Not about me

When my first child was born, he screamed. All the time. Unless I was holding him, he screamed. I couldn't put him down, couldn't give him to anyone else. I called my mums in tears, and she said, "Parenting isn't for the faint of heart!" I hear those words over and over, as this life continues to make me more than I thought I could be, to demand things I never thought I could give, to sacrifice things I have been determined to cling to. On a day-to-day basis, I feel like I haven't changed, haven't evolved at all, but when I look back to who I was six years ago, I am astonished to find I hardly recognize that person.
Perhaps the single thing I strive most to achieve: respect. More than anything else, I strive to respect my children as people. If they have the right to life--or rather, since they have the same right to life as an adult, they also have the RIGHT to the same respect as any other person. My mums, again, relating what she heard in a talk: Scripture says to "train up a child in the way HE should go," not, "the way we think he should go."
My latest discovery is Charlotte Mason. I'm just dabbling my toes in so far, but in this very amazing book For the Sake of the Children I came upon this passage:

How colorfully and scientifically our generation talks down to the little child! What insipid, stupid, dull stories are trotted out! And we don't stop there. We don't respect the children's thinking or let them come to any conclusions themselves! [emphasis added] We ply them with endless questions, the ones we've thought up, instead of being silent and letting the child's questions bubble up with interest.

She continues to talk about simply reading a group of children the creation story from Scripture, with no preface, no follow-up sermonette, no tricks or gimmicks, no tiresome quizzing and leading questions, but simply reading the story and letting them hear it for themselves and wonder at it. Doing so allows it to become theirs. How many times have we seen it, or been guilty of it--of forcing our interpretations, our vocabulary on a child, of asking them a question expecting them to give us OUR answer? You know what happens when we do this? Education becomes, not "the mysterious, exciting growth of a person", but about pleasing me. It becomes all about me.
It comes down to that again and again: It is not about me. It is not about me being able to display perfectly behaved children standing primly in a line; it is not about me making them into mini-mes, into little reflections of myself who echo my opinions and spout my preferred ideas; not about me guiding them to think the way I think or see the world the same way I do. It is not about me at all! It is about my children, and who they are. Do I know my children, or am I trying to turn them into myself? Do I know what they think, or am I more interested in shoving my own thoughts into them?
It's not about me. I want to know who they are, who God made them to be, because they cannot do His work in the world if I my main focus is to make them into myself, in order to boost my own ego and calm my own self-doubts. I need to love them as who they are created to be, and in order to do so, I need to know and love myself, so they in turn can be secure in who they are.

Before the thaw

we're sort of behind the times, playing catch-up.

 i have frostbite (michigan barn brat legacy), so staying out when it's "feels like 19" isn't so much of an option for me.

The Amazing Ryan has been working on digging us out, and our awesome neighbor Mr Charlie. 

The boys and I were so crazy excited about all of this snow though.

It beatifies everything.

We just got around to building our snowman today, when all the snow is melting.

Coupla tough thugs here.

She totally posed for this photo: she cracks me up. I love her wonky ponytails. At least they're both in.

(Isn't she beautiful? I look at her and still can't believe I have a daughter!)

Snowman!

Hearth Lessons

I feel like every year as I contemplate our woodstove, it gives not just warmth but insight--and most oftenest, something to do with love: marriage, faith, family. It's no coincidence that the ancients worshiped Hestia, goddess of the hearth.
This morning, we came downstairs to a smolder rather than a flame. Ryan had tried multiple times to get it going before he left, Lord bless him, but was unsuccessful. My rather half-hearted efforts, sandwiched between breakfast and diapers, were likewise. Later on, feeling the effects of this grey day, I went to have another go at it. I was expecting to shove some more kindling in there, light it up, and poke at it a bit. Surprise! those not-insignificantly sized logs, while resisting the flame, had been slowly smoldering all day long, wasting away without producing any beauty or heat.
You see where I'm going with this, right?
Because our modern world praises "smoldering". Folks get real excited about it: her eyes were smoldering with passion | his gaze smoldered with intensity | that dance smolders with . . . in fact, if you want to quit smoking, you can even get your electronic cigarette and go smolder instead.
Smolder.
Smoooooolder.
But you know what smoldering does? It produces no real heat. It is not beautiful to watch. It burns you up until you're nothing but smoke and ashes, covering everything around it with a black filth. Perhaps it seems safer, more attractive, because it seems not to demand a full commitment. But it will consume you, all the same, from the inside out.
Fire demands an outright total sacrifice of self. Love allows for no holding back: not of mind, heart, goals, finances, fertility, whatever. And that doesn't mean you give way to the other, necessarily, but that you become one. Fire makes all things one. And it gives, in return, beauty, warmth, and light for the flourishing of home and family.
So whatever you're going to do, don't be content with an ugly, half-hearted smolder. Allow yourself to burn, for all the world to see. Give it your all. Live your vocation, your calling, with all you have to give. And you will be a light for all to see.
Be who you were meant to be, and you will set the whole world on fire.

Peace in the Midst

Even when nothing "big" or "important" is happening, life still manages to be busy--chaotic, even--full to non-stop overflowing. All The Things never seem to get done, try as I may (laundry), and morning comes with unstoppable rapidity. It is life of wee small ones at its height, and I find myself now, at 35, living this life so full of beauty--and insanity . . . I received a comment recently implying that I don't "enjoy" motherhood enough. I was taken aback, to say the least; it's an odd comment to make, and this person certainly does not know me particularly well, at all. As for being told I need to "enjoy being a mother" more, well that's some cheek, what.

Being a mother is part of my vocation, not just as a married woman but as a woman, fundamentally. All women are called to be mothers in some way. Is it always "enjoyable?" That should be an obvious answer. Are all parts of *any* vocation "enjoyable?" Do I "enjoy" being woken up multiple times a night? Cleaning up poop from the floor? Dealing with tantrums from getting dressed in the morning till pajama time? Having my toddler literally throttle me while I'm trying to nurse a new baby? Days of constant toddler screaming or sibling squabbling? Of course not! I don't think anyone would classify those things as "enjoyable."

Do I enjoy their whole-hearted snuggles? Enthusiastic hugs when I return just from another room? Hearing that I'm "awesome sauce"? Having a lightbulb moment with homeschooling? My son help his little sister? Their whole-hearted glee at seeing their baby smile at them? Cuddling up with a story by the fire, or under a blanket? Watching them push themselves in their play, with their physical escapades and bounding imaginations? Seeing my children forge bonds and memories that will help them, God willing, their whole lives? Of course! I don't just "enjoy" it--it makes all the awful moments very much worth it.

I know lots of mamas that have had more and closer children than my four kids in under six years. Most of them were having babies several years before me, but they can attest to what perhaps this individual does not realize--the tremendous emotional and physical toll it takes, especially since by 35 most people don't have the energy enjoyed (wasted?) in one's 20s. Yes, it's hard, for both Ryan and I. It's an extremely difficult time in our lives, and we both struggle in different ways.

And as those who know me, especially you dear friends that have been around since college days, auld lang syne, are aware, I have struggled with anxiety in various ways and intensities throughout my life. It is a cross I would have to bear regardless of the vocation I was called to. Certainly lack of sleep and the tremendous demands of four small children exacerbate it, but that does not mean I do not "enjoy" them, or my vocation, or my life. Despite dealing with anxiety flair-ups lately, I have had a tremendous amount of peace. I have learned quickly with this fourth baby, with having four kids, that Jesus is absolutely essential. If all is not right with Him, nothing will be right, at all, in any part of this crazy life. I have learned how much I need to let go of things: of perfectionism, of my idea of how things ought to go, of presenting a classy, polished, artsy image of myself. (Although being able to throw on some funky clothes and call it an outfit helps tremendously on those days when I feel so miserably a failure.) 

I do not take for granted that I am alive each day. There is absolutely no reason why I should be alive, in particular, and I am so thankful that each day I have another chance to get my soul right, another chance to become holier, another chance to be more of the wife and mother that I want to be. The path to holiness is never "enjoyable"--we're told it won't be! But on that steep rocky path is where we find peace, and joy, and God.

When Saints Let You Down

I did it! I made it through the St Therese novena! Happy Feast Day! I was really excited about today, and I even was brash enough to entertain a vague hope: Maybe, just maybe, I'll get roses today!

When I staggered downstairs (I always stagger down these days, even on the rare occasions when the toddler sleep (the newborn sleeps great, knock on wood)), I found the oatmeal pot soaking with the crusted remains of last night's potato soup. oh, yeah. So I scrubbed it out, cooked up some oats and eggs, and called the circus downstairs. One little monkey flat-out refused to eat. Later, at pick-up from school, the teacher said he spend the morning trying to eat food off the floor (I had sent a snack with him, too). Um, he didn't eat breakfast? (This is also the monkey who spent a couple of years sneaking cat food and horse grain at every opportunity. I don't really know what to say about that.)
So we got home. At 9.15, I'd consumed nothing but an enormous mug of coffee, so I heated up some toast (GF), slathered on butter and honey, and headed out to the schoolroom, where the first little monkey was working on handwriting. Okay, I said, Let's do your timeline. He had a little bit of trouble with the first two, so we went through and I said, Let's do this one five times. Whoa, Nellie! All Hell broke loose, too. Broke right out of that handbasket. I can handle Hell if it stays in its handbasket, but when it busts out, I run around trying to shove it right back in. Wrong strategy, I tell you.
We finally got it contained again, howsome-ever, and went on to rock that timeline's boat, all whilst wearing a tiny babe and fielding a WILD toddler.
Nota Bene: very very Bene: Do Not No Never Discount This Toddler. She is one great big sunshine; she cheers us all up when life is awry; she sits in timeout with her monkey brothers so they won't be sad; she is smiley and darling and OH SO CUTE and Personality busting the seams. SHE IS PURGATORY. A five-minute convo with my sister-in-law included: Oh. Shoot. She turned off the washer again. | Aibhie, no table. Get down from the table. | No, no; don't eat the box. She NEVER STOPS. NEVER EVER EVER. She will very sweetly and with intense concentration shred every book she can get her hands on. She will crumple playing cards, turn off the washer, reset the dishwasher, destroy every single thing the boys build with any sort of toy, unmake the bed, unfold the laundry, poke the baby's eyes (EYES! baby's EYES!) . . . I could go on. and on. and on. Ad infinitum. Ad nauseum. In fact, that's where I end up most days: nauseum, exhaustium, yellingum.
A monkey got into a small wee jar of craft paint that I missed in their "army box" on the porch. Another monkey made the baby cry after being explicitly told to leave her alone. I made a very, very strong whiskey sour, kind of accidentally strong, called my best friend, and all but wept.
I can't do this. I am failing.
So lately I've been sort of obsessed with Passenger. He's pretty much awesome. Well, my aunt said he sounds like Kermit the Frog, but she admittedly had a cold. And he drops the F-bomb more than one might choose . . . but I put him on constantly. I can't get enough. And there's this song he does called Scare Away the Dark (he's really into being a light and having lights and such). So here it is: 

 

There are those words Feel, feel like you still have a choice . . .

And I felt the words behind my eyes, welling up tears, yet again, as I scrubbed dishes at the sink. Yeah right. I made my choice a long time ago. But I do have a choice, still: a choice to yell, or to sing. A choice to resent these tiny people who demand so much of me, or laugh and rejoice or at least bite my tongue, because Mama, their day sucks too right now.

It's hard for me to buy into the whole "change your attitude" song-and-dance, but it's a legit thing: we sing and dance every day, and we do choose the tune.

So, no roses from St Therese, but some hard-a** life lessons, a little love from Passenger, and some very much-needed grace.

EDIT: A few short hours after writing this, St Therese sent me roses. Because, of course, the saints don't ever really let us down. Sometimes they just hide a bit.

Full Circle

pI had a weird amount of difficulty titling this post. (Two posts in one week! Can you even?)

This story starts a long time ago. It starts, in fact, before I was born, when a seriously melancholic young man bought a guitar and played all the good solid folk-rock from the 60s and 70s--Gordon Lightfoot and Leonard Cohen and Peter, Paul & Mary--until he had a conversion and played Praise & Worship music. Then he got married, and had a little girl who loved music and loved guitars, and he played "Puff the Magic Dragon" to her as a bedtime song for many many moons.

The story continues: the little girl grew up, messing around on flute, quitting piano because she thought her teacher was a gorgon (she had terrifying eyebrows and used to slam my fingers on the correct keys: no joke), fumbling around on the gee-tar and dreaming of whistling gypsy minstrels and Irish rovers and falling in love with Dvorak. (Rabbit trail: my first attempt at college was a state school. I somehow ended up on what was known as the "whore floor" where I didn't exactly fit in so well. But while they were all blasting their bootie music, I cranked up the New World Symphony. They all were stopping by my room: "What is that?! It's amazing!" **Beauty for the WIN!**) And then this past summer I ran into some peoples who reminded me of all that, of all that intense burning desire to have music part of my family and home and life.

In the many preparations for this baby's uncertain timing, my dad sent me a random email: Do you want my steel string guitar? Well, gee golly, let me thinkaminuteYES. Yes, please!

in all her 70s beauteous glory--so love!

So he brought it down, and it brought tears to my eyes: my daddy's guitar, to me.

See, the thing is, life so often does not turn out the way we want (how's that for inane cliche?). Dreams *poof* blow away, melting with ephemeral morning mists. But if we don't cling to what we want with that death-grip of no trust--oh ye of little faith!--then God has a way of gathering our vanished hopes, shaking them out into something new, real, solid, attainable, something far more tangible than wishes hopes dreams. It takes a lot of trust to let go of what we want, even if we want something good, beautiful, noble. So often we want it in the wrong way, or at the wrong time.

Sarah's actual piano; so thankful

Playing at Gypsies, indeed. But in my home, my real solid home, I have received many gifts. As any real musician will tell you (and as some have told me to my face), I am a total hack: Jack-of-Some-Trades, at best. I used to be decent on my flute, but that was auld lang syne. Now I plinker away on Sarah's piano and wrassle with my hate-to-be-still boys to practice their violin. (We're still on Twinkles. It's awesome.) And my talents may be feeble, they may not measure up to your standards, Mr RealMusician, but they are mine, and I can give them to the people that God has given to me.

(like this one. i'm so over the moon.)

Little Waves

Well.

Look who decided to arrive!

Ondine Sarah Lourdes
2:45 am last Friday
6'12"

Ondine: (on-DEEN) water nymph; the name means "Little Wave". This Little Wave already has made big waves!

Sarah: of course

Lourdes: i like using titles of Our Lady; Aibhilin is named for Our Lady of Wisdom, although i initially proffered "Lourdes" for her, as well--i love the gentleness in the whole story of Lourdes

photo credit Lori Elizabeth Photography; thanks Lori!

we all are well, happy, and comletely in love.

You Who Are Weary

Today on the way to Mass, Finn was asking if it was okay to sleep at Church. I won't lie: I kind of encourage "Mass Naps" for my own perhaps less-than-holy reasons . . .
I told Finn that Jesus commanded his Apostles, the first priests, to let the children come to Him, that He loves it when we crawl into His lap and rest with Him because we are safe and at peace there. Being at Mass, right there in front of the Tabernacle with the Eucharist, I explained, is just like being right in the lap of Jesus with His arms tight around you. My son, who on a semi-regular basis likes to voice his scorn of sleep, and also likes to sit in the cry room with his toddler sister so he can be loud, said with great excitement in his voice, "I want to go right to the front of the church, right in the very front pew, so I can be the closest, and I'll just curl up right in Jesus' lap." And he did, right in the front pew. Curled right up next to me during the homily, and rested in His arms.

Suffer the Children
Ford Madox Brown

The last week or so has been kind of rough, and it's going to get rougher until this kid makes his/her exit-entrance. It always does, despite my best efforts. But that reminder, that we are safe and at peace in His arms . . . Kids know, man. They call you out on your prevarications and half-truths; they know when you are joking and bitterly resent being deceived about important things. So, there is nothing like seeing the faith not just of a child, but of *your very own child* to drive it home: We are safe with Him. Just curl right up on His lap, in His arms, and rest.

On My Way

NOTE: I share my struggles here not because I am trying to gain sympathy plead hard times. Rather, during this very difficult time, I was so, so blessed, supported, encouraged, and ministered to by the vulnerability and honesty of other struggling mothers. This is not easy, to live out our life-affirming convictions, and my deepest hope is to encourage any other mamas who may be struggling, as well. Take heart, dear one! Be of good courage! Our God is brighter even than your darkest moments, bigger than the greatest of your fears.
Another early morning--way, way too early. I lay in bed, intently pleaded with the universe: Please, please just some sleep. Of course, being a tired mama is never easy, not for no one. The real problem, though, is that I am distressed, to say the least, about the current state of my affairs.
Confession: I dislike being pregnant. Every second of it. Everything about it is difficult for me. I hate being so unwieldy, not being able to do the things for my kids that we want to do together. I hate my insides being rearranged and pounded on. I hate the scornful looks. It isn't a question of "worth it": all love requires sacrifice. Sometimes the sacrifice comes before the love, and that's okay, too. My body's really jacked up, though, with all these little 'uns coming so close on each other's heals. Definitely Not My Plan!

This pregnancy has been challenging in every possible way. Before I even realized this baby was on the way, my hips were giving out and my migraines had intensified. And, having planned on another three-year break, the very fact of this happening was difficult to swallow: Having to field tsunami waves of excitement when I was crying myself to sleep every night. Knowing that my body really, objectively, had not healed enough after delivering my daughter a scant nine months earlier. Still reeling from a really hard painful year. Facing some bleak personal struggles. Just not good timing.
We're nearly 37 weeks along now. It's gotten better in some ways, although my body still protests loudly on a daily basis. Another crisis has surfaced: this baby is breech, and not budging. I would have little qualm in delivering a "normal" breech baby the normal way: I have very fast labors, and there is only about a .1% increased chance of cord prolapse. This baby isn't normal breech, though, but footling breech. And posterior. which ARE problems, big ones. A hospital birth with a likely c-section is absolutely my worst nightmare (other than losing the baby of course, obviously). It terrifies me, horrifies me, makes me sick to my stomach. After trying a host of other remedies, I have an external version scheduled--the doctor thinks there is a good chance he can turn the baby. We'll see how that goes.
But this isn't a pointless bitch session, I promise. There is a purpose to me regaling you in a very long-winded manner how hard these last few months have been.
On the Blessed Is She IG this morning is this:

Pregnancy can be very isolating. No one else can feel what your body is going through, and even the most empathetic cannot really understand the terror of a hitch in the natural process of things. It is one of those times when we realize how very fragile we are: I would be far far more of a wreck if I were trying to do this alone, and I am so dependent on my husband and friends right now. And I'm not even in this alone. There is another tiny little person very much dependent on what happens these next few weeks, as well.
Which means: having these beliefs, these ideals, these convictions, they don't make the road any easier. Just because I believe that all life has the right to exist does not mean that it suddenly is easy for me. It means that this hardship has a reason. That each human person conceived has worth and value that I need to respect, even when it doesn't come about by my own planning or desire. It's what it means to "walk the walk", and sometimes it just plain sucks.
So how does one view such a thing as a "beautiful adventure?" I have no magic words or formulas. This is really hard for me. Every minute is hard. It is hard for me to accept that my "choice" and "free will" lie mostly in my responses--oh how infuriated I would get at my mum for that constant refrain! Because we--I know I am not alone in this--we want to rail against things beyond our control, to somehow pretend that we can be in charge of fate. This desire to control control Control All the Things! causes so much grief, because we will be throwing ourselves against the iron bars of reality, damaging ourselves sometimes greatly, and to no purpose. Some things, many things, we cannot change through our own beating of the air.
The alternative, then? Once again to bow our heads and say "Yes, Lord. Not my will, but Thine." which doesn't, in fact, mean that things will get better or easier or go our way, not at all. What it means is that in the core of our beings, in our heart of hearts, we will know peace. His peace, that passes all understanding--because accepting His will is the beginning of wisdom.

Acceptance with Joy

Very, very last minute, I found myself in a great big van, driving down to Charleston SC with two friends and without any kids for a mamas' weekend. The main focus of Edel, of course, is building community, of having a "safe place" to be unabashedly Catholic. I've been feeling extraordinarily blessed by where we are, of how we've begun to settle into community and friendships and such.For me, Edel would not be so much about meeting All the People (which is not really my forte; I have a hard time saying Words) as about regrouping, recharging, refocusing before the craziness that is next month (or this month, as the case may be). I also felt very much--or as much as I do "feel" along those lines--that this was a God-gift. The way everything fell together in a heartbeat was uncanny. So what, I wondered, did God want from or for me in this seeming random weekend?
He didn't waste any time, fer sher. Very first thing, at the radio broadcast on Friday evening, when Mary Lenaburg shared the story of her visit to Lourdes with her daughter Courtney and receiving the word "Acceptance." Like the Infant of Prague, Lourdes has been kind of a leitmotif. The beauty and importance and significance of her Immaculate Conception is a whole nuther topic; suffice to say for now that it has been super important in my understanding of what Christ requires of us, as well as His mercy, and the way in which grace operates. (That's all.) So the story was a double-whammy: the idea of acceptance, and the importance of it in my vocation, in particular.
My vocation. My. vocation. mine. My vocation, my life, my calling. Here's another thing: One of my greatest struggles, always, has been really believing that in the grand scheme of things, I matter. That anything about what I do, matters at all. I've screwed up so many times, irreparably botched so many opportunities, etcetera etcetera. I came to a point some years ago where I realized (decided) that so much of what happens "to" us, so much of what we do, so many of the opportunities we have, depends on our own choices. What I do or don't do now is going to affect what I can and cannot do down the road. Sounds common sense, right? But so often, it seems, we blame God or resent ourselves for these choices.
Here, then, is where faith comes in. Faith is believing with firm conviction, beyond all doubt, that God takes our choices, even our worst bad stupid ones, and uses them for good. Uses them for good. Kelly Mantoan's talk drilled this home again: Who I am, matters. What I am doing right now, matters. The man I chose to marry? That's me, and my life. Our children, planned and unplanned? Yep, they matter to. Matter on a cosmic level. Matter to God's Providence.
You know Robinson Crusoe? I know a lot of people roll their eyes at that story, but I love it. Love it because it shows so very vividly the fact that our choices go hand-in-hand with God's Providence. Providence doesn't mean God dictates our lives: exactly the opposite. Providence means that God allows us to make each choice without coercion or inhibition, and that no matter what the natural or logical consequences, that He will take every wrong turning, every broken thread, every lost chance, and make it into something Good, Beautiful, and True.
So as I hit the ground running today--everyone up by 6, everyone melting down by 10, me losing my temper by dinner on my first day back--all of that, I offer to Him. Every wistful What if? I shut down straight away, knowing that my path to perfection? That's right now, right here, at this moment--THIS life, THIS family, THIS trial. What I have is now, and it is beautiful. And it matters.

. . . to be continued . . . 

*why is this post so linky? i don't know. but also these people are really cool.

Happy Mother's Day

image of Mary, allegedly based on the
Face of Jesus as on the Shroud of Turn

It can be so hard, sometimes, to remember why we do it, and why it's worth it. But then the other day at Costco I saw a bumper sticker: "Better late than pregnant." And I remembered: Our path to heaven, to holiness, to selflessness, always is through other people. And we mothers? We create people! And by doing our utmost to show them the way to Beauty, Truth, and Goodness, we find it ourselves.

And this mother? She shows us how.

Happy Mother's Day, mamas.

Preaching to the Choir

my sister-in-law sent me this link from Jenny at Mama Needs Coffee. it's a great read, and i appreciated it so very much (thanks, Sar!). it's all true, and good: the pitying scorn, the contempt, the tremendous pressure to make parenting, especially of small children, "look good" in this vastly anti-child, anti-human culture we inhabit.
one thing, though, that i have often encountered, often struggled with, is this same attitude from "our own": when well-meaning, baby-loving, pro-family, God-loving people come down on you like a load of bricks for not being sufficiently "happy" about motherhood, or mothering, or pregnancy. when people whom you think are going to support you, judge you because you don't have the attitude they think you ought to have.
i will never, ever ever no never forget the time i was at daily Mass with my very new infant strapped to my chest, chronically sleep-deprived, having to haul out my screaming, resisting, boneless toddler from the church. this lady comes out and lambastes me: accusing me of abusing my child, of treating him "like trash", of being basically the worst mother ever and please not to treat my children like that in front of her. did she offer to help? no not once, not for one second. she wasn't interested in helping, just in judging and abusing an exhausted, overwhelmed, very alone mother. that was almost four years ago, but every time i see that lady my stomach clenches into celtic knots and my hands shake a bit.
obviously this is an extreme example, but it's shameful, friends, that we savage our own like that. every mama, whether you like her or agree with her or understand her, needs your support. every single mother out there needs you to have her back, even if she IS in the wrong. coming up and scolding a woman for failing at motherhood is pretty much the worst possible way to show you are pro-life.
so you're not doing that? you're as shocked and outraged at that church lady as my own mama was? maybe you're not in the clear, though. some things are more subtle, but nearly as damaging and demoralizing:

focusing on the baby and ignoring the woman
i remember after i had my first baby . . . of course i was excited. over the moon! elated! euphoric! but then it seemed that every single person who came in completely ignored me and went straight for the baby. well, of course everyone else is excited, too . . . but suddenly i don't matter? i don't deserve even a greeting because there's a baby here now? instead of being able to share in the joy of others, i was relegated to an  outsider--and i was the one who had had the baby!
other things, too: sometimes an exhausted, overwhelmed mother doesn't want to hear how great "motherhood" is, because to her in that moment, it is not great. insisting that it is can come off as invalidating her feelings and her experience. or comments like, "it's hard for you, but *I* think it's great" to a woman struggling with an unexpected pregnancy. that, too, is implying that the mother's struggles and emotions don't matter, that her state as an individual human being is unimportant, simply because her body is making a baby. how demeaning and dehumanizing! certainly not a good way to encourage a woman who might be facing a crisis pregnancy--and a crisis pregnancy doesn't always mean a young single mother with no one supporting her.

limiting the definition of a crisis pregnancy
she's got a loving husband with a good job, a lovely house, beautiful children. she's young and healthy. what's her beef about being pregnant? what's her problem?
friends, you never have any idea what is going on in someone else's life, unless they tell you. and maybe not even then. a "loving marriage" may be facing serious problems that you don't see. maybe that great job puts an incredible amount of stress on the family. maybe that lovely house takes some serious upkeep, or is a big financial strain. you never know. another baby could seem like the straw that breaks the camel's back. i recently read another article, "Do Catholics Have Crisis Pregnancies?" i have so much admiration and am so thankful for this woman's honesty and courage in sharing this. it's something that a lot of pro-life mamas are ashamed to admit. friends, that shouldn't be the case.

forgetting that part of being pro-life is parenting the children that are already here
ooo i've had lots of conversations about this one. so often in a pro-life community there is so much pressure to "quick, have as many kids as is biologically possible!!!!" that the whole purpose of actually, you know, having children is pushed to the wayside. look, folks: if having another baby is going to be damaging to your family, if it's going to create a serious health problem, or a serious impediment to educating or caring for your current children, you are not being "pro-life" by getting pregnant. being "pro-life" does not mean being a baby-machine. it means accepting each individual life and taking care of the child so he or she becomes a responsible, holy adult, capable of making virtuous choices, of discerning a vocation. it means being able to give the best of your abilities to cultivate his or her talents and strengths and to correcting weakness.
some mamas can do it. some women seem to be able either to marshal lots of kids with masterly organization and patience, or go with the crazy flow with enviable joie de vivre. but some can't, and they ought not be judged for trying to do right by the children already in their care. being pro-life isn't limited to being pregnant and just birthing the child. in the long run, maybe that's almost the easy part!

the other kind of NFP judging
i am not a big fan of Simcha Fisher, but a friend gave me her NFP book. she does have a maybe-not-so-oblique slant, writing to tick off the people who think that having more kids makes you holier, about people who judge other people for using NFP as the "Catholic birth control." which is a legitimate enough point, although considering that as even she admits most Catholics are, in fact, using some sort of birth control, i wish she would have addressed that mindset a little more. but it's a good book with a lot of good points, and parts were, in fact, very helpful.
there's another kind of NFP judging, though. it's the people who look at families and say, "whoa there, clearly they don't have their act together. what, she's pregnant, again? doesn't she know that NFP can be used to *avoid* pregnancy, too?"
friends, NO form of "birth control" is 100% effective, not even the chemical ones or the device-using ones. maybe that couple knows they're in some mire over their heads. maybe they are as baffled as you are scornful. there is no room for any kind of judging in this game. it isn't easy for anyone. if some couple is "cheating" and going against God's law . . . well, that's between them and God, and judging them isn't going to change their attitude towards sex or children. if some couple has more kids than they were intending, then they need your help and sympathy, your support and love, not your raised eyebrows. and maybe not even your enthusiasm that what they're doing is "so great." it is, of course . . . but to a mama in the trenches, it often doesn't feel like it, and can make her feel guilty about not feeling that.

so who knows what people are going to take offense at this post. my intent is not to offend anyone, but to contribute my own perspectives and experiences to this very difficult topic. peace to you, gentle reader. and courage and power to you, mama. i've got your back, the best i can.

Slow Skills

("warning": some mildly "graphic" goat post-birth photos)

we had baby goats!

Murielle cleaning off just-born baby

and they lived this year!

first baby, ready to try her legs out

i don't think i ever wrote about last year's goat trauma, and that's okay. it was definitely a Trauma.

up and at 'em!
(our doeling, which we kept)

we had some minor tragedy this year, but most of the babies survived--three in all--and it's been a blast. i've been on the fence about whether even to keep the goats, but this has definitely tipped the scales in their favor.

two!

i did sell our white doe, Ivy, to a goat farm a bit down south (Down Yonder Farm), and i couldn't have asked for a better home. she seems like she's doing far better there than she did here, in fact. then my friend decided to take our two bucklings as bottle babies, to wether and use as brush clearers. since she's so close, we decided to milk my other doe, Murielle, for the babies, to make the transition to bottle-feeding easier for everyone.

when i first got our goats two years ago, i got them just as brush clearers. i ended up getting triplets, because they threw in the buckling, a bottle-fed runt, for free, and lowered the price on the two does. i ended up with milk goats because, again, they were cheap. i thought at the time, "oh, it will be nice maybe to milk them, some day. at least i'll have the option." despite the babies, i don't know when that would have happened--no time is a good time!--but then these babies needed milk, and her husband made a stanchion in an afternoon (!!!!!!), and she brought it over and set it up and there's Murielle, with her head in those bars, and my friend's son and i milking her . . .
i'm milking my goat!
that's really cool! i'm really excited! i'm getting really into this! i'm gonna quit buying milk; i'm gonna make soap; we'll be even more Self Sufficient!!!

then i read how i'm getting less than half of what even a "freshener" should give, and it was tempting to get really discouraged. and it got me thinking about these slow hard skills of the land . . . we lost the babies last year, and we had to wait another year to try again. it wasn't like getting a car fixed. i've messed up with my garden in numerous different ways, and each year i need to wait, to think it out differently, to plan better, for the next year. and now, with milking, it isn't like i can run out and "practice" whenever i want. i have to go one day at a time, trying to figure out what i'm doing wrong and what to do better for the next day. in a world of notorious Instant Gratification, and the more recent explosion in Everyone Can Be a Virtuoso, these slow skills are hard.

but it's worth it. and i hope it travels to the rest of my life: to be patient with the slow, slow growth of my children, of my marriage, of my soul. because our God is not a God of haste. He moves slowly, and it is hard to wait on Him. but waiting upon Him builds strength, makes us strong enough to mount with the wings of an Eagle. and it is beautiful to see these lessons in His creation: to wait, and be patient, and keep working, a little bit every day, to get a little bit better.

Robin Hood, Little John, and Maid Marian inside on a single-digit night

Own It

i did not want to get out of bed this morning. the boys have been waking up before six--oh yes, you read that right: before six a.m.; the baby has had a *major* regression with night weaning; i've been fighting migraines for the last several days; i am overwhelmed and depressed and believe me there are totally legit reasons.
i don't want to do it.
i don't want to get up. i don't want to get dressed. don't want to make a fire, make breakfast, get cantankerous belligerent children dressed, get people out the door, feed all these animals.
I. DON'T. WANT. TO.
why can't someone else come do this for me? i really am not feeling so great. why can't someone else take my son to school? run these errands for me? clean my kitchen for me?
oh wait. because it's MY LIFE. these are MY responsibilities, and as exhausted and frustrated and beyond-the-end-of-my-rope as i feel, guess what, self? This IS my circus. These ARE my monkeys. It is not anyone else's responsibility to take care of my life.
Period.

Am I right? Am I right or what?!

And I know what happens when Mama quits. When she just gives up and decides she's not going to face the overwhelming responsibilities. It's ugly. And I won't go there. No matter how hard it is.
This is my life. This is my day, and it is not just my responsibility, it is my RIGHT to own this day.
So from one tired, cranky, exhausted, overwhelmed mama to another: OWN IT.

Forays into Housekeeping: Saturday Cleaning

A couple of weeks ago, I looked dismally 'round my humble abode and realized, Good Lord, I'm living in a trash pit. Clutter, toys, laundry, books, and dirt dirt mud and more dirt. It was unbelievably depressing, and I determined to Do Something, Straight Away.
I wrote a while ago about Saturday cleanings, which (oh too clearly) I'd let slip. Last Saturday, I made it my only priority to clean the house from top to bottom: dusting, floors, bathrooms, clutter. It somehow didn't take as long as I had feared, and the outcome was glorious! Best of all: I was able to start my whole week with a clean house. I wasn't looking at the dust on the mantle, cringing and feeling horribly guilty for being so slack. And as I noticed things throughout the week: a place I'd forgotten to dust; one picture that was sliding out of its frame and another that needed to be put in at all; various toys that needed a home, I was able to say to myself, No need to deal with that now. I'll take care of it on Saturday. So Saturday came 'round, and once again I made it my only priority to clean the house, from top to bottom. It took even less time this week, because I'd done it last week.
Here are some things I did to make this a manageable task:

1) Start from top to bottom.
I do this in every possible way: start upstairs, and with the dusting, in all the rooms, tidying as I go, then sweep everything.

2) One room at a time!
If I find something belonging to another room, I take it there and then leave, returning to the room currently in progress. Only once I finish do I move on to the next room and, if need be, move the out-of-place item to a different place. If it doesn't have a proper place, I wait until I'm in that room to give it one.

3) Do the same rooms in the same order.
For the upstairs, I start left to right: master bedroom, hallway, boys' room (they help) and office (this is my husband's domain, so I leave a lot of the tidying for him to do, as he has his own system.), then bathroom. Downstairs is the opposite: kitchen, dining room, entryway, mudroom, family room. Establishing a specific order helps my ADD self stay focused.

4) Choose one extra "project."
There is a lot I want to do to make the house more livable and naturally tidier. I'm not at all happy with the way the office works: it ends up being a catch-all clutter room. The dining room doubles as a play room and, while we've done a lot to facilitate those kind of at-odds purposes, it still doesn't flow well. Trying to change everything at once, though, is so overwhelming! Especially when trying to maintain some sense of order in a house with three very young children.
So keep it small! Today I switched my desk, which was in the office, with my husband's, which was in the master. This makes the office more "his" space, and gives me a more defined work space as well, rather than overflowing and cluttering into each other's. One tiny small thing, but definitely an improvement, and manageable!

5) Don't cut corners.
I had to go back upstairs to clean the toilet bowl, because the borax is downstairs. I was tempted to ignore the kids' potty seats. It would have been so easy not to see the dust on the bookshelves . . .
Don't do it! It will drive me crazy during the week, and feed into the guilt thing, and also make more work for next weekend. Making sure it all gets done every week is part of keeping the house from falling apart.

I'm still super new at this, obvs, but I'm hoping that by establishing this routine and sticking to it, I will be one step closer to peace, because peace follows upon order, both inside and out.

New Year's Resolutions: On Controversial Parenting Issues

Some time ago, I came across the Orange Rhino challenge on FB, and a I was totally convicted. Yelling is one of my biggest challenges as a parent, if not the biggest, and I hate it. I struggle with it daily, and it's a horrible feeling, so often to feel on the edge of self-control. C'mon, self, you're supposed to be the adult, here. So I determined to try this challenge. And I did . . . and failed, completely. I didn't even make it a week. And then many things happened, and life got beyond crazy, and for a while it was a struggle to stay on top of daily life, never mind changing habits. I did make an effort to tell the boys, "It isn't your fault; mama's really sad today; I'm sorry for not being patient, just know it is not your fault." Which helped us through the interim, and the I knew it was time, time to try again, to change things so my house is a gentle, welcoming, peaceful, safe home. And that bit from Mistress Pat kept running through my head, where May Binnie marries Sid and brings her noise and cattiness and quarrels and temper to Silver Bush . . .

I had two hesitations about starting the Orange Rhino method. The first is that one year seems really discouraging to me. Yes, it's good to have goals, but every time I messed up, the first thought in my head was great. Now my one year starts all over again. Not the first reaction I want to have, either to yelling or to messing up. The other problem is her advice: a lot of it is great, but just not applicable to me. Like having a friend to call or text. Okay, that seems like a really great idea: we all need support, encouragement, and a good outlet--yes! Of course! But I don't know any mamas whom I want to burden with my very persistent failing. They all have their own struggles, and most of them have a lot more kids than I. It ain't their bidness: not their monkeys, not their circus.
My solution? Well, as the people that my short fuse most directly affects: my kids. And they love it! I ask them at the end of the day, "So, how did Mama do not yelling today?" "You did a great job, Mama, you get a sticker!" or, "Well, you tried, but you DID yell a little bit . . ." It's been good for us, and it's good for me to be accountable to them. And I feel it respects their personhood, acknowledging that how I treat them, and how they perceive me, matters to me.

So much for my thoughts on yelling . . . So here we go, on spanking. (Do I want to do this? Really???!!?)
I have gone back and forth on this one, so very much. Certainly the pressure in current society is Never Ever Ever Spank or You Will Be a Horrible Abusive Parent and We All Will Judge You Harshly and Unremittingly. So being somewhat weak to the opinions of others I have several times tried to go a no-spanking route.
Now, this part of this post was sparked by a debate on a FB moms' group, with other moms that supposedly had a lot in common with me. Someone brought up the spanking thing, and Lions and Tigers and Bears, OH MY! I mentioned there were times when spanking really was the most effective and efficient consequence, and you would have thought I meant the woodshed with a belt for any peccadillo. One mom posted, "Would you hit an animal or an adult?" and oh my, the self-righteous judgey condescension positively oozed right off the screen, it really did. The really horrible part was that these women completely ignored my comments, continuing to abuse spanking parents as if I had said nary a relevant word, that spanked children were sneaky, violent, only obedient in front of the abusive parent, etc etc. ALL OF THEM.
Now this brings up some interesting stereotypes that non-spanking parents have of spanking parents:
1) They always spank in anger
2) Spanking is the only discipline they use
3) Every and any little thing is punished, and always with a spanking (see 2)
4) They are unreasonable in their demands and (again 3) hyperbolic in their punishment

Well, the injustice of these stereotypes and the refusal to listen to any other conditions for spanking absolutely blew my mind. In my house:
1) Spanking is a last resort, when the child has been given multiple other chances or disciplines to no effect
2) Spanking may not be done in anger. If I am too angry to be rational in my punishment, we both have a cool down time, because
3) Administering a discipline is not the same as hauling off and whaling on your kid because you're pissed off.
4) Spanking is not for older kids, nor even for every child
5) Spanking is a last resort (just want to make sure you all got that down)

In We and Our Children Mary Reed Newland points out that one of the "pros" to spanking is that you do it, and it is done. You are not dragging out the discipline, and therefore focusing on the misdeed, for however long. That resonated strongly with me, having experienced and seen in other families consequences that seem to be overblown simply because they drag on and on and on (like this sentence). In addition, if you so-called "gentle" parents have such a judgmental, close-minded, stereotypical, intolerant attitude towards those with different parenting styles, automatically assuming that they are harsh, unreasonable, violent angry people, your children will pick up on that attitude, and they will treat other people that way, too. So make sure, you so-called "gentle" parents, that you are not using up all your gentleness on your children and have none left for other parents who are trying to do their best.

And as for that mama's saccharine retort? Well, this is getting long so I'll try to keep this rebuttal short:
Horses, usually lesson or public trail  horses, can develop a condition called "leg dead." Leg cues are one of the main ways of communicating to a horse, and if a horse has decided it doesn't care about them, you're pretty much outta luck. There is a way to retrain it. It involves a dressage whip used to reinforce your leg cues. Read: you hit the horse.
I have heard several times from men how, if they are at odds, one of the best solutions is to fight. One fellow I met said, "Because it's impossible to box someone and not gain some respect for him." In other words: two (more or less) adult men hitting each other.
Do I advocate hitting as a prime or even acceptable method for training animals or resolving disputes? Absolutely not. But there are specific cases when it is helpful, even necessary.

Am I endorsing a full-spanking, always-spanking parenting method? I hope you read better than that, Gentle Reader. And I hope the next time a parent calmly administers a discipline to an unruly, unresponsive child, you give him or her the benefit of the doubt. Just because you don't like it, doesn't mean it is wrong.

Fiat & The Holy Family

Our Lady of Tenderness, one
of my favorite titles and images
of Our Mother

When we were in grad school, a highly musical friend of ours would host these awesome Advent caroling parties. I have always loved Advent, and the discovery of all these songs specifically honoring the time of mystical waiting was super exciting. One time, though, a friend returned as worked up as I'd ever seen her from a debate over "The Cherry Tree Carol." For those unfamiliar, in the song Mary asks Joseph to pick her some cherries. Joseph flies into wrath and says "let the father of your child pick your cherries!" so, because of his harshness, the cherry tree bows low before the pregnant Mary so she can have her cherries. What's the big deal, right? My friend expostulated in words along these lines: that the song is antithetical to everything St Joseph is. He is the guardian of the Church because he was first the guardian of Mary and Jesus. He is the model of how an earthly father can mirror God the Father--by being first and foremost a patient protector, and that the song casts aspersion on these very qualities.

I have had a long and rocky road with Our Lady. We often said the Rosary as a family growing up, and more often than not I found it long, tedious, baffling, even irrelevant. I never understood the point, really. What's the point of all these prayers "to Mary?" Nonetheless, when in my Protestant days some members of the praise and worship team sang "Mary, Did You Know?", I was first excited--hey, cool, they're singing about Mary!--and then increasingly confused--Well, sure she knew, right? . . . Right? I mean, you did know, Mary? Maybe not the particulars, but you knew your baby was God? The Annunciation verses? . . . Right?

Fiat

I didn't think much more about it; I wasn't interested enough at the time. My college-age "reversion" to the faith brought little clarification, despite slowly increasing acceptance of Mary. Some friends of mine, girls I admired so greatly, persuaded me to make St Louis de Montfort's Consecration to Mary, and I did, despite being unsure of the whole Mary thing and not completely comfortable with the idea of "consecrating" myself to her. Of course, it was the beginning of this chipping away of years of doubt, confusion, and even anger. Just the beginning: for years those questions would continue to haunt me: Mary, how *could* you know? How could you possibly understand? You were perfect. The Holy Family is perfect. You never had to deal with . . . whatever, etc. Even, I asked you to help me guard my heart! How could you let this happen!?

About a year ago, I picked up a book my mum had bequeathed to me years ago, The World's First Love--Fulton Sheen's book on Mary. It was revelatory. It was the first time I had encountered the idea that Mary's Fiat contained the full knowledge of Christ's suffering and death, that when she consented to bear Our Lord, she did so fully aware of what she would suffer.

Our Lady of Czestochowa, whose
face was attacked by some say
a Muslim, some a lunatic, and
whose scars continue to show
despite efforts as "restoration":
She suffers with us.

This year has been unrelentingly bad. Not completely bad, of course! It began, or nearly began, with the birth of my sweet daughter, our Sunshine Girl, our Happy Baby, who has been nothing but a boon and joy to our family. I have grown closer in friendships, rejoiced in beautiful days, delighted in the dizzying growing of my two amazing crazy boys. Overall, though, it has been possibly the hardest year of the last decade for me. One thing remains as an incredible blessing, and the thing to which I attribute whatever peace of heart and soul and mind I have been able to find: a steadily increasing understanding of, acceptance of, and reliance on Our Lady. She's been gently, insistingly demanding my attention these last months, and she has kept hold of my hand and my heart and lifted them up to Our Lord when I have had not the strength.

Our Lady of Tenderness

I will not enter into theological debates on songs like "The Cherry Tree Carol" and "Mary, Did You Know?", but now more than ever I cannot help but think: surely, there is more. Elizabeth--Saint Elizabeth, said to Mary, "Who am I that the Mother of my Lord should come to me?" Surely, I should not say less. I do not have to attribute my shortcomings to this courageous carpenter and his blessèd wife--what a normal man would feel about a mysteriously pregnant fiancée; what a woman not "full of Grace" would question about her Divine Child. Rather, I can run to confidence to the Holy Family and bury my weary head in their laps: Mary was a young mother, alone in the hostile Egypt, with no one but St Joseph and her new little baby. She was tired, afraid, confused . . . but she never wavered. She did not give up, did not lose faith or lose heart. Perhaps she gave thanks that she was not to lose her Child so soon as Herod's great massacre, when Jesus would have been just two; perhaps she was full of gratitude that it would not be so soon, the death of her Son. Her son, the Son of the Most High who would be the Salvation of mankind (or humankind, if that's your speed).

Fiat

She lost sight of the presence of Jesus when He stayed in the temple. She ran around, looking for Him, wondering perhaps if it was to be now that He would be taken from her. And with all the joy she must have felt in finding Him, think how His words must have struck her: "I must be about my Father's business", which was, of course . . . to die.

Yes, she knew. She knew what, and Who, her Baby Is and she knew of His suffering and her own and she knows all of our sufferings, our sorrows, our trials. She suffered all with Jesus during His Passion and Death, mostly suffering alone--all the men had fled. She suffered even before, knowing each day brought her closer to this horrible, bloody death that was so necessary for her redemption and that of all people. She knew, and yet she still said Fiat. I, for one, know I would have not the courage. But she did, and she is my Mother, our Mother.

All Things Made New

my never-still boy and i at the coffee shop

I have been struggling lately, with pretty much everything. Always I struggle with feeling like I am a crappy parent. Judge-y people don't help, not at all. Naturally. I doubt, though, that even the judgey people are harsher on me than I am on myself. So there's that. There's this odd transition that we all have been going through, of adjusted routine, of longer school days, shorter daylight. We have been doing some projects around the house (by "we" I mean mostly Ryan) and around The Property. (confession: our official, even legal, farm name is Ard Ri Farm, but lately I keep thinking of it as Tree and Leaf, from Tolkien's short story.) We bred the goats again, intentionally this time, so I am trying to finish off part of a ramshackle shed as their stall, so's they don't die as did the first round. I finished up, with Ryan's help, expanding the chicken coop: I won't feel comfortable letting them truly free-range until that unknown day I can get a dog. There's just too much predation, and with no gun, we have nothing to scare away foxes, which found us last year, and coons, which found us this year, and of course a gun would be useless for the bald eagles--Caledon is just about 10 miles ,from us--and endless chicken hawks etc. So outwardly, we've been really busy, and in a lot of ways it's been really good.
Inwardly, though . . . This happens with authors, where suddenly I will start hearing about someone everywhere I turn, seemingly. This time, it was Caryll Houselander, whom you cool people have already read, I know, but I haven't. So I found a couple of her books cheap on AbeBooks, which I prefer to Amazon, and it definitely was a prompting of the Holy Ghost. I started on Reed of God first, because it's about Mary and I've had this thing with Mary lately, wanting to know her better. I was hooked before the first page, and I especially appreciated this:


my kitchen Madonna birthday present,
not made of chocolate

"Even if I faced a blank future shackled with respectability, it was still impossible to imagine Our Lady doing anything that I would do, for the very simple reason that I simply could not imagine her doing anything at all."

Yes! And it just gets better from there.

It has been a hard year. Post-partum gets harder with each child, as I get older and have less rest and more to do; it was several months before I was not in discomfort, sometimes pain, after Aibhie. Then of course, The Accident, and all that entails. The whole month of August is a blank for me. Then recently hearing of my college classmate, Fred's, wife Nicole, who was diagnosed with a brain tumor. It's hard to . . . impossible to say what this latest news has done. Perhaps Waugh's words are best: "A blow, expected, repeated, falling on a bruise . . . a dull and sickening pain and the doubt whether another like it could be borne": Not expected, this year, but the rest of it so very apropos.


so proud of her mess

I have been near despair, some of these days, when it all seems overwhelming, and today was near tears when I finally found my book again and read this:

"If only those who suffer would be patient with their early humiliations and realize that Advent is not only the time of growth but also of darkness and hiding and waiting, they would trust, and trust rightly, that Christ is growing in their sorrow, and in due season all the fret and strain and tension of it will give place to splendour of peace."

Peace. The peace that passes all understanding, all sorrow, all trouble; the peace that holds our aching hearts and gives them rest. Wait, with faith, with trust, that peace will come, in due time.