The Eye of the Beholder

The other day, my husband was staring morosely into the mirror. He actually apologized to me for his thinning hair.

"Honey," I said, "Do you see the shiny hairs on my head?"

"Shiny hairs? No, what are you talking about?"

"Look at my part...do you see all those shiny gray hairs there?"

"Mmmm...I suppose there are a few..."

"Yes, and I suppose your hair is thinning."

Truthfully, love is blind. I have quite a bit more than just a few gray hairs. And yes, if I compare my husband's head to photos taken 4 or 5 years ago, the difference is noticeable. But we, thankfully, don't see that about each other.

Similarly, when I read about a "day in the life" of another homeschool mom, I wonder where she has the time and energy to do all that. I write about my own day, and I think I am describing the gray hairs, but nobody seems to notice them.

Really. Let's get past the running at 430 am, ok? Let's look at children who have to be dragged to the school table, children who cease their dutiful labors the very minute I leave them unattended. How about the laundry that isn't done or the dishes in the sink? And what's up with not realizing until too late that I should have started those pork chops an hour ago?

And what's missing from my day? Snuggling on the couch with my children and a pile of books. Baking something for dessert. Playing a board game. Doing a craft...or at least letting my kids play with Playdoh. It's not that we don't do these things, because we do. Sometimes. But not as much as we used to, and not as much as I would like. And I just have to accept that this is the way it is right now. It is a temporary thing, and as long as I hold on to that vision of where I'd like to be, we'll get back there eventually.

Fritz is currently working on a new poem for memorization: The Village Blacksmith by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. The blacksmith labors from dawn until dusk with each day much like the last.

Toiling,---rejoicing,---sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees it close;
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night's repose.

His is not an easy life. There is no lolling on a porch swing watching the sun set or savoring a good book. But he puts in an honest day's work and sleeps well at night. This is how I see my current life, and I am grateful for the opportunity to prove my mettle - to prove to myself that I can do this hard job.

But, oh! for a cozy fire, a cup of tea, a clean house, a good novel, and nothing much to do!

A sliver of my life

I've just read Celeste's post about how proactively busy her homeschooling/homemaking day is. Incredible. I think I must have had that kind of energy at some point, but not in recent memory. She's very pregnant too. And she's not the only one. Frequently I read account's of someone's day, and I just don't know how they do it.

My day, yesterday, just doesn't seem to be nearly as productive.

OK, I was up at 420 am and went for a 30 minute run with the dog in the freezing cold. I don't know any other bloggers who get up so early, and I'll lord over you all what little superiority I may have in that one regard. Then it's morning prayers with Bill before he leaves at 530 am, and computer time until about 630 am. Pete gets up at some point in there and joins me on the computer.

The next two hours are spent showering, getting dressed, eating, feeding children, squeezing in an occasional email, checking my calendar, pulling meat out of the freezer for supper, unloading the dishwasher, and searching for dry underwear for Jenny. I think I may have rotated the wet clothes into the dryer, but can't swear it.

At 830, the kids are chased upstairs to get dressed while I look at the lesson plans and fill in a two-day checklist for each child. At 9 am, I call the boys down. Billy still isn't dressed, but I tell him to come down anyway. He runs away. He gets sent (dragged) to my bathroom (the most boring room in the whole house) and told him he must stay there until he's ready to comply with household SOP. I start school with Fritz, quickly running through the memory activities: states and capitals, Latin and Greek roots, his new poem, the list of dates from history he needs to know. I go up to check on Billy, and sure enough, he darts across the top of the stairs trying to return to the bathroom before I catch him. I go back downstairs and retrieve his clipboard, some pencils, a page with 5 sentences he needs to copy for his reading, and then 3 more pages. At the top of one, I write, "I'm sorry, God." One another, I write, "I'm sorry, Mom." And on the last, I write, "I will obey God and my mom." I tell him to fill the three sheets with those sentences, copy his reading sentences, and then he'll be "allowed" out to come out to finish his schoolwork.

I assist Fritz with whatever he's working on, give him some additional instruction, and then turn to Katie. We do math, and her reading. We review the latest story from the Bible - Manna from Heaven - and she happily occupies herself with drawing a picture for the story: huge disks of bread falling on people's heads.

Billy has completed his handwriting tasks and comes downstairs to do his math and other assignments. While I work with him, Fritz completes a few things and then goes off to do 10 minutes of piano. He's working on a level 2A version of Fuer Elise and it sounds lovely. Around 1040 am, he is permitted to take recess. I don't get recess though, because Billy doesn't get recess. We sit and go through his schoolwork.

Just after 11 am, I call Fritz back to the table. We continue to blow through his list of assignments: science text, grammar lesson, reading out loud, math...oh, we don't blow through math. He enjoys lingering over math, savoring every drawn out minute of his worksheet, seeing just how long he can prolong the pleasure of staring at those problems. I notice one section of three problems where it shows students how to add columns of numbers from left to right. I look at the teacher text, work the problem to get a feel for it, realize that after you total them left to right, you still have to add the final numbers right to left, and put a big X over the section telling him he will not learn how to do it that way. What stupidity. If I, an adult, had to quickly add a bunch of numbers, I would use Excel or a calculator. Or I would take my time and do it right. I just don't see that this "shortcut" will do anything but add confusion. And I looked ahead in the text and they have no other problems like this in the next few weeks, so even they aren't pushing the method. This is the third time I've disagreed with their methods given to teach students how to solve problems. Thank goodness math doesn't intimidate me.

Around 1130 am, Pete is whiny and needs to go down for a nap. The boys have assignments. Everyone is instructed to be quiet and work. They know the drill. I take Petey upstairs. All I need is 10 minutes to put him down. Within 2 of them, I hear a party going on: laughing, running, playing. It takes an extra 5 minutes for Pete's eyes to stay closed. I'm a little mad. The kids are chastised and returned to their seats where we finish the majority of the work by 1215 pm.

Yeah, break time! We have lunch, and the kids watch Nick Jr while I check email. At 1 pm, I tell them it's time to go back to school, but they beg for an extra half hour of TV time. Since they are so far along, I tell them it's OK, and I spend the next half hour entering receipts into Quicken and getting some bills paid. They return to school with little complaint and are done by 2 pm. However, Fritz needs to work on a report about extinct and endangered animals for cub scouts, so we head to the computer. We learn about the Carolina Parakeet (gone) and bats (6 species in the U.S. are endangered) and learn reasons why animals become extinct. We are thorough, because it is interesting, and this continues until 4 pm.

Fritz wants to play at friend Caleb's house. He gets his watch, I set the alarm for 5 pm, and he takes his bike to go the two blocks. I clean up the kitchen and do basic domestic chores and finish my pot of tea. I planned to make pork chops, but realize the cooking time is over an hour, and I just can't do it. This typical situation makes me want to kick myself. Quick switch to Tuesday's planned food: chicken. Dinner's almost ready, it's 515 pm, and no Fritz. We eat at 530 with still no sign of him. At 540, I call Caleb's house. He's not there. He had come by at 4, but they were leaving to run errands. I call my friend two doors down: not there. I call the next likely spot another 3 houses down: why yes, he's there and they'll send him home. This is not the first time he "hasn't heard" his alarm, nor is it the first time he has "forgotten" to call and tell me his change of locale, but it's the first time he's done them both at once. Yes, he's grounded this week.

At 620 pm, a neighbor comes to take Billy to his scout meeting and at 645 another neighbor brings her kids over so she can go to our "town hall" meeting. The kids watch a movie while I clean up the kitchen. Billy returns at 720 pm, Bill gets home around 815 pm, and the neighbor gets back around 915 pm. The town hall meeting was pointless. "They" feel good about listening to our complaints, but do nothing to address them.

Except for watching my friend's kids and my kids being up an hour later than normal, this is a typical day. And even though the kids went to bed late, they fell asleep immediately instead of bouncing around in their rooms for a half hour or more. The last thing I did before heading up to bed was to put dry clothes (unfolded) in a basket, wet clothes in the dryer, and dirty clothes in the washer. Some days I'm more on top of things like laundry or dinner prep, but usually schooling three kids fills my day so completely that household responsibilities are squeezed in at any available moment. If the breakfast dishes are in the dishwasher before lunch, it's a real good day. If none of my kids run and hide when it's school time, I consider myself lucky.

And if at the end of the day, I can lay my exhausted head on a pillow and can breathe a contented sigh knowing that I have taken care of all the truly important things and can optimistically hope to accomplish a few bonus things the next day and can be thankful for this labor that fills my day and tires my body but invigorates my soul, I know that I am blessed indeed.

And, praise God, that is most typical of all.

The frozen tundra

The current temperature here in pre-dawn northern Virginia is 20 degrees, and, according to www.weather.com, it feels like 5 degrees. I'll second that opinion. It was pretty tough getting myself out the door to go for a run, but somehow I managed it. I keep thinking that I hear the baby cry, but it's really just the wind howling. Brrrr.

A month or so ago, I was having a terrible time getting to sleep because it was so hot upstairs. Finally, I adjusted the settings on the thermostat to turn the heat down earlier in the evening, and I closed the vents in my bedroom and the upstairs hall. Now, it is comfortable by bedtime and by early morning is snuggably-cold in my room. This makes it even more difficult to get out of bed at o-dark-thirty. But here's my theory: it's really cold outside. If I am nice and warm in the house, then I won't want to go out there. I may as well be cold, and get myself moving to warm up. All I have to do is get myself out of bed, and once I am vertical, I will be so cold that I will hurry up, get dressed and start running.

Bill does not like this theory. He doesn't want to get out of bed, and he isn't going for a run. He is not interested in standing on a cold bathroom floor while shaving his face with numb fingers clutching the razor. He is afraid that hypothermia-induced confusion will prevent him from finding the coffee maker. And he gets really annoyed when I come back from my run and start shedding layers and looking really hot and sweaty while he sits there chipping away at the layer of ice forming in his bowl of cold cereal.

Before I headed out this morning, I manually turned the heat up for him, and I've promised him a reevaluation of my temperature and time settings. Now that winter seems to have arrived, I'm afraid I may find him frozen stiff one morning. I wouldn't want him to be late for work!

The Kitchen Sink

Since everyone is doing it, here's my kitchen sink:



I have a lovely view of my neighbor's kitchen window. Fortunately, they keep their blinds down all the time, so I'm comfortable leaving my blinds up all the time. I want to be able to catch every tiny ray of sunlight I possibly can.

Note the pile of dirty dishes. It's mid-afternoon on a Saturday, so there are breakfast, lunch, snack and even dinner-prep dishes in there. On the window shelf is my Kitchen Madonna, the baby monitor, a candle, and a vase for pens and pencils. Bill bought the cross hanging from the window in New Mexico.

To the right of the kitchen sink is this typical view:



I love having a peninsula. I am much more accepting of my little helpers if I can keep them over there and not in my own work triangle. Even if I'm only doing the dishes, I almost always have company and the peninsula is a great spot for snacks for whoever feels the need to bend my ear.

Free labor supply to end in 10 years

Yesterday, in an effort to get all of us out the door in time for the Cub Scouts' Pinewood Derby Races, I asked Fritz if he would get Pete dressed (dry diaper, shirt, pants, socks and shoes). I have only asked him for this level of assistance perhaps two or three times. Since I was brushing the girls' hair, Pete was only a bit wet (not stinky), Fritz generally enjoys caring for Pete, and Pete is usually very cooperative with things like this, I thought it was a good time to ask for help. All went smoothly, with no struggles or complaining from either boy. However, Fritz did have one comment:

"You know, Mom, in ten years, I won't be around to do this any more."

Without batting an eye, I responded,

"In ten years, I expect Pete will be able to get himself dressed."

Wearing aprons and building bridges

Go, Kitchen Madonna! This girlfriend has an article up at Catholic Exchange about wearing aprons. I confess, my apron hangs on the hook far too often. My friend, Rachel, always has her apron on when I stop over, and it's just so darn practical. I really must start an apron-wearing habit. From KM's article:

And go ahead, on Career Day at your local school, invite a girl over to see what your life is like. She most likely will have no idea how to hold a baby or how to make a stew or how to bake a casserole to take to a bereaved family or how soft your apron is for drying tears.

This made me laugh! At least once or twice a year, I get mail from my alma mater requesting assistance in finding internships for engineering students (I earned a BS in Civil Engineering). Of course, the mailing is intended for alumni who work for businesses that allow career-shadowing for a short period of time or who hire students to get some good work experience during the summer or for a semester. I am always tempted to offer a shadow-job to any of the female students who want to see how my engineering degree is being put to good use: building skyscrapers and bridges from Legos, explaining reinforcement techniques of Playmobile castle walls, and making sure that Thomas train track is intricate but doesn't get trains stuck in a one-way loop.

It's a tough job, my job, and awfully intimidating to a twenty-something girl with blueprints in her eyes. But perhaps if she spent a week or two shadowing me, she might be encouraged to give it a try!

Memory Lapses?

Every so often, Bill and I have the following conversation:

Me: I've never seen that movie.

Bill: Yes, you did. We saw it together. Don't you remember {this scene} or when the guy {does this}?

Me: No. Really. I have never seen this movie.

Bill: You saw the movie, Michelle. I remember we went out for ice cream afterwards.

Me: No. I have never seen this movie. That was your other wife you took.

Today, it was Gross Pointe Blank. I know the premise of the movie, but I swear I never saw it. It came out in 1997, which is pre-children. It's possible that I saw the movie. It's possible that I completely put it out of my mind, like one of my old telephone numbers or addresses.

Bill has been somewhat at a loss since the only classical music station in the DC area was bought out and went to a "we'll play whatever we feel like playing" format. A PBS station has begun playing classical music for part of the day, but last night it was doing Jim Lehrer's news program instead. He was scanning the radio waves and came across Blister in the Sun which brought back memories of being really young, really carefree and "spinning" (dancing) until the wee hours of the morn with his really young, really carefree girlfriend (moi).

Ah, youth.

We couldn't remember the name of the band (The Violent Femmes), but the internet is oh so helpful in providing answers instantaneously. We came across this video with scenes from and references to Gross Pointe Blank, a movie I have never seen. Really. I think. I'll add the movie to my Netflix Queue, we'll watch it, and then we'll have the following conversation afterward:

Me: Hmmm. It seemed vaguely familiar, but I really don't remember seeing it before.

Bill: You did see it. Don't you remember I left the lights on in the car and had to get a jump from that old man in the blue Ford Taurus who served in the Korean War and had 5 kids, 20 grandkids and the next day was his wife's birthday and he was at the mall buying her a diamond bracelet like she always wanted and they could never afford? Remember?

Me: Seriously, when did you have time to lead a double life?

I have started a movie log. From this point forward, at least, I will be able to clearly know which movies I have and have not seen. This won't help me much in recalling details from days that happened 10 or 15 years ago - Bill and I go back to late 1989 (oh, gosh, is it seventeen years already?) - but by 2020 I'll be prepared to defend my "I didn't see it" claims with a list of titles.

Banana who?

If you think the knock-knock joke with the punchline "Orange you glad I didn't say banana again?" is bad enough, how about listening to two boys debate back and forth how many times you should say "banana" before you say "orange"?

Fritz: You should say it twice. Listen: Knockknockwhostherebananabananawho Knockknockwhostherebananabananawho Knockknockwhosthereorangeorangewho orangeyougladIdidntsaybananaagain?

Billy: No, no. It's better if you say banana three times. Like this: Knockknockwhostherebananabananawho Knockknockwhostherebananabananawho Knockknockwhostherebananabananawho Knockknockwhosthereorangeorangewho orangeyougladIdidntsaybananaagain?

And so on. If I hadn't already lost my mind years ago, surely, surely this would send me over the edge!

Sad times

I've been fighting tears, somewhat unsuccessfully, since Saturday when we learned about this helicopter crash. Although each individual soldier is important and special, three of the soldiers involved worked at my husband's office. He knew them all.

Today it is unthinkable, but there is no official count of the number of American casualties on D-Day. A low-ball estimate of 2500 is an incredibly staggering number. I can't imagine my mind trying to live through that time and trying to grapple with that magnitude. But my guess is that you would just go numb. I mean, really, how many tears can you possibly shed in one day? And when the next day and the next and the next bring you the same news but with different names, at what point do you just dry your eyes and get on with life? Imagine the horrors of September 11th repeated over and over again for years.

When you spread out the same number of deaths over a much longer period of time, the pain is prolonged. There isn't the anesthetizing effect that thousands dead in one instant has. When a dozen die, you can read every news article, every bio, every obituary. You have the luxury of mourning. But when over fifty thousand lie dead or wounded after three days fighting, as they did in the town of Gettysburg, there is no time for tears. You pick up your shovel and join the other women, children, and old men left to deal with the mess. And you pray you don't recognize any faces.

Yesterday, our FRG had a special meeting to state what was known, to ask for support for any future assistance we might offer these families, and to discuss ways to help them. For a week or two, volunteers are needed to answer phones in a call center, and my neighbor and I will take turns watching the kids or working the phones. It's not going to be a pleasant task listening to people cry on the phone, answering their questions, directing them to services, but I suppose it's better than digging graves or dressing wounds. Fritz was over at my neighbor's house yesterday afternoon and told me that she was baking cookies (and gave him one!). Today is her turn to do phone duty, and I'm sure she is planning to take those cookies to the call center. I spent my afternoon online looking up ideas for services we might offer the families. We're keeping busy. We're doing something, because that's how we deal with it. If we do this, will it make it all better?

One of the soldiers has three adult children, one has five minor children, and one has two boys ages 9 and 5. One woman in the FRG said that the 9 year old asked his mom if he and his brother never fought again, would Daddy come home? If he does this, will it make it all better?

If only...

hand shake

My boys have been working hard on devising their own personal secret handshake.

I find this to be incredibly charming.

March of Life

My friend and I sat through the same homily yesterday. Hours later, as she is enjoying a fresh pot of my coffee while Bill puts the wheels on her son's pinewood derby race car, she asks me if I'm going to the March tomorrow (today).

A little robot in my brain started flailing its arms saying, "Warning! Warning!"

I told her that although I had gone several years ago, obviously no, I would not be taking my five little kids to D.C. to stand around in the freezing cold (or rather to run in 5 separate directions driving me completely batty). Had she ever gone?

Well, no, as a matter of fact, she didn't feel that she had any business preventing a woman from killing her child, as long as the child was unborn, of course.

She was polite about stating her opinion, and no, she didn't really use those words because how can someone phrase it like that and really mean it? Murder is, after all, one of the chief crimes we expect our society to prevent. And those who murder children are ranked at the bottom of the scum pool with an extra-special lowlife status for parents who take the life of their children. But somehow, for some reason, it's different if the child is still in the womb?

The only thing that is different is that the child's cry has not yet been heard; the child's eyes have not yet found a mother's face; the child's mouth has not yet awkwardly formed a smile; the child's fingers have not yet curled around a gentle hand.

It is a good thing that human nature tends to amuse me more than anything. What inspired my friend to ask her question while receiving my hospitality? Had I begun the conversation, I would expect someone to freely defend his or her position. But I just don't think it's polite to go to someone else's house, say, that Catholic homeschooling mother of five's house, and bring up controversial topics when it's likely that your position will be counter to hers. I don't go to my evangelical friends' homes and try to teach them about the Catholic faith.

My guess is that she brought the subject up because, deep down, she's looking for someone to convince her of the truth. When you are convinced of the truth, your heart is at peace. You search no more. This doesn't mean you know everything; it just means that you discern what is right with clarity. Having once spent many years in doubt, I know the difficulties of having to justify a false morality. It is a heavy, oppressive burden. The Lord's yoke really is light, because it comes with the comfort of truth.

Having been there already, I know that there was nothing that I could say to change her mind right then. Had it been that easy, I would have spared myself a decade of agony. Faith is a gift, and if you lack that gift, you are lost. The good thing is that the gift is there for everyone. You just have to want it and ask for it and you'll get it, sometimes in a gut-wrenching instant.

I found out over a year ago that my friend was Catholic, but had allowed her child to be her excuse for not going to Mass. He had been baptized, but the difficulties of taking a child to Mass (and he was born with some special needs) quickly made Mass attendance low on the priority list. But he and Billy are good friends, and he had to wait until afternoons on Sundays to play. And then Billy (dressed in camo) would come over singing his favorite song he learned at CCD: I'm in the Lord's Ar-my, yes, SIR! And her son wanted that. He started passing the chapel and telling his parents he wanted to go too. No no, they said, very boring...you'd have to sit still for an hour (quite a challenge for this kid). I offered to take him (silently praying, "Your will, God, but please have her say no!"). I offered to take them both. I told her Mass times, and which one I thought was best based on how long it lasted and what kind of music they played (we have a variety here). Finally, over Christmas, her mom told her she was going to hell. Unconvinced of that, she apparently felt guilty enough that she's been taking him to Mass and put him in CCD too.

And so it was that we both listened to our pastor talk about the defense of the unborn. He said that although not everyone is called to march or pray in front of abortion clinics, he does believe that on Judgment Day we will each be asked what we did to protect their innocent lives. Praying for an end to the atrocity is the basic first step. Beyond that, I think we, especially those of us currently raising children, are called to be models of the culture of life. If you are joy-filled in all that you do, I have noticed two different reactions to that joy. One is a rejection of it in the form of animosity, envy, mean comments, or worse. The other is a curious envy: what do you have and can I get some too (but can I get it without going to church, having more children, or giving up my me-centered lifestyle)? I don't push my beliefs on others. I simply am. And in this post-modern era, what I am amounts to a freak on a traveling side-show. But there's no admission to get a glimpse, and I can only hope that those who enter the tent go out the other side at least pointing in the right direction.

No news is good news

We don't get the newspaper, and I really don't spend too much time at online news sources. I'm not turning a blind eye to the world, I just can't handle it. Half of the news is really gossip: what celebrity was arrested, which famous marriages are on the rocks, who is being treated for love addiction. On the "serious" news side, we have articles about legislators who apparently think parents should reason with their toddlers. I'm not a proponent of spanking, but if your 6 year old runs across the street without looking you can point to a car and explain to them how stupid it was; if your two-year old does the same thing, a stern NO punctuated by a whap on the rear sends the message that running across the street has bad consequences better than rambling speeches or an impromptu 2 minute time out.

The rest of the news is generally unpleasant, depressing or sad. And important news makes its way to your home through other channels. I am so glad my husband is here. I am so weary of worrying for my friends whose husbands are not. I just want the war to end.

Embarrassing moments

I confess that I am somewhat hot-headed at times.

My husband is at least as hot-headed, if not more so.

There are moments when the voices raise, the tempers flare, the eyes narrow. Sometimes I even wag my finger in his nose. Seldom does the emotion last long. Like a tea-kettle whistling, such outbursts are often the signal for us to remove the source of heat. And once the heat is removed the boiling ceases and things begin to cool down.

One such moment occurred this afternoon as we were cleaning up the house in preparation for some guests due to arrive in ten or fifteen minutes. And, why yes, that was my voice yelling something at my poor husband just seconds before the ding-dong of the doorbell.

Nice, huh? I'm sorry, honey.

The Realities of Homeschooling

A friend emailed me this link: What Non-Homeschoolers May Not Know. It's a list of things that friends, relatives, and neighbors who don't homeschool don't seem to understand.

Those for whom homeschooling is completely foreign tend to fall into two categories. One group seems to think that you spend eight hours in highly structured activities. The other thinks you do nothing all day long. The former thinks you are either a saint or a masochist. The latter thinks you have time to babysit their preschooler.

I don't agree 100% with this list. I don't want to use homeschooling as an excuse to not clean my bathroom or brush my hair. If manicured nails are your thing, a homeschooler has just as many hours on the weekend as a woman who works full-time to tend to that "need." Personally, my relaxed appearance and the often chaotic state of my home are the real me, and I don't notice people tsk-tsking over them. That doesn't mean that they don't, it just means that I'm not the type to care or pay attention. You would have to say some pretty obnoxious things right to my face for me to note your disdain of my lifestyle...but then, to say those things would make you a really obnoxious person and after a momentary flare of ire, I would likely calm down, forgive you, and make a mental note to avoid you in the future.

Also, I don't want any help - not with housecleaning, not with babysitting, not with schooling, not with money. I definitely appreciate educational gifts for the kids, but we're not poor by any stretch. I choose to not give my kids every little thing their hearts desire. And since my closest relatives are not local, Grandpa taking the boys to a museum or Grandma baking cookies with the little ones or Auntie doing weekly arts and crafts are not possible scenarios, and I just wouldn't be comfortable having neighbors do that sort of thing. Honestly, I hate it when a non-homeschoolers says, "Oooh, let me watch your kids for you one day next week. You need a break." Please, if you're going to have a pity party, find another guest of honor.

But that's just me, and situations vary. So the list is a good one.

Word of the day

Pete is at that age where he correctly uses, on average, one new word every day.

I made brownies today. When they were done, I spread chocolate chips on top and put it back in the oven for one minute to soften them. Then I spread the melted chocolate all over and left it on the stove to cool.

Hours later, the top is still gooey. It will harden to a thin crust eventually.

Pete got up from his nap to discover someone had left a chair in the kitchen. He relocated it to the stove and was using his hands and a measuring spoon from the drawer right there to dig in to the icing. He was covered in chocolate.

No, I didn't bother to take a picture. Maybe the next time - as I'm sure there will be many of those.

I began to wash him up, and Jenny got a hand-held mirror so he could see himself. He smiled broadly at the image of the little tyke in the mirror. And then he said his new word for the day:

"Funny!"

Sexy Car

I am so jealous of Suzanne's 1997 Suburban stretch limo. Bill, I told you we should have gotten one.

Learning Latin

This year, Fritz is learning Greek and Latin root words, and next year he'll move into Latina Christiana. I'm floundering with just the roots! I have little idea how to pronounce the words, and so I do the flash card drills with less confidence than a teacher ought to have.

Fortunately, I have an aunt who taught Latin - at the collegiate level, I think. I emailed her an S.O.S. last week, and she said she put some pronunciation guides in the mail. I can't wait to get them.

She also sent me a link to Living Bread Radio. They have the Our Father and the Hail Mary in Latin, and you can listen to a Latin expert recite them to learn how to say them properly. The Latin expert happens to be my aunt. I thought it was neat to hear her. And now I can learn those prayers.

This weekend I listened to Living Bread Radio for a bit. I left it running on my computer and would hear bits and pieces. I had a funny kind of nostalgia. The station is out of Canton, Ohio - what was once HOME for me. I lived in that area until I was 9, and the vast bulk of my mom's family still lives there. One ad was for Walsh University. I remembering attending my father's graduation from Walsh College. One thing I remember about my grandmother's house was that she always had the radio on in the kitchen. She would listen to Paul Harvey as she went about her chores - cleaning up after and feeding a house full of men who were all working the farm. Living Bread Radio doesn't have Paul Harvey, but I bet Grandma have listened to it had it been around then.

I need a mini-computer for my kitchen - an under-cabinet mount kind that has nice speakers. An ordinary radio won't cut it because I'm stuck with local programming. Do they make such things?

Teasing and Tears

Last night, Katie undressed for bed. Wearing nothing but her underwear, she gathered her dirty laundry and took it to the crowded bathroom to properly deposit it in the hamper. Fritz greets her by singing, "I see London; I see France; I see Katie's underpants." Katie dissolves into tears and comes into the room where I am directing bedtime traffic from the rocking chair.

"Go put your pajamas on, Katie," was all I replied.

Honestly, what does she expect? Yes, I also chastised Fritz for teasing - his current raison d'etre. But 99 times out of 100 Katie leaves her dirty clothes on the floor of her bedroom. It seems to be the natural instinct of little girls to do precisely what is right at exactly the wrong moment to achieve the greatest grief and consternation for everyone, including themselves. And then she plays the role of victim, when really it was all her own doing. I don't think that I do this, but every other person I've known to behave this way was female.

I believe God gives every child to exactly the right parents. Sometimes it is that a parent who struggled with some issue - like socks that must be on just so - is the only sort of person who could tolerate a child's obsession with that issue. Sometimes it's that a parent who despises a certain behavior is the only sort of person who could work to weed that behavior out of a child, lovingly of course. The former seems to be the case most between my son, Billy, and me. The latter seems to be the way it is with me and Katie.

It is my hope that by her adulthood, Katie will learn to foresee the consequences of her actions and choose to avoid roiling the pot instead of reveling in the mayhem. And, definitely, I hope she stops prancing around in her panties, too!

Down for the Count

I woke up Sunday morning with a searing pain across the middle of my back. I've spent the majority of the last two days either moaning or hissing depending on how efficacious the Advil has been and the degree to which it has been upsetting my stomach.

I'd say I'm doing better, but it's not even 6 am. We'll see.

I plan to do school from the couch with an ice pack on my back.

At dinner last night...

Bill: There's a new movie coming out soon...300.

Me: Gates of Fire?

Bill: Uh-huh.

Me: Aren't you impressed at my guess?

Bill: Oh, I'm all hot and bothered.

We realize comments like those at the dinner table will have to cease soon, but then again, we've been thinking that for years now, and I do recall my own parents taking great pleasure in mentioning their plans to lie around the house naked when we're all moved away...or sooner if that's what it required to get us to move away.

I'm waffling about whether or not I'll see this movie, which is actually based on a novel by a different author but of the same battle. I didn't read Gates of Fire. Bill read it and shared it with me. The one scene that sticks with me is when the head honco talks with one of the women. The Spartans all know that nobody will return from this mission. The chosen 300 will fight to the death against the advancing hoard. All they're doing is buying time so the rest of Greece can better prepare its defenses. The Spartans take care to not leave any woman or child without a patriarch: if her husband goes, she'll have an adult son remain and vice versa. Except for one woman who will lose both. Mr. Head Honcho tells her he knows this will be hard for her, but he also knows she's a really strong woman and can handle it. And then he says that since her grief will be the greatest, he expects her to set the tone for how all the women should handle this tragedy. In other words, Mrs. Smith can't justify hysteria if the woman with the greatest loss is putting on a good face. Lovely, eh?

And Bill told me this scenario as a sort of pep talk for me, telling me that he sees me as that strong women, yada, yada, yada. I really don't want to be a strong woman. I want to be a taken care of woman, know what I mean?

Anyway, since the movie is based on a different novel it is likely that scene will not be in the movie, but war movies are not really what I enjoy watching. I thought it was pretty normal for women to not be interested in watching war movies, but I know two women who loved Master and Commander.

Master and Commander, to me, was like Band of Brothers meets Moby Dick. All the horrors of war, but on the sea and with a captain obsessed with capturing his nemesis. At least the nemesis was another ship commander, and not a whale. Bill had already seen it once and said that I might enjoy the story line. I did find the relationship between the doctor and the commander of the ship to be interesting. However, those scenes were few and far between the other scenes which include a 12 year old having his arm amputated, a suicide, and a bad storm wherein a soldier is cut away from the ship to name just a few of the times that inspired me to query: And why did you think I would like this movie?

I have subjected him to a few chick flicks lately, so perhaps he stands a good chance of wrangling me into the theatres to see this one. I just hope he doesn't consider it foreplay.

le Dauphin

We have a tiny tyrant here.

For example, when Bill came downstairs this morning, the first word out of Petey's mouth was "Sit!" with a gesture towards Bill's chair. And this is how it goes all day long. He tells me where to sit, how to sit, what he wants to eat, when he wants to eat, where he wants to go (and have me follow), what he wants to do (with me helping him or at least keeping him company).

Naturally, with his siblings the most frequent words spoken are "Mine!" and "No!" Don't sit in "his" chair. Don't play with "his" toy. And how dare they take away those school papers that he was doodling upon? They're his now!

I've begun to refer to him as le Dauphin. Bill calls him l'Enfant Terrible.

Of course, he's just so cute, it's hard to get mad at him when he's convulsing on the floor after being denied this moment's pleasure. Not cute enough to get what he wants, at least not all the time.

Here he is, caught red-handed trying to wake Jenny up from a nap. Why should anyone sleep? I'm awake, nap time is so over.



And here he continues to act as though nobody is telling him to leave his sister alone. Perhaps if I don't look at mom, she'll just go away. Then I can return to climbing on Jenny. It's fun, and she deserves it for all those times she bops me in the head when mom turns her back.

The Second Amendment

Since I already exposed my right-leaning stance on the minimum wage, I might as well tell you that I support the Second Amendment in it's unadulterated form (no, they didn't mean state militias, they meant common citizens). A few years ago, Bill joined the NRA against my wishes as is his prerogative. My argument against being a member: concern that a leftist takeover of the government would turn that membership list into a hit list for search and seizures of any and all citizen-owned firearms.

Surely even liberals would be smart enough to check under the floorboards.

Actually, it was only a few months ago that we became gun owners. It's not that I was really opposed to having a gun in the house, it was that there was no legitimate excuse to spend hundreds of dollars on a firearm of any kind. We don't live in a rural area with varmints that need eliminating (although the squirrels in our last neighborhood did qualify, I think there are post regulations against discharging a firearm in housing areas). Bill does not hunt (although he says this is a Catch-22, since he can't hunt without a gun). And our neighborhood is a safe one. But last year someone gave Bill a shotgun he didn't want (at least that's the story), and there you have it. I suppose at some point I ought to learn how to load and shoot the thing, since there's little point to having something like that around if you don't know how to use it.

Anyway, via email from my brother-in-law came this funny one last night:


Some Facts, To Ponder.

(A) The number of physicians in the U.S. is 700,000.

(B) Accidental deaths caused by Physicians per year are 120,000.

(C) Accidental deaths per physician is 0.171

*(Statistics courtesy of U.S. Dept. of Health Human Services.)*



Now think about this:

Guns:

(A) The number of gun owners in the U.S. is 80,000,000. (Yes, that's 80 million.)

(B) The number of accidental gun deaths per year, all age groups, is 1,500.

(C) The number of accidental deaths per gun owner is .000188

*(Statistics courtesy of FBI)*


So, statistically, doctors are approximately 9,000 times more dangerous than gun owners.

Remember, "Guns don't kill people, doctors do."

FACT: NOT EVERYONE HAS A GUN, BUT ALMOST EVERYONE HAS AT LEAST ONE DOCTOR. Please alert your friends to this alarming threat.

We must ban doctors before this gets completely out of hand.

Out of concern for the public at large, I have withheld the statistics on lawyers, for fear the shock would cause people to panic and seek medical attention.

Day ???, Week ??

Actually, it's not as bad as all that.

By close of business today, we should be almost finished with Week 14 of our 32 week curriculum. This is where I planned to be before we took our Christmas break. And that's not too bad, since I think Christmas break was to continue through last week. That's only one week behind.

I felt some guilt not doing much in the way of formal schooling that second half of December. There was no drilling of states and capitals, no struggling to remember that A-N-N was the same name all six times it appears in the same extremely short story, no recitation of poetry, and precious little solving for x.

On the other hand, we did manage to focus on other subjects. One thing I struggle to include in my kids' school day is art and music. Kat wrote about this recently, and I feel much the same way. Art involves messes made by little fingers - not those of the students, but of the toddler. Art is work - and requires creativity that I just don't feel I can summon from the depths of my exhausted being. As for music, I feel that Fritz's piano instruction covers it for him. Everybody else is left to watch Little Einsteins. That counts, right?

But in December, we had the time and I made the energy to step away from the checklist of school subjects and do more creative endeavors. We listened to music more during the day than usual. Before Christmas, it was mainly carols, and the kids sang along. Then everyone got some great CDs for Christmas: Sousa, Handel....the soundtrack to Happy Feet...and we listened to this good stuff all day long and even in the car while running errands. And with music and children, you also get dance. And that means everyone is having a good time.

For art, I still didn't include the dreaded medium: paint. But they did make some crafts from the Oriental Trading Company that required glue and glitter, which is bad enough. I and my kitchen survived. There was also lots and lots of coloring of Christmas cards for different people. Katie attended a craft co-op for Little Flowers where she went from station to station making different things. Billy spent days making cookies that looked like elves (very tedious). And Fritz used beads to make snowflake ornaments (also very tedious). On their own, with no TV, cold or rainy weather, and loads of free time, my kids often opt for drawing and coloring (when they're not perfecting sibling torture techniques). And so, these worthy pursuits were what filled those fantastic weeks surrounding Christmas.

Ideally, I envision school on a beautiful spring morning. We are outdoors in the shade of an old oak tree. One child is sitting at an easel capturing the bucolic view with watercolors. Another is reading aloud from a book of poetry, while two others rehearse a flute and violin duet. Someone is lying on their stomach with a math book pondering geometric theorems. The younger ones are studiously observing the local invertebrate population and discussing various schemes to track a single ant with a yet-to-be-invented microscopic GPS system. Doesn't that sound lovely?

We are a far cry from this vision. Not only are there no verdant pastures to be seen, we don't own an easel or a flute! I realize, though, that the children in that vision are many years older than my current brood. Perhaps someday we'll come closer to this picture in my head, and art and music will be naturally incorporated in our everyday school day. Even if my artist is painting a still-life instead of our tiny, muddy backyard.

Raising the Minimum Wage

Alright, I simply can't keep my mouth shut about this one. Whenever people talk about raising the minimum wage, Bill the economist (his alter-ego, what he actually has a degree in, because our college didn't offer majors in tanks, gunnery and fashion trends of tankers through history) pushes it to the next illogical step and asks why not raise the minimum wage to $100/hr? For some reason, most people who support a $2/hr raise balk at $100/hr thinking it too high, that perhaps it might harm businesses...but raising it by a couple of bucks won't?

Yeah, ok, so even if you are stuck in the feel-goodness of raising the minimum wage by a paltry amount thinking that it might actually help people rise from poverty (in other words, if you live in a make-believe fairyland where you think all we have to do is make someone else pay more and you won't have to see homeless people begging at that red light you always get stuck at) certainly you must understand that employers are not forced to only pay the minimum wage, right? Surely you realize that the legions of burger-flippers and toilet scrubbers have the potential to make above the minimum wage if their employers feel they are worth it, right?

"Any minimum wage increase will significantly affect the bottom line," said Bruce Josten of the U.S. Chamber of Commerce, one of the nation's leading business groups.

"This bill completely ignores that fact, and as a result small businesses may be forced to eliminate jobs, reduce hours, and cut employee benefits," Josten said.

But Wal-Mart Stores Inc., the world's biggest retailer, reiterated its support for an increase, saying it would help working families.

OK, Wal-Mart, knock yourself out. Pay higher than minimum wage for those 16 year old clerks you've got working there after school. Mr. Josten specifically said "small businesses" and Wal-Mart certainly does not qualify. And if Mr. Josten is correct, and small businesses suffer, this law only promotes big corporations with deep pockets at the expense of small, hometown businesses.

Situation: Ms. Single-Mom with no car works during school hours for the Mom N Pop Diner in rural Small Town for $6/hr. Mom N Pop has 6 or 7 employees who share the 30 man-hours per day (they're only open for breakfast and lunch) 6 days per week. Suddenly, Mom N Pop have to cough up $1/hr more for every man-hour: that is $1/hr times 30 hr/day times 6 days/week times 4 weeks/month which equals $720/month. Mom N Pop's business loan for the diner and equipment is $800/month (they've been in business for 22 years at that location, so the mortgage is pretty low...good thing, too since net profits barely cover their personal grocery bill).

Mom N Pop is forced to close their doors (they tried selling, but nobody was fool enough to buy it). Small Town has precious few businesses because everyone drives 20 minutes away to Slightly Bigger Small Town which actually has a mall (woo hoo, 28 stores!). Alas Ms. Single-Mom has no car because she only makes $6/hr and couldn't afford gas or insurance if someone gave her a car. So Mom N Pop have no business (and hence, no income) and Ms. Single-Mom has no job. And the local old folks have nowhere to gather on weekday mornings for a cheap cuppa and a few rounds of Euchre.

But McDonald's over in Slightly Bigger Small Town is thriving. And this is progress?

If you see some fallacies in my scenario, please point them out. But do so only if you or someone you know has attempted to run a small business in a small town or if you have actually yourself lived in a rural small town or if you are a single-mom making minimum wage working for a small business or if you are a small town business owner.

egads

He's been tall enough to do it for at least a month.

He's been clever enough to do it for at least a few weeks.

Now, finally, he is strong enough to open doors.

ugh.

Another meme

Mary Poppins Not asks what are Six Weird Things about me.

I've got my fair share of quirks, but couldn't really come up with much specifically. I asked my husband who also claimed to be so used to my idiosyncracies that he no longer noticed them. Except for the fact that I "get completely wrapped around the axle about some things" but am "horribly apathetic about others." Or something like that.

Perhaps I'm a bit like Contrary Mary - when I'm good, I'm very very good, but when I'm bad, I'm horrid. I'm a person of extremes. Did you notice yesterday's meme - wanting the virtue of temperance? Usually middle of the road is good; usually I'm careening from one white line to the other.

Examples of this? It's easier to see the forest and not the trees, but I'll try.

1. Although I don't like it (and work to prevent it), I don't get overly upset when my toddler picks food, even dirty food, off the floor and eats it. Or mouths the dog toys. Or tastes to see if the mud pies are chocolatey. But if the kid splashes around in a toilet - even one that's just been scrubbed - I will call in a Hazmat team to hose him down.

2. I can get mean and dirty competitive over board games and card games with my husband. But if he suggests that perhaps I'm not pushing myself as hard as I could in my running, I just agree and leave it at that.

3. Although I think they look nicer folded into thirds, I really don't care if bath towels are folded that way or into halves. I'm just happy if they are folded or hanging and not wet and on the floor. But toilet paper? I really like to have the end coming off the top and not from behind. Really, really, really.

4. When driving, I like to go fast. I prefer traffic to move along at a good clip. I will say things like: "Any day, lady." "Come on." "Move it." "Why are you in the left lane?" etc. No cursing, though sometimes I do use the word "stupid" and my kids chastise me. But I quickly concede defeat when there are too many cars or the drivers all seem to be lollygagging along, and I will sit silently when stuck behind someone for three minutes while they hold up traffic to make a left turn in a spot where they shouldn't be turning.

5. I have moments of utter brilliance: it might be cleverness, intelligence or necessity, but there are times when something I do is the model of perfection. But, thank God, there are moments of total idiocy. Times when I am dumber than a doorknob.

6. And lastly, not really an example of extremes, when indoors if you ask me which way is XYZ, I will point to the front door and say "that way." I don't do this to be flippant, it's just my natural indoor spatial relationship thing. If you want to go to the bank, you have to go that way, right? Always start with step one. Outdoors, I'm not quite as bad...and I always manage to find my way home, even with no bread crumbs.

I'd like to know Six Weird Things about Nutmeg, Kat, and Jennie.

Catholic Alphabet Meme

I was tagged for two memes. The other one, 6 weird things about me, will have to wait until Bill comes home to help me. I'm so used to my own oddities, I forget what they are!

Tagged by Sarah.

[A is for apparitions - your favorite]: Guadalupe

[B is for Bible - the one you read most often]: The New American Standard or whatever it's called that is used for readings at Mass.

[C is for Charism - the one you would most like to have]: wisdom

[D is for Doctor of the Church - your favorite]: Therese the Little Flower

[E is for Essential Prayer - What's yours?]: Hail Mary

[F is for Favorite Hymn]: Holy, Holy, Holy

[G is for Gospel - your favorite author?]: uh...

[H is for Holy Communion - How would you describe it, using one word?]: Essential.

[I is for Inspiration - When do you feel most inspired by God?]: In nature.

[J is for Jesus - When did you first meet Him?]: hmm...

[K is for Kindness - Which saint or person has most inspired you by their kindness?]: Therese the Little Flower

[L is for liturgical year - your favorite time in the liturgical cycle?]: Christmas

[M is for Mary, the Mother of God - Your favorite term of endearment for her]: Seat of Wisdom

[N is for New Testament - Your favorite passage]: all of it?

[O is for Old Testament - Your favorite Book here]: Genesis and Exodus

[P is for Psalms - your favorite]: ummm...

[Q is for quote - saint quote]: "If this Lord is powerful, as I see that He is and I know that He is, and if the devils are His slaves (and there is no doubt about this because it's a matter of faith), what evil can they do to me since I am a servant of this Lord and King? Why shouldn't I have the fortitude to engage in combat with all of hell?" St. Teresa of Avila

[R is for rosary - your favorite mysteries]: Joyful

[S is for Saint - the one you turn to in time of need - not including the Blessed Virgin Mary]: Most frequently, St. Anthony.

[T is for Tradition - your favorite Catholic tradition]: Having an entire season to prepare and an entire season to celebrate.

[U is for university - Which Catholic University have you attended or are currently attending?]: None.

[V is for Virtue - the one you wish you had]: Temperance

[W is for Way of the Cross - Which station can you most relate to?]: Jesus greets the women of Jerusalem

[X is for Xaverian Brothers - Do you know who they are?]: I do now.

[Y is for your favorite Catholic musician]: Beethoven

[Z is for Zeal for the faith]: Naw, I'm pretty lukewarm...

The Notebook

Between Friday night and Saturday night, I watched the movie The Notebook.

I think I've recovered.

GREAT love story. But I really can't recommend the movie. Unless you are the type who enjoys sobbing, it is best to avoid it. Perhaps the book is more manageable?

I'm not sure how this movie got on my Netflix queue in the first place. I definitely have no idea how it made it to the top of the queue, but it just showed up here the other day. There was no way on earth I was going to make Bill watch this movie. It had chick flick written all over it (in big red lipstick letters, really). I was going to save it for when he went out of town (just a little jaunt to Afghanistan), but that trip was canceled. I started watching it while waiting for him to get home from work late Friday night, and finished it Saturday night while he read a book in another room with sound-blocking headphones on.

I didn't spare him the details though. I took two breaks to interrupt his reading to go to him, crying, to tell him what was happening in the movie. Honestly, by the end, I wanted to jump off a bridge to spare myself the emotional upheaval.

Now, here is where I talk about why the movie made me cry, but wherein I reveal all the “secrets” of the movie, so don’t read it if you don’t want full disclosure.

I have never read the book, but in the movie, there is an air of mystery about who these people are and why they behave they way they do. Since I correctly guessed very early on what was going on, I don’t really think this mystery is crucial or even necessary to the point of the story.

There is no plot. There is an old man reading from a notebook to an old woman. They are in a nursing home. Throughout the course of the day, with a few interruptions for meals, doctors and a nap, the man recounts a tale of a young man meeting and pursuing a young woman. They fall deeply in love, but are wrenched apart by the young woman’s parents who leave their summer retreat, return home, send the young woman off to college faraway, and fail to deliver the 365 love letters he wrote to her over the course of a year. She goes on, meets another man, falls in love and gets engaged. He (the first young man) goes off to war (WWII), comes home, buys a rundown home and renovates it the way he promised her he would. Even though he learns she loves another, his heart is broken and he lives alone, continuing his work on this home he builds for her. His work on the home makes the newspaper, she sees the article and goes to him, and after much angst, decides she really loves him after all, and so they live happily ever after.

That part of the story is actually just a basic love story. Change the names, the dates, the places and a few details, and it could be anybody’s love story. Which of us has a gentle beginning to our own love? Some amount of conflict, distress and “overcoming great odds” or at least interesting coincidences seem to hallmark the onset (and sometimes the middles) of most marriages.

And although I may find these stories sweet and interesting, I am too old to find them overly sentimental. This part of the story did not make me sob.

The telling of this narration is punctuated by scenes of the old couple. It is obvious that the woman is not quite with it, yet she seems familiar with the story and keeps asking if she’s heard it before. He says yes. In fact, it is the story of their love. She has dementia and no longer recognizes her husband. Every day he reads to her from this notebook, which in fact, she wrote herself in what was obviously the early stages of her illness for the first page says, “Read this to me, and I will come back to you.”

Since I am so old, this is the part of the story that touches me deeply. The crux of the story comes in the afternoon when their adult daughters, a son-in-law (?), and two grandchildren come to visit. They are introduced as his children. Likely, experience has taught them that the confusion and upset of telling her the facts about these strangers’ relation to her is not worth it. After an awkward pause, she goes in for a nap. The daughters turn to dad and plead for him to leave the nursing home. Mom doesn’t recognize us anymore. We need you. We’ll take turns visiting her. Compelling arguments, but dad is resolute. “That’s my sweetheart in there,” he says.

For better, for worse. In sickness and in health. These are the vows we make. But in this era where we regard as a noble act putting someone else out of our own misery, it is surprising to see these promises taken so seriously. Despite the seeming hopelessness of his day, the purposelessness of his life in spending time with a woman who thinks he is a stranger, what else should we expect him to do? As a wife, I would want my husband to do as much. As a daughter, I can not fathom asking my father or my father-in-law to leave his wife for my sake. This tough choice is grandly heroic, but isn’t that what we expect of our true loves? I want my knight in shining armor to rush in and defend me from danger, but usually, the battle is not a swift one. I also want him there to patiently help me time and time again against the ongoing struggles of daily existence in this valley of tears.

And so, by evening, he recounts to his demented wife the story of the agonizing moment of choice between the life she is expected to live and the man she loves, and the old woman suddenly realizes it is their story. She recognizes her dementia, apologizes for it, asks how long they have. “Last time, it was less than 5 minutes,” he says. They embrace; they dance; and then as suddenly as she came, she is gone again. But those few minutes of love are worth the hours of labor.

And so this is the end of their love. Although the movie seems to tell the tale of their love’s beginning, it is really the story of their love’s end. Sweetly, he goes to her some time later in the middle of the night. She awakens and recognizes him. He slides next to her on the hospital bed, they fall asleep, and together die peacefully. A perfect, if not overly sentimental, conclusion. And except for the emotional trauma for our children of losing two parents at once, is this not the ending we all wish?

There you have it. A wonderful love story, but an emotionally draining movie. If anyone has read the book, I’d like to know if it is similar or if the agony is more gently dispersed throughout.

Shoddy journalism

But what do you expect? Why should journalists make sure they have the truth when the story they have is the story they want to tell?

Happy Epiphany

Yesterday, we celebrated the Feast of the Epiphany, since it was the sixth (the Church can move it to today for convenience, but yesterday was good for us). The kids took the three king statues to the stable, but the Holy Family was gone. Off they went to find them on my dresser right next to a pile of presents - three for everybody (minus one for me that didn't get here in time).

Last night, we went to a friend's house for an Epiphany party with them and another family - 15 kids (plus one on the way) altogether. What fun! I love these casual, kid-friendly events where moms can actually sit and the kids just run in and out of the house and all around having a good time. We had beans and rice and tamales and taquitas and margaritas and Bill's leaded eggnog and donuts and a King Cake with a prize for the person who finds the baby Jesus inside. In fact, the generous hosts had Barnes and Noble gift cards for ALL the kids with an excessively high value for the winner - which happened to be Fritz.

We haven't touched a single decoration yet, and I'll be pretty sad to see them go. When you don't decorate until just before Christmas, it is easy to want to keep them up well into January. But I suppose I'll begin the long process this week. I'll have to pack everything away carefully knowing that movers will be the next people to touch the boxes, and I don't want to risk breakage on the long road to Kansas.

Soon we'll be heading out to the bookstore. This weekend has been an altogether pleasant conclusion to a Christmas full of parties, joy and fun. We'll take a bit of a break and then on to Carnival!

old dog, new tricks

I've opened a Flickr account to download photos after Blogger's complete meltdown for me in this regard.



Our house.



Making the gingerbread house. Notice the two munchkins munching.



Twas the night before Christmas...



The tree...



..of 2300 lights.



Dancing on New Year's Eve.

Catholic Devotion Meme

1. Favorite devotion or prayer to Jesus? Anima Christi

2. Favorite Marian devotion or prayer? Hail Holy Queen

3. Do you wear a scapular or medal? Yes, but as Megan pointed out, you're supposed to say the rosary daily, and I don't. It serves to remind me what a sinner I am.

4. Do you have holy water in your home? Yes, but in the cupboard, not the font.

5. Do you ‘offer up’ your sufferings? Yes. If you don't understand this practice or need motivation to do it more often, I recommend this book.

6. Do you observe First Fridays and First Saturdays? Today seems like a good day to start.

7. Do you go to Eucharistic Adoration? No, unfortunately.

8. Are you a Saturday evening Mass person or Sunday morning Mass person? Usually Sunday mornings. Sometimes we go to a drunkard's mass on Sunday evenings.

9. Do you say prayers at mealtime? Before dinner. I always forget before other meals.

10. Favorite Saint(s)? St. Anthony of Padua, St. Michael the Archangel, St. Nicholas.

11. Can you recite the Apostles Creed by heart? Yes.

12. Do you usually say short prayers (aspirations) during the course of the day? Yes, "Lord have mercy!" Also, "Help!" Often, "Thank you!"

13. Where is your favorite place to pray? In the shower. Or while running.

14. Bonus Question: When you pass by an automobile accident or other serious mishap, do you say a quick prayer for the folks involved? Usually.

I tag Laura the Crazy Mama.

St. John Neumann

Today is the feast of St. John Neumann. The Bad Catholics Guide to Good Living suggests having cheesesteaks in honor of Philadelphia where his body lies in glass as the base of an altar. Today is Friday, so perhaps you could defer that delicacy until tomorrow.

I attribute Fritz's healing to his intercession, so I'm saying some extra prayers of thanksgiving today. Here's another prayer to him for Catholic schools - to include homeschools, I'm sure.

Saint John Neumann, you helped organize Catholic education in the United States. Please watch over all Catholic schools and help them be a model of Christianity in their actions as well as their words. Amen

The Newest Padawan

My son Fritz is about the same size as my niece Morgan. I am making a First Holy Communion dress for Morgan who lives some 700 miles away. Fritz, who normally likes to pretend to be Obi Wan Kenobi or Anakin Skywalker, has been unhappily but cooperatively allowing me to try the half-sewn dress on him to adjust for fit. Bill wanted to get the camera, but I said no. Maybe at the final fitting...I still need cooperation for now. But Bill came up with a new moniker for the lad: Mannequin Catwalker.

Vert

I just found this new web page blog thing that I think is pretty cool. It's for Catholic converts and reverts. I don't really qualify, since I never really left the Church. I had no faith, but that's not the same thing. Lots of blogs I read are written by converts, and I thought they might be interested.

About VERT

VERT launch date = January 1st 2007.

VERT is intended to compliment other online Catholic communities with an extra special and specific focus on converts and reverts to the Catholic faith. If you know what those buzz terms signify, you blog, and you are looking for like minded people who will encourage and challenge VERT may be for you.

VERT COMBINES the purpose of a gathering place like St. Blog's Parish and Amateur Catholics with weekly themed writing prompts that I hope is complimentary to the un-themed Catholic Carnival while being specifically geared for converts and reverts.

While I am an amateur and I think most members will be amateur Catholics VERT allows pros to join too.

VERT was created by me, Owen, of luminousmiseries.ca and of onionboy.ca over two days when I had a very bad head cold, time, and what I hope turns out to have been a good idea.

I think it was a good idea, too, Owen. I hope lots of Catholic converts hop on over.

Clerihew - Part 9

Chesterton and Friends
a misconception mends:
That prose or poetry from an era long past
Nothing to do with the present hast.

Clerihew - Part 8

My sister, who is literally half the woman she used to be, sends me an email complaining about feeling left out. My goodness, people, I really did have to run a household here yesterday! She sent her own clerihew:

Barbara Kaine
Had only one bane.
These last fifteen pounds
As bad as that sounds.

Please feel free to write your own, about yourself or someone else, and post it here.

For me, though, it's back to the grindstone. Bill is back at work, and we will return to school, shrugging off the undisciplined ways of the last month to engage our minds in pursuits such as solving for x and maybe, just maybe, figuring out that H-A-T is the word hat and other intellectual endeavors between those.

Clerihew - Part Zero

Bill didn't "get" the Ted Hughes clerihew - the original thing this morning that got me going. Anyone else lost on that? I'd really hate it if your English lit classes didn't fill you in on some of grittier details of the life, and most importantly, the death, of mentally-unhinged poet, Sylvia Plath.

Clerihew - Part 7

Laura the Crazy Mama
has never ridden on a llama.
Her latest post is quite the rant,
But argue with it, I most certainly can't.

Clerihew - Part 6

Barb - SFO Mom
could be known as "da Bomb."
Little Brother, she allows him his own clothes to pick,
And for her older kid's Halloween parties she made snot-on-a-stick.

Clerihew - Part 5

Sarah the Snoring Scholar
works for a man with a collar.
Husband and Toddler-tron she loves the most.
And Catholic Carnival she often will host.

Clerihew - Part 4

Suzanne Temple
has her hands full.
She considers herself Blessed Among Men.
But that Nicholas, she should put in a pen.

Clerihew - Part 3

Eric Scheske
lawyer is he.
Both writing and family he holds very dear,
Yet he always manages to make time for beer.

I'm assuming Scheske is pronounced Sches - key and not Sches - kuh. Eric, if I'm wrong, I'm really sorry. I'll write another one.

Clerihew - Part 2

Danielle Bean
lives near Keene.
Life with eight kids may be crazy,
She has little time to be lazy.

("Near Keene" is a relative term. She's nearer to Keene than I am.)

Clerihew - Part 1

Since I'm sure there will be more.

Michelle Reitemeyer
Seamstress for hire.
A lot of stockings she made.
Unfortunately, two big clients haven't paid.


I want to read more Clerihews (see post from earlier)! Write one on your blog or in the comment box.

Hold your matches

I really don't like Wikipedia, and only read it when directed there by someone else. Ignorant of what a Clerihew was, and sent to Wikipedia by Eric Scheske (if you want to know what a Clerihew is, you will have to follow Eric's link, I refuse to link to Wikipedia except under duress), I came across this example:

Ted Hughes,
Sylvia's muse,
was rather good-looking.
Let his wife do the cooking.
(Credited to Caroline Dworin)

Horrid. Truly, truly horrid.

Carnival of Homeschooling

Week 53 - The Anniversary Edition is up and running.

I resolve...

Unlike my new month's resolutions (which you can learn all about by clicking on the handy-dandy tag at the bottom of the post freeing me from the tedium of actually providing a link), it just wouldn't be a new year without pie-in-the-sky optimism and some year-long goals for which to strive. Here are mine for this new year 2007:

1. Keep up the new month's resolutions. Some of my simple, month-long commitments are challenging enough! I have no idea in January what I will need most to focus on in July, so setting monthly goals is helpful.

2. Speaking of July, we're supposed to move to Kansas this summer. And we're only supposed to be there for eleven months. So for this entire year, I plan to be in tourist mode. Later this month, I'll come up with a list of must-dos in the D.C. area. Then I'll come up with my Kansas to-do list. At some point, I'll plan my en route to-do list. Suggestions welcome.

3. Because of the move, I have yet another opportunity to go through all of my possessions and part ways with all the things that someone else might love better and organize everything that I simply must keep.

4. Top on my list of things to organize: photos. Job #1: make backups of all my digital pics - just in case. Job #2: sort and store photos according to the various photo albums that I plan to make some other year.

5. I resolve to not color my hair at all this year. (My money says this will last until March.) I used to have very healthy, although very bland, light brown hair. Two years ago, I made the mistake of going very blond, just for fun, and I've regretted it ever since. My hair hasn't done well under the stress of coloring, and I've tried to go back, but after a month the darker color fades away. You see, going blond, as opposed to going red or black, removes color from your hair. Color that you can only grow back. We'll see just how long I can hold out with a two-tone hairdo. Or I just may go back to a short bob.

6. I resolve to potty train Pete right now. Starting tomorrow. He is 18 months old and can correctly identify when he's stinky. I'm going for it. I've gone the gamut of potty-training and know that each kid will be a unique challenge. I figure I'll start this one on my terms. In 4 or 5 months, he'll be too contrary to everything that I propose he do. Besides, Jenny has already baptized every room of the house. If I'm successful by the time we move, I may have one urine-free home.

7. I already wrote about my PT goals for the year. They are limited because I hope to conceive and bear a healthy child this year. I'll do my part: eat nutritious food, exercise regularly, enjoy lots of physical intimacy with Bill. The rest is up to God; so I'll add some extra prayers to my regular line up.

8. Spiritually, I'd like a challenge too. I got an email two days ago from a friend proposing First Fridays for a group of us. I'll have to see if I can get my non-Catholic friend to babysit the two little ones, since most daily Masses are around noon. In addition, Bill gave me a leather-bound book containing The Imitation of Christ, The Dark Night of the Soul, and The Interior Castle. I'm eager to dig in. But first, I want to finish The Bad Catholic's Guide to Good Living - hysterical.

9. I resolve to get more in touch with my inner June Cleaver by sewing and baking more. I'm making my niece's First Holy Communion dress right now. The pattern is actually pretty easy, and I think I'll make some dresses for the girls for Easter. And I definitely want to make a slew of military Christmas stockings this summer. My little business did quite well - I had to stop pursuing orders because I ran out of white fluff and I ran out of time. If I can make them over the course of the year, my Advent won't be quite as stressful and rushed. I've had the material to make red vests for the boys and my husband to wear for Christmas for several years now, and never done it. This is the year! And baking more. Bake bread. Bake cookies. And bake pies. I am not talented at baking pies. The only way to get talented is to practice. And so, one per month is a good, husband-approved goal. And I know just which one I'm going to make for him this month.

10. I resolve to spend one-on-one time with each of the kids every month. Bill and I will schedule 30 minutes a month with each kid. That may not seem like much, but right now they get zero. Scheduled-time that is. It's hit or miss, or we count that hour in the emergency room while waiting for our turn, or it's "the boys" and Dad or "the girls" and Mom going somewhere. This will be just one parent and one kid doing a kid-selected activity. After the half hour, other kids can join in (playing with Legos, at the playground, reading stories), but for that half hour, it will be a private activity. And we'll mark it at the beginning of the month, so the kids will know when and can plan ahead.

Well, that's enough. Pretty ambitious if you ask me. But I think the best way to improve oneself is by setting realistic, but difficult goals and keeping them in your mind often. What are your resolutions for the year?

Happy New Year

Two nights in a row, I've been up past 1 AM. I'm spent. Too old for such shenenigans.

Happy New Year. I hope it is a good one for everyone. May we and the world be better by the end of it.