Category Archives: Parenting

Not enough chocolate

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There is not enough chocolate to get me through these next few days. Baccalaureate mass tomorrow. Graduation the next day. In the words of Lillian, “What the?” (That’s all she says.)

I’m trying to gear myself up. I don’t want to be a cry baby. And so my gearing up seems to be manifesting itself into being one cranky woman. No one can do right by me. ‘Cause my world is in a tailspin.

Cherish every moment -- our biggest and littlest.

I’m really trying to be okay with it. After all, when we have children it is supposed to be our hope that they grow up, enjoy learning, work hard in school, graduate from high school, go to the college of their choice blah, blah, and all the stuff that goes with it. And I have hoped that and am grateful that things have worked out so well for Helen. And us.

I just didn’t expect it all to happen so quickly.

And I know everybody says that. I’m guess I’m just one more (happy and proud) mother (in a tailspin) verifying that well-known fact. Time is a gift. Cherish each moment with your kids.

Say what?

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Two things I hear all the time.

One.

“Are you done?”

Direct, to the point. That’s the question people often ask about my reproductive future.

Two.

“I’m so glad I’m past that stage.”

Always indirect, but equally to the point People don’t say it to me, but say it in earshot. They say it for me. It usually occurs when I’m chasing Cliff or Lillian, or excusing myself to change a diaper.

_____

No one who reads this should feel singled out should you be one who has said either of those things. Because, I can assure you, you are not alone. You are among very good company. And don’t worry, I’m not keeping track or keeping score.

I usually don’t answer the first. I just smile and let the question hang there.

When I hear the second, I admit, I always feel a little odd. I also feel a little old. Then I remind myself as I chase after my newly toddling boy, that although I may (technically) be old enough to be this baby’s grandmother, more importantly, I’m young enough to be his mother. And for that I am infinitely thankful.

Would I rather not be chasing him? The answer to that is the same as to a whole slew of other questions that go along with having a baby in the house … Would I rather not hold him and cuddle with him as he points to pictures in his books? Would I rather not hear his hearty laugh as Henry pretends to trip and fall? Would I rather not see him fold his sweet baby hands in prayer as we say these simple words, “Bless Us O Lord?” Would I rather not stare into his enormous brown eyes and be filled with the wonder and awe of the gift of creation that has been so graciously placed in the care of my unworthy hands and heart?

I’m happy for the chasing. I’m happy for the sleeplessness. I’m happy for the extra laundry and the carseats and even the diapers. I’m happy for the food on the floor, the baby proofing and the runny nose. I’m also happy for the growing, the wondering, the caring, the nuzzling, the learning and the loving. And I’m especially happy for that precious gift of life.

Life is an opportunity, benefit from it. Life is beauty, admire it. Life is bliss, taste it. Life is a dream, realize it. Life is a challenge, meet it. Life is a duty, complete it. Life is a game, play it. Life is a promise, fulfill it. Life is sorrow, overcome it. Life is a song, sing it. Life is a struggle, accept it. Life is a tragedy, confront it. Life is an adventure, dare it. Life is luck, make it. Life is too precious, do not destroy it. Life is life, fight for it.

Mother Teresa

Living in the hood

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Motherhood is a bit like living in Narnia. Parts are amazingly beautiful. Parts are a bit scary and unpredictable. There are strange little creatures all around doing equally strange things, and every now and then you feel like and are treated like a queen.

I truly love being a mother. I know that being a wife and mother is my vocation. I heard the call and listened. And those who know me well know there is a lot that goes into the statement.

I am grateful for having experienced a special (yet minuscule) glimpse into God’s awesome mystery of creation, but I know that giving birth does not a mother make.

I know this especially as I see my friend and her five adopted children. Or when I experience the hope and anticipation of adoption with my little sister. I see mothering in my dear friend as she loves and spoils her nieces and nephews. I mother my spouse when he’s ill or needs my care. I so vividly recall my mother mothering her parents as they advanced in age. And I recognize that I am fortunate to be mothered by many amazing women in addition to my own beautiful and wonderful mother.

I guess that’s why mother is a verb, a noun and in my life a very important adjective (as in Holy Mother Church).

It doesn’t matter how you get here–whether through a magical wardrobe, with an enchanted ring, by birth, courtroom, relationship, friendship or just by chance. You got here. Welcome to the hood.

God bless you and happy mother’s day.

Emanicpation Proclamation

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A few days ago, dear 17-year-old Helen asked me if I would consider allowing her to wear a bikini this summer. An interesting and surprising request. One that follows a long history of discussion in this very household on that very subject.

“I would choose something modest,” my daughter said. (Is that an oxymoron? Modest bikini?)

Apparently my contemplative look was quickly misinterpreted.

She jumped in with, “You know…in six weeks, I’ll be emancipated. I’ll be 18.” I’m not sure if she thought that would give credence to her request.

Emancipated? What does she think she is? An indentured servant?

Then for the cherry on top she added: “You know, then I could run away.” She was joking, of course.

I reminded her that if she indeed was going to be emancipated, then it wouldn’t be called running away. It would be called leaving or moving out.

Then she asked the question that got the “yes” she desired.

“Mom. I guess I am asking for permission to make the choice for myself.”

Yes. Of course you can. Permission granted. After all…she’ll soon be emancipated. As quickly as I agreed, I told her I was sure she would make a good choice. Because she will.

When I shared this little story, I was reminded by more than one friend that I wore bikinis regularly. And I did. I also remember one day at 17 or 18, my big brother stopping me, telling me I couldn’t go to the beach in a bikini.  And that I wasn’t leaving the house. I remember thinking he was joking, but then realized he wasn’t. Oddly, I don’t remember the outcome of that moment, but do very clearly remember the moment. In a split second, I became much more conscious of how I presented myself.  I saw myself differently that day. Now, of course, as a mother–especially of daughters–I see it all very differently. I don’t want them wearing burlap sacks, and I certainly understand the desire to be fashionable.  But I do want them to at the very least consider their modesty and what it means with regard to making choices on how they dress.

To top this off, I was going to put in a Bible or Catechism quote about modesty.  Even though I found many truthful and meaningful quotes … they all were a bit too radical in their wording. So instead, I’ll translate: God wants us to respect our bodies and be modest. And he means it … because it’s in the Bible a bunch of times. Popes have written about it and so have a bucket load of saints. Amen and cover up.

The motherload

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I have started about 15 posts in as many days — only to have to put them aside because, let’s face it, I’m just a workaholic.

And the truth is … sometimes I’d like a 12-step program to help me cope with some of the grimble of this-here job of motherhood. (Is grimble even a word? I use it all the time, but when I Google it, weird stuff comes up. Really weird. But I’m sticking with it anyway.)

Who? Me?

For weeks, I’ve been wading through baby sickness (still working through that one), my sickness, washing machine sickness, and just loads of stuff other than laundry.  I dream about stealing moments of creativity, only to be foiled by all these obligations that just seem to pop up. (You know, like I’m obligated to feed my children, shower–at least occasionally–get out of bed, eat bon bons, blah, blah.)

Just when I want to wax poetic about some little nuance of my rich life, I can’t. ‘Cause it’s just THAT rich.

But now, at this bewitching hour, I am able to finally share my insightful observations of the day:

There isn’t a straight floor lamp in my house. (Why? No one seems to know.)

Lillian’s doorknob is covered with Rice Krispies. (Yes, stuck with marshmallow.)

My washing machine lumbers across the floor during its spin cycle (and yes, we’ve leveled it). I believe it (too) may be trying to escape.

The baby chooses to occupy himself by sticking his fingers down his throat until he pukes.

Henry’s baseball uniform looks like a creamsicle. (Excuse me, but white pants?)

And I have more self-control than even I imagined. When finally graduating to next in line at the pharmacy (after waiting 15 minutes before being called and another 15 as I listened to the lady in front of me insist she had refills for an antibiotic to cure some infection I’m sure I  want no knowledge of), I find–to my dismay–my debit card is AWOL.  My dear spouse took it to buy baby cereal at O-six-hundred. I have to go home, fetch it, then return only to wait endlessly for the pharmacist (who himself is now AWOL). And I handle all of this. Patiently. Kindly. I coped. I also added Ho-Hos, CVS buttered popcorn, little chocolate covered Hostess donuts and a couple packages of Reese’s Peanut Butter cups to the counter as I purchased round three of antibiotics for that sweet baby boy on auto-vomit. (By the way, I meant I had self control by not freaking out at anyone. Including my spouse. I’ll have to work on the snacks-within-reach-of-the-checkout thing.)


Truly moving

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On Saturday, Henry’s best buddies moved. Two brothers who lived directly behind us. We had been here for a year before we finally met. (Tall fences aren’t all they’re cracked up to be.) Just a shimmy through a child-sized opening at the end of fence and for the past three years, a treasure of play moved freely between their yard and ours.

The Three Musketeers

We had been occupied the night before the move. When Henry was finally available, it was past 8:30.  He asked if he could still go over to see the boys. I could see the pleading in his eyes. In the dark, he slid through that secret passageway one last time to play with his pals. I didn’t want to call him home when I finally did. I wished, in the same way I’m sure he did, that he could hang on just a little longer.

On the day of the move, we had baseball practice and other busy activities. I wanted to keep him occupied, if I could. But his mind was full of thoughts and memories. Every now and then he would just say their names. Or some fact of their friendship. Their Grandpa’s neighbor’s name, trivia about a toy, or some other tidbit. “I’ve known them for three years. Three years.” He’d often say. He ran in the back every time he heard a truck or loud engine, a quick slip through the fence to see if they had returned.

“They have to come back to clean out their garage.”

I told him that the boys would probably not be back to help clean out the garage. That was a job for their dad. He agreed with the logic, but then was back out there again.

I’m not sure how many times he actually went over there. But it was often. I tried not to imagine him looking at their empty yard or through windows at empty rooms. I could only wonder how he was processing everything he was seeing and feeling that day.

One moment, he’d excitedly tell me features of their new home. He had me look it up on the internet. He was proud to identify it by sight on the Google street view. He already had been to visit it two times. The next minute I’d catch him sitting alone with his eyes just welling with tears, but he’d stop short of crying. He’d just look at me with a what-am-I-going-to-do-now expression. Finally, at the very end of the day he was just too tired to fight back the tears anymore. He let me hold him, and I just let him cry.

Gone are the lazy summer days where play started with two mop-headed blonds at our back door while breakfast dishes still filled the sink. The endless play that shifted from one house to the other, the inventions and water slides, the hours in their pool or on our trampoline. The talk of Star Wars and all things boy. Gone are the days of not having to slave over making millions of play dates necessary to fill the energy of our turbo-charged dear little boy. Who needs play dates when your best friends share your own backyard?

At Henry’s suggestion, we brought the boys their favorite meal of macaroni and cheese on the day after their move. As I was preparing a salad, I asked Henry if one of the boys was allergic to strawberries.

“Oh, no. It’s his second favorite fruit.” He said. Second favorite, I inquired. “Oh yes, apples are his favorite.”

Spoken like a true friend. Richard and I could only do our best keep it together as we shared teary-eyed glances at the kitchen sink.

I know Henry will be okay. Thankfully, the boys are still close by. But my boy is still experiencing the profound loss of his world as he knows it. And loss in a multitude of circumstances is unfortunately the stuff of life.  We travel through these moments at times sure the pain is going to be the end of us. But then we realize we lived through it and know the next time it comes that it didn’t actually kill us. Even though it may have felt like it would at the time.

As a parent, I feel his pain. For him, in some way, this is a cross. Of course, I want to take it from him. But I can’t. I don’t even think I can lessen the weight of it. But I’m sure I can at least walk along side him. Hopefully, Henry finds peace knowing that Richard and I are here walking with him, and that God is here, carrying us all.

FYI, we’ve already made plans for play time and Henry is curious to see who moves in. (We already know there aren’t any little boys.)

Resucitó, aleluya

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Nuggets from a hectic Holy Week and a glorious Easter.

Palm Sunday

The children’s choir joined the adult choir for 10 a.m. mass. They did an awesome job. A fourth-grade boy sang the psalm bringing tears to my eyes. (No surprise there. I think I cry every time the kids sing.) Hosanna in the highest!

Wednesday

The Passion Play.

The children’s choir added their beautiful voices singing, among other things, “I Think I Heard Him Say” while Christ carried his cross. I let them take their shoes off so they could move quietly in the choir loft when they weren’t singing so they could stand at the rail and see the whole play. Watching them watch was as precious as hearing them sing.

Helen and Mary Claire joined together in a very moving song.

Henry missed his cue for wind chimes at that the beginning of “And God Cried” but got it at the end. After, when he realized it, he said, “I was watching the play, and I couldn’t even think about the chimes. Jesus was dying and I was going to cry.” Enough said.

Good Friday Stations of the Cross.

With a short notice of cancellation for the second presentation of Passion Play (due to a nasty flu working its way through the cast and school at large, including Sr. Play Director), we put together a morning Stations of the Cross for children led by that trusty children’s choir. God bless those singing readers. What a capable bunch.

Easter Vigil

Our pastor sang his way through the beautiful Exultet. As a singer, I think I was holding my breath in support. It was lovely, and I let out an internal “woot” in silent approbation.

Standing in a candle-lit church hearing a 6’7” man’s voice ring through, “join me in asking God for mercy, that he may give his unworthy minister grace to sing his Easter praises” is indeed humbling.

After communion, we listened to a father and son play guitar and sing Resucito. Truth is, musically speaking, for me this is one of the highlights of the Easter season. I can’t begin to express how beautiful, amazing and fitting it is after all we just witnessed and celebrated during the vigil mass. This year, the son sang a kind of contrasting melody or echo or something. The combination of the father’s smooth and full voice with the son’s almost raw higher voice made the song even that much more moving if that is even possible.

It is such an honor to witness and be part of that mass.

And Helen, who was the cantor for the mass, said, “I’m pretty sure that was the most Jesus-filled mass experience I’ve ever had.” As the cantor you have the best view of everything that is happening at that mass. I was grateful she had that experience. (And she did a lovely job.)

Easter Sunday

We unwrapped the Alleluias we hid away on Ash Wednesday. We found Easter baskets and eggs. For Lillian, it’s all about that bunny. We read about the Easter story, but unlike the understandable idea of Jesus’ birth, the mystery of his resurrection is hard for a three-year-old to wrap her mind around. Henry told her that without Jesus there wouldn’t be Easter. But she reminded him it was the Bunny who brought the baskets. Hmmm.

After 10 a.m. mass, we spent a beautiful day with family.

Alleluia, Aleluya.

It’s on with the show

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I had the great fortune of being backstage with Helen and Mary Claire during last night’s performance of the Music Man. It was fun watching the scramble as all the kids changed costumes and waited for cues. Slipping in tap shoes, adjusting glue-on mustaches, reapplying lipstick.

What I’ll treasure most is the mere fact that Helen and MC got to do the show together. Almost five years apart in age, these opportunities don’t often present themselves.

Mary Claire’s excitement throughout the week was palpable. She was counting down the days. She enjoyed watching the backstage and onstage snafus get worked out with each practice. I’ve loved her daily run-down for me of technical issues and costume and hair worries. She couldn’t wait for me to see her sweet costumes and kept asking Helen if she was delivering her lines clearly and in character.

There's no business like show business

Helen had a few other challenges. She had to pull a Milli Vanilli and sing for the Marion Paroo character backstage during the dress rehearsal (with audience) because the dear girl playing the part was sans voice due to strain. She had to do that and still come onstage as her own kooky character as the mayor’s wife.  The extra day of rest paid off for Marion, because she sounded just lovely last night. It was a great experience for Helen who got a first-hand taste of that ever-famous saying: the show must go on.

It was especially fun watching Helen in a comic role, because quite frankly — she’s a hoot. She reminded me (and many others — based on comments) of me. A nice compliment.

It’s hard for me to believe this is Helen’s last big high school show. It’s time to move on. Which is all good. She’s made her college decisions and is ready for the next set of challenges that lie ahead. I can only wonder what’s in store for her.

In a little more than a year, it’ll be Mary Claire’s turn at high school, and she, too, is already busy making her plans. And likewise, I can’t wait to see how all that unfolds.

It’s times like these that make me grateful for the gift of faith. The complete realization that I really have to surrender to whatever it is God has planned for my kids. And that isn’t always easy. I recognize that believing in God’s plan doesn’t mean I don’t have to participate in this plan. Actually, it’s just the opposite. I have to do my part — with Him as the focus. There’s labor involved (a lot of labor). God says, okay, here’s faith, now do something with it. And with each child, I see that something. Differently, often surprisingly and with joy and hope for the future.

So here’s the analogy … the curtain never completely closes. The Lord is always there to open it again. Each stage of life is just that: A stage. And there’s always another show, whether it’s here on earth or in heaven. That said … this earthly life isn’t a dress rehearsal, and no one is singing behind the curtain for any of us. We have to get out there front and center and truly become our characters as servants of God. And we can remember our lines because the script is in the scripture. (Ba-dum-bum.)

Amen. Now let’s get on with the show.