Monday, May 22, 2017

Seven Quick Takes: Crazy me and husband love

Joining the Quick takers at Kelly's again, better late than never, right? 

ONE:

Huge breakfasts! May be a solution to the morning snack-begging.
This morning was the first morning EVER where I didn't prepare or get asked for a snack by my boys. No, they weren't gone away... They'd just had a massive breakfast. My eldest (age 7) ate 7 pancakes and a larger-than-normal mound of scrambled eggs. The other three ate a fair amount more than their usual too. And viola, no snack-whining! I'm going to give this a good three day test, but as mom of four boys, I'm increasingly concerned with the amount of time I already spend in my kitchen making sure their growing bodies are nourished.  My time at the grocery store is bound to increase, and I'll eventually have to buy entire animals with which to fill my freezer.  The feeding of what will feel like an army is nigh!

TWO:

Laughing at myself:
"Mom, have you ever noticed that whenever you look in the mirror, you make a funny face?" my eldest said to me one day as I was putting on make-up.
"I don't do that, do I?" I said, mildly embarrassed.
For the next couple days though, I took notice. The conclusion? I am delighted to find that somewhere inside me lurks my inner 5-year-old, and every time I look in a mirror, I either raise my eyebrows, stick out my tongue, wrinkle my nose, or open-mouth grin. I've done it for so long (25 years) that is has become a quirky habit.
I've been told I have a very expressive face, so maybe this has something to do with it!

THREE:

I wrote a post about washing my floor this week. It's funny how we grow up a little with the years, even as adults: I once "got it all together," so to speak. I was about to have my third child, and I was so overwhelmed by the thought of having more children than arms that I thought "I have to take control of my life!" Of course, what I really did was take control of some of the things in my life, like having a clean home. I purged things, I minimized kid's clothing, toys and books. I made a cleaning schedule and stuck to it and started meal planning. Then that third child was born and was a fantastic little baby who mostly just let me keep a great routine of having the house company-ready and the illusion that I was the best mom and housewife around. But life only gets busier, even if like me, you take on a little as possible, you still manage to find yourself lost. But I found myself down on my knees washing the floor the other day, and wrote what I wrote.

FOUR:



On Mother's Day, I had a proud mom moment as I watched my eldest help his Dad, Grandfather and Uncle and Aunt brand some calves at my in-law's farm.  He was a little scared at first and really only held a rope with his Dad, but eventually got down on the ground holding the skinny little calf legs. It's a right of passage in a way.  It puts a bit of an ache in my heart that our kids are not having these agricultural experiences on a daily basis as my husband did. I grew up in town, but was not unfamiliar with farm life. There's just something so poignant about the connection of farmers with the land and animals. I can't quite put my finger on what it is, but I do know that I value it more having gotten to know my husband Joseph, and how it has shaped him.

FIVE:

It's 2 days later (I started this Friday) and I'm sitting in Starbucks free of all children and finally finishing this. 
I just need to share how absolutely loved by Joseph I feel right now. I've had a rough couple weeks "momming" with busy schedules and appointments and difficult situations with each boy, and he's completely come through in giving me space and extra care. Yesterday (Sunday) I was just wiped out in the afternoon so he just let me nap into the evening, fed the kids, tiled part of our backsplash AND made me a delicious dinner (beef tenderloin and stuffed roasted peppers). 
Then today he's sailing with the 4 boys and I'm having coffee with Jane Austen! 

 


 

Feeling like my love tank is full to the brim!

SIX: 

Just the three older boys having a grand old time on the ROOF! (Don't worry, it's not a regular thing, and Joseph was up there with them putting in venting for our kitchen range)

These guys love to follow Joseph around as he fixes and improves this house. They'll acquire so many great skills (I hope).

Aw. Poor Martin below, missing out on the fun.

 

SEVEN:

Just a little superhero, down for the count.

 


Have a great week!

Thursday, May 18, 2017

Washing The Floor

 

Today I washed my floor.

An ordinary task, one might think. It's certainly something that falls into the "needs to be done" category rather than the "things I really look forward to doing" category.

But readers, my floor has been sticky for two weeks. Abominably sticky. I think it might be from when my youngest was eating out of the sugar bowl. My feet have made a "shwick, shwick" sound as I walk around, which is the sound of my womanly pride oozing out of my body. Beware leaving sugar in reach of the hands of small children.  As a mom of four such children, I feel like that was a rookie move...

But back to my floor.  This floor that I had washed with a mop twice in two weeks but still could not get the sticky to leave.

I posted a long while ago about striving for perfection - about not listening to the tendency of our world to cut us slack as moms and tell us that you don't have to even try because kids make things difficult, and if things are difficult, they're not worth it. I still believe the difficulties my kids present me with are worth surmounting, but maybe I'm a little softer on myself - in a good way - than I was then.

I wrote about my disdain for this sign that says "Good Moms have sticky floors, dirty ovens and happy kids."

And there I was in 2015, writing that post from some high horse. I had 3 kids then, and I hadn't yet imagined or even fathomed that my fourth child would be more curious and prone to mischief at a younger age than any of the others.  I had no children who had homework, or a school run each day. I hadn't imagined yet that I would be where I was this afternoon, down on my hands and knees with a microfibre cloth and all the power of essential oil and vinegar, cleaning my kitchen and dining room floor (for a third time in 2 weeks) inch by inch. 

I loathed that sign in 2015. Certainly the point of it is that children and their upbringing are far more important than the floor or the oven, or the thousand little tasks that you could be doing if you weren't reading a story, or building a Lego car. But I couldn't, at that point think outside my own image of perfection, which under no circumstances, included a dirty floor.

Experience is the best teacher though, isn't it? 

Something inside my 2015 self took that sign as a challenge: "I will be better than that mom" whoever she was. 

Little did I know. 

So, dear reader, I officially apologize if you're actually that mom a lot of the time.  Sorry for judging you and your sticky floor. Eventually I became that mom I thought I was so far above. For two long weeks, as I "shwick-shwicked" around my kitchen, even after a wash, my 2015 self died a little. All the images of perfection I had morphed into something still reaching for perfection, but realizing that I'll never get there by myself. And you know what? It feels better to have her gone.

Why? Because maybe there's some version of perfection that is on their knees, scrubbing a two-week old mess. Maybe that's okay. Maybe there's bigger things going on than trying to be perfect in the material world. 

And maybe, just maybe, a sticky floor is an excuse to get on my knees and gain some perspective.

Tuesday, May 16, 2017

Boys and The Question of Fighting in Play

 

"All boy," is how I hear my sons often described.
They wrestle, get really dirty and often run around shouting. They're noisy and rough. They're superheroes one minute, and ninjas the next. They grunt, eat a ton, delight in flatulence... and they're all under 7!

As a woman, I don't understand them most of the time. I have no idea why someone would want to fart in his brother's cereal. I don't understand their fascination with guns, swords, ninjas and ways to fight. I can't fathom their uncanny ability to imitate various motor and gun sounds, or the reasons for over half of the things they need to do. But as I've come to terms with the many sides of my sons, who still cry and snuggle and do really sweet things for their mom, I've noticed a disturbing pattern:

Parents are knocking the fight out of boys.
"Don't fight."
"No wrestling. Someone might get hurt."
"Stop shooting."
"What are you doing? That's not a sword. Stop using that as a sword!"
"It doesn't matter if he took your toy, you don't hurt him."

Sound familiar? I'm fairly certain these or similar words have crossed my lips daily. Things do get a little out of hand. I don't allow my boys to hurt others. However a few experiences have raised red flags for me.

Over a year ago, a mother of three boys got together with me, a mother of four boys, thinking we would enjoy one another's company and that our boys could play. It was a lovely few playdates at various parks, before something changed:
My son picked up a stick and used it as a sword, and her son did the same. This new friend was rather alarmed and went to stop the swordplay. I inventively said that the boys, instead of fighting one another, could make believe a dragon was attacking and fight it with their swords. My friend seemed satisfied, but looked on worriedly, explaining that, "I really don't like violent games. I'm just not up for aggression in my house."
"But, don't a lot of little boys make believe with weapons?" I asked,
"Sure, but a lot of little boys end up aggressive and angry men. I don't want that for my sons. We don't need to express ourselves with violence."
"Well, I get that," I said, "but I don't think all uses of weapons are necessarily violent. What about hunting? Or protecting innocent people, like the police do?"
"Well, that's different. I just think it easier not to go down that road."
She  eventually confiscated the stick her son was now using as a rifle, and told the boys to play something different. I didn't press the issue, but the playdate was our last one. After this occurrence, this lady decided she wouldn't slot us in for playtime anymore, despite my repeated attempts.

One day I was visiting with family members in one of their back yards. A well-meaning mother of one turned around saying, "Whoa. Uh... I don't know if that's okay."
I turned to see my two oldest sons, a tangle of limbs, rolling around on soft grass. Their faces showed concentration and laughter, not anger or malice.
"They're okay," one of my relatives, a brother himself, assured her.

I should have relaxed at that moment. My sons were okay. Both got up eventually, moving on to other things, but the feeling I had at the moment stayed with me. This other mama had no idea what was normal play for my sons. Play for boys often involves fighting and conflict. At least with my sons, their obsession with heroism, valour and protecting the weak is far-reaching. Their physical need for contact and action seems so innate and powerful, that I can't help but think it goes far beyond nurture.

Fighting and conflict are generally labeled as bad. Parents don't want their children to argue with one another, to fight over toys or books or even who gets what spot at the dinner table. It's annoying, time consuming and often, many of us think, utterly pointless. We just want our kids at school and at home to behave nicely and harmoniously with other people, like we must do as adults. Sometimes it doesn't occur to us that it is because we fought with our siblings or other children that we recognize the feelings and reactions we have, and are able to control them as adults. Children learn with a combination of action and guidance. A little bit of listening to trusted mentors, and a lot of trial and error. Fighting, though annoying, can be a healthy part of development.

But play - play is an entirely different thing. Of course I want my sons to be polite. I don't want them to be bullies. I do want to guide their play in such a way that they know their limits, but still enjoy pretending, imagining and emulating the heroes they adore.

"I'm protecting the ship," said my three-year-old when I asked him why he was throwing all of the plush footballs into the yard, "these are cannonballs."

"I'm Luke Skywalker and he's Darth Vader. He's tryin' to kill me, but I'm really strong," said a matter-of-fact six-year-old.

"Don't call me Zachary. Call me Batman! I am fighting bad guys and throwin' batarangs at dem."

"Mom! We built spears with Dad! Now we can be Roman Soldiers!" said an excited five-year-old, carrying his prized new toy.

Around here, often one of these weapons gets confiscated. One simply can't hit a brother or friend out of rage with a plastic light saber and get away with it in our house.  There is much protest, lamenting and gnashing of teeth when this happens, but hurting out of spite or anger is not tolerated by my husband and I. Accidental grazes where both parties are willing to apologize and forgive are treated a little more lightly. Regularly though, our 7- and 5-year-olds accidentally hurt one another and instantly apologize, knowing that their game can continue.

I don't love this part, I'll be honest with you. In the enforcement and direction of weapon-play, sometimes I threaten to confiscate everything and throw it in the garbage. Sometimes my womanly heart is tired of the batarangs and nunchucks and ninja kicks and wrestling and I plead with them, "Can you just play with play-doh or colour? Can you build Lego? How about soccer? Hockey? Play chef and make me a fantastic dinner? (They do these things too, but primarily, their fun is heroes and play-fighting) And it occurs to me that if I just simply banned any sort of weapons or fighting of any kind maybe my life would be more peaceful and a heck of a lot simpler.

I know some mothers and fathers who have done just that, who don't allow fighting or conflict of any time to permeate the walls of their home. The rhetoric here is often that of my friend above, that aggressive behavior is always wrong and leads to unhealthy, angry men. If this is you, we are just not going to agree on this point - that weapons and play fighting, with guidance, can actually help form character. Through play, I've seen my young sons learn lessons about defending the helpless, responsibility, courage, endurance, compassion and even death. Forming early the reasons why one might fight, or why one might use a weapon in a young boy is important and necessary.

What happens when someone who is innocent is being hurt by another person? What happens when a grave injustice is being done and nobody is doing anything about it. This is where we want our children to defend the innocent and stand up for what is right. This is the why. There are real battles being fought by real people, and someday, though some of us hope not, those people might be our sons.

Daily, wars are being fought to protect the innocent. The police cruise our streets waiting for the next call: to a domestic dispute, a robbery, a school shooting - all situations where they may be required to fire their weapon. They are our first line of defense, and we never hesitate to call them heroes.

We want to live in a world where it is not necessary for these men and women to take up arms, but we don't. We simply don't. We live in a world where it has become increasingly necessary for them to do so. So now we are tasked with raising children who will stand up for the innocent, protect the weak and help create peace. We hope they do not need to use weapons to do so. But to teach them that all fighting in any case is wicked, and to teach them that weapons are evil, and to knock the fight out of them - does that rob them, and us, of opportunity not only for boyhood pleasure, but for important lessons? Afterall, is it not the people behind the weapons, and not the weapons themselves that do harm?












Saturday, April 15, 2017

Laying Down My Life: Talking to God about NFP

“Imagine a large circle and in the center of it rays of light that spread out to the circumference. The light in the center is God; each of us is a ray. The closer the rays are to the center, the closer the rays are to one another. The closer we live to God, the closer we are bound to our neighbor; the farther we are from God, the farther we are from one another. The more each ray departs from its center, the weaker it becomes; and the closer it gets to the center, the stronger it becomes.” 


In the onset of restlessness, I tried to sleep. "Why? God! Why is this Your will?"
I turned over and stared at the dark form of my husband Joseph, whose back was to me, and watched the rise and fall of his chest and left shoulder.  I knew he wasn't asleep yet. I had hurt him again. He felt rejected, even though he understood that this was how it had to be, and I didn't know how to soothe him.

I closed my eyes, and eventually my mind stopped accusing, begging and lamenting enough for me to drift into a fitful sleep.

It was light when I awoke, and for some reason unbeknownst to me at the time, I was faced with French doors and a balcony. Curious, I stepped out onto a balcony, overlooking an old city. Coffee awaited me, though my husband slept peacefully in white sheets in the hotel room behind me. The light brown heads of four sons peeked out from cots, placed in a row at the foot of our bed.

On the balcony, sat Him. Taking in the city and the surroundings, I shouldn't have been surprised.
This was not the Him I would throw myself down on the ground in awe of, or the Him I would picture in prayer. No, this was the Him I could sit with face to face. His face earnest and inviting and waiting for me to speak. I closed the balcony door so that my family wouldn't hear and wake up.

He motioned for me to sit down and have coffee with Him at the small table.
"What can I do for you?" He asked, his voice familiar and safe.
"Okay, so this is the thing," I said, getting comfortable in the large wicker papasan  that sat near the table, "he's hurting again, and it's not my fault! I just don't want to have another baby, and the moral thing to do is not have sex."

Boom. Weird. I'd just said "sex" to Jesus in my dreams. But this was Jesus my friend and confidant, so he wasn't weirded out by it.

"I didn't mean to make him feel outright rejected, but I'm ovulating right now, so I'm very susceptible to taking things further than I meant to. I thought I was saving him from pain by saying we should just sleep." I paused, as He raised an eyebrow, looking at me like He knew I had more to say.

"I admit, I could be nicer about it, but he KNOWS the teaching of the Church. He gets it. This is why we only have four kids and I'm not pregnant as we speak! I'm just trying to do what's best for us."

I looked away, partly ashamed that I excused my behavior toward Joseph by blaming him, and partly because I hadn't opened up like this so directly to God himself before.

Touching my shoulder and leaning in, motioning that I should look at Him, He said, "What are you afraid of?"

Taken aback, I just looked at Him, my eyes starting to dampen. Afraid they might spill over if I didn't speak, I said,

"Everything."

Pause.

I'm talking about the teaching of the Catholic Church that says that contraception is immoral. I ardently believe and support this teaching, so Joseph and I practice a Natural Family Planning which is tracking my fertility in order to avoid pregnancy, or sometimes, make a baby. This is something Catholic couples are permitted to do, and it means that when we don't feel we can have another baby, we abstain from sex in times of fertility, which is not always easy or as simple as it sounds. This is a post about how it has gone for us in eight years of marriage with four sons born in that time, and how we're coming to terms with what it means for us in the future. 

"Tell me," He said, sitting back and sipping His coffee.

"Well, I'm afraid to get pregnant again. I'm afraid that we won't have enough time or money for another child. I just feel like if I'm already drowning, how could I have another baby?

"Not to mention that I have hemorrhaged more and more blood with each birth, just cementing my fear of birthing another baby and leaving the kids without a mother, and my husband to care for five.

"I'm afraid that my marriage will fail because of this fear. When it's been three months of abstaining, it is so tempting to just contracept. We know that you gave us reason and free will, so it's difficult to think it could be so wrong when we just want to be that close to each other, but can't foresee caring for another child.

"I want to be able to abandon myself to intimacy with my husband, but I can't, because I'm afraid of what will happen if I do. He's mad that I don't trust him on that front, and I suppose, rightfully so.

"He's also mad that I'm wired so that when I'm ovulating - like prime baby-making time - that's the time when I have the most desire. All other times, it's a little more work to build up that same desire. 

"Come to think of it, I'm mad about that too. Why can I only enjoy sex as much as I could possibly enjoy it, if at this point in my life, I'm almost 100% guaranteed a baby? And he's wired to basically be up for sex all the time. We are so frustrated during this time that we fight, and we argue, even though after eight years, we know what's going on!

"We live in a world where nobody understands this. We get that we need not be holding ourselves to the standard of a "sex-all-the-time and birth control" culture, where so many people are happy to tell me exactly what they think about my having four children. I don't care what people in the grocery store think of me, but it's a reflection of the society.

"I know You want greater for us than our world does, Jesus, but this is so hard to navigate.  I know there are worse things than being fertile and making a lot of children. I know we could be better at communicating and loving each other and our kids, but sometimes I feel like it's too much. The rest of my fertile years are looking bleak, Jesus, very bleak."

I looked from Jesus' face to my sleeping husband's form. I looked at the four sleeping heads - the children we made as a result of our love. Miracles, each one of them. They'd come to us as a result of what I saw as three miscalculations of my chart and fertility signs combined with our desire for one another, and one - the last one - a result of a planned and calculated act.

"Do you trust me?" Jesus asked.

I looked down, sadly shaking my head. Then, when I looked into His eyes, which surprisingly, held understanding, I said,

"I really want to."

"Why do you doubt me?"

I thought for a moment, "I guess because things haven't turned out the way we thought they would. It's just been harder than we thought."

"I know. I have been here all along as you wrestle with this difficult task. I am with you. I know you doubt me, but you know, I never break my promises."

I looked at Him and nodded. He was right. I have called on Him, and time and time again and He has answered me. Maybe not in the way that I thought, but all the same, I've gotten assurance that as long as I stick close to Him, He won't fail me.  I don't regret a single day with any of my sons. I don't regret carrying them and feeling their little movements inside my body. I don't regret being a vessel of life for each of them, the pain of childbirth, or the sleep I've lost. We've been the shepherds of four little souls; our own little flock to guide and nourish and keep safe. My life has been full and beautiful, in spite of the hardships and plans gone by the wayside.

"You, my beautiful friend, have come so far. Don't you see how much closer you've come to me because your plans went awry? It pains me to see you suffer, but it edifies me when you ask me for help. You are weary, I can tell, but in this, your selfishness and your pride are being replaced by beauty and love.

"Your marriage is the cross I ask you to take up. You must carry it for one another and with one another. You must look and see how it sanctifies you and makes you holy. And your children, they are your crown. They make you stretch yourselves beyond what you ever imagined, but they make you reach for greatness."

With tears in my eyes I nodded.

You see, I had forgotten that my life is not mine. I had gotten caught up in the lie that says I deserve all the pleasure and ease and comfort that I could possibly obtain. I had forgotten that the purpose of our marriage was to bear fruit, not simply to consume and obtain and take pleasure and seek happiness. I forgot that in the sacrament of matrimony, I not only bound myself to Joseph but that we bound ourselves also to God.

"I'm sorry," I whispered, "I doubted you. I didn't trust you."

Then, with one last look at His face - His face that seemed to understand so much of what I was feeling - I woke up.

This dream I had is a work of fiction, though I really wish that Jesus would talk to this plainly, and let me rant to his face about all of my cares. I wish He would tell me it will be alright, especially when it comes to NFP.  This Good Friday, Joseph and I were encouraged to take this struggle to the cross.

Our reality is that we are a fertile couple, which is such an extraordinary gift, considering that many of our friends have not been so blessed. We see it as a gift, but sometimes when we are considering each month whether we could have another child and let my fertile time slowly pass by, it is truly a cross.

We know some couples who have not practiced NFP at all.  It seems like it works for them, and I suppose I simply fear I can't handle it physically, mentally or emotionally. In truth, practicing NFP, and realizing our power as woman and man to create new lives has made me more open to the possibility of a fifth, sixth, seventh (and beyond) child. It has allowed me to realize that my ways are not God's ways, and that if I allow Him to work in that part of my life and give Him the gift of a new soul, I am doing the most amazing thing I could ever do. I can't think of something more amazing than giving someone life, can you?

As we brought our four children to venerate the cross yesterday on Good Friday, we walked slowly to the front of the church.  I looked at my four sons, and marveled at their uniqueness. One of them simply laid on the floor, tired from the long time he had been sitting restlessly, and I picked him up.
In these troubled times, whenever I pick up one of my children, I think about how far I might be able to run with them, to save them from whatever harm may come to them.

Yesterday I thought about that, but when we got to the foot of the cross - a crucifix laid on a table for us to touch or kiss or simply revere - I thought only one word: "Life." I also saw how much happiness we have in our marriage, in giving our lives to each other.

We can give life in an abundance of ways. We have the power to help and heal and speak to the hurt of the world. I feel helpless with the weight of our world's troubles to protect my children and carry them away from the dangers that await. I often feel so unimportant in my journey as a mother - but this encounter with the cross reminded me of the life-giving role I have in His creation.  So yesterday, I walked away from the cross full of God's promise to give me life as I lay mine at His feet.

Friday, April 7, 2017

Seven Quick Takes: Moments to savour and other thoughts

I can't believe it's Friday already... linking with Kelly and all the other takers. Check em'.

ONE:

It's grey and rainy this morning, so I called it a "lazy Friday" and decided to let my boys watch TV. Sometimes he (1.5 soon) still falls asleep on me. I often transfer him to his crib then do all the things (especially the ones that his chubby little fingers aren't needed to help with). Today I just let him lay on my lap and enjoyed sitting for 20 minutes, reading and watching the middle two play. I remember the days with just one baby where I would spend an hour sitting with a baby snoozing and let my legs fall asleep, only to have that sweet baby wake up and see his mommy right there, stretch and get ready to play. I felt so useless then but sometimes had the foresight to think that it won't always be this way. Now I'm feeling the "it won't always be this way" more often. Sometimes it's a good feeling, but sometimes, especially in those really good, wholesome, regular moments, I get a sense of nostalgia. I need to take a mental picture (in this case, a real picture) of this moment and store away in my heart, for when I'm old and these kids are busy raising their own little people.

TWO:

My seven-year-old Patrick looked at me the other day and said, "Mom, I love you, but sometimes my love for you just hides somewhere."

He's really good at articulating his little thoughts. I thought to myself, "I know the feeling." Because sometimes my love hides too. It doesn't go anywhere really, but often it's covered by the frustration of having 4 little people needing all at once, or not having gone to bed early enough to wake up daily before 6 a.m. In the moment, I asked him to come in for a much-needed hug - for both of us, I think.

THREE:

Following my yearly pattern, I tend to get moody and pensive the week before Holy Week (the week before Easter). Since childhood, I've done something for Lent, and funnily enough, I usually fail a little at it. This year it was to try to stop procrastinating the necessary daily tasks. I don't know why I have this inner need for a ton of stress after school when the kids are at their worst, and if I'm being real, so am I. Yet day after day I was letting the daily chores pile up till after school. Maybe I hoped that by some miracle, I'd leave the house and fairies would come and clean while I was gone. I do tend to be a bit of a delusional dreamer. Anyway, it's been a good Lent, let's put it that way. Thinking about dinner before 5 p.m. is a good discipline to take up.

FOUR:

This really shouldn't be buried here in the middle of the takes, because it's pretty important, but it's Joseph's birthday today. The man is 33! When people turn 33, I always think of this meme:
Super special, right? Joseph isn't really a big birthday celebration guy, so when I asked him what he wanted to do for his birthday, he said, "Well, we could go to soup and Stations," which is what we'd normally be doing on a Lent Friday! Womp. Womp. But don't worry folks, cake and beer await. Maybe not together, but they await.

FIVE:

Last week was spring break, which really was a break. I loathe the school run, which is silly because it's really not far, and takes 15 minutes there and back.It's just such an interruption to the rhythm of the day. It was so freeing to just live with the ebb and flow of the four boys and their play, hunger and tiredness. The other blessing is that it was actually nice weather. Bikes were ridden, soccer balls kicked around, many light saber battles and games of whatever it is the boys imagined in the moment happened.

SIX:

This post really resonated with me:

Are you raising a future drug addict?

I've been thinking a lot lately about instilling the values of responsibility for our own actions and natural consequences in my kids. I thought it was a very good read.
But I was also thinking on the title: because I know a few people who were raised very well by what I could see but still ended up being drug addicts. I think we can only strive to have good relationships with our kids, and have ongoing honest conversations with them about the things that could hurt them, and our family.

SEVEN:

We are off to soup and Stations of the Cross at our parish.  Three of the kids are muddy and covered in leaves, so no time for anything but herding them in to change and pile them in the mini-van. 

Have a great weekend peeps! Happy Easter!


Sunday, April 2, 2017

7 Thank yous!

Joining Kelly and the other quick takers. Yay for a quiet Sunday afternoon!

This week while I was prepping my oldest for First Communion, I had one of those moments where surprising wisdom came out of my mouth. Catholics celebrate the Eucharist, which means "thanksgiving" in Greek (I think). As I explained what it is and what it means, I found myself saying that as people who walk with Jesus, we are called to be thankful for all of the gifts we have received. I said, "We can live our day giving thanks to God: Thanks God for my brother, thanks God for his silly laugh, thanks God for food to eat, clothes to wear, a school to go to, and even thanks God for my hurts and hard lessons I learned today."
When the words came out of my mouth, I thought to myself that I should take my own advice. I mean, even if you are an atheist, being thankful is a nicer way to live than not. While I often think to myself when I hear about those less fortunate, "I have been given so much," I don't often stop and think, "Thanks God for a sunny day today." I just simply observe that it is sunny. Living a life of thankfulness could really do so much for my soul, so in that spirit, I want to highlight the things that have, of late, been real blessings in my life, and 7 seems like a good number to begin with:

ONE:

Joseph and I have been married for eight years, and I'm far from sick of him. I'm pretty sure he feels the same about me. We've been in what I would call a stable stage of marriage. We're finally both at a point where our levels of stress aren't super-high and we can simply just be. It's not stagnant, but it's comfortable. It's not like fireworks, but it's certainly not boring. We are working together on being a better mom and dad, but also on spending more quality time together. We're tired parents of four relatively little kids! Our few hours together at night are pretty ordinary, with occasional bouts of "really awesome" thrown in, but I was just thinking on Friday night, as we tucked the last little boy in, that there's nobody else I'd rather be with on a Friday night.


"Every man has to find out that his wife is cross—that is to say, sensitive to the point of madness: for every woman is mad by the masculine standard. But let him find out that she is mad while her madness is more worth considering than anyone else's sanity."
G.K. Chesterton - The Common Man

TWO:

I'm thankful for real friends who will tell me when I'm being a little bit harsh.  I won't go into the nitty-gritty but I was called out for being a tad judgmental. I'm pretty self-aware, so this person wasn't crossing major lines and shocking me, but naturally I was a bit defensive. It's part of my temperament to get caught up in things being a certain way. My friend gets me, and when you reach a stage in friendship where you can give each other the gift of perspective in an honest and open manner, that is a huge gift!

THREE:

I'm really thankful for little kids being made cute. Because my goodness, some days, if they weren't so cute (even the seven-year-old, but don't tell him I said he's cute)...

My two littlest!

 FOUR:

I usually get pretty sad that my babies are growing up. I adore the cute stages, and because up to this point, aside from my own siblings and peers, I've never spent a lot of time with children in the 7-10 age group, I haven't been too sure about it. But now I have a 7-year-old who is surprising me nearly every day with the stuff he learns and comes up with. Today, it was with his ability to use power tools. Joseph showed him how to use a jigsaw and a drill press so that he could trace and make his own shurikens (ninja stars). As I watched him with the jigsaw, my heart skipped a beat as I worried for his eyes and fingers and other extremities, but then I realized he was taught by my husband to keep his fingers away and wear eye and ear protection. It was just one of those moments where I had to let my baby go and do his growing up and be thankful he is learning life skills.

Shurikens!
FIVE:

I've recently realized that I'm a very poor sufferer.  A few weeks ago, I had influenza - not just a tummy bug, the full-on bonafide flu. It was awful! It was a week of awful! My poor family had endure being around me, and I just spent the whole time dragging my body around, trying to survive and take care of people while whining that I just want someone to take care of me. But midway, I realized that if I'm to teach my children to bear suffering well, I must bear it well as an example to them. Offering up my pains and aches and inability to keep up with our life, I learned something about how to grow in that suffering. Bearing suffering well is just one of those things that is hard all around, but I feel like all of us experience some degree of it, and to channel that suffering into purpose and surrender is a huge show of strength and character. So I guess I'm thankful for the flu. I'm more mindful now about how I convey my little sufferings to the kids, and show them that a little hardship can be good for us.

SIX:

For Lent I gave up procrastination. That decision meant way more than I thought it would. It means my home is a lot cleaner because I'm putting things away now vs. later. It means my kids are fed before they're dying of hunger and whining, because I've thought about dinner and have taken things out of the freezer. It means I'm off my phone (my biggest procrastination tool). It means I'm a leeettle less angry at the end of the day because I'm not overwhelmed with all the stuff I didn't do. But it also means I'm realizing how much further I have to go. I would so rather make another cup or coffee and read a book than fold that laundry that is piling up on the counter, and I still do! If I could just get up the motivation to... I don't know... NOT have to run downstairs to the dryer for clean clothes, I could conquer this laundry battle. Baby steps I guess.

SEVEN:

Are you listening to Among the Lilies? I am so thankful for this podcast. I listened to a January episode called, "It's okay to be weak, it's okay to be broken.". I just needed to hear everything in that particular episode. I'm really terrible at asking for help, despite years of hearing that we all need to. I suppose that it just needs to sink in a little more.






Tuesday, March 28, 2017

How late people are not dead to me: An on-timer's rant.

Timing. Good timing. Bad timing. 
Being late. Being early. Being on time.

So much of life is about time. Me time. Husband and wife time. Play time. Cleanup time. Home time.

A friend asked if maybe I'd write about how I, a mother of four fairly little kids, manage to arrive on time, almost every time, "just so I can learn your ways."

I laughed. Because my "on-time" habit is not organization, or because I have it together. I didn't think anything of being on time for things till I noticed, sometime after becoming a mom, that it is a habit, but it takes real effort. 

I had to really sit down and think about this before writing about it, because guys, I'm not trying to be condescending. I get that the struggle to arrive on time is real for well - HALF the people I know, and I love you. There's a reason we're still friends. Probably because you're likeable enough that I can put aside my irritation, but I'm still going to be pretty blunt throughout.

The first reason I'd say I like to arrive on time for things is because I feel pressured by the idea of someone waiting for me.  I don't want them to be as mad or irritated as I am when I'm the one sitting around for 15 minutes waiting for someone. There, that's the truth. I could say it's because I "care so much about the other person," or something fluttery and selfless - and I do care - but truthfully, I just hate to be perceived as unreliable and rude. And yes, in case you're wondering, that's the harsh judgement I place on people who are late. That's on me, and I'm sorry late friends, I'm trying to be more charitable, God help me, but I can't help but think "there is NO way your baby's diaper explodes just as you're on your way out the door 3-4 times a week."
Maybe my patience is why God gave me late friends - but don't think you're doing me a favour!

The second reason I'm thinking about for arriving on time is plain old respect. There, I said it: I think it is disrespectful to arrive late for something that has a start time. If it doesn't really matter when you get there, why do we set times for classes, or gatherings, or church? 
I'm pulling my hair out just trying to wrap my mind around why these times aren't tattooed on other people's brains like they are on mine.

As for things that don't have a "start", like if a friend says they'll be there at 9ish - fine, anytime near 9 will work (but I don't think 9:59 or anything after 9:30 is "9ish").

Also, I have to ask, what about your own self-respect? When I ask you to my home, I want you to be here! I like you! Do you not think your presence is valuable and desired? When it's church or a class that has a definite start time, don't you hate missing the first part? The acknowledgment of people you know beforehand? The settling in and actually removing your coat? How about not having people stare at you as you shush your family who has just been in a flurry of activity but now has to stay still and quiet? 

I don't get it. Maybe a habitually late person can write a post on the "True Beauty of Habitual Lateness, and Why On-Time People are Silly." 

And I do feel silly. I feel silly sitting around waiting for something that is supposed to start at 10, that ends up starting at 10:30 because only 3 people are there! Let me tell you, we three on-timers are thinking, "I could've stopped for coffee. I could've shaved my legs. My kids could be wearing matching socks! My dishes could be done if we'd just decided to start at 10:30 instead of 10!"

But we know that if it started at 10:30, we'd just be waiting till 11. And when the late-arrivals walk in with coffee we just want to dump it on them. Oops.

Wow. I didn't think I was that bitter. 

Deep breaths.

So here's the "magical" formula I use for arriving on time: 

The time I need to arrive minus the time it takes to get ready (accounting for variables like poo-slposions if I have an infant, or lost shoes if it's a certain kid of mine) minus the travel time (accounting for variables like weather and traffic) minus 5 minutes of cushion time for any of the things that could happen when you have 4 kids to get somewhere (and you're kind of neurotic and sometimes check if you left the stove on after everyone is out the door).

Of course, the "magic" formula depends on me knowing that it takes ~5.5 minutes to clean up a poo-sploded baby and put them in new clothes, or that it takes my shoe-losing kid about 2 minutes to run around looking for them. It also depends on my having as much prepped for leaving as possible (actually putting diapers in the diaper-bag is key), and because kids need long transitions, meeting their basic needs before go-time so they'll happily get in my vehicle. But I'm also not against dragging a kicking-toddler and strapping them in their car seat in pants they don't want to wear if it means I'm not late. I'm heartless, I know.

If I do arrive super-early for something (which rarely happens, because with practice, I'm better at time management) I have a book handy or know where the nearest coffee place is, and I bask in the luxury of that! I don't feel like I could be doing something else, because I work hard to be on time, and respect for others, myself and not missing the beginning of something is worth a couple extra minutes of time to just be (or wash breakfast off a little face, and remind the others of the bribe I promised if they're good).

It's work, this business of being on time. It's mostly a hard, not fun process for me, and I hope I was real enough with you to justify my rants about late people. Again, late friends, I really do love you. I don't understand you, but I love you.


Wednesday, March 8, 2017

Feminism and Me

"Why are you getting married?" a mentor asked me, with coldness that was unmistakable.

"Are you keeping your last name?" A fellow student asked.

"You're pregnant? That was fast." Mused a co-worker. 

"Have you ever gone back to work between babies?" 

"So, when are you going to use that degree you worked so hard to get?" A question from a relative.

"Well, I'm not sure you have much street cred as a feminist," said a Sociology classmate motioning to my pregnant belly.

These are the things that swirl through my mind as I think about feminism as it relates to me. It's not a very welcoming place, this feminist world, for a stay-at-home Mom who is a practicing Catholic - and yet, I feel like I should throw my hat in the ring. My classmate by surface accounts of feminism is right, I don't have feminist "street cred" by typical measures.
I put marriage and children before my career, I'm not a birth control user, and I do subscribe to a faith - Catholicism, that is certainly never described well in typical feminist circles. But given that I made these choices with full understanding and free will, I feel fortunate, blessed even, to be able to call myself a feminist.

I care deeply about women. It shakes me to the core that there is still oppression and injustice being enacted against women for the reason of their gender alone. So I dare to call myself a feminist. 

Women should have choices, yes. Women should have freedom to do and say and be anything they want to be, yes. Women should not have to fear the ramifications of being who they are and living to their full potential.

But I would argue from my side of the coffee shop, that there is a lot of fear and insecurity that emancipated, educated, free women like myself face each day.

A lot of these fears come from the set of ideas we call feminism. The idea that one must be educated, have a successful career, have strict control over how many children we have, we must have no reliance whatsoever on men, and we must be able to use our body when and how we please. These are the messages I grew up alongside, and at face-value, completely positive. But in another way these seem to be oppression again of another set of values - the ones that I hold dear. 

"Why are you getting married?" 
I was 22, in love with an amazing man, and I viewed marriage as the fulfillment of my deepest desire to walk with this man through life, leading each other to be better with each passing day.

The coldness and criticism I experienced told me a lot. It told me that marriage was looked at as a thing of little value to this person. But my inner feminist thought, "Shouldn't this be my choice? How dare you belittle my decision!"

I became pregnant within the first year of my marriage. In the hallways at my university, I stuck out and often got looks of pity, invasive questions about whether my baby was planned, and copious opinions about delivery (of all things). "Thanks young man, for letting me know that you deem it ok if I receive an epidural." Only a few times in those hallways did I hear congratulations, mostly from women who had children already. Having children was almost revolting to the majority of my 18-25 year-old peers. I thought of the feminists then: If women were supposed to do anything and be anything they wanted, why was my choice to be wife and mother less valid? 

Most women I meet in public with children my children's age are at least 10 years older. They've usually put in their time with a career of some sort, and often refer to it in conversation. I'm not going to lie, I myself vaguely refer to my degree in communications, but amidst these conversations I often wish I had the courage to just say I stay home and leave it there. There isn't any shame in staying home with children. I find it an extremely valuable use of my time. Where modern feminism has failed though is that it snubs the lives of our grandmothers, when what our grandmothers and indeed, early feminists sought, was simply for all women to have a choice and a voice. 

We still don't have that. Women all over the world are still being oppressed, and of equal worry, are the women who have lived the modern feminist life and found it wanting. 

More women than ever are on anti-depressants.  More women than ever are experiencing infertility.  Our choices are getting narrower and women are still suffering in a multitude of ways.

Maybe what women need most isn't more money, more birth control, more CEOs who are women, more politicians promising things that never materialize.

Maybe women need to support one another and celebrate the very things that make them women.  Maybe we need a feminism that puts who you are above what you achieve, and acknowledges that some of our previously accepted notions of what women need are hurting more than helping.












Saturday, March 4, 2017

Being Better: Lent Lessons

Sometimes I get hit with the sheer monotony and awfulness of motherhood, particularly being a stay-at-home parent.  Sometimes the books my kids choose for me to read to them are absolute drivel. The laundry literally never ends. The crying child who fights with a sibling day in, day out. The whining of a hungry baby just as you are preparing their food. On these occasions, I feel like I could've been out in the world, writing for a magazine, exposing truths and making a difference. Even though I know in my head and heart that this is where I'm supposed to be, I admit I fail to see how I'm contributing to a greater good. 

This Wednesday I had a particularly bad moment. But it was Ash Wednesday, the beginning of Lent. I started the day mindful of my Lent decision to give up procrastination - after all, it is often failure on my part to plan and do that makes things overwhelming around here. But inevitably a fight started between my two middle boys. Light sabers were taken, and my 3-year-old, a pathetic little being, sat on the floor wailing, "I need a hug! I nee-eed a hu-uh-uhg!"

Though I was making my oldest's lunch, I knew it would just less stressful to stoop down and hug him than to listen to him yell at me. So I hugged him. I hugged him tight and tried to feign genuine love for this kid that I just (if I'm honest) wanted to send back to bed. But as I hugged him it hit me:

I caught a glimpse of the crucifix and saw Jesus, His arms outstretched, His head pierced with thorns, and it hit me. What is it to hug a child? A crying, snot-covered, angry child. 
If I'm supposed to be walking this walk, giving that hug just might be my version of taking up the Cross. But it's a difficult task in the recesses of my home, with only me to keep myself in check and attuned to all the incessant needs. 

Yesterday, that same child walked into a room full of people, wailing. Immediately I crouched down to his level, opened wide my arms and gave him the hug I knew he would need. He accepted it, wiped his eyes and went back out to play with the other kids. 

"Do not practice your piety before others," from Ash Wednesday's readings came flashing into my mind. It was so easy to get down on the floor with my boy when a room full of people was watching, and I'll admit, I wanted to make sure I was seen being a kind, nurturing mother. I love my kids, and it's not all for show, but we all have to admit it is so much easier to do something when it makes you feel as good as public recognition or acknowledgement from others. 

This is the reason it's so difficult to fold the laundry for six people, or clean that dish that came out of the dishwasher still a bit dirty. To clean that day-old spot on the wall, or sort the junk drawer. It is why it is so hard to respond kindly to the kid who wakes you up at 3 a.m. 
Nobody sees it. Only sometimes do you get a "thanks" and there is always more.

However, I'm continually being shown that simply doing, not for gratification or acknowledgement is much nobler, and more challenging. It's a test of true strength and character to hug and snuggle a toddler who may or may not be on the verge of throwing up on you. But it's also in loving the utterly helpless and sometimes unlovable that is a mother's daily call. 

Simply doing to be disciplined in my tasks, and simply doing because I must take great care of the gifts I've been given, both human and material. I'm realizing that this vocation of mother and wife that I chose, fraught with lonely little tasks, is a actually an opportunity. 

It's an opportunity to love and serve and make a difference. And maybe it's just in five or more lives in the depths of domesticity, but even so, it's transforming me ever so slowly into someone better.