Every now and again, I glimpse it.

I have a friend who has recently re-started attending Mass. I'm pretty sure he grew up Catholic but because of circumstances about marriage he and his wife went and were wed elsewhere. Now his kids are old enough to start asking questions and he doesn't have answers. Being the kind of person I am, I invited him to our parish and he's started coming--three or four weeks running now. He'd looked closer to home but the times didn't work out, they didn't have anything for the kids, such as that.

So it's occurred to me to look at Mass, the Catholic faith, faith in God in general through the eyes of his children. And it's bizarre to think about, not to put too fine a point on it. It is fantastic and incredible, and I don't mean those as superlatives for "good." It is like a dream, impossible to believe.

The idea that a benevolent, omniscient, omnipotent Being should put on flesh to bring me closer to Him. To decide to endure birth (which I've read isn't any more pleasant for the baby than the mother--think about it), hunger, thirst, cold, heat, uncomfortable shoes, and itchy clothes just as a start. Then to choose to go through the Passion--the scourging, crowning with thorns, the ridicule, carrying the cross, the very crucifixion itself. He left Heaven to do all that for... me.
And He still comes to me, to all of us, to nourish us every time we attend Mass. Not just our hearts and minds with His Word, but physically and tangibly as Food.

My husband asked me why I was a little wet-eyed at Mass this week. It's a wonder I wasn't sobbing in the pew.

Winter blues

I'm having a hard time realizing that Christmas, the day and the season, are over. It rushed by so quickly it seemed a dream. I'm still feeling the urge to shop for and wrap gifts, to plan the menu, to bake and decorate cookies.
Where was I when this all happened the first time? You mean it's done already? It's almost Epiphany. Where did it go?
I can say that during the sugar cookie baking, I was taking a nap with Louie. During the decorating, I washed dishes. I was in the same room, but we can only accomodate one guest before we run out of chairs and we had two. One was foretold, the other... If you think I'm I'm going to turn down a surprise visit from my mother on Christmas Eve, you must think I'm beyond heartless.
Daddy even baked a second batch of monster cookies this past Monday, and they were gone yesterday.

I think it's exacerbated by Louie's growth. A year ago he was a tiny nursling, a "baby puddle." Now he's a walking, wrestling, opinionated, exploring toddler. He's getting too big for me to nurse when I have no arms in my seat, and my arms are exhausted from holding him. It's getting on time to wean. And it's breaking my heart.

I just want to hold on to his babyness, this Christmas season, a little longer but it's like trying to catch a handful of falling snow. We don't know when we'll have another; we say when we're in a bigger house, but with the real estate market, only God knows when that will be. If it's too long, we'll miss our chance--I'm turning 38 this year and Beloved Husband will be 40.

I'm just feeling the winter blues and time going by so quickly. Christmas is gone, Louie's babyhood is slipping away, and all I can do is watch it all go.

Madness takes its toll.

My brain is officially mush.
Louie woke up soaked last night--diaper leak, somehow. I got up, changed him, and tried to get him back to sleep. While there were some tender moments of gazing into each other's eyes in the semi-darkness, I think I might have traded them for the hour's worth of sleep I didn't get.

The weather is dreary. Rain, freezing rain, sleet, not really cold enough to snow but too wet to go out even to the back yard. Yuck. Icy mud, what fun.
I can't really take the kids anywhere, either. Louie has pretty much outgrown his infant car seat and the warm winter coat he got doesn't fit under the straps. We have the next size he needs, but it's buried in the shed.

The kids finished school this morning, demonstrating that their enthusiasm doesn't depend on my energy level. One good thing.

So, Gentle Reader, tell me something good. Or funny, or lighthearted. I'm feeling apathetic.

Feed your family, feed your soul

This is inspired by Clam's recent post.

I too never learned to cook. I told you some time back about how my mother was convinced the oven was broken and never used it again; she didn't use the stovetop much, either. I could boil water, which meant mac and cheese and spaghetti. We still had "home ec" in middle school so I did learn how to make scrambled eggs. But actually baking anything? No.

I did have some brushes with food preparation while younger, even if I don't count the summer I worked at Burger King. The semester after I came back from France I lived in an on-campus house where once a week we had to prepare dinner for the residents of the house, so I could hum a few bars and fake it. [In my interview to live in the house, I was asked if I could cook. I answered, "Je peux lire," or I can read. I was assured that was meaningless, but I beg to differ. It was a man asking--perhaps he had the stereotypical masculine difficulty with directions.]

Another friend asked recently if I have gourmet meals nightly. The answer to that is laughable--no. I aim for a meat, a starch, and a vegetable on plates, and if I can prepare them in one pan so much the better.
Bread and butter counts as a starch. A salad is a vegetable, and if it's one of those Dole bagged deals, the bag serves as the salad bowl too. Hey, I don't have to wash it.

The worst accident I ever had cooking was before we were married. I was trying to make a beef stew and the recipe instructed me to coat the beef in flour before browning it. Ever obedient, I took the jar of white powdery stuff and put a tablespoon of it in the bag with the meat, then proceeded with the rest of the recipe.
It was horrible. Nasty. Inedible. I should have guessed I screwed up somewhere when the meat was foaming in the pan before I added any other ingredients. My beloved, though, would have choked down a whole bowl (covered with an entire jar of Mrs. Dash) if I hadn't said I couldn't eat it. He went and retrieved McDonald's for us.
The next week, I tried a different stew recipe--my grandmother's. This time, he was home while I was cooking. When I decided the stew needed thickening and grabbed the same jar as before, he asked, "What are you doing?"
"Adding flour to thicken the stew." I felt really smart for a moment.
"That's not flour. That's baking soda."
Oh.

What it comes down to is this. I married a man who knew the extent of my cooking experience. He still praises it. In the almost nine years we've been married, my confidence has grown to the point I can, with a little forethought, throw things together in a pan and it comes out pretty good.

It didn't happen in the first year, but it has happened. Of all domestic tasks, cooking is my favorite. The creativity involved, the smell of something delicious, the taste of something I made, the satisfied feeling in my belly knowing I did that... I love it.

Speaking of dinner, I need to go throw the split pea soup into the crock pot. It's been a pretty hectic week with no sign of slowing down.

Seven things you probably don't know about me

Shelly tagged me forever ago. I think I've done this one before, but if I can't remember, I certainly can't expect YOU to do so, eh, Gentle Reader?

1. I'm really quite shy. Seriously. Especially on the phone. Arranging playdates for the kids is painful. I don't like to order pizza. I've gotten used to making doctor's appointments for the kids, but it hasn't been without its moments.
Even about the miscarriage last year, I picked up the phone to call... nobody. My readers knew more than my siblings. If my brother hadn't called to ask me to donate blood for his daughter's school, he wouldn't have known. And if my sister hadn't called while I was on one of the early trips to the hospital, she probably wouldn't have known.

2. Someday I'd really like to build my own dollhouse. With shingles and electric lights and the whole nine yards. Of course, by the time I have the space to devote to such a project, my grandchildren will be playing with it. But hey, it's a dream.

3. I was in a Rocky Horror Picture Show floor show group while in high school. I was Magenta and even had the false eyelashes.

4. I am almost completely unburdened by family traditions. Growing up,we had about two: Cedar Point was our summer vacation and driving around looking at the lights on Christmas Eve. So we don't have that "whose traditional meal is served this year?" problem. No family recipes being passed down, no certain activities that must be done as a rite of passage.

Unless you count being Catholic. Then I have lots.

5. I wore a tux to my senior prom. And I had the legs for it. (Still do.) That's my mom, my date, and me in 1989.

6. I attended Depeche Mode, Nine Inch Nails, and Hank Williams Jr. concerts all in the same summer. With different people, of course. And the most fun was at the Hank Williams Jr., where I told my company this joke: "What does Yee-Haw mean? I have a beer in both hands and can't clap!" To which he responded, "You're right!"

7. I can't watch war movies. My dad took me to see Full Metal Jacket in high school and I almost threw up in the theater. (When? At the moment the sniper spun around.) But I did see Saving Private Ryan; I just couldn't speak for about fifteen minutes afterward. Glory makes me cry every single time and it's worse now that I have sons.

So I don't watch war movies anymore.

So finally, I got these up. It was tough to come up with seven things; after all, I kind of spill my guts here pretty regularly. What are seven things you aren't going to know yet?

And since it took me so bleedin' long to get this done, the rest of you are off the hook. Unless you want to; that's what comment boxes are for.

I think I have something to work on.

I wonder sometimes what I'm saying by my actions. I say I want to be closer to God, but do I really?
When I'm cross with my husband because he forgets his chores, or doesn't throw away some paper towels or packaging (again!), or doesn't notice when I wear the earrings or perfume he gave me, I don't pray for compassion or understanding. I get snippy or crabby or sulky.
When I'm impatient because the kids are loud or demanding or when they need help with school or reminding to put things away (again!), I don't pray for patience or kindness. I yell or threaten or growl.
When I'm feeling harried with chores or errands or running around, I don't pray for time. I rush and scatter and hurry. I don't have time to pray.
When I'm happy because the weather is beautiful or I'm feeling caught up on chores or the kids are doing well with school, I don't pray in thanksgiving or gratitude. I may laugh or enjoy a walk, but not pray.
Later on, when I realize I've been mean, impatient, rude, or ungrateful, I don't pray to ask forgiveness. It's too hard, too humiliating.

One would think this would be the first thing I'd do, right? It's free, after all, and can be quick. And it's easy, right? Well... sometimes.
Sometimes, I'm embarrassed to ask for help. To admit I can't do everything I'm supposed to, or know I should. Sometimes I don't feel worth someone else's trouble. Or I'm in too much of a hurry. Or I want to take the credit all on my own.

So I don't pray. Maybe I should.

It's early and it feels like a long day.

No, it's not the kids. They are contentedly playing on the floor with Hot Wheels cars, an empty tangerine crate, and a cardboard box. All three of them.
I have three loads of laundry to put away, dishes to put away and wash, a floor to sweep, a bedroom to tidy so we have room for the sidecar--strange, I have books there--along with lunch and dinner to tend to and clean up after, school to do or at least try.
We want to do the same thing as last year and not have to grocery shop the weekend right before Christmas, so I have a two-week menu to plan. And tomorrow is Lunch with Santa.

Of course, he had to go to work today. I've had one contraction in the past two hours, so he'd really better go. While it was disappointing to come out of the hospital still pregnant yesterday, I did get to spend a number of hours with my best friend discussing the book he's reading and my feelings and fears about this birth. Those times are hard to come by.

I'm trying to find some deeper meaning to this dirge, but all I can come up with is it's a lesson in gratitude. Days like this make me grateful for Wednesday when the sun was shining and we got out for a walk. Or Tuesday when we actually got some school done.
Or even yesterday, when I got to spend some time with my beloved. Even though everything didn't happen that I wanted, let's see the cup as half full.

New Year's Resolutions

To some of you out there, it seems a mite early for such things, but the new liturgical year starts on Sunday. It's the first Sunday of Advent, as well as starting a new month. In that spirit, I'm making some resolutions. Wasn't it you, Snoring Sarah, who has done that? New resolutions at the beginning of each month? I'm copying your idea.
Take this and run with it, if you like. This is more to keep me honest and remind myself than anything else.

Anyway, here they are.
1. I resolve to pray more with the kids. Not necessarily all twenty decades of the rosary; I think that's a bit much especially for Rachel. Maybe a decade, though, or the Angelus after lunch. Something concise on a daily basis.

2. I resolve to start using makeup more often. It sounds superficial, I know. I remember reading in The Body Project that a century ago, girls improved themselves internally (more patient, more generous, kinder, smarter, etc.) but now it's external (dieting, new hair, new clothes, plastic surgery). [note: I couldn't finish the book. I smelled "It's all patriarchy's fault!" from the first chapter. Correct me if I'm wrong, someone who's read it.] This is more than just skin-deep for me, though. Part of it is for my husband's sake; he deserves a prettier me across the dinner table (especially because he hasn't asked for it). Part of it is guilt, of all things. I have all this makeup, and even the background to use it (I did take modeling classes back in high school). So I should, shouldn't I?

3. I resolve to take more pictures of my kids--one a week, at least, of someone. With Louis' arrival no more than three weeks away, I want pictures to commemorate the occasion and the leadup to it. Honestly too it's a variation from my own upbringing. Besides the regulation school pictures, I think my mother has maybe a half dozen of each of us kids growing up. No more than ten, for sure. They're in a drawer in her kitchen. Still.
I've already surpassed that, as we're on our sixth album. But months go by and I don't get any pictures at all. No, I have no interest in scrapbooking whatsoever, but I can handle putting photos in an album.

There you have it. My dad didn't believe in New Year's resolutions; he thought if it's worth doing, it's worth starting right away. Eh. I guess you can add that to the long and growing list of things I'm doing differently than my parents did.

Open letter to the ex who reads this

I've finally really forgiven you.

I know I said I had when we corresponded earlier this year, but I hadn't. I said it because I thought that's what you needed to hear. I kept playing the "What if?" game in my head and always lost.

What if... I'd been pregnant when you left? You have to know that, even then, abortion would not have been a "choice" I'd have made.
Would you have taken the child from me, since realistically you would have been able to afford a much better attorney? I can't fathom the hurt of not seeing my child grow up, nor would I wish it on you.
Would you have married me for the child's sake? I don't think either of us would be as happy as we are now--and I believe, hope, and pray you're happy. I know I am. I wouldn't have the husband and children I know and love so dearly. I don't remember not knowing their voices. I've hated the movie Family Man for the ending.

Only recently have I completely given that "game" up. Nobody wins. Even though I'd been absolved of the sins I'd committed with and against you, it has taken me until now to grasp that God's forgiveness is infinite. Sincerely requested, it's always received. It's not "conscience" that would nag me afterward, despite absolution; it was Satan. That's how he works, you see--reminding you, poking you, never releasing you to accept the Love that could be yours. Hey, he's got to stay in practice.
When a priest reminded me of that recently, it became so easy to let go. I gave it all away to the One who said He'd carry me, and I forgave you. And myself.

Another admission: it hurt when you left. I felt used and tossed aside and couldn't figure out what I'd done wrong. Now, though, I've realized it really doesn't matter. God writes straight with crooked lines, and that heartbreak has taught me gratitude for what I have now--the husband, specifically, and the children... and my faith. I don't know if I'd have that with you and I do pray that you have found yours. I hope that the miracle of your own child(ren?--soon?) has shown you that there are miracles in our imperfect world and things greater than ourselves.

It was something of relief, or vindication, when you admitted that you hadn't made the same mistakes again. That takes humility to admit, especially to the person with whom you made those mistakes.

I'll continue to pray for you, as I try to do for all those I know who have made mistakes (including myself). If it brings you happiness, or relief, or even so simple as entertainment, keep reading this blog. (I couldn't stop you anyway.) I just wanted you to know that, if we should ever meet in person again, I think I'll be at peace.

Not surprised.

Kind of impressed by my own self-awareness. There's a reason I majored in French, and knew I wanted to do so at 16.

Your Inner European is French!

Smart and sophisticated.You have the best of everything - at least, *you* think so.

Who's" Your Inner European?

My mother and her grandkids

In cleaning off the washer today (which is where everything that comes off the table gets put at mealtime), I found a stack of cardboard shapes. Circles, oval, square, rectangle, triangles... Where did these come from, I wondered.
My son told me. "Look at the shapes we made with Grandma yesterday," he said. I had taken Madeleine to swim class and she looked after the younger two.

A couple weeks ago, she babysat while I went to my OB appointment. When I came home, they were sitting around the kitchen table playing Candyland.
"It was Madeleine's idea," my mother told me. "I told her that she'd have to teach me how to play, but it was pretty easy."

Why do simple cardboard shapes and games of Candyland make me want to cry?

"This is NOT how I planned things!"

That was a neighbor's complaint the other day. Quite justified, I thought.
I turned to her. "You mean you didn't wake up one day at 18 or so and decide, 'I think I'll marry an abusive jerk, have two of his kids, bust my backside working to support us, get into a situation where I leave suddenly with the kids and get to spend some time at a shelter, move in with some friends where we get to share one room, start divorce proceedings, then find a low-paying job where I get sexually harassed? Well, ma'am, that makes you smart!"

She laughed, which was my goal. How few of us actually plan all of the details of our lives? Or even the big things? Including myself.

Last month or so, my beloved started chuckling to himself while driving home from church.
"What's funny?" I inquired.
"You, honey. Back in college, did you ever imagine yourself tooling along in a minivan on your way home from church with three kids, pregnant with another, listening to country music?"
I thought about it. Good question. I never gave much thought to what car I'd be driving. Even now I identify them by color. I always knew I wanted kids--at least two, but not sure about more. That's different. I was raised Catholic, so the church thing wasn't that odd either.
"Well, the country music is a surprise."

I guess I've just learned to roll with the punches.

Happy Birthday to me!

Yeah, today's the day.
We went to 10AM Mass, per usual on Sunday. My mom was there--always a good thing. Not a whole lot of other usuals; Rachel's godparents were about it. But a new family was there. I'd seen Mom and Daughter in the neighborhood and commented on the stroller; she'd wheeled on over and we hit it off and talked for a while. Her husband had been raised Catholic and they wanted to get their little girl baptized, but his parents' parish had hoops to jump through.
Now, God love the guy, our pastor would tool around neighborhoods with a fire truck if enough people asked him to. He's got no problem baptizing. I think his idea is, at least I'll get 'em in the door. Who knows? Maybe they'll stay.
Anyway, Saturday night the whole family came by and were asking about the parish, mass times, et cetera. Mom had no religious background but wants to attend classes if they're going to have their daughter baptized and raise her Catholic. So it was really nice to see them there.
I count that as a birthday gift.

I also got The Visible Woman, still in shrinkwrap, via eBay. I've wanted one since about the time I got the microscope (seventh grade). The optional pregnancy parts has always stuck with me and now I have it to build. Yeah, he's pretty good.
He also found The Little House on the Prairie, Season 1. I was told more than once in elementary school that I looked like Laura; since I liked both the character and the show, I took it as a compliment. Now that Madeleine is familiar with the premise, it went over big. We just watched the first episode but I think they'll want more. They weren't ready for The Greatest American Hero at Christmas despite their interest in space and planets. The idea of other planets and life on them is still beyond their ken.
The last thing I really chose, which was a set of eyelet-trimmed sheets from Martha Stewart. Since it's just trimmed on the pillow cases and top sheet, he won't feel out of place in his own bedroom. I've always liked eyelet, too.
We saw a skid-steer knocking down a garage, and stopped to visit Shelly the Neighbor on the way back for a while. We haven't had the chance to do that for weeks.

We had chocolate fudge cake and Breyer's "fried" ice cream for dessert after he grilled kielbasa. I've missed that stuff since the demise of Chichi's, and somehow he knew that too.

Now, I have the chance to blog and relax before starting on the dishes, or the folding of the laundry.... Well, even with those to do, it was still a good birthday.

I understood my son last night.

I've been told before I spill my guts on this blog; this is going to be another occasion.

You know, Gentle Reader, of my son's speech problems. You may have a child like him, you may think you know. Perhaps you do. But it was bad. So bad that I was in tears this past December because I couldn't understand him and he was almost four.
What kind of mother am I, that I can't understand my preschool-age son? Where have I screwed up raising him not to speak clearly? These were the thoughts I had.
When he was not-quite-two, I think, he dropped a can on his foot. He's crying, in pain, near hysterical and I can't understand which foot or toe is hurting. I had to wait to see the ugly bruise appear the next day under his toenail, and then be reminded each time I saw his bare foot until it grew out.
He potty-trained remarkably easily, but he did have a (very) few nighttime accidents. Once he came in to us trying to tell us he'd wet his bed; we didn't understand and sent him back. He cried and protested all the way; I couldn't bear to wake up enough to find out what it was. I figured it out the next morning getting him dressed.

He didn't say hard-G or K; they were more N or D (when not the first sound). He omitted initial S, P, T, F and K entirely, along with L or R anywhere in a word. Forget blends (speedboat) or digraphs (shoe); when they had anything, it was a substitution. Usually D; sometimes N. I still don't quite know his code.
Some examples to clarify: As recently as a year ago, "milk" was niwt. Even this spring "Molly the cat" was Mahee da at.

So, since his surgery, we've been watching and waiting for changes. His speech therapist said as bright as he is that it's time to put more responsibility on him, so we have. Each day has brought progress; he now says P, F and T with regularity and S and K with reminders ("What, Dale? Who just jumped on the couch?") We've narrowed it to L, R, J, SH and CH. Blends are sporadic but he liked s'mores last week on vacation.

Last night, though, it hit me as he said his prayer. "Yord Desus Christ, Son of God, have mewsy on me, a sinneh."
Son of God. Really. Every single sound. And I cried. I reached over, pulled him into my lap, and I cried.
Like I said, it's been tough. But I understood my son last night.

On letting go

Madeleine lost her first tooth this weekend. We knew it was coming; when we last went to the dentist, he pointed it out as loose. It finally made it all the way out when she was brushing her teeth on Saturday night.
Did she panic? Cry? Not a tear. "It didn't even hurt! I wonder what the Tooth Fairy will bring me?" she said excitedly. It's surprising she got to sleep.
Now, this was part of her body. She doesn't remember life without it. Sure, it's a small part and she'll grow a new one, but it still was physically part of her. She bid it adieu without regret for she knew not what.

I, on the other hand, don't let go quite so easily. I still have most of the clothes I bought in preparation for my student teaching--in 1993. Including the "interview suit." I don't remember wearing it during the last two years of teaching, let alone since then. I pulled the skirt out for church occasionally but not in a long time. But I'm still having a hard time letting it go.
I know it's probably a decade out of style. I know it probably doesn't fit right anymore (I've gotten down to pre-baby weight each time, but shape is another matter).
Still it hangs in my closet, along with most of its cohort. I don't anticipate returning to work and I really don't see myself wearing those clothes. I dread moving them to another house, only to put them in another closet for more undisturbed years. But still they linger, cluttering up my closet, crowding out the things I do wear.

I wonder how many other things, years old, I'm holding on to that are just taking up space in my mental closet. Old apologies that were never said aloud, sins long since absolved, goodbyes that were simply implied instead of stated. All of that energy going there instead of loving my husband and children, taking care of these wonderful gifts.

One of the most painful breakups I ever went through was right around Independence Day. We'd been together for two years and, instead of actually breaking up, he just took a job across the country and didn't contact me about where and when. The timing seemed coincidental at the time, but now it seems more Providential.
I think I'm ready to let go of the suit, and the other clothes, with as many regrets as Madeleine has about her tooth.

The Meme

This is the 30 Things That Don't Bother Me/I Don't Worry About Meme. I've been noodling it for a few days and it's really tough to come up with them. I promptly forget things that don't bother me, frankly. But here goes.

1. The breast-versus-bottle argument. Just because none of my kids ever got formula doesn't mean I think it's child abuse. Unless you're going to lecture me on the propriety of public nursing; then I'll sic La Leche League on your a$$.

2. Misspelling my kids' names on birthday cards. As yet, they're really too young to get upset. And hey, you sent a card.

3. Bad/reality TV. Pardon the redundancy. See, my TV has a channel changer and an OFF switch.

4. Dirty kids' clothes. As long as they were clean when they put them on, they really aren't meant to last forever.

5. Reading the same children's book over and over and over and... It motivates me to make sure the kids have good books.

6. My kids ruining their appetite for lunch with... fruit.

7. Child safety seat laws.

8. Crying children in church. It could be mine.

9. Cheap coffee. I put so much milk and sugar in anyway, the original flavor doesn't matter much.

10. Hand-me-down clothes for the kids. It has to do with #4 above.

11. Pulling over for emergency vehicles.

12. Trips to the dentist.

13. Bible-quoting evangelicals. We Catholics can take a few tips from them, namely: we should know The Good Book better and we ought to be more open about our Faith.

14. Having only one TV in the house. More than one bathroom would be nice, though.

15. Taking prenatal vitamins.

16. Feeling the baby move. Even when it's kicking the bladder (which hasn't happened yet this time).

17. Global warming. Sure, I reduce, reuse, and recycle, but if the Goracle's pet cause is powered by solar energy and evaporation of the oceans, how much can I change it?

18. Celebrity misadventures/breakups/etc. The only exception, really, is Katie Holmes. I pray for that poor girl. And Diana's boys.

19. Changing my own kids' diapers. Sure, sometimes it's inconvenient and/or messy, but there really are a finite amount of times you end up doing it.

20. Listening to my kids sing their own compositions. Even when it's Hiawatha mixed with the Song of Roland Extended Dance Remix, in the original Old French.

21. My son's fascination with bugs.

22. My daughters' fascination with dressing like princesses.

23. Getting asked for ID when writing a check.

24. Guitar masses. The Church survived before them, She'll survive after them. Nobody's singing anyway.

25. Long car trips. Provided bathroom stops for the kids are convenient enough and the weather is good.

26. Loopy Piskies. They're a wonderful source of teaching moments.

27. Catholic Traditionalists. Trying to make mainstream more of what I was cheated of. Here, here!

28. Other people's dogs barking. They're usually too far away to wake my kids.

Okay, I've devoted WAY too much time to this. I know it's supposed to be 30, but I have things to do! I'm tagging Shelly, Heather (Matt's wife), Peanut Butter Heather, and Zach. I'd like to tag Diane, but she's got enough to do! Just let us know in the comments box when you're done, eh?

On air conditioning

I grew up without air conditioning. My mother's house still doesn't have it. The closest we got to "central air" was sometime in high school when my parents bought a window unit secondhand from a neighbor. They put it in their room and we just put up a shower curtain in the hallway. Mom quit using it after Dad passed; she worries about someone breaking in.
Our house now still doesn't have it. Thus I just spent 20 minutes on the couch listening to the wind in the trees, the quiet clatter of the street sign twisting, the dog barking in the yard. Those are the sounds I'm used to during the summer. I think the crickets are waiting for the wind to die down, but they're usually there too.
We have a couple of window units; we just haven't put them in yet. I don't feel the need. (The big one didn't go in at all the summer I was pregnant with Rachel.) Sure, those nights when neither the temperature nor the humidity are expected to be below 70, they're great. But those happen what, about a dozen times a year in Michigan? Yeah, that may happen more if the Goracle is right; I'm not really holding my breath, though.

So those of you who find crickets and tree-rustling a lullaby, and your alarm clock to be birdsong, I'm there with you.

I love summer.

Happy birthday, honey.

To the man without whom I would not be the woman, wife, and mother I am today. The one who leads his family not by dictum from on high, but by example. The one who calms me, humors me, understands me even when I don't.
The one who takes our toddler to the potty at 1:00 AM because I nudge him. The one who brings me books to share his interests. The one who doesn't complain if the rug isn't vacuumed or dinner isn't made; instead he says, "Would you like someone else to cook?"
The one who encourages us to homeschool. Who has prowled around protectively like a father lion when I'm nursing our child in public. Who looks at a new outfit of mine I thought he'd like and says, "Yep, it'll look nice against the carpet."
The one who doesn't tell me bad news he hears about children--be they missing, abused, or worse. Instead, he comes in and cuddles each of ours.

I love you, sweetheart. Happy birthday.

PS--Neema, you and Papa did a really good job. Thank you.

Before I retreat to my comfortable anonymity

I'll admit I've been embarrassed by all of the attention in the form of posts and prayers since Friday. Mark Shea, Amy Welborn, Rod Dreher, Chris Johnson, Dom and Melanie Bettinelli... These are some big guns in my Third-Tallest-Building-in-Topeka world. Why? I guess I have this "I don't really deserve all of this" inability to ask for help. Martyrdom, something. Dale has had to say more than once (though not recently), "Get off the cross, we need the wood."

I was checking around looking for one of my links that wouldn't have anything about me... and it did. Weird. I expected it from here, and certainly here, just not here.

So all of this publicity has me wanting to crawl under a rock, somewhat. All this fuss about me? I'm just this homeschooling stay-at-home mom who makes semi-regular forays to the Catholic blogosphere, trying to raise my kids to be contributing members of society.

Then I got to thinking. If I'd heard on the news about a 35-year-old otherwise-healthy pregnant wife and mother of 3 with chest pains, I'd say a prayer. A sign of the cross for her, a thought later of "I wonder how that turned out. Well, I hope." Honestly there would be a smidge of "Merciful God, thank you for sparing me that burden." It would affect me.

I guess it is a big deal. If it had turned out to be a heart attack, or a blood clot, where my life really had been in danger, then it would be a very big deal. Perhaps since it turned out to be something so easily treated and unthreatening, it was in answer to all of the many, many prayers.

Thank you all again.

"You're mine."

These were the words from my husband at a particularly poignant moment this past weekend. For some reason, my thoughts lately have turned to my past transgressions. I brought many things to our marriage (Corelle dishes for 12, same for Oneida flatware, a set of Revere Ware, a sense of humor) but my purity wasn't one of them.
I've been reluctant to share these thoughts with him because I know it hurts him to think about. He's the only one I can share these thoughts with, really, who will understand. He knows me so well he can tell my mood by how I'm turning pages in a magazine.
So, he figured out what I need to hear and, at a moment while he had my complete attention, said, "You're mine. Regardless of what you may have done in the past, you're mine now and for the rest of your life." I burst into tears.

But isn't that how it's supposed to be? Isn't that what Christ says to us at Baptism, which so many celebrated on Saturday night? In the second half of that Ephesians reading that gets all the feminists in a snit, doesn't it say something like, "Husbands, love your wife as Christ loved the Church." (He died for Her, you know.) As God the Father loves the people of Israel. No matter what she's done or how far astray she has wandered, if she is sincerely repentant, forgive her. Love her.
That's how Jesus feels about us, too. (In our case, the sins were committed before they were relevant to him, but the aftereffects have lingered.)

Since that moment, when those thoughts try to intrude, my husband's words come back to me. They drown out all of the "What ifs" and my regrets.
And that, my friend, was a wonderful thing to carry around in my head and heart at the Mass of the Lord's Resurrection, contemplating the Risen Christ.

"You're mine."