Category Archives: Parenting

Da Da

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Today Clifford said, “Da da.”

When I repeated it he squealed with delight and said it again and again. He was in da da heaven.

Since he’s not been much of a babbler, it was a nice surprise. It was so deliberate. He’s nine-months on Friday. Blink. Where did that time go? Just like that — from swaddled baby to full-fledged communicator.

Lillian, on the other hand, announced that if I didn’t give her pop with lunch not only would she not eat her lunch, and she would never be nice again. So much for my maternal yearning for communication skills.

Needless to say, she did not eat her lunch (yet, it’s still sitting there) and the verdict is still out on the nice thing.  I think she’s already forgotten about that threat.

The funny thing is, we don’t even have any pop in the house.  Now she’ll be eating rubbery, twice-warmed tortillas because of her very deliberate communication.

All I can say is: da da. Or duh, duh … eat your cheesy roll-up.

Do salmon swim upstream?

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Henry and I were looking on Youtube for some video of salmon swimming upstream to go along with our study of vertibrates — fish, specifically.

As I often do, I marvel at the scope of material out there on that new-fangled durn youtubey thangy. It’s amazing — seek and ye shall find. Sort of. We sure were surprised when we came upon this one. A good laugh was had by all.

Jesse is a friend

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A few years back we made a Jesse Tree to use as part of our advent preparation. I believe I said something like, “So help me, we’re going to have a holy advent if it kills me.” So my dear spouse fashioned the tree. Helen decorated the ornaments, I tied ribbons and hot glued and our tree grew from wooden dowels and discs into a much-treasured family tradition.

Starting on the first day of advent, we read daily scripture that tells of the genealogy of  Jesus. Then we hang a little ornament on the tree. It’s similar to an advent countdown, but with a scriptural focus.

Jesse is a friend.

This is our fourth year, so the readings are familiar to the older children. Henry can’t wait to hear about Abraham’s willingness to sacrifice Isaac and the stories of destruction–especially the serpent in the Garden of Eden and the great flood. Mary Claire takes charge and organizes our nightly gathering and does most of the reading or designates a reader.

I’m especially eager this year for the readings about the birth of Jesus because Lillian is all about the nativity. We’ve been reading books and are frequently talking about the birth of Christ. We make special efforts to stop and admire all the outdoor nativity scenes that adorn the local landscape. (Because if we don’t, I’ll never hear the end of it from my 30-pound back-seat driver.) And every time she sees an angel she folds her hands in prayer and says solemnly, “And the angel of the Lord said, hail Mary, full of grace.” I look forward to her recognizing those same stories as we gather as a family and read from our Bible, counting down another day closer to Christmas.

The best part about the Jesse Tree is that it brings us together nightly. It’s a series of quiet (okay, not always quiet) moments that have turned into memories we will treasure. And those memories are centered where they should be — around Christ.

Yello!

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I hate yelling at my kids. But like many moms who philosophically disagree with yelling, I still find myself doing it more than I’d like.  Why? What’s the secret to getting their attention without raising my voice? Have I conditioned them not to respond unless I yell? Is a normal toned request the white noise of their lives? Is it normal to yell when you leave the house with simple instructions to follow through on one or two simple things and you return without those things being done? How, then do I make my point? It seems ridiculous to punish someone for not putting the milk back in the fridge, so I raise my voice instead. As if that’s punishment enough and going to drive home the point. And guess what? Next time, they probably will still forget to put the milk in the fridge, even if I asked.  And the only thing I accomplished is breaking my own desire for calm parenting. I’m all for suggestions. Got any?

Can you spell S-L-A-C-K-E-R?

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I’ve been a complete blog slacker these past few weeks. I’ve started about a dozen posts, all requiring more thought than my time allows.  With Thanksgiving and a bunch of other important things — like our dear priest in critical condition with H1N1, I’ve just had other things on my heart and mind. Please continue to pray for Fr. Gerry. He needs our continued prayers.

You better watch out

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Last year, Lillian quickly decided the man in the big red suit is scary.

Visit with Santa

You better watch out!

We went to breakfast with Santa at church, and as soon as he made his appearance, she disappeared under the table. And fast. There was no overcoming this fear. I carried her up to see him, with the hopes she’d see it was all really harmless. But no luck. She clung to me for dear life. She accepted a gift from him, with me as the conduit. There was neither hand-to-hand nor toy-to-kid contact with the jolly guy.

It is clear this year that she has an understanding of Santa’s role in the present giving. She’s always joyfully pointing out his image whenever we see stores decorated in the Santa-centered “holiday” theme. She’s told me countless times that she wants Santa to bring her a princess castle. I thought, great, she’s over whatever fear she had.

Today while we were driving, she announced that I needed to give Santa some money so he could buy her the castle. We chatted about this idea for some time, then I reminded her that she could just sit on Santa’s lap and ask him for the castle herself.

Silence.

“You don’t want to sit on Santa’s lap?” I inquired. “How about if we write it down? Then you can just slip him a note when you see him.”

Silence.

After some thought she finally responded, “No, we can just mail him the note in the mailbox instead.”

Fostering love

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Last week, we attended a Halloween party hosted by a lovely family. They have five children, seven and under. The house was decorated adorably, games were planned and played, even the food fed the theme.  All of that was great, but one moment made it the best party ever.

Tiffany, Blayne and their beautiful family.

Fostering Love

Our hostess was busy preparing her laptop to show the guests a video clip where her children’s faces were fit into a comical clip of the Monster Mash. As her computer loaded, it revealed a desktop photo of their baby getting baptized.

Her five-year-old son pointed to the photo, “That’s when Itty Bitty got dunked. When he got baptized. Right Mom?”

Through the busyness — waiting for the computer to finish booting up and the website to load — his mother affectionately smiled at him and said, “Yes, it is.”

Then he inquired, “Did the judge say we can keep Itty Bitty yet?”

She looked at him and said, “Not yet. Hopefully soon.”

Other adults in the room inquired about the status of the baby’s adoption. Postponements, future court dates were briefly mentioned. Then, that dear boy looked up at his mother and asked, “The judge said you can keep me, right?”

“Yes. We can keep you.” She reassured him. “The judge said we can keep you.”

He asked a few more times, interjecting his query Continue Reading »

Is there some special sin category

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for yelling at your kids to stop asking when we are going to say our morning prayers?

“We’ll pray when I’m good and ready!”

This, after I’m trying to feed the baby and unload the dishwasher before we start school, then unexpectedly have to change the freshly dressed baby from head to toe, rinse out his clothes and warm up my coffee (again), drag the walker downstairs all to the tune of … “Can we pray now?” or “Mom? When are we going to pray?”

I sing back, “Start your math.”

The chorus responds, “We can’t until we pray.” Which means: they won’t.

Which makes me raise my voice in the most unbecoming anti-Duggar way.

Ah … I have so much to learn. Patience is apparently a virtue that only visits me occasionally. I think I’ll pray for that … when I’m good and ready.

Soul food

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Monday was All Souls Day. It follows All Saints Day, and commemorates the faithful departed–those who die in God’s faith and friendship. At our parish, it is always marked by a mass and simple reception. Family of parishioners who died during the year are invited as well as anyone from the parish who may want to attend. It’s solemn and beautiful. I was fortunate to be asked to sing at the mass. Along with Holy Thursday, it’s really my favorite.

In addition to my participation, about a month or so ago, our pastor asked if I would bring the baby. He wanted to use him as a “prop” during the homily. I agreed, but with the disclaimer that I could not make any guarantees regarding the level of cooperation of my six-month-old son. Actually, the exchange was more like, “Are you sure you know what you’re asking?” He assured me he did, and that he could roll with it. And I knew he could, so I said, “Okay.”

My parents sat with the baby during mass, since I was in front singing and Richard was teaching religious education. My dad’s magic touch made Clifford very relaxed, and when it was time to hand him off to Monsignor, the baby just nuzzled and got cozy.

Monsignor stood in his white vestments and gave his entire homily holding our son, who comfortably nuzzled securely in his arms. Monsignor reminded all of the many sad people in the congregation that they should find peace knowing that their loved one is being held by God, much like he was holding Clifford. To help you understand the visual impact, you should know that our pastor stands just shy of 6’8″. His large hand covers almost all of the baby’s back. It was easy to picture God’s strength and loving care.

His homily was comforting and wonderful; the baby remained so calm and pretty much moved on cue. It seemed he was responding to what was being said. At one point, when Monsignor mentioned heaven, Clifford even looked up and all around at the ceiling of the church. He also seemed completely unfazed by the hundreds of people in attendance. Occasionally looking out at the people, then back at his tall protector, then at me. I was afraid that he would see me and cry, but he didn’t. He did just what God needed him to do in that moment.

A day after the mass, I received this note from a dear friend from church

I am still in awe of what we all witnessed at the Memorial mass. I know a lot of others are too. I’m sure there were many in the church who, in their grief, have doubted God’s real presence with us. If Fr. Mike’s and Clifford’s homily did not dispel those doubts, I don’t know what could. I felt His presence so strongly I wanted to shout it to the rooftop!

Thank you for sharing your beautiful son. ( I want to say that he could be a great actor someday, but I have a feeling God has something better in store for him!)

It has always been my wish for all of my children that God use each one for the purpose for which He intended and created them. I just often foolishly think of it in terms of them when they grow up. Thanks to our dear pastor, the Holy Spirit and my  bouncing baby boy, my eyes have been opened … once again.