In the Heart of my Home

Mommy cried all the way home...

This is a repost of a repost.

I posted it here in 2008, in response to the comment of a reader named Mary Beth. I'm posting again in response to Heather's comment on this post. Rare is the mom who hasn't wrestled with herself over whether to bundle a bunch of kids and take them church. You are so not alone:-).

In part, Mary Beth writes, "I am a young mom of a two year old and a three month old who has just happened upon your blog.  My husband was out of town so I had taken the two of them to church on my own one recent Sunday and the two year old's behavior was out of control.  I left after mass wondering where we were going wrong-how could I get him to behave during church and what exactly were reasonable expectations for behavior for a two year old during church?  Especially a particularly active two year old.  I was feeling very discouraged and really wanting a Mom Mentor."

Her words brought back this vivid memory, a column from early 1997:

Sometimes in this space, under this byline, I leave the impression that all is well in my household all the time and that we should all be striving for spiritual perfection. Or perhaps I lead you to believe that if all is not well, it can be resolved in 600 words or fewer to fit this space. Nothing could be further from the truth. (My apologies to the editor: this column is 859 words.)

A few months ago, my husband had worked 80 hours in a week and he was out of town on business. The baby was three weeks old, up to nurse several times at night. The two-year-old, who had had complicated surgery to repair his hand twice that month, was having nightmares that woke us all in the night, at different times than the baby woke us. It was Sunday morning and I was one exhausted mom with four tired, cranky children. I was so very tempted to skip Mass. Surely God would understand. But whatever gene controls guilt in cradle Catholics works very well in me. We went. And it was a disaster.

My first mistake was allowing the four-year-old to enter the pew first. That put him out of arm's reach. My second mistake was sitting so close to the front in a very small church with only one exit — in the back. I prayed we would make it through Mass.

The baby was an angel. The eight-year-old was an angel. Just as the homily began, the very active four-year-old bumped the overtired two-year-old (the one with the cast on his arm). The two-year-old "bumped" him back, cast and all. They both howled. Father stopped speaking and stared at me while I gathered my three youngest children and made my way to the back of the church and out the door. My cheeks burned as I felt what I was sure were disapproving glances. I left the children with an usher and went back just long enough to gather carseat and diaper bag and tell my eldest to go home with a neighbor. He tells me that as soon as I left the priest commented that it was a shame that the nursery wasn't open that day.

Since there was no place to go but outside and it was too cold for the baby, I put my children in the car and drove home. I was disappointed that I couldn't stay for Communion, humiliated by my exit, frustrated that I couldn't control my children all the time and very weary. Two extremely quiet, much chastened children sat in the backseat while Mommy cried all the way home.

My initial reaction was to scold and punish the boys. Their behavior was entirely inappropriate and they knew it. But then I began to reflect on what had happened. I was a young mom in church with several children that surely were God's blessings both to my husband and me and to the Catholic community. I thought about all the times in the past eight years that I have felt that events that should be opportunities for support and fellowship were occasions for judging parenting skills in light of personally held "absolute truths."

Committed Christians tend to be extremely conscious of the principles behind their parenting decisions. They spend a great deal of time discerning what is important in the effort to raise Godly children and they feel passionately about the choices they make. The problem is that not all Christian parents come to the same conclusions. There are many theories on child raising — many Godly theories. What is acceptable in one family may not be in another and both families are positive that their way is God's way. The disparity can make for a lot of judging and criticizing — both spoken and unspoken. It can also lead to much stress.

In her book Motherhood Stress, Deborah Shaw Lewis comments on this phenomenon in a chapter entitled "Everyone Knows My Job": "…I think our Christian community needs to realize that e unrealistic ideals of motherhood and family we sometimes espouse as `spiritual' can seem like one more stress on already stress-sensitive mothers. I have all these expectations; now it's my church or my minister saying I need to do this." Perfectly behaved children every Sunday is an unrealistic ideal.

The week after this incident, I went back to the same Mass (this took some convincing by my wonderful neighbor) People stopped to congratulate me on the new baby and comment on how well-behaved the boys were.

Their words were warm and comforting. Except for one woman, everyone who spoke to me that day was older; they had all raised large families of their own. Perhaps they knew from personal experience that this phase of motherhood is a mighty struggle and that I needed to feel welcome in my Father's house, despite my imperfections and those of my children.

I hope one day I can give the same support to another young woman; I certainly know how important it is.

God gives Strength, If not Sleep

A couple of weeks ago, I posted a whine about whining. There were lots of thoughtful comments and even more email. I think I've answered everyone, but I'm not the world's best email manager, so if I've missed you, please ping me again.

One of the notes asked, "When you were a younger mom, with lots of little kids and no one big enough to act as your own personal nanny, weren't you tired? Didn't you feel like you couldn't even get out of bed and do the day some days? Did you ever just break down and cry at 3 in the afternoon from the sheer tiredness of it all? I don't think you're remembering right if you think you were cheerful all the time."

Um, yeah.

When I look back on my 20s and 30s what I remember most is fatigue. I was nursing or pregnant or pregnant-and-nursing from 1988 to now, with a "break" for cancer and another 4 month "break" in 2005, hoping to get pregnant. That's a whole lot of hormones and a whole lot of sleep deprivation. 

When I got this email, I first remembered a time 15 years ago. Mary Beth was an infant, we'd just moved into a new house, and Mike was working two fulltime jobs, one of which he hated. He was exhausted and grumpy and things were tight and tense all the time. He was rarely home and the physical care of house and children was wearing on me. We lived in a neighborhood full of new construction. On this particular day, our next door neighbors, Ed and Kelli, were having a housewarming party. 

They had just moved in and invited family and friends to help them celebrate. Our houses were practically right on top of each other. They didn't have curtains. I saw Kelli light a great, big apple-shaped candle on the counter. All night, their friends had fun and that candle glowed. I walked my cranky baby, got my rowdy boys to bed, cleaned the kitchen, folded laundry, all while the candle burned a bright beacon of carefree fun next door. It's been fifteen years. I still see that candle. I wished we could afford beautiful scented candles. I remember feeling frumpy and leaky while what looked like a scene from Friends played out next door. 

Because I remember it so clearly, I think I must have written about it. I dug around a little, but can't find it. Ed and Kelli are still our friends to this day. I was at their wedding (I remember I didn't take my coat off in the church and didn't go to the reception; I was wearing a dress two sizes too big because I couldn't afford to buy something new). And we've lived a few crises together that look nothing like a sitcom. So, yes, it didn't all glow honey-tones of joy. In searching for some "tired" pieces from years past, I ran across this one to share with you. My five children were 10, 6, 4, 2 and 6 months at the time. I'll leave you with this for now. Perhaps I will address the snarky reference to my teenagers as nannies later.

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I am weary as I write this morning. Stephen, six months old, has discovered that it is quiet and he can have me all to himself at three in the morning. It isn't very often that he takes advantage of this opportunity. He seems to know that if it's not a routine, he can get away with it. Every once in awhile, he awakens and refuses to go back to sleep. There was a time, two or three babies ago, when I would have fought this nighttime rendezvous. I would have have worried that I was spoiling him, that he would never learn to sleep, that all the experts advised against such encounters. It has been some time since I consulted the experts. Now, I find myself agreeing with Stephen. It's nice to be alone together in the quiet and the stillness.

Last night, I sat with him on the porch. It was blissfully cool, as a long awaited cold front blew in. The streetlights cast a glow across his rounded cheeks and he looked positively cherubic as he smiled and cooed at me. I talked to him and sang to him. Itickled him with a flower from the garden. He yawned and stretched and I melted as he drifted off to sleep smiling. When Stephen was snug in bed, I drifted off smiling, too, feeling good about motherhood and life in general.

Then it was morning. Bright and early, my two-year-old, unaware of my date with her brother, bounced on me and insisted on breakfast. I have never handled sleep deprivation well. My mother will certify that I have always required a lot of sleep. I used to lose sleep, worrying that I was not getting enough sleep. Not anymore.

For nearly twelve years now, I have been sleep deprived. When I am tired, I can be cranky and impatient. Little things that should not bother me become big things. I am tense and irritable. And I lose sight of why I am doing what I am doing. I forget that there are moonlight and flowers, because all I can see is carpet stains and diapers. When my second child was about six months old, it dawned on me that I wasn't going to sleep like a normal person for a very long time. If I wanted to be at all happy, I needed a coping strategy.

Now, when I have a bad night, the first thing I do in the morning is acknowledge that it was a bad night. I tell God that I am grateful that I was able to be there to meet the needs of my children the previous night. I tell Him that He knows better than I do that I don't handle fatigue well. I tell Him that there is no way I will make it through the day under my own strength. I ask Him to help me. I remind myself that I can form my children positively or negatively that day. I can be a grouch and set a negative example: "Look, children, you only have to be nice to one another if you are feeling well and rested and all your ducks are in a row." Or I can beg the Lord to help me be charitable and patient, despite my human weaknesses. After I have thoroughly discussed the matter with the Lord, I usually tell my older children as well. They need to know I'm struggling--so that they can help me and so that I can be a witness to the Lord's strength when He comes through for me. And He always does.

That's the simplifed plan for coping with child-induced sleep deprivation. Pray about it. Come to think of it, that's really the plan for all of life. It also helps to remember that nap time is never more than a few hours away.

Looking Back, Looking Forward

I wish I could tell you what criteria I used for this collage post. I can't quite articulate it. This has been a year of enormous interior change for me. Some of it --a very little bit of it-- I shared here. Most of it is held in my heart, where I ponder, but will probably never adequately speak aloud. And perhaps that is for the best. Because some things are better left within the heart of a woman, taking root, growing, flowering into what God wants her to be. I pray for the peace that comes with the blossoming.

So here are some pieces of my heart from the past year.

 

1. Knitting Lessons (This is not really about learning to knit at all. And the woman who needed that fax immediately? The one for whom I turned the day upside down? The one who promised the moon and the stars? I never heard from her again. These were lessons, no doubt. Very important lessons.)

2. The First Day Never Goes as Planned (neither does the second day:-)

3. What I'm Never Going to Tell You (This one was read far and wide and I'm still so very grateful for your warm response. We need each other and the outpouring of community in response to this post makes me very hopeful, indeed.)

4. Healing (Whether big or small, when women love, they risk unimagineable hurt. I experienced that with my girls last fall. We survived. And even more, we didn't stop loving.)

5. Homecoming (Happy, happy sigh.)

6.  So Much More then a Basketball Game (I relive this game again and again when I want to remind myself that God has a plan and it's better than anything I can imagine.)

7.  Uncluttering and Midlife (These days in my basement were a pretty big deal. My soul is definitely still uncluttered. The basement is a mess again. Not sure exactly what that means.)

8.  Clearly, Through a Lens (As I re-read this one, I resolved to use my camera to its greater potential in the new year.)

9.  Gentleness in the Real World (We really need to challenge each other to love more.)

10.  Candlelight at the Table (Dinner time anchors our family.)

11.  Once Upon a Time (an Engagement Story) (This one is just too sweet to leave out.)

12.  Patchwork Twirly Skirts and Thoughts on Other Stuff (I haven't written too much on what finding needle arts has meant to me interiorly, partly because I always think those thoughts while sewing or embroidering or knitting and then it just sort of never makes it to the page. But it's sort of here.)

13.  It Takes Courage to Encourage (Yep. It does.  I was rocked by the incident in this post, forever changed for friendship. But I see the good. I do.)

14. Competing and Comparing (This one and the one below--I pray I can be a good and faithful friend.)

15. Competing and Comparing Revisited 

16. Joy, Peace, & Contentment  (I think PEACE will be my word for 2012. More on that later.)

17. Maintain Key Friendships (Again, with the friend theme)

18. Not Really Kindergarten  (These days are fleeting. I love, love, love the golden, happy days of early childhood)

On Your Last Day of School

So, here you are, Peter Pan. You've gone and grown into a great, big man. The oft-spoken refrain "I don't want to grow up" was one you made your own. Dear boy, you lived your childhood to its limits. You sucked every single drop of sweetness from its days. I am still amazed, struck dumb, with wonder of it all, with the utter joy of the privilege of having a front row seat for these precious years of your life.

All joy!

It surprises me a little that you're graduating early; you've never been especially eager to cast aside your childhood days. But it seems perfect to me that you are graduating in December. You really know how to rock this month. Christmas is a special gift for people like you--people with childlike hearts.

Remember Christmas in Hawaii? No, you probably don't. You were barely a year old and you went around telling everyone "Mele Kalikimaka." You still like the way those words tickle your tongue.

Remember the Christmas of Michael Jordan and Peter Pan? Two little figures. All you wanted. Good thing, too, because it's all we could afford. But you brought them to life in your own inimitable way and they were worth more than all of FAO Schwartz. And the Christmas of the "gum-tar"? You brought it to Mass and Fr. Bob asked you to play. Remember the Christmas of the John Harkes jersey? You wanted to be him; now, you are grateful to call him friend and you amaze him and the rest of us with your tenacity and dedication to the game.

Remember every single Christmas of crafting and painting and making and baking? You inspired unbounded creativity in my heart and in our home.

 

Remember  the Christmas of your First Communion? In the Bellarmine Chapel at George Mason. How much growing you've done in that chapel! How much learning and loving!

And so Christmas comes again and it finds you with a sparkling new diploma, on the threshhold of your grown up life.  You've learned so much, lived so much. You've done good things. And, you've sown some seeds of regret. You've grown. Your Christmas list this year is decidedly practical: a job, a car, dental insurance.

Where's the magic?

Now, there is Real Life.

It's not so bad, Peter Pan. Real Life is a good place for people with childlike hearts. There is a wonder in every day, even in the most mundane workaday places and people. Real Life is a rich place for people who love to learn. You are going to learn way, way more in the next ten years than you have in the last twenty. Real Life is a place of genuine creativity. You will write your message on the hearts of countless people and you will create home for the people you love. Real Life is a place of joy for those who love without limits. So, go do that. Take that childlike faith, that trust in goodness, that heartfelt courage, and love without limits.

The whole world waits.

And watches with immeasurable pride.

 

 

{This Moment}

{this moment} - A Friday ritual. A single photo - no words - capturing a moment from the week fourteen years ago tomorrow.  A simple, special, extraordinary moment. A moment I want to pause, savor and remember. If you're inspired to do the same, visit Soulemama to leave a link to your 'moment' in the comments for all to find and see.

{this moment}

{this moment} - A Friday ritual. A single photo - no words - capturing a moment from the week. (This moment is from this week, September 12th, to be exact, 23 years ago. I took a photo of a page from my wedding album) A simple, special, extraordinary moment. A moment I want to pause, savor and remember. If you're inspired to do the same, visit Soulemama to leave a link to your 'moment' in the comments for all to find and see.

Live Like Life's a Gift

This is a repost from four years ago, because, well, Nicole's been on my mind and in my prayers. And also, because Elizabeth deHority and I have had some long talks lately about living and suffering and understanding just how precious time and life itself is. Please pray for Nicole and her family and pray for Elizabeth, too. Your prayers are very dear to her right now.

July 3, 2006

My friend Nicole died yesterday.  A little less than a year ago, she delivered her third baby a bit early.  It was then that doctors discovered a particularly aggressive and incurable cancer.  Quickly, it became apparent that instead of a babymoon, Nicole would spend her baby's first year planning to die--and planning her children's childhood in a way few of us ever do.

She set about to leave her three children--a four-year-old girl, a two-year-old boy, and her new little girl--little pieces of heart for every occasion she could imagine.  She asked for my help collecting a huge assortment of books.  She wanted books for each birthday, books for each sacrament, books for the first day of kindergarten, of high school.  She tried so hard to think of every possible time in a child's life that he might miss his mother and to have a book for it. Stop for a moment and think of those books.  Which ones would you include--living books that would live on in your place? Each one, she inscribed.  Her bedroom began to look like an Amazon.com warehouse. And with every day, every box delivered, she weakened.

She fought so hard for the simple things.  A couple of weeks ago, she told me the story of her little boy, who had gone for a walk with his dad to get ice cream and stopped to pick her flowers on the way home.  She cried as she said, "I just wanted to see him lick that cone. I'm not asking for big things; it's all the little things I want to have and hold."

Today, do the little things.  Pick your very favorite story off the shelf and read it with your child safely in your lap.  And then have an ice cream cone together.

Please pray for the soul of Nicole and for her young family.

Bored Yet?

From sometime in the 1990s

"I’m bored. There's nothing to do." Have you heard that yet?

"I can't wait for them to go back to school."

Have you said that yet? In just a few weeks, the big yellow buses will lumber around the corner again and the secular press wi11 be full of predictable columns about parents who are so relieved that summer is finally over. Before it’s too late, take some time to take advantage of the relaxed nature of the season and the warm weather to make some memories. Here are some ideas to get you started:

— Go for a pajama ride. This one comes from the home of Len and Barbara Rice, who surprise their kids by hustling them out of bed, pajamas and all, shortly after lights out to go on an adventure. The Rices have done pajama rides in the dead of winter (once to get a guinea pig they named Valentine), but there is certainly an advantage to summer rides. In the Foss household, pajama rides are in the morning. We get everyone up early and take them to breakfast in their pajamas. Obviously, we make sure that pajamas are suitable for the occasion before they go to bed.

— Give baths outside. This only works if your children are very little. Fill the wading pool, grab the shampoo and avoid the bathtime mess indoors. They will get just as clean with the hose outside and it wil1 be a treat instead of a chore.

— Go to a yard sale or flea market. Give your children each a dollar and set out early on a Saturday morning. A dollar is plenty to find a treasure, and children love the thrill of the hunt. You may find something good, too. If you have an aversion to yard sales and don’t care to recycle someone else’s junk, go to a farmer's market. This is really a case where the early bird gets the worm. Be sure to buy fruit and go home to make cobbler for breakfast.

— Go to a duck pond or park and let them feed the birds. When I was in high school, a girl my age came from New Mexico to spend a couple of weeks with me in the summer. She had never been east before, and she commented daily on how green my world was. I have never forgotten her awe at the landscape I took for granted. There are beautiful parks in this area; take advantage of them. Enjoy the trees and the water and give voice to the wonder of God's handiwork.

— Go to a museum or art gallery. On a day that is too hot to commune with nature, when you are tiring of the same pool routine, play tourist in Washington. The museums are very cool, both literally and figuratively. They are wonderful places to find something of interest for varied ages, and we locals tend to overlook them. If it is a hot day, you might want forego the zoo until the fall. My children refuse to go in the heat because they can't stand the smell.

— Go for a walk before sunrise or after dark. We have done a lot of walking this summer. I can take up to two children under 50 pounds each in a double jogging stroller, and they lobby for position. My oldest child, who is ineligible for a ride, loves to run bulge me. For the little kids this is often a pajama ride. We walk at a pretty fast pace, but not too fast to talk. The quiet of that time of day and the rhythm of the wheels seem to inspire conversation. Nighttime walks are nice for stargazing,

Finally, go camping. If you have never camped before, I strongly recommend a tent in the backyard or a nearby park. Keep it simple. According to my five-year-old, the only essentials are that you sleep on the ground and you roast marshmallows. Chances are, this idea and the others will only be the beginning. Your family will add its own embellishments and some summertime tradition. will be born. You might even find yourself wishing that the big yellow bus hold off just a little longer.

Six

From May 1998

Last weekend, I had the distinct privilege of serving breakfast to five six-year-olds. They had just "camped" in the basement because it had rained for days and days prior to this much anticipated campout birthday party. They had left Jimmy, Christian's godfather and their great protector from basement monsters and other such things, asleep in his sleeping bag and ventured upstairs for breakfast. Between bites of chocolate chip pancakes, the children discussed really weighty matters.

Alex, who had just turned six a few weeks prior, commented to Christian, the current birthday boy, that "Six is the best age to be."

Matt, who has been six nearly a year, disagreed. "Six is fine," he said, "but seven is better. When you're seven you can have first communion." Matt has just been to his cousin's first communion and was duly impressed.

"Yeah," agreed Kevin, who is nearly seven, "but first you have to have first confession."

They pondered that prospect for a while and Christian's cousin, Catie Lea, asked, "Why do you have to be seven to have confession?"

"Probably because the priests all decided that by the time you're seven you've done enough bad things to make a list," said Christian solemnly.

"Hopefully," ventured Kevin, looking concerned, "we can read the list by the time we're seven."

By this time, I was in the kitchen wishing I had this conversation on videotape. They were all so earnest one would have thought they were middle-aged men discussion the prospects of world peace. Except the children were not colored by years of living in an adult world. Everything in their world was decidedly simple.

Later that day, Christian was on the front porch with his buddy Victor, who had just flown in from England for a visit. It never ceases to amaze me how children can just pick up a friendship right where they left off, regardless of time or distance. These two had several philosophical discussions during the week Victor stayed with us, but the one that afternoon was particularly amusing.

"Cool, look at all these ants," exclaimed my gentle son. "Let's stomp on them."

"Christian, God made the ants and God made you. Now He wouldn't have us smashing them would He?" chided Victor in his very endearing British accent.

"God made cows, too, Victor, and you went to McDonald's in the airport and ate a hamburger for dinner, didn't you?"

I love this age! The last remnants of babyhood have disappeared from their once round faces and they are taking an increasingly sophisticated view of the world. But they are so trusting and so innocent. Life is coming into clearer focus; perhaps it's as sharp as it will ever be. Soon, enough, it will be confusing again. Confession will be real and necessary and debates will be over issues much bigger than ants. All in good time. For now, I agree with Alex.

Six is the best age to be.

The other day, I happened upon an overstuffed envelope filled with my old columns. Most of them pre-date my time on the internet. I enjoyed some quiet time, re-acquainting myself with the young wife and mother who wrote those columns. And since I'm in need of a bit of a blogging break, I'm going to share her with you in the next few weeks. I hope you are blessed.

On Friendship

From June 1996

    I unpacked the maternity clothes today and I had a good long cry. In those boxes are tangible memories of a treasured friendship, built and nurtured over eight years of shared experiences navigating a world once unknown.  The clothes are mine now, but they used to be mine and Martha's.

    I met Martha at a prenatal exercise class early in my first trimester of my first pregnancy. She was also pregnant for the first time. The shirt she was wearing that day is in my box- a polo with coral-colored stripes that matched her lipstick and earrings. She dashed into class late (a definite trademark- Martha was always dashing and always late) and I remember thinking that anyone who would wear lipstick and earrings to exercise was entirely to stuffy for me. At the time, I looked like death warmed over and had to excuse my self every so often to get sick.

    Sarah was born a few months later, a skinny little baby who looked ever-so-delicate after a frightening entry into the world. Martha seemed the most competent new mother in the world. The rest of us had a few months until delivery, and in those months she evolved into the expert.

    After Michael was born, our friendship was forged in fire. We were at home, with two small children, learning as we went, and we were to each other counselor, consoler,  confident, cheerleader and coach. In the beginning we traded remedies for nausea, muscle spasms, and water retention, then we moved on the the colic, teething, and midnight earaches. We discussed everything from how to keep Sarah from playing with electrical outlets to when to wean Michael. And soon Nathan was born. Fourteen-month-old Sarah stayed at our house until Martha called with the news of a brother, and we rushed Sarah to the hospital to meet him. Martha wore my jean jumper home from the hospital that day.

    During the following couple of years, Sarah and Nathan and Michael became more like siblings than friends. They are very different in character, temperament and interests and never would have sought each other out on their own. But they know each other inside and out and love each other fiercely.

    The next set of babies, Victor and Christian, were born five weeks apart. The maternity clothes traveled between our houses so often that we lost sight of who the actual owner was. When Victor was born, I woke Sarah and Nathan in the morning, took particular delight in curling Sarah's hair, and once again rushed to the hospital. Martha wore my corduroy jumpsuit home.

    Victor and Christian played together, truly with with each other, at an age which would defy any child development textbook. Victor is the only child I know who always knows what Christian is saying, who knows how to handle his arbitrary moods, and who loves him absolutely unconditionally. To have a true best friend at three is unlikely, but these boys really do.

    I lost a baby a year and a half after Christian was born, and it was Martha who cared for my children while I was at the hospital. She held and rocked Christian through his entire two-hour nap because she knew he couldn't sleep without me, and that leaving him was one of my greatest concerns. She refused offers from my family to help, telling me later that she was driven to do something practical the help herself as she grieved over my loss.

    Her son Adam was born a few months later and my Patrick six months after that. Our youngest boys were just discovering each other when Martha announced plans to move to England for two years. The news didn't panic me. I jumped in with both feet to care for her children while she undertook an enormous intercontinental move alone (her husband was already in England). I worried about the children and offered tissues when Martha cried, but except for a few brief moments, I was stoic.

    Just before she left I told her we were expecting a new baby. Martha, my husband, and I were the only people on earth who knew. She cried. She didn't want to miss it all and didn't want me to experience pregnancy and postpartum without her.

    Now, I am not stoic. I cry all the time (pregnant women do that). I miss Martha's ministry. I miss peppermint tea in her bright, messy kitchen when absolutely nothing else will stay down. I miss her insistence that she take the children to play while I spend a couple of house alone. I miss having a safe place to complain where no one will shake their head and say, "Well, you wanted this many kids." And I miss the meals. Martha always fixed the perfect comfort foods on the nights when my husband was working late and I was too tired to cook. She'd call and say she just happened to have too much food. We'd go to her house, eat, let the children play, and give everyone baths. I'd return home with nothing to do but put sleepy boys to bed.

    Michael reminds me frequently that he wants to play in Sarah and Nathan's backyard and that by the time they get back he'll be too big for the playhouse. And Christian reminds me almost daily that Victor will return for his sixth birthday. But Christian just turned four, Michael is absolutely right, and grownups aren't supposed to think two years is an awfully long time.

    I was 22 when we first met and Martha was 25. Neither of us had any mothering experience. Now, eight years and eight children later, I can honestly say that it is Martha and me, even more than the children, who have grown up together. The maternity clothes are faded and worn, stretched and torn. Most of them will have to be replaced. But a few favorites will remain in my collection, their threads tightly interwoven in the fabric of a treasured friendship. And the first new item of this pregnancy, bought with a gift certificate that Martha gave me just before she left, is a pretty white nursing nightgown for after the baby is born-- a thermal gown, cozy and warm, to comfort me when my best friend is an ocean away.

The other day, I happened upon an overstuffed envelope filled with my old columns. Most of them pre-date my time on the internet. I enjoyed some quiet time, re-acquainting myself with the young wife and mother who wrote those columns. And since I'm in need of a bit of a blogging break, I'm going to share her with you in the next few weeks. I hope you are blessed.

Cleaning

From February 1998

This column is about clutter. It wasn't supposed to be about clutter. I had several other ideas- some practical, some heartwarming and spiritual, even one humorous- but clutter has overtaken my life. So here it is in my column. My house is cluttered, my calendar is cluttered, my mind is cluttered, my very soul is cluttered. It is time for spring cleaning.

    I do not think it is a coincidence that we get the urge to undertake spring cleaning during Lent. Our environment mirrors the state of our souls. The peaceful order of the Shakers and Quakers were a cornerstone of their worship. Order, in our homes and our lives, is necessary for spiritual peace.

    I have confessed that my life is in disarray. Within the course of the past few weeks, I have cluttered my life considerably with things which at first seem unrelated but are actually conspirators to rob me of my fruitful prayer.

    First, as I write this, my husband is, euphemistically speaking, between jobs. My mind is awhirl with "what ifs." What if he takes a job out of state and we move? What if he doesn't and we can't find what he wants here? Where are we going? What will we be doing? Am I going to leave the familiar for the foreign? It is difficult to drive the doubts and the fears from my mind in order to leave it empty. And emptiness is what my soul craves. Because only when I am empty can the Holy Spirit pour Himself into me.

    Secondly, I splurged on a new planner (before we were in between jobs). At a glance, a planner would appear to be the perfect tool in creating order in my life, but I'm afraid all those blank spaces have just called me to fill them. I have been playing with setting up everything that "Franklin-Covey" devotees promise that it can do. I have spent so much time researching the system that I see little squares when I close my eyes at night. Unfortunately, I have been so busy planning to plan that I haven't found the time I'm sure I will have when I use this thing the way it was intended.

    The third conspirator is a new computer. What fun we have had with this machine! We have e-mail and the Internet and wonderful games on CD-Rom. I have waited year to take this technological leap. It has been heartwarming to watch my son build a long distance relationship with his godmother as they send e-mail back and forth. I have thoroughly enjoyed "surfing" with my eldest and even delighted as the baby says "bye bye" to the voice when we sign off.

    So what's the problem? Information overload. Every time there is a quiet moment, I am tempted to check to see if I have messages or to find a new site. My mind is hopping, jumping, flying through cyberspace And God still requires stillness. I had trouble being still before. Now I can be in constant motion without leaving my seat. Pretty scary.

    The final conspirator is the junk in my house. It seems that while I have been busy worrying about jobs, planning my life, and playing with the computer, "stuff" has multiplied in my house like mushrooms in the rain. It is with the stuff that I will begin my Lenten penance.

    I have resolved to spend a day alone, without the computer, or the telephone, or the myriad of details of daily life which crowd my mind. I will sort, throw away, give away, and scour from top to bottom. Believe it or not, I will relish this work. When I am finished, I know that I will find peace in a well-ordered home.  But I will also find something more.

     I will find that having spent my day alone, working with my hands, in the quiet of my home, I have cleared a space for God. I will have had time to think and to cast thoughts aside. The dust and debris of daily life that had crowded my mind will have been purged. And before the children return and I turn the ringer for the phone on again, I will spend some time in prayer. I will pray that God grants me empty spaces and stillness. I will pray for grace to discipline myself to quiet my soul every day. For the remainder of Lent, my resolution will be to plan time for stillness in my soul. I will use that wonderful new planner to commit my time to the Lord first. It is time for spring cleaning. It is time for Lent. In my house, they go hand-in-hand.

The other day, I happened upon an overstuffed envelope filled with my old columns. Most of them pre-date my time on the internet. I enjoyed some quiet time, re-acquainting myself with the young wife and mother who wrote those columns. And since I'm in need of a bit of a blogging break, I'm going to share her with you in the next few weeks. I hope you are blessed.

Laughter

From November 20, 1997

For Mother’s Day, our friend Jim, who is Christian’s godfather, gave me a votive candle holder and some aromatherapy candles. The candles were supposed to dissolve stress in the lives of those who inhaled their fragrance. About a month ago, my sons were playing soccer in the house. The “indoor” soccer ball hit the candle and it went sailing across the wood floor, to be shattered when it hit the wall. My rowdy gang grew fearfully silent and all eyes fell upon mom.

 

A very brave nine-year-old dared to break the silence. “Geez, you know things are bad when your stress candle breaks.”

 

I looked up from the mess, grim-faced, and burst into laughter. Michael had effectively broken through the anger and used humor to defuse the situation.

 

One of my favorite proverbs is “A cheerful heart is good medicine.” My children have taught me to laugh, by their example and their inspiration. Some people are born laughing; they have wonderful senses of humor, laugh easily and make people laugh. I was a rather solemn child. But my kids make me laugh all the time. Laughter really does make us all feel better and childhood seems much funnier this time.

 

Patrick, our third boy, is our resident clown and he has held that position since before he could talk, though  his baby sister is an able understudy. When we moved into our new house, Patrick was a little over 18 months old.  He observed the comings and goings of various servicemen and added their titles to his ever growing vocabulary. As I was retrieving him from the car one day that summer, I noticed an ominous wetness on his bottom.

 

“Oh, Paddy, your diaper’s leaking.”

 

“My diaper’s leaking? Quick call the plumber; I’ve got a leak!” We’re still laughing about that one. 

 

Christian is usually the great philosopher. Serious like his mom, his humor runs deep. Occasionally though, he is so earnest, it’s funny. His friend Kevin is one of four boys and has two older sisters. Christian has decided that this is the perfect family because they fill the van and older sisters are nice to little brothers. We have explained to him that, try as we might, there will be no older sisters in his future.

 

He thought he had the perfect solution when he ran excitedly into the kitchen one day. “Mom, I just saw on TV how we can send 72 cents a day to these people in a poor country and they’ll send us a kid. We can ask for a boy or a girl. (I’d pick a big girl.) Can we buy two?”

 

“Christian, they don’t send you the child. They just use the money to help the child.”

 

“Mom, I know they’ll send them to us. I think they come UPS.”

If only it were that simple.

 

I gained a greater appreciation for the gift of laughter that my children give me continually early one morning when I inadvertently shared it with strangers. After driving my husband to work, I took the children to a bagel store in the heart of many business offices. We were clearly out of place amidst the rushed, suited, early-morning clientele. My children chatted with each other, happily unaware of workaday woes.

 

Patrick was in his prime, telling us stories with all the expression he could muster. He has a flair for the dramatic and his gestures and flirtations had caught the attention of several other customers. They were laughing so hard they held their sides. As we were leaving, one man stopped me. He apologized for eavesdropping and said, “When I saw a lady in here with four kids at eight in the morning, I thought you were nuts. But I’m really glad you came. That little boy made my day.”

 

As I buckled him into his seat, Patrick was confused and wanted to know why everyone was laughing at him. I explained that he had been blessed with a tremendous gift. He was able to tell stories and to use words to make people laugh and laughter was a wonderful thing. Michael caught the drift of the message and began to tell Patrick all the times that Patrick’s antics had made him happy. We laughed together all the way home and I thanked God for sending me angelic clowns disguised as children.

The other day, I happened upon an overstuffed envelope filled with my old columns. Most of them pre-date my time on the internet. I enjoyed some quiet time, re-acquainting myself with the young wife and mother who wrote those columns. And since I'm in need of a bit of a blogging break, I'm going to share her with you in the next few weeks. I hope you are blessed.

 

Happily Ever After

From September 1997

Ten years ago, I brought a simple band of gold into the jeweler's shop and asked him to engrave it for me.

"I want it to say, 'Once upon a time and happily ever after' and the date '9-12-87.'"

The jeweler cocked one eyebrow and said, "It's just one ring; you can't write a novel on it."

"It's not a novel. It's just the beginning and the end. Can't you print really small?"

"No way. You'll have to come up with something else."

Before we even got to the altar, the reality was that this was a marriage and not a fairy tale. My perception at the time was that "happily ever after" meant that we'd never be unhappy. I took the jeweler's refusal a bit personally. It's a good thing I wasn't superstitious. Ten years and four children later, I've discovered what "happily ever after" really means.

My white knight, it turns out, doesn't ride a white horse. He drives a 1988 black Taurus sedan. It is the "family car" that we bought when we discovered, somewhat unexpectedly, that we were going to have a baby for our first anniversary. It is the car that he tried to convince me not to take to the hospital for that birth. He was afraid I'd get it messy. That car made midnight trips to the hospital a few more times, for a life-threatening infection as a result of chemotherapy, for another birth, and for the first of many childhood asthma attacks. It also has been the chariot to countless Sunday Masses, Saturday soccer games and midnight trips to the grocery store. Now it groans along, needing frequent transfusions of vital fluids in order to reach very local destinations. No white horse, just a trusty old black car.

My white knight, it turns out, doesn't live in a castle. He lives in a four-bedroom house in the suburbs. He works very long hours to pay for the house. There are so many riding toys, basketballs and bikes in the garage that he has never parked his chariot there. There is a swingset in the backyard that he designed and built for his children. Inside, there is happy confusions. Upstairs, there are beds in every room, but the knight often finds himself having a "sleepover" on the floor of the the family room with the young squires. No castle, just a home.

My white knight, it turns out, gets cranky when he's hungry (he reminds us of the giant from Jack and the Beanstalk). And sometimes he gets angry. This was not something I counted on when I went to have the ring engraved. I think I thought that as long as we were in love, there would be no anger, no arguments.

Around the time of our wedding, Carly Simon had a new song entitled "The Stuff that Dreams are Made Of." The tune was catchy and though I cannot even find the album (an antiquated term in these days of CDs), my children have often heard me sing the few phrases that have stayed in my mind over the years. [editor's note: isn't the 21st century grand? I found a YouTube link in 2 seconds flat:-)] I sing this tune when I wipe runny noses and clean dirty diapers, when pots boil over just as the white knight calls to say he'll be late to dinner. I sing it when I'm frustrated because I can't get the real to meet the ideal.

What if the prince on the horse in your fairytale

Is right here in disguise?

And what if the stars you've been reaching so high for

Are shining in his eyes?...

It's the stuff that dreams are made of

It's the slow and steady fire

It's the stuff that dreams are made

It's your heart and soul's desire

I never thought I'd have to reminded that my life is indeed the stuff that dreams are made of.

But I do. Reality is not as sugar-coated as the fairy tales. However the pain in our lives has borne such sweet fruit. The bitterest of arguments have yielded the greatest understanding, the tenderest reconciliation.  Real life is not a fairy tale. There is no fairy godmother; nothing is tied up in a beautiful bow.

Instead, married life is a journey undertaken by two souls. Our destination is heaven. That is our happily ever after. There is always joy, even in the darkest moments, because there is always God. Our marriage is a covenant between Mike, me, and God: a commitment. For better or worse. The joy, the genuine happiness, is in the commitment--God's commitment to us; ours to him; and ours to each other.

What I could not know as a young bride-to-be is that in a covenant marriage, the flushed, giddy, once-upon-a-time romance grows into a deep, abiding, mature love. A love that endures. A love upon which God pours out His riches graces.

On second thought, maybe I did know, deep down inside. I had my husband's ring engraved "Once upon a time and forever" and slipped it on his finger on a beautiful morning ten years ago "as a token of my love and fidelity. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit."

The other day, I happened upon an overstuffed envelope filled with old columns. Most of them pre-date my time on the internet. I enjoyed some quiet time, re-acquainting myself with the young wife and mother who wrote those columns. And since I'm in need of a bit of a blogging break, I'm going to share her with you in the next few weeks. I hope you are blessed.

I am happy this week to share this post with my dear friend Ann Voskamp, as part of her June devotion to the Spiritual Practice of Matrimony

Shattered Time

From February 5, 1998

There have been moments, many moments, when I wished I were living in a monastery. Wouldn’t it be simpler to be more prayerful, more contemplative, more peaceful in the quiet and order of a hermitage instead of being in the midst of unceasing demands of little ones, unwavering deadlines, and the conflicting schedules of a large family?

 

Strangely enough, as  I leafed through a monastery cookbook looking for a recipe that could easily be quadrupled, I stumbled upon this quote from The Long Rule of St. Basil: “In the midst of our work we can fulfill the duty of prayer, giving thanks to him who has granted strength to our hands for performing our tasks and cleverness to our minds for acquiring knowledge, and for providing the materials.”

 

This concept appeals to me enormously-- to pray unceasingly through the work of my ordinary days, to consecrate the little things and so to live joyfully in the continual presence of  God. I am not new to the idea of doing more than one things at a time. Early in my mothering adventure, it was an idea suggested to me often. Experienced voices sung the praises of cleaning the bathroom while supervising a child’s bath, making a phone call while emptying the dishwasher, and my favorite, listening to books on tape while doing the housework. I even have a postpartum exercise book that suggests the following:

 

"Start your plies in the bathroom as you finish you bicep curls—then go to the bathroom. Go to the sink and do the wall push and the tricep extension while continuing to work your legs...Do kinetic pushups standing up. Now do your calf raises while brushing your teeth. Then wash your face and contine with the plies and some kegels. Next turn on the shower and while it’s getting hot, do 25 to 50 controlled crunches. Take a shower.”

 

One can see how the idea of dovetailing can get out of hand. One morning , as I was brushing my teeth and supervising a youngster in the tub, I tried to answer the phone. It didn’t work. After finishing at the sink, concluding the phone call, toweling and dressing my son, it dawned on me that I might be taking efficiency a bit too far. In my effort to do as much as possible with a day that seemed too short, I was missing opportunities to sanctify the moment.

 

If we shatter time into tiny fragments we cannot be fully present in it. We cannot be conscious that our work is a prayer and find the sacred in the ordinary. We cannot feel the presence of God. To go even further, if we bustle along at this pace, we are not readily available to the people in our lives either. And, finally, we are the short track to burnout, the inability to see, or hear, or feel, or sense the joy that is abundantly present in every day life. We are simply too tired, too stressed, too preoccupied.

 

Returning to the ridiculous exercise quote, my most fruitful prayers are ones I pray while walking in the early morning. The rhythm of my feet and the wheels of the stroller in front of me, the quiet of the morning and the sounds of God’s creation in nature all work in harmony to bring together a blending of body and spirit. But this requires full time and attention to my walking meditation. It is entirely different from cramming in as many crunches as possible before the water gets hot.

 

One of the best ways to experience joy in a house full of kids is to pretend you are a monk. Sanctify your movements. All of them. Slow them down. Be aware of your purpose. Give thanks for your chores. Make them holy. Make them happy.

The other day, I happened upon an overstuffed envelope filled with my old columns. Most of them pre-date my time on the internet. I enjoyed some quiet time, re-acquainting myself with the young wife and mother who wrote those columns. And since I'm in need of a bit of a blogging break, I'm going to share her with you in these few weeks. I hope you are blessed.

Embrace Them

From August 1996

When we finally moved into our new house, I had a goal: complete all the unpacking, hang all the curtains and pictures and be back into our regular schedule within two weeks. Everything was in order; I had a well-considered "to do" list, an abundance of natural energy and a powerful nesting urge, and every good intention to settle my family so that we would all be happier in a home that seemed so far from the familiar.

I hadn't counted on Patrick. Patrick is the most agreeable and articulate toddler I have ever encountered. (I am totally unbiased as I write this.) He is pure joy from morning until night, and then he sleeps a solid ten hours in his own bed without ever needing me. This child has certainly been an easy one. But Patrick has two fears: trucks and strange men.

Five houses on our street are under construction, including the the two next door. Trucks are the only traffic we see in this otherwise empty neighborhood. They pass by our house dozens of times every day and, for the first two weeks, would send Patrick screaming to be held. Upon picking him up, he would cling for dear life for the next hour--or until the next truck. As for strange men, there was the telephone man, the cable man and the countless construction men who would arrive unannounced throughout the day to fix this or that detail. Patrick would not let me put him down. He hadn't read my list and he didn't care about my agenda.

His brothers thought the trucks were "really way cool," and they quickly adapted to the presence of strange men in the house. They also figured that a new house in a new neighborhood should probably have new rules. Sot hey set out to test all the old ones. They seemed to remember so little of our former structure that my husband and I began to wonder if we left our children in Springfield.

Somewhere in the midst of this chaos, I recalled an essay I had read in Discovering Motherhood several years ago. The essayist had a complaint like mine. Her son would not allow her to accomplish anything. he wanted her undivided attention constantly. She swallowed her pride and called he sister-in-law, the mother of four children, for advice. This is the counsel she received:

Embrace him. He is empty and unsure of your permanence, for whatever reason, and the more you resist, the more unsure he gets. The more unsure he gets, the more he will cling. Embrace him every time he wants you to, for as long as he wants you to. Don't let go until he does. Eventually he will.

What wise advice. It applied most obviously to Patrick, still a toddler who was easily held in my arms. But it also applied to the older boys. I needed to remind them again and again that the security  of those rules and routines that had always been a part of their lives still existed. They needed to know that I still cared enough to monitor and restrict as necessary. All three children were begging for me--my time, my attention, my comforting presence. More than boxes unpacked and pictures hung, my children needed to know that I was the same as before, constant, unchanging and always available.

Eventually, I did unpack the pictures; and I marveled at how quickly my children have changed. There isn't a trace of roundness in my once fat babies. Where there used to be a full set of baby teeth, my oldest now sports a gap-toothed smile. And the bald baby has a full head of blond curls. The time to hold them close is short indeed. Once again, I am resolving to cherish this time, to wrap myself around it with all my being, to embrace it. And them.

The other day, I happened upon an overstuffed envelope filled with old columns. Most of them pre-date my time on the internet. I enjoyed some quiet time, re-acquainting myself with the young wife and mother who wrote those columns. And since I'm in need of a bit of a blogging break, I'm going to share her with you in the next few weeks. I hope you are blessed.

Serendipitous Solitude

The other day, I happened upon an overstuffed envelope filled with old columns. Most of them pre-date my time on the internet. I enjoyed some quiet time, re-acquainting myself with the young wife and mother who wrote those columns. And since I'm need of a bit of a blogging break, I'm going to share her with you in the next few weeks. I hope you are blessed.

from February 1998

In A Gift from the Sea, Anne Morrow Lindbergh writes, "It is a difficult lesson to learn today--to leave one's friends and family and deliberately practice the art of solitude for an hour or a day or a week. And yet, once it is done, I find there is quality to being alone that is incredibly precious. Life rushes back into the void, richer, more vivid, fuller than before."

She's right. It is a difficult lesson. I have adopted a style of mothering that leaves little room for solitude. For 10 years now, I have had a child with me almost constantly. I don't even share the collective sigh of relief that echoes in the neighborhood when the school bus lumbers off in the morning. My children are home, looking at me expectantly, ready for a day of home education.

This is a carefully chosen lifestyle, one which I embrace wholeheartedly and love dearly. Still, I have days when I crave solitude. I yearn for time to think uninterrupted thoughts or not thoughts at all. Usually, if I am alone or if I am at home with sleeping children, I am sitting in front of the computer, frantically trying to meet a deadline.

There is a time, however, when the very clinginess of my children gives birth to time alone. When my fourth child was born, my mother gave us a king sized bed. While this is certainly not on ordinary baby gift, she knew that she was giving my husband and me the precious gift of sleep. She knew that ours is very much "the family bed."

The nursing baby is often allowed to nod off between us because I have nodded off before her. The three-year-old who insisted on his own bed until his second birthday, now insists he can't sleep can't sleep alone. We start him off in his room; he usually migrates to ours. And the five-year-old still hasn't slept through the night. (Please don't send me suggestions for solving my child's sleep problems. I've been there and don't care to do that.)

When our bed reaches capacity, at five bodies, I crawl out. I go to my son's room where the blinds block the light totally and the bed is made with inviting flannel sheets and a flannel-covered down comforter. It is a twin bed and the first time I escaped to its safe harbor, I felt like I was back in college. It was so quiet. I was so alone. I made a personal rule not to think of anything in that bed that I wouldn't have thought of in college.

I don't think about kids, or teaching, or homemaking. I don't compose columns in my head to be written at dawn before children arise. I don't think of my husband in anything but the romantic, dewy-eyed, "engaged" frame of reference.

Since I don't have any exams, term papers, projects, or extra-curricular activities to think about, I usually just fall asleep. But for the few moments between leaving the crowded bed of grown-up responsibility and falling asleep in the solitary bed of a carefree youth, I am completely relaxed and very open to creative ideas. It is enough to make me wonder if I shouldn't pursue solitude occasionally when I am fully awake.