Who do you say that I am?

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An acquaintance from church asked if we could babysit her youngest daughter in a pinch.

“Of course,” we say. She’s a spunky, strawberry-blond not-quite-three-year-old.

Said acquaintance drops off said child complete with baby-care paraphernalia. Good-bye acquaintance. Hello strawberry-blond toddler.

The big girls and Lil are going to take her downstairs to play dollhouse.  Then big girl number one asks, “What’s her name?”

Oh no.

It occurs to me. I have no idea. None. Can’t come up with a guess. I know I heard it when she was born. But since? Nope. I don’t have that kind of memory.

So, we ask the nameless child. She’s articulate. We know she wants to play. Her answer does not match the question. Again. And again. She’s cute. But nameless. So for little while, we call her a generic Sweetie. Which isn’t very effective. She doesn’t respond to “Sweetie, don’t throw the blocks.” It would be helpful to actually know her name.

Brainstorm. I remember my dear friend is her godmother. I laugh, because I realize it took this particular friend years to remember my name. This little child is only three. I’m not sure that’s been enough time for it to stick. Even though she’s godmother. (But I am confident she is doing her godmotherly duty and praying daily with all of her wonderful heart for the strawberry-blond nameless child.)

I make the call. No one is home. Call her cell. She answered AND remembered. And we are victorious.

And she is Victoria.

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!)

It’s drafty in here

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I have so many blog posts saved as drafts,  it’s getting on my nerves.

I can never find the time or energy to finish. But yet have so much to say. Just not sure who to say it to and how to say it.

I edit myself too much. I don’t want to be too candid, because that might not be inspiring. And I want to be inspiring.

Or mute. Apparently.

Things are changing around here, and I think that’s all more overwhelming than I’d like to admit. We’ve kept ourselves busy this summer. Planning vacation bible school, a trip to New York, a benefit concert, a vacation. All ticking down to two weeks from now when our oldest flies the coop and leaves for college. When I mentioned it to my dear spouse yesterday, he said, “If we don’t talk about it, I can ride this denial a little longer.”

And she’s not the only one leaving the nest.

After five years of homeschooling, we’re sending two of the kids to the school. And am totally conflicted about it.

This year’s homeschooling experience wasn’t the greatest. Yes we got through the basics and a little more, but in general, it was kind of a bust. Our enrichment was limited because of business activities and other obligations, the needs of the smaller children and all the preparing for college auditions, applications and scholarship seeking.  I only have so much energy and so much time, I was feeling completely tapped out in every aspect of my existence, and we decided that for my sanity something had to give.

I have enjoyed homeschooling. There’s no doubt about that. I have loved the time with the kids, and I have cherished every moment these past years recognizing it is time I will never get back.  I love that our faith has been at the center of our curriculum. I love that I have done my best to protect the innocence of our children during these fleeting childhood years. I just don’t love knowing that this year I’ve failed to offer them all that they need.

We’ve chosen schools we think are best for each. Different children, different schools, different reasons. I’m happy with our choices, on paper. Concerned about the real-life experience. Nervous about the whole endeavor. I’ve prayed about it. I continue to pray about it. I am trying to give it to God, but am not doing that too successfully. It’s all so unknown. Unfamiliar.

The good news is, all the school-bound kids are excited. I’m sure once all this takes place, I’ll be good to go, and it’ll all be for the better.

Right?

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)

Big deal

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Okay. So here’s the deal. I have so much to say. And so little time to say it. It seems like events of late warrant more than an oh-here-is-my-life lesson illustrated in a vignette played out by one of my children. There’s just too much. Good, challenging and otherwise. I keep starting posts that get too deep and require more thought and energy than I can spare. I don’t want to just relinquish them to charming little shorts. So hang in there with me. There’s more to come. I’m just busy planning a high seas adventure for 130 of my favorite Catholics.

XO

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.