Trade ya?
“Remember when you said if I ate all my dinner, I could have a cookie after?” Lillian asked me across the dinner table.
“Yes. I do.” I responded.
“Well, I thought it was going to be a GOOD dinner. Not THIS,” she said shoving her plate of carefully homemade lasagna across the table.
“I’ll just take the biscotti.”
It’s almost here.
Lent.
The season of prayer, fasting and almsgiving. As we trace the steps of Christ. Not only to the cross, but as we retrace our steps, according to the Holy Father, toward Christian Initiation, “for catechumens, in preparation for receiving the Sacrament of rebirth; for the baptized, in light of the new and decisive steps to be taken in the sequela Christi and a fuller giving of oneself to him.”
I’ll be stepping slowly.
In music (and Italian) lentamente means slow. Which, as I’ve grown in wisdom, is the way I choose to approach Lent. As I’ve matured (notice how I side-step the words “gotten older”), I’ve recognized the importance of taking it slowly. Making it methodical. I don’t have a schedule that supports sporadic — if I plan to accomplish anything. If I’m not metered during Lent, I might as well just hang it up right now. Two days before I bear ashes.
So, my theme is going to be that prayer about Christ having no body now, but ours. And then I’ll make some promises that center around breaking habits that draw me from, rather to, our Lord, and trying to replace them with something more meaningful: Prayer time. Mass time. Patience. Compassion. Forgiveness. Sacrifice.
I will make an effort to fill what I’m trying to remove with the love that is and can only be Christ. And I will try to do this, remain sane, not get crabby and help my children grow in their Lenten journeys as well. So it’s lentamente or insanity. (Maybe that should be my Lenten theme instead?)
Although I’m sure it’ll start off slowly, soon enough I hope to look forward to the promise of Spring and the promise of new life, of course knowing that it has already been fulfilled in Him that first Easter. A fact that I think is truly the beauty of the season. Our willingness as Catholic Christians to sacrifice and do more to become closer to Christ, recognizing that He’s already conquered death. We already know that He’s already offered everything for us. So, the least we can do is (keep trying to) do our best to offer our paltry sacrifices for Him and remember His sacrifice for us that, you know, redeemed the world.
Christ has no body now on earth but yours
no hands but yours
no feet but yours
yours are the eyes through which Christ’s compassion
is to look out to the earth
yours are the feet by which He is to go about doing good
and yours are the hands by which He is to bless us now.
I need my pocket protector.
I know.
But I’m back. And this is why.
The baby who doesn’t talk (at least in English), who will soon be the two-year-old who doesn’t talk … sings.
Feliz Navidad. Actually.
So, not only does he speak Mandarin, Chinese (which I, unfortunately, don’t), he speaks Spanish.
Why? Because, he’s a genius. Dontcha know?
That was going to be my post last weekend. You know … when the going gets tough, wash a load of towels and you’ll feel like you’ve accomplished something big. A whole basket full of laundry, folded in 2 minutes. Ahh. That was my simple post.
But then life happens. I spend days posting what a nincompoop I am, all while people I know and love are suffering through some really hard times. It doesn’t make me any less of a nincompoop, but the fact of the matter is … nincompoopness doesn’t matter. Being able to relate to and loving each other does.
Before I could click that publish button for my mundane little towel post, my dear friend’s spouse has decided to do exactly that — throw in the towel on their 17-year marriage. Without warning. Without chances for making amends. It’s done. I’m not going to tell you their story or allude to anything to be read between the lines. That part is not my story to tell in this setting.
My part of the story is in my own disbelief. It’s all just too much to handle.
There are so many beautiful, happy lives just turned topsy turvy. The mere fact that my friend is hurting and her children are suffering is beyond heart-wrenching. This is not what we teach. This is not what we live. Nor is this what my dear friend and her spouse have taught or lived. She, specifically, has always been one of the best examples of a person committed to her spouse and to her friendships than anyone I’ve ever met. I find myself talking to myself (more than usual … I should add) trying to understand the why and navigate through my own emotions while offering as much support and love that I can. My husband put it best, he said thinking about their situation has become like breathing. Just something we do.
It weighs so heavily on our hearts and minds.
Here’s the deal. People are imperfect. I know. I get it. I guess episodes like this are wake-up reminders our imperfect nature as human beings. I really want to embrace this as part of God’s perfect plan. And I do actually. Because I trust in him. I just wish I knew what is supposed to be revealed through this pain to us mere mortals. Is this her part in sharing in the suffering of Christ? I’m pretty sure she’s shared quite a bit already. And I think whether my dearest girl knows this or not, this must be part of the emptying of herself only to fill herself even more with the love of Christ. I don’t know. Who knows, but God?
I do know, I am pretty sure she’s running on empty. And she’s been working so hard in her growth in her relationship with Christ through the church. I’m taking deep breaths and trusting. And praying for that same trust for her. Whenever she gets there.
For another dose of irony by association, when this was all happening last week–when my dear girl was first learning what was in store for her– Richard and I were at an event that celebrates the sacrament of marriage. It’s an event put on every year, hosted by the local Worldwide Marriage Encounter folks. It was nice. But felt somewhat surreal after the fact.
So, please, pray for my friend. Pray for her children. Pray for her spouse. Pray they recognize and are drawn to the healing power of our Lord and can trust in him.
I may be changing my superhero name to IRONic MOM.
Irony is sorely misunderstood. Take poor Alanis Morissette. She devoted an entire song referring to events as ironic, which were all really just bad luck. Rain on your wedding day is a bummer. Not ironic.
So, for those of you who need a little refresher on irony … ta da. IRONic MOM to the rescue.
Irony is:
Posting on your blog your three small successes of motherhood (yesterday’s entry) while your 22-month old is right over your shoulder sweetly singing as he is emptying (decoratively, mind you) an entire bottle of syrup on the leather chest and carpet.
Now, after your try to quickly (which with syrup is impossible) clean up the mess then scramble to get everyone in the car to pick up the older kids and you pick up that same 22-month-old darling and he pukes on you, THAT is just plain bad luck.
Got it? Happy to be of service.
After my last few posts of what a nincompoop I am, I’m here to post a few small successes. That’s a regular Thursday feature at Faith and Family Live. There is a little graphic, but linking to it is not one of my small successes. But wait, today, I’m focusing on the glass being half full…
1) This morning, I matched plastic lids to plastic containers and threw out (recycled, actually) the leftover oddballs, all while Cliffy napped. I got rid of enough to fill a Target bag. Yield: A Target bag full of space in my cabinet AND containers that will actually be useful!
2) I remembered one of the haiku I made up while up with the baby last night. I count syllables/sounds (or “on”) in my sleep instead of sheep. Stupid? Yes. But keeps my brain at just the right level of occupied and bored. Otherwise, I’d get up and start typing.
A haiku for a rotten night’s sleep
Mom mom mom old mom
Screams brown-eyed baby through the night
Coffee cannot save me now
Notice my nuanced reference to season? As in my season?
3) I stopped the baby just in the nick if time BEFORE he was about to put M & Ms in the heat vent (to which he pried the grate off).
Those little things DO add up: More space in our crowded house. Feeling slightly creative AND not cleaning up melted chocolate. Score.
That should be my superhero name.
After this morning, I need a serious refresher course in motherhood. Whenever I think I do okay, my kids quickly remind me, “I don’t know nuffin.”
I'm a supa hero.
It started with an extra-early wake up. Followed with Lillian insisting I take her termperature because she was quite sure she (once again) had a headache and could not go to school. Why couldn’t she go? Because she was not going to wear a the skirt she had decided on yesterday. Because the pockets bother her. When she put on her second choice, she decided the waist band was “noying” her. And proclaimed again, she must have a headache.
While this is going on, the little man of the house is running at full-force with a toy shopping cart banging into closed doors. Which is every door, because we have to protect rooms from his wrath. As a diversion, he runs into my legs, as I stand attempting to make sandwiches for those heading to school. We’re planning to repaint two rooms, and I think for a moment, why? But water damage, child damage. Got to be done. Wait, is there rubber paint?
Out storms Lillian. With a summer dress in hand (which regrettably didn’t make it to the right spot after Florida), “I’m going to wear this.”
“No, you’re not,” I calmly reply.
“I said: I. am. wearing. this. I will wear a sweater.”
“No, you will not.” I’m still remarkably calm. An audible hmph echos behind the slammed door, in the nick of time as the shopping-cart operator crashes into it full-bore.
I take away the cart. He squeals and runs off with his little padded jammy feet to find something else to destroy.
Lunches are packed. Gloves and scarves accounted for. Two out the door. (Not the two I wish were leaving …)
“When I have PE. I am wearing a DRESS!” I hear behind the door. The ultimate declaration of defiance in the world of my 4-year0ld who knows she cannot wear a skirt or dress on PE (physical education) days at Montessori school. She has to be able to clearly see her feet without the obstruction of a puffy garment. (And she’s all puffy. All the time.) PE isn’t even until tomorrow. So, is this the set-up for what lies ahead?
After given some acceptable choices, she finally agrees to an appropriate dress. Chooses tights that don’t match. But who cares? Then insists that she wear her snow boots and take her school shoes. I should note that her snow boots are hand-me-downs from Henry that she has adorned randomly with little sticker gems so they could have “twinkle toes.” A sight, for sure.
Thrilled that she even got dressed and dropped the headache bit, when she orders me to go warm up the car and take her to school so she’ll have time to change her boots, I jump. Who cares that it was a half-an-hour early? I am just grateful to strap her in the car and unstrap her anywhere but home. (I know. I’m rotten.)
I take her to school and share a bit of my woes. Dear teacher thoughtfully reminds me to set out her clothes the night before. Which with Lil is truly an exercise in futility. After all, how can Lil make a decision about what she’s going to wear tomorrow when she changes her clothes 5 times a day based on which imaginary world she’s in. It’s what she does. And pretty much what she lives for. And a part of her I appreciate. Most of the time. Just not today.
Okay. But there’s the happy ending. Once in my van, I got a text from our oldest away at school. Reminding me she loves me. Thinks she’s lucky to have me. (Me? Remedial Mom?) Thinks I’m hilarious and sweet and misses me completely.
For that moment, until Clifford screams at me from the back of the van and chucks his sippy cup, I feel like a superhero. Instead of like this …
BOILED ALIVE!
… and head and body.
This is what I found in my son’s wallet. It must be a new kind of currency.
And what were they thinking?
I started my day this morning in the drive-thru at the local Starbucks to buy a pound of coffee.
When I got to the window to pay, I realized that my debit card wasn’t in my wallet. Called my spouse inquiring about said card, because I last used it while in his car buying Taco Bell last night. (I know. Judge me. Thursdays are tough at our house.) I drove to his office with now sleeping baby (who I am, obviously unsuccessfully, trying to train out of the morning nap).
No luck.
Drove home.
I was completely unable to place what in heaven’s name I did with that card. I remember getting it back at Taco Bell. Racking my feeble brain. I parked the van on the drive, looked down and noticed that the card was in my lap the whole time! I had taken it out — while in the drive thru mind you — only to FORGET that I had done that, in what? A two minute period? Needless to say, my head was just numb with the dumbness of me. (That should be a song.)
Still is actually. I think. I don’t know. The numbness thing …
I HATE when that happens.
The good news is, I got to call my spouse back and ease HIS pain. Just yesterday he couldn’t find his cell phone, had me call it … only to discover he was HOLDING it. Ah … the joys of multitasking …
Hard to believe it’s already Thursday in my “quiet week.” This is the week where everyone, except the baby and me, has gone to Florida. I stayed put because it is more relaxing to stay home versus chase my little madman around my parents’ non-baby-proofed condo. And he’s just not a good traveler. So there you have it. And here we are. Next year … anyway …
It has been quiet. And mellow. And nice. I’ve enjoyed my little guy. He’s a sweet little lover boy and has been generous in demonstrating his affection. But I’m ready for the return to chaos. I’m sure Cliff is, too.
I discovered, however, that even without the excuse of the mayhem of our full house, I’m still prone to doing really stupid things. Drat. So, it’s not them. It’s me. So, here are my top three in the past 24 hours …
And-a One. I packed up the baby for a trip to the UPS store. Transferred his stroller from the van into the car to make it easy to take him in. ‘Cause, you know, I’m a thinka. All the way there, I reached back to tickle his legs and keep him awake; he was on the verge of dozing. After 15 minutes of my hooting and hollering, tickling and poking, we made it. I unpacked the stroller. Unleashed the strapped-in child and managed to maneuver him and his cart through the snow to the sidewalk … only to discover that I left the package I was going to send at home.
And-a Two. I returned home, by this time, with a sleeping baby. There was the durn ol’ package just where I left it in the open breezeway between the house and garage. Next to it was a baby car seat that I pulled out of the garage during that brilliant transfer of the stroller. And in that car seat, was a squirrel, who had obviously (at light speed) decided to dig a hole in the cushion to make a cozy home. He scampered, but the (permanent) damage was done.
And-a Three. In a rush to get out of the house, I reached under the bathroom cabinet to fetch hairspray and, instead, sprayed my freshly washed hair with Dow Scrubbing Bubbles. I realized it as it was foaming on my head. No, it doesn’t work like a mousse. But my hair smelled really clean all day …
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