Category Archives: Parenting

School daze

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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

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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

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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.)

Fighting temptation

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When Helen was a toddler, we instructed her that if she was tempted to touch something that might be off limits, she should just come and get one of us so we could help her through making the right choice.

Our big girl.

One day, while shopping in Ann Arbor, we were in a store full of breakable eye candy. I was busy admiring one thing, Richard another, when above the mellow harpsichord Muzak track, our two-and-a-half-year-old Helen stood beside her stroller, paralyzed, bouncing in place bellowing, “Help me! I’m tempted! I’m tempted!”

Now, soon off to school, we won’t be there to help her through all the trifling and tremendous moments of  temptation.  She surely will face many lures and promises of this world that we’ve tried so hard to balance through our faith and family life.

We’ve all been in the position of confusing a temptation with an opportunity. And the reality is, sometimes by giving in to those temptations we’re bound to make mistakes. But by the same token, we should never be bound to our mistakes, understanding that it is through our mistakes we discover more about ourselves and grow. There are many mistakes in my life for which I am grateful. It is through them that I’ve grown closer to the Lord, with the extra-added benefit of knowing myself better and gaining wisdom through the process. Wisdom that I hope I’ve shared with our daughter.

We can only hope that we’ve done what we can and given Helen the tools to sort things out. We can only hope and pray her decisions don’t paralyze her and that she will do her best to make the right choices. Although we won’t be there in person with her, we’ve taught her that God will.

Our pilgrimage on earth cannot be exempt from trial. We progress by means of trial. No one knows himself except through trial, or receives a crown except after victory, or strives except against an enemy or temptations. — St. Augustine

Hit me baby one more time

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No. Please. Don’t.

In addition to throwing things away, another of Cliff’s favorite pastimes is to hit Lillian.

Not just with his hands, but with objects. Anything he has a hot grip on.

She squeals. Screams actually. Carries on. He hits more. We pull him away, take away his weapon du jour. Hold him, move him to another room, you name it. He cries. Occasionally. But goes back for more. At least he did. For a while.

But now he doesn’t. He’s actually learned not to hit. (Until he unlearns it and the cycle begins again. And, I have faith, it will.)

I know I’m not alone in this belief, but some boys (maybe that’s sexist, but it hasn’t reared its head with my girls) are born with a harassment trait. I can see by the subtle expressions on my dear baby boy’s face that he enjoys the mayhem he creates when he tears through the house antagonizing Lillian and destroying all things in his path. He grabs toys and throws them in the trash. He reaches for everything and anything that may be on a table, or out of reach, just to watch it fall and (hopefully) crash. And we needn’t even talk about the obsession of chucking things in the toilet.

There is never an adequate lock for those corner circular cabinets, and at the quickest opportunity, that boy is in there pulling out cereal boxes and bags, dumping the contents on the floor and spreading it out with arms and legs. I stop him and quickly try to control the mess. As I attempt to sweep around him, he’s full-body grabbing at the pile as I try to push what I can into the dust pan. There he lie–on his cereal mountain–celebrating.

I remember around Christmas being with someone at a party discussing how we hadn’t really had to remove knick-knacks off of tables when our kids were babies. We just taught our children not to touch certain things. And they obliged. We couldn’t understand the need to clear the decks. Weren’t we just amazing mommies?

Well, um, excuse me. Can I take it all back? I get it now. And then some.

Here, I have a 16-month old brown-eyed wonder boy who began walking during his 10th month, says nothing (but maybe an occasional utterance of mama and dada) but busily wreaks havoc on anything movable or not, human, animal or inanimate. But he’s an angel. A sweet loving little curious darling. And I know we’ll instruct him how to behave. And he’ll learn, eventually, as he already has. (Remember? He stopped hitting … for now.)

In the mean time, I’m ready with the broom, the plunger, the disinfectant, the ice packs (for Lillian’s bruised head and ego) and the love.

Getting trashed

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Clifford is obsessed with throwing things away. And we’re pretty sure we realized this kind of late in the game. Who knows what has been set out at the curb at the hands our our little man.

Following a four-day vacation away from home, the very first thing that baby boy did after walking in the door was seek out things he could throw away. We all have our comforts of home, apparently this is his.

When I opened the lid of the trash can to put in a new bag, I found this. (Try not to get too distracted by my ultra cute shoes. )

Getting Trashed

If he’s not throwing things in this trash can, he’s pushing it over for the pleasing effect the loud thud initiates. (You’d scream, too.) Or he’s trying to reach in it to see what treasure he can fish out. All too often, the can is relegated out of practical use and perched towering over all of us on the counter top.

As much as analyzing the trash several times daily is a rather arduous process, I actually appreciate his interest.

Today he spent about five minutes trying with all his might to throw a mop away. He’d lift the heavy long stick high over his head, put the handle in, only to have it swing back up and out of the can. He tried again and again. Finally, he switched ends and got it to stay. You know, until, he pulled the whole can over and down, startling all of us. Again.

Clifford’s continued interest in the trash demonstrates that at16-months old, he does not lack perseverance. As I watch him hunting and seeking things to put in his beloved shiny can, or trying over again with the mop three times his height,  I can’t help but wonder how this will translate into the kind of little boy, then man,  he will become. (I like to imagine it means he will naturally gravitate toward cleanliness. I can dream, can’t I?)

Getting trashed, again.

It’s true he’s a boy a of few words. Okay, almost no words. But he certainly is a little man of action. During the day, he rarely sits. He just goes. And goes. And goes. I would love to strap a pedometer on him just to find out what kind of ground he covers running back and forth in this house all day.

I do get to sit down with him a few times during the day, since recently he has taken a liking to books. He will happily sit through a story or two. Oddly, he’s not interested in the point-and-name type of picture books (unless it has something to touch). He much prefers Curious George’s adventures and will sit still through that or (help me) a Berenstain Bear story or two before he’d let me name or count pictures of butterflies in a board book.

Admiring his work

Like his big brother, he’s interested in how things work. On his first ride on a carousel, we could barely get his attention to snap a photograph. He was so focused on the mechanics of the machine. Who cared about the horse and the music? He just wanted to see those gears turning. And as he watched, his gears were turning, too. Richard and I joked that we could see the smoke coming out of his ears. Cliff did acknowledge that the experience was fun with a short clap and a smile at the end of the ride. Reminding us, oh yes he is, after all, just a baby.

Another added joy is watching my husband so naturally respond to Cliff’s interests. Safely in his daddy’s arms, Clifford pushes the button to grind my coffee in the morning. He watches with interest as the dishwasher is loaded and unloaded, often with Richard’s direction, reaching in to spin the moving parts. The boy can’t get enough of the vacuum cleaner and its retractable cord, and there’s not enough time to explain his apparent fascination with electric tooth brushes. And Richard patiently demonstrates each item of interest to Clifford, all while wondering–like I–what goes on in that silent boy’s mind.

What this all means for this little baby boy is a mystery to me. I pray that we, as his parents, can nurture what truly interests him as he grows. In the mean time, I’m enjoying the discovery of yet another unique and miraculous gift from God, in the form of a little boy who I am blessed to call my son.

So, we’ll see what happens in the story of Cliff, still yet to be told, but one that is truly a joy to behold. (Oh no, too much Berenstain Bears!)

There is hope

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Helen didn’t want a graduation party, she wanted a weekend with me in New York. So, I happily obliged. (You know, you just have to give in to their demands every now and then.)

We decided instead though to put the effort it would take to put on a party into a cause. So we chose the Tree of Hope Foundation.

We’re holding a concert Songs of Hope at St. Joan of Arc at 7:30 on Aug. 5. We have some really talented folks with us. It’ll be cool. We’re singing mostly contemporary Christian music. All songs with hope at the theme.

The Tree of Hope Foundation was conceived as a result of a tragedy. In 2005, a young mother in our parish took her own life and that of her five-week-old infant daughter as a result of a postpartum mood disorder. On the day of that tragic event, her family vowed they would do what they could to prevent that from happening again. They began the Tree of Hope Foundation which promotes research, education and awareness of postpartum-related mood disorders. Check out their site to learn more of the good work they are doing.

A few years ago,  I was asked to sing at a prayer service for the foundation. When I arrived, the pianist asked if I had a suggestion for any songs, and I suggested one called O God You Search Me and You Know Me, based on Psalm 139 with music by Bernadette Farrell. It was fairly new to me but spoke so plainly of God’s providence.  As it turned out, that particular prayer was the central prayer of the service. And I didn’t know in advance. And it just seemed so … well … providential.

I was very moved by the service and have been moved by all the work the foundation is doing. This is a way for our family to support their good work in the best way we can. We can’t run marathons and such. But Helen and I can sing. So, there it is. So if you can come on the 5th, please do so.

Freak of nature

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So that’s what I’ll do. I’ll blame nature.

I hate freaking out. But it happens. Although I like to stay sane, every now and then, that thing called frustration just reaches blood-boiling point, and I’m sorry to admit, I loose it.

Yesterday started out fine. Left the kids with The Lists, and took Henry to a swim meet. When I got home, many things on The Lists were yet to be completed. And, I should note, The Lists were neither out of the ordinary, nor were they long. They were our regular Saturday-morning lists. The same old Saturday-morning lists that, for the past few months, my capable children have pretty much been blowing off.

I take some blame for that. I had stopped being so diligent with actually creating the lists, instead just dictating. Therefore the directions were often lost. To the wind, so they say.

But why print them? I would ask. They are the same every week.

But here’s a little known fact: Apparently, some children (namely those who reside in my household) can’t accomplish certain tasks unless those tasks are formally instructed to them on a piece of paper, in full color. In the form of The Lists. And even then, especially recently, completion of said certain tasks can still be illusive. Fleeting. Mysteriously scarce.

So, I blame myself. My bad parenting. I haven’t taught my children to follow through. I say to myself. I haven’t given them the skills they need to succeed in daily life. I shake my head. Or I, you know, on occasion, freak out.

One child suggests I make a whiteboard for the lists. That would help.

What is the difference? I inquire.

Because that’s how so-and-so’s mother does it, and their house is in order. That way, we will always see what needs to be done, the child challenges.

I explain that wouldn’t help. Then I would just have a posted reminder of all the chores around the house that didn’t get done. And that would just perpetuate that lack of cooperation in the house was acceptable. So acceptable that it is displayed on a wall. At least I can throw the undone paper list away, for a moment pretend it didn’t exist, and hope for better results when I print it again (slightly modified) the next weekend.

Then I think: Wait a minute. Maybe my freak out today can be like The Lists. Maybe I can hope for better results for myself next weekend. And I can, for the time being, pretend that I never actually freaked out. I can, throw my freak out away, so to speak. I don’t have to have it staring at me on the whiteboard of my life. But then I thought, oh no, instead it will be festering or decomposing in a landfill or recycle center somewhere.

Maybe I should reconsider the whiteboard. For the chore lists and myself.

Maybe I should be reminded of what hasn’t been done so that I actively seek to do it. And then, when I have, legitimately wash it clean.  After all, it’s not the whiteboard that keeps things in order, but using it to remind everyone what needs to be done or changed.

So, there you are. Apparently, the tools are out there.

We can shove our undone list in a landfill, but it’s still there. Still undone.

Or we can post our failings for at least ourselves and God to see, and strive to change our ways. We can seek the opportunities (and the sacraments) that help wash us clean, realizing that soon enough we’ll have more to-dos on our whiteboards again. But because of God’s grace, we will live remembering what it was like when it was clean and (hopefully) seeking that peace and order again and again.

Heartfelt

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This morning, when Lillian and I were looking at a book about the human body, she couldn’t wrap her mind around the picture of the heart.

“That’s what my heart looks like?” I’m sure comparing it to what she knows as a heart shape.

“Yes, and those are veins and arteries that carry your blood to and from your heart,” I explained.

She said, “But Jesus is in my heart! How am I supposed to get him out of there?”

You don’t say

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Our little baby doesn’t say anything. Okay, he says, “Dada.” But that’s about it.

He spends a lot of time carrying on indecipherable conversations. Talking with his hands, mumbling nonsense as he looks right into you eyes with a you-know-what-I-mean kind of nod. It’s adorable. But the fact is, I have no idea what he means.

That’s pretty much how I feel lately. I have so much I want to write about. So many stories to tell, but the order of my words makes it all indecipherable.

I just lived through the most joy-filled Vacation Bible School week and have so much to tell. But my mind can’t even get around it. The joy was immense. My heart is full from watching and witnessing God’s amazing love and power. And I think the words for expressing all that have been used up. Spent. I can’t find any that can tell of  my experience without sounding like the gibberish of my little buddy.

Here is what I can say: VBS profoundly leads me to see the goodness of God in people. I see His endless generosity through the unbridled joy of the children; the growth and leadership in the teenage helpers, and the positive example and overflowing love of the  adult volunteers. I am ecstatic to witness all that energy coming together for one purpose: to share God’s love.

I’m still feeling like I’m recovering from having one long and wonderful party, at which God was a guest, and everyone (including Him, of course) had a great time.

That said, during the same time, people I know and love are suffering some serious hardships. Profound loss. Serious illness. Complete (not necessarily hoped-for) life changes.

At those brief moments when our  lives seem big, we need to remember we are so small in the eyes of God. And that He calls each of us in many different ways to help us share His love. Whether that be with joy and loud song or with quiet, peace and private prayer. And even if we don’t actually have the words.

Since our knowledge of God is limited, our LANGUAGE about him is equally so. We can name God only by taking creatures as our starting point, and in accordance with our limited human ways of knowing and thinking. (CCC 40)