 20 or 30 sneezes in a single day. Not 20 or 30 in a 10 minute period. I’m very wearing of being a Benadryl Girl living in the Benadryl world.  My head is spinney, my nose is runny, and my throat is tickley. Not to leave out every other part of me.

I’m used to allergies. They are a life-long, year-round visitor for me. My mom told me that when I was a little tot I asked her what noses were for, because mine didn’t seem to work. I did shots and all for years and years. I manage my world and most of the time do okay, but inevitably my body every now and then says, “Sorry, I’m taking over, and you lose.” And today I am a BIG red-nosed loser.

Instead of just complaining, I can find some benefits to my frequently congested olfactory system . I can even sing praise for my allergies. (Literally.) I learned how to sing properly pretty quickly because of the snot rattling around in my head. My voice teacher was brilliant in helping me pinpoint resonance based on the buzz of the rattle. So, for that, I am grateful.

Also, when clear, I have an almost bionic sense of smell and taste. This nose knows. Which is as good as it is bad. (I can smell a stinky diaper a mile away. Good for changing. Bad for smelling.)

And, since I’m stuck taking Benadryl here and there, I’m  usually assured a decent night sleep once and awhile.

One final bright side to being the All-American Sneeze Queen is that I pretty much leave a trail of Kleenex wherever I go. I can always find my way home. (Which is good … cause that’s where the Benadryl is.)