Twelfth Anniversary

Crown Prince Ludwig, later to become King Ludwig I, was married to Princess Therese of Saxony-Hildburghausen on October 12, 1810. A public festival thrown for the people of Munich in honor of the occasion was the very first Oktoberfest.

I'm not royalty. I'm not Bavarian. My name isn't even Therese.

But I did get married in the fall, and went to Germany on my honeymoon. In fact, it was probably pretty close to Ludwig and Therese's anniversary when Bill and I got to Munich. The Oktoberfest had already ended, but that was okay; we were on our honeymoon and didn't need to do a big social thing.

One place we stopped was the Hofbrauhaus. There are six beers made locally, and Hofbrau is one. I think we went to the Hofbrauhaus for lunch (and so Bill could have their beer). Typical for a beer hall, we sat at a long, public table. Another couple joined us. Like us, they were tourists, but they were German tourists and they were obviously country bumpkins (I think they had one complete set of teeth between the two of them). They were obviously thrilled to be in the big city for a holiday. It was so cute to see them enjoying themselves and their trip. And I took much comfort in knowing that they stood out as tourists as much, if not more, than I did.

Not far outside Munich is a place called Schloss Nymphenburg. This was the summer home of the Bavarian royalty, including Ludwig and Therese. One of the rooms, the Gallery of Beauties, contains portraits of 36 women, commissioned by Ludwig. Bill recalled that our tour guide said that these were Ludwig's conquests. I'm not sure of that, but definitely, at least one woman was at the center of a major scandal that ended with Ludwig abdicating his throne to his son.

So, he wasn't a good king, and definitely not a good husband...but he threw a good party.

Twelve years ago today, my life changed forever. Although I was no more mature when I left the church then when I went in, I can say with certainty that the sacrament of marriage transformed me. All of me - my future, my dreams and my hopes - was bound to this other person who would either drag me down like an anchor or lift me like a helium filled balloon...or...keep me grounded like an anchor or have me drifting aimlessly like a helium filled balloon...or...do all four of those things depending on where we are in our life! For better or ill, we're traveling this road together.

We don't have a fancy summer home, and Bill's gallery of beauties is filled with photos of me and our children instead of exotic dancers, thank goodness. He'll never be king, but he's a good husband...and, he throws a good party.

Party Time

Today is our 4th Annual Oktoberfest. I noticed that Danielle Bean is having hers this same day. I'm pretty sure we started doing ours after seeing an article she wrote for Faith and Family many years ago about her fest. I had no idea who she was four years ago (future patron saint of Catholic domesticity and laughter), so I felt it safe to shamelessly copycat.

Here's tonight's Speisekarte. Everything, except the cucumber salad, can be made well in advance, frozen, and reheated. That's how I've managed to effortlessly (ha!) host 80 to 120 people at my home (half of these people are under the age of 12, so it's really not that big of a deal - honest). This year is the first time I've been down to the wire, and neither my cucumber salad nor my potato salad is done yet (potatoes are boiled, though). Sleep...rest...these things can wait until next week!

Bratwurst, boiled in beer and then grilled to perfection

Frankfurters, aka hot dogs, for the kids who don't like bratwurst (all my kids love bratwurst, though)

Warmer Kartoffelsalat

German Red Cabbage

Sauerkraut, from a can!

Cucumber Salad

For dessert, we're having:

Black Walnut Kuchen

Apfelkuchen

Pumpkin Bread

Brownies

Of course, of interest to the majority of the male guests is the beer: Spaten Oktoberfest, which we did manage to find after a few frustrating days. And to complete the beer hall aura, we have available apple schnapps, pear schnapps, Jaegermeister, and this rapberry liquor which is really yummy.

Traditionally, the Oktoberfest ends the first weekend in October, which is next weekend. There's plenty of time to throw together an impromptu party if you are so inclined. Go ahead and copycat!

Week 7

I am so glad we've made it to Friday. This week was a killer.

Last Wednesday, Fritz was sick with a bad cold and did no school. On Thursday and Friday, he was still sick, but managed to do some school. On Monday morning, we had to go to the doctor for Billy. The bottom line was that he was behind, way behind. Even omitting subjects or exercises that can be skipped - for example, I love the Explode the Code books and each of the kids is working their way through one of them - we (mainly Fritz and I) were doing school until after 3 pm all week long.

I know it seems like we should be able to back off a bit. We're on Week Seven - that seems so far ahead to anyone who didn't begin school until after Labor Day. But I'm having a baby soon, and we're taking a break. And I'm moving next June, so the school year has a definite end.

And although I'm pretty relaxed about most of life, my children's education is one thing that I'm really, really uptight about. I don't like to skip things. I don't like to rush through things. I don't like to leave assignments incomplete. It's one thing to not finish a handwriting book and quite another to not finish math. I still feel a certain amount of guilt about having not finished reading the book on Clara Barton that we began at the end of last school year; my only consolation being that I'll be able to read it with Billy next year (and then with Katie, and then with Jenny, and then with Peter...). Fritz will hear her story, will likely read her story to a younger sibling, more than once.

I know I need to not worry so much. When I hear my kids humming classical music or discussing theology among themselves or quizzing each other on math or geography - for fun - I know they're getting a good, solid education. I just wish they had the same motivational drive to check off all those little blocks on their weekly assignment sheets as I do.

You'd think my uterus would have had enough practice by now

I just wonder if Dr. John Braxton Hicks actually lobbied to have those uncomfortable pre-labor contractions named after him or if the dubious honor was thrust upon him.

Either way, I wonder if he realized, way back in 1872, that his name, a hundred and fifty years later, would be hissed out as a near curse by women nearing term. What a legacy.

William Tell Overture for Moms

Because I'm The Mom. I wish she had a better singing voice, but funny regardless.

40 Days for Life

The 40 Days for Life campaign begins today across the nation. Eighty-nine cities and towns are planning daily vigils at abortion facilities or Planned Parenthood offices, including one that is about a half mile from the house I own in New Jersey. This one also happens to be right across the street from the church where my four older kids were baptized.

We have abandoned women in this country. When our best solution to an unintended pregnancy is to pressure an expectant mother to reject her maternal instincts which desire to protect and nurture the new life in her womb and to have that life eliminated, we force women to deny their own humanity, to deny the humanity of their children, and to deny a very fundamental concept that murder is wrong.

What choices do women have today? Virginity is mocked. Men want to test drive the model before committing to the purchase. Engaged couples are expected to move in together to be sure that they can get along. Marriage is pushed to an older age or put off altogether. The end result is that women must have sex in order to be considered normal; they must use contraception to avoid the consequences of an active sex life, regardless of the health consequences of those products; and if pregnancy occurs, they must get an abortion because parents, sisters, brothers, friends and coworkers will all tell them that their life will be all messed up if they have a child.

Instead of making them equal to men, the sexual revolution has further reduced the power of women. Where once society protected women from poor youthful choices, it now shoves them into an adult world, condoms in their junior-sized jeans, to try to find happiness through a decade of one-night stands or tenuous relationships.

Ending abortion is as much about protecting women as it is about protecting unborn children. For now, my young daughters turn to me and their father for love, affirmation and protection. There will likely come a day when we will no longer be enough. They will turn to peers and other adults for a second opinion: am I worthy of love? I do not want them to feel they must give away their bodies in order to win someone else's approval.

As long as abortion is society's preferred solution to an unintended pregnancy, women will be the biggest losers in this game. Nobody can help carry the guilt of being an accessory to the killing of your own child. Nobody can ease the grief of future miscarriages and infertility that may result from having had an abortion. Nobody can take way the physical pain of future medical problems that may occur.

The 40 Days for Life campaign is hoping to end abortion through prayer and fasting and the daily vigils. I can't go to a vigil - not pregnant, and not with a slew of little kids. I can't do a true fast, although I can give up sweets or some other indulgence. I can pray, especially for a closure of this facility in New Jersey, but most especially for women to have true freedom and support and encouragement to make good choices. Consider participating in some way in this campaign, too. At the least, offer up one prayer for an end to this insanity.

A voice of reason

Back in June, I took Billy to a pediatric endocrinologist and then to a pediatric gastroenterologist following his regular annual physical. He, and all my kids, are falling off the growth charts. At my request, I was also referred to a pediatric nutritionist, since I was (and still am) convinced that his biggest problem is not eating enough.

After those three appointments and a bone scan and some blood work (which had some low, but not too low, numbers for iron and growth hormone), I thought we were done. But no sooner had the gastroenterologist concluded that a wait-and-see approach with some follow up blood work to check on the anemia was the best tactic, when the endocrinologist called and insisted that we go to a pediatric endocrinologist out here after our move. Had we been staying in the area, the Walter Reed team would have been pressuring us to try to stimulate the growth hormone and do some other tests, including an MRI to check his pituitary gland.

It's not that I don't want to know for sure that everything is fine with my child, but I don't feel that running every test available on a person, especially a child, who has all the appearances of being perfectly normal and healthy with no aches, complaints, vomiting or any other symptoms of illness, is a good idea. For a child, even a 7 year old, this might be somewhat traumatic. It certainly would be traumatic for me.

But I was happy with this referral, because there is no military pediatric endocrinologist in the area. We would have to go civilian. I think the doctors at Walter Reed are just fine, but they are a team. There is a group-think mentality. Oh, and did I mention that one of the doctors on the team was doing a study on smaller kids who have all the appearances of being normal and healthy? I don't mind my kid being included in a study if he needs to have certain tests run anyway. But I do mind doctors drumming up potential problems in order to scare me into running tests which are actually unnecessary.

In July, I followed up on this referral, and the resultant appointment was yesterday - finally. I took growth charts, lab results, and family history along with all five kids and drove more than a half hour to the specialist. As I drove, I prayed for a happy ending to this saga, and I rehearsed my speech about how much my kid eats and how I'm being vigilant in making sure he gets enough calories every day.

At this point, Billy interrupts my thoughts to inform me that he forgot to eat breakfast.

Well, thank goodness he told me that before I claimed publicly to be a good mother, huh?

At the doctor's office, on the line that asked for a reason for the appointment, I wrote that I was getting a second opinion. When I met the doctor, I explained that I felt the other endocrinologists were looking for problems where none existed.

"When most people want a second opinion, it's because they think something is wrong but they've been told nothing is. You're kind of doing the opposite..." he queried.

"Yes, I want you to tell me that my kid is fine," I admitted.

And then he did.

Hallelujah.

He does want to do another bone scan in 6 months. And keep an eye on him. But, for now, he thinks he's just a slow-grower. Like his dad. Like we've been saying all along.

And as for food and eating habits? Yes, scales are off from one place to another. But he weighed 39 pounds in May at the pediatrician's office, and he weighed 43 pounds yesterday at this office.

And that's without having had breakfast.

Nesting?

The landscaping around this house was pathetic when we got here in July, and things like weeds don't just go away.

But in July, we were unpacking.

And August was oppressively hot.

Now that the weather is a bit cooler, I have decided that it's time to deal with the mess. It's either now, when I'm in my last month of pregnancy, or next month, when I have a newborn who needs constant attention. Or we just let the weeds grow.

It's amazing how much physical discomfort I am willing to endure out of pride. This past weekend, I weeded, I planted daffodil bulbs, I planted a few low-growing green and white leaved bushy things, and I mulched. And I swept the sidewalks. And I got clover and grass out from between patio block cracks.

I'm about 2/3 done. I need more mulch. And more daffodils.

And Bill? He hauled the bags of mulch and then got out of the way of the crazy pregnant lady. Somebody has to have a brain around here.

Lego Beer Song

More on Beer

For the exclusive convenience of my husband, I've added a link on my sidebar to Catholic Beer Review. I have my reservations about doing this. I mean, I don't even like beer. And this is a mom blog, not a beer blog (despite evidence to the contrary). And, well, the author lists Jane Austin movies among his favorites. It's not that I mind it if a man likes Jane Austin, but there needs to be enough testosterone-laden interests to balance that or I just get really uncomfortable. I admit it, I'm a sexist.

But Bill seems to be enjoying the blog, young as the blog is, so I've put the link up so he can find the site fastest. It's another way to guarantee that he comes to my blog first. Even if I don't talk about beer. Much.

Yesterday, while reading this blog, Bill was waxing sentimental about some beer, and I was listening, like the good wife that I am. It might have been better for him if I hadn't been listening, because he throws out the acronym IPA and then proceeds to define the acronym IPA as though I didn't know what it meant. Now, had I merely walked in on a conversation with someone else and not been listening to the subject, I might have confused IPA with IPO and pondered a moment if we had free cash available for investment. Acronyms are such a guy thing.

But since I was listening, and he was clearly talking about beer, I was completely insulted that he felt the need to tell me what an IPA was. I reminded him that we've been married for nearly twelve years, and that surely he didn't think I was so dense that in all that time I hadn't picked up the meaning of those letters. Now, I don't know what makes a beer an India Pale Ale any more than I know what makes a beer a stout or a lager or a pilsner, but I do know what the initials stand for, for crying out loud.

He continued with his story, but all the beer talk reminded me of a conversation I'd had with my seven year old the previous day.

"Bill, I have to interrupt," I said. "Billy asked me yesterday if beer was liquid bread..."

I could see a certain gleam in his eye.

"And since bread was good for you, wasn't then too beer good for you..."

The guilt was pretty obvious now.

"I told him the law clearly stated he had to wait until he was 21, no matter how "healthy" the product."

"OK, he got that from me. We were watching a video on You Tube..."

He got that from you? Really?

I've posted the offending video. Beer and legos: talk about the corruption of minors. I think I need to fire the babysitter.

I think I need to stop blogging about beer.

Reese's Induction

Hmmm...thought I'd heard of and tried every trick in the book, but I guess I missed the chapter on Induction by Peanut Butter Cups.

Although I ache, I'm not yet desperate. Nor am I ready for the baby. I've got too many things to do first (like wash baby clothes, get the bassinet out of the basement, rearrange all the car seats in the van). And things like that just don't work if a baby is really unripe.

However, that weekend before the baby is due is looking like a really bad time to have a baby. It's a big scouting weekend with lots of daytime activities plus camp outs both Friday and Saturday nights. Bill and the boys will be local, but I'd hate to have to drag them out of sleeping bags in the middle of the night to come home. And I really don't want Bill to miss another birth needlessly.

I met a woman last weekend with an infant. She was induced, but didn't want her husband sitting around the hospital room and staring at her. So, instead, she sent him off to school, and he called every hour between classes to see how she was doing. Once she dilated to 3 cm, she took off and got to 10 cm in 20 minutes. He called toward the end of this, and she told him not to hurry because he was going to miss it anyway.

This is so wrong.

First of all, if I have to spend a whole day in a hospital room bored out of my skull waiting for a baby to come, a baby he helped create, the least my husband can do is keep me company making the time pass a bit faster.

Secondly, unless there is a really good reason, like being deployed 3000 miles away, my husband should be able to be present at his child's birth. This is his kid too. And I'm his wife. What if something went wrong? Who would be my advocate? Who would be my comfort? And if all goes well, should he not be an active participant in the joy of that birth?

Lastly, I actually like my husband and enjoy spending time with him. Katie was induced. We spent the day in the hospital together. Since she wasn't born until early evening, it was probably one of the longest stretches of non-sleeping, non-interrupted-by-kids time we had had together in the three years since we had become parents. In fact, I doubt we've had that kind of time together since.

I don't want the boys to miss their scouting activities, but I'd rather that than have Bill miss the baby's birth. So maybe that week before, I'll have to chow down on some peanut butter cups. It certainly wouldn't hurt!

The final stretch

A few weeks ago, I decided to change my screensaver to a photo slideshow. A few days ago, I finally made a folder in which to put the selected shots. This morning, I actually went through my dated folders and copied the pictures I liked into the slideshow folder.

Yes, that's how long it takes for me to do things around here.

As I flipped through photos, I saw some of me taken last summer through this past winter. At the time, I didn't think I was skinny. But compared to the person looking back from the mirror today, I can see why people would think I was crazy for wanting to lose another ten pounds.

I'm due in 25 days. Not that I'm counting or anything! It's the final stretch: my skin is stretched, my clothes are stretched, my patience is stretched. I'm tired of being big. I'm tired of aching.

Other photos I saw included me in the hospital right after Jenny was born and other pictures taken in those first few weeks at home with her. I still looked enormous, and that depresses me. I guess I'll be happy that we don't have those HUGE mirrors in the bathrooms like we did in our last house. I'll be spared a constant reminder of how far I have to go.

{sigh}

I've done this before, I can do this again.

Four Years Ago Today

Happy birthday to you.

You live in a zoo.

You look like a beauty.

And you smile like one too.

The kids have all been singing a different version. Bill told them that the lyrics were so old that he sang them when he was a kid. I suggested that Grandpa sang them when HE was a kid.

Jenny asked whose birthday was next. "The new baby's," I answered. The kids practiced a stanza of their happy birthday song intimating that they would sing it to the new baby next month. "Would it be nice to call the new baby a monkey?" I asked. "But what if it DOES look like a monkey?" asked Fritz. And when I think of my wrinkly newborns who take a few weeks to plump up, it just might be that they do look a bit like a monkey. But we aren't going to tell them that.

A bug's life

One downside to homeschooling is that you can't blame someone else if your kid can't read or spell or calculate the square root of 144.

Another downside is that you can't defer the teaching of certain subjects that you really don't want to teach to other people. I guess this is why some people do co-ops. But that's not my scene, not with the rest of the zoo along too. To me, two or three hours in one facility that isn't necessarily geared to the entertainment of toddlers, generally at hours that aren't convenient for toddlers, and without a toddler's personal kitchen with all the usual snacks and drinks and special cups, plates and bowls that a toddler "needs" just means two or three hours of a developing headache that lasts all day long.

No, thanks. For the foreseeable future, if my kids are to learn something, it will be because I, or their father, or they themselves, have taught it to them.

And so I find myself curling up on the couch with Fritz to read his science book, and the subject is insects. And the book is a good one, meaning it has lots and lots of photos. And the photos are closeups, so you can really see clearly those chomping jaws or the sensilla or the ovipositor of the female cricket. I find myself saying things like, "The female lays her eggs on the male's back as shown in Photo Five - do you see them, Fritz? Good, because I'm not looking!"

Yesterday, the dog managed to track in a caterpillar and deposited it, unharmed, on the kitchen floor. I frantically called to Fritz to take the thing outside.

A week or so ago, Fritz was walking through the house with cupped hands and told me he had a cricket. "Outside, NOW!" I try to keep the near hysteria out of my voice, but usually fail.

And the piano teacher told me, as we were leaving her house a few weeks ago, that her husband had found a dead beetle that was rather unusual and did I want it? "No," I replied honestly, "but my boys probably do." She retrieved it and gave it to them in a ziplock bag. Of course they think it's the coolest thing. But I had to lay down the law after the third or fourth time I found it in the living room. They can have their dead bug, but he absolutely must stay in their room, or it will go in the garbage.

The science book suggested ways for students to capture bugs and make an insect zoo. Every so often it encourages the capture of more insects to add to this collection. I told Fritz that we would not be doing this project. Maybe if we had a barn, he could keep a little menagerie out there. But not in my house.

I used to think I was a bad homeschool mom because I didn't do much by way of arts and crafts. Now I know I'm a bad homeschool mom because I don't do crafts and I don't do bugs.

I completely agree that the best learning comes from experience as compared to reading. I'll try to control my guilty feelings. But I know, should the curriculum ever tackle dissections of insects or animals and my husband happens to be deployed at the time, it ain't gonna happen.

Geometry, trigonometry, algebra, calculus? No problem! Ants, spiders, crickets, silverfish? No dice!

On a mission

For the record, I don't like beer. Well, one - Bill found one beer that I would drink. It was some raspberry flavored Belgian ale, I think. I liked it because it didn't taste like beer, so I really don't think that counts.

But I can appreciate the fact that not all beers are alike, and some are of a higher quality than others, and if you aren't a poor college student or on a strict budget, then spending a bit extra and getting something good is better than forcing yourself to drink garbage. And since some of the worst morning afters I've had were caused by cheap wine, I assume beer is much the same way.

When we moved here in July, I stopped at the Class VI to pick up some beer for Bill, because I love him very much and knew a good beer would make him happy. A quick glance around and I knew it was going to be a tough year for him. Finally, he has the leisure to enjoy beer on a regular basis, and the store has NOTHING. Well, if you like American beer, you've got a huge selection, but the imported section was, I think, two shelves inside one refrigerated cabinet. I went home and reported on this sad state of affairs. He's been a trooper, but is not so desperate that he's been drinking typical American beer. Mainly, he's been trying the locally brewed stuff.

But it's Oktoberfest time, and what is a German party without German beer, right? He went to the Class VI to see if he could order our usual brand: Spaten Oktoberfest. Swing and a miss: strike one. He came home and called a few local liquor stores. Nope, strike out.

Today's mission for me has been to find some German beer. I've been trying to find Spaten, but I've gotten so desperate that I'm just looking for something German. I'm calling as far away as Kansas City, but I think I'd even drive farther than that. It's almost become an obsession, and I have a pretty wild look in my eyes aided by the dilated pupils caused by the concussion I've given myself from banging my head on the desk.

At last place I called, I asked if they sold imported beer. "Sure", she said. "German?" I asked. "Heinekin," she offered. I shrieked and nearly dropped the phone.

Kansas was beginning to grow on me. But I just don't think I can deal with this.

Kids and movies and reality

This weekend, we went to a birthday party for a boy turning 4. The theme was Pirates of the Caribbean. Billy especially enjoyed donning an eye patch, bandanna and two gold hoop earrings. "Don't worry, Mom," he said, "They're not putting holes in my ears."

The adult host confessed to my husband that he was a bad father and had allowed his still 3 year old son to watch the movie 300. They both enjoyed it. They wanted to do a 300 theme for the party, but The Mom said no. I agreed that a 300 theme for a 4 year old's party was inappropriate. Bill replied:

"Oh, so instead of honoring brave warriors who gave their lives to defend all of Greece and civilization, we're encouraging our children to dress up as common criminals?"

He has a point.



At this party, the movie The Cat in the Hat was playing. My kids had never seen it, although we had just recently been reading the book after a several month long hiatus. The next day, Jenny told me:

"Mommy, the book got it wrong."

Oy vey.



We like to watch old movies around here, and even the kids enjoy Roy Rogers and other classics. I don't even really notice that these flicks are in black and white. These movies combined with a recently read Calvin and Hobbes comic inspired Billy to ask:

"Dad, did the world really used to be with no color?"



And finally, like teens who have learned a few curse words in a foreign language and think that their parents won't object to foul mouths if they can't understand what is being said, my kids think the word schnook is permissible. Thank you, Foghorn Leghorn. I've argued it before (here in Nutmeg's comments section) and I'll say it again: just because you use an arcane word to call someone stupid doesn't make it any better. My husband disagrees and thinks the kids' use of the term is really funny, especially when Billy quips:

"Schnook...chicken....they both look great in our oven!"


Random day, random kid: Mom, what's for dinner?

Me: Loud-mouthed schnooks.

ROFL

Adoro te Devote put this joke in my comments, and it made me laugh so hard that I couldn't leave it there languishing and unappreciated:

The CEO's of Guinness, Budweiser, and Coors were at a convention and went out to dinner together at the end of the day.

The guy from Budweiser ordered an MGD, the guy from Coors ordered a Coors, and the guy from Guinness ordered a Coke.

The latter withstood a certain amount of ribbing, and finally said, "Well, I just figured that if you guys aren't going to drink, I won't, either."

Party time and alcohol loving neighbors

Bill and I went to a grown up party last night. It was a German-food themed progressive party: appetizers at the house across the street, a sit-down dinner next door, and dessert at another neighbor's house. It was nice not to have little people constantly interrupting me with their pressing needs.

Of course, my two youngest children are doing everything possible to convince me that I should never do anything like that again. Both were up multiple times last night in utter misery. Pete spent two hours in my bed fussing and fidgeting before I put him back in his room where he screamed for a good five minutes before returning to sleep. Jenny is on the floor right now in tears because she doesn't know where her backpack is. Going to bed at 10 pm is never a good thing.

And, unfortunately, there is only one convenient Mass around here. Today would be a good day to go in shifts.

Perhaps the nicest thing about this party last night was discovering that I have a good number of neighbors who like to drink. In military communities, you usually find a good chunk of people like that, but you also find an unhealthy dose of teetotalers. They are generally good, Christian folk who are most likely to be seen heading for church on Sunday morning.

Of course, my family has the appearance of being good, Christian folk and we can be seen heading for church on Sunday mornings, too. And we homeschool to boot. I'm quite certain that many neighbors over the years have confused us with these non-drinking types. "No, no," I want to say, "We're Catholic! We use real wine at our church!"

Generally, actions speak louder than words, but with an 8 month old gestational baby along with me, I was drinking water. Fun, fun. Full responsibility for showcasing our drinking philosophy fell on Bill's shoulders. I think he did a good job. I was left to pathetically insist that I really do like alcohol, honest, do I have to tell you some drinking stories? in an effort to not look like Ms. Goody-Two-Shoes. Geez, you'd think I was nineteen again.

We're having our Oktoberfest party in two weeks. The German beer is always a big hit, but I think the various schnapps and Jägermeister shots do much to demonstrate to our new friends that, among the church-going crowd, Catholics have the best parties. I'm not sure the boys have lederhosen that fit, my dirndl doesn't have a maternity cut, and I fear this apron wouldn't get here in time from Germany, so some of our usual ambiance will be lacking. Hopefully our decorations and the German food will make up for lack of decent clothing.

Just before I left the party last night to come home and let the poor teenaged babysitter go to his own bed to sleep, I was explaining to one neighbor that having a party a week or two before giving birth was no big deal. This is our fourth Oktoberfest, and we've got it down to a science, I think. Plus, having a party with an infant is much more difficult. She insisted that she thought I was pretty crazy for such an endeavor. As I walked away, I told her that Bill and I do everything we can to prove to the world that we are, in fact, the craziest neighbors they will ever know.

And now I need to go deal with three children who are in lousy moods from lack of sleep and get everyone out the door for Mass. We Catholics can't let a little thing like a late-night party get in the way of giving glory to God.

Palm trees and polar bears

My sister is an Army wife too. For the last year (or is it two?), she's been living in Alabama. Before that, it was North Carolina and before that it was temperate Monterey, California. She hasn't seen much snow in the last five or six years.

My BIL, her husband, has just finished one school and is doing another short course, but then they'll be off to their next assignment. They've been waiting for weeks to find out where the Army would send them. Their top pick was Hawaii, and I think even I was beginning to envision a tropical island vacation in the future.

No such luck.

The other picks on their list were Colorado and Kentucky, but they didn't get them either. Nope, sometimes you just go where the Army wants to send you.

Like to Alaska.

No other state is as diametrically opposite Hawaii than Alaska. But being a good soldier's wife, my sister is embracing this new adventure with good humor.

Did I mention he reports in January?

Looking on the sunny side, all four hours a day of sunny side that there will be in Alaska in January, they will get there when it is coldest and darkest, so things will only improve. My husband was up that way in June, and he said it was stunning. And since the sky is still pretty bright at 10 pm in the summer, you have plenty of time to see it all.

Of course, living in Alabama, resources for cold weather gear are pretty scarce, and so I offered via email to see if there were any winter coats for her kids at the thrift store here. She emailed back that she was going to do some research since winter temps can get to 50 below and most winter coats for those of us living in the Continental US just won't cut it. Even the squall coat I've offered to loan to her is only rated to 35 below with a sweater.

Nonetheless, having a normal winter coat, especially if I can find one for only a few bucks, is probably not a waste of money. After all, I emailed her, the kids need something to wear in the spring and the fall.

Ahem. Perhaps it is only her older sister who is truly in a good humor about her husband's assignment?

It's going to be a long football season

Billy, our renegade Bengals fan, has been conducting indoor football scrimmages with Peter. One of Peter's earliest words was "HIKE!" Despite the Halloween dresses and tap shoes and his sisters putting barrettes in his hair and pink ranking among his favorite colors, he really is ALL BOY. And he loves football.

It's bad enough for this Browns fan who is married to a Packers fan to have one offspring go off the deep end and pledge his loyalty to the Bengals. {Apparently, the Ohio teams are playing this Saturday, and I've already been informed that the Browns have no chance.} But as I dodge my little football guys who are using the hallway and the staircase for their field and I hear the littlest one, currently in possession of the ball, put the pigskin down and state firmly, "I the Bengals," I really must draw the line.

Worst of all, my husband places the blame squarely on me as the one who spends the most time with these kids. Just before he left for school, he strictly exhorted Billy to tell Peter that he loves the Packers and to stop mentioning the Bengals. Perhaps I should consider team loyalty indoctrination as a part of my core curriculum. I'm quite sure Bill would have little objection if I decorated the schoolroom with this or this or this.

As for the game this weekend, perhaps my young football pundits are right. Even Bernie Kosar said of the current Browns team, "So many things need to get better. If Jesus was the quarterback, they'd still be 0-1."

Ouch.

Nap time over? - Part II

When your mom doesn't care WHERE you sleep as long as you are in your room and SLEEPING, this just might be the result.

When your mom decides to take a flash photo of you while you are sleeping, this just might be the result.

Nap time over?

Yesterday, I was determined to take a nap, and I strictly cautioned Peter that if he did not lie down his toddler bed privileges would be revoked, and I would put him in the crib. He wanted the door left open, and this would have been fine, IF my other children had been dutifully following my instructions to BE QUIET, but instead, they were downstairs squabbling. One pugnacious seven year old was sent to his downstairs bedroom, and one shrieking six year old needed to be relocated to her upstairs bedroom right next to Pete's room.

Pete had set up camp in the doorway: his pillow, blankie and stuffed animals were all neatly arranged on the floor in front of the door which was blocked by a gate. Knowing he would never fall asleep with all the chaos, I told him I had to close the door; he had to go back to bed. He refused (he's two, that's what they do), so I put him in the crib, and lay myself down on my bed.

I was really tired, and I tried to convince myself that just being horizontal for a half hour would be as good as actually sleeping. Sleep seemed an impossible goal given the protestations coming from my youngest child's room. Then Jenny came upstairs, and I would have allowed her to play with Katie in their room, IF they could have been QUIET, but they could not. So I chased Jenny downstairs.

Once again, on my bed, I tried to sleep. But from Peter's room I hear:

"Nap time over, Mommy? Nap time over? Nap time over, Mommy? Two minutes! Two minutes! Nap time over! Two minutes!"

Believe it or not, he did manage to fall asleep after that, and so did I, briefly.

Broken Record...broken record...broken record

The kids think it's funny to sit in my chair at the dining room table and pretend to be me. They point their finger at their siblings gathered around and say, "YOU do your school work! YOU do your school work! YOU do your school work!" Nice, huh? But oh so true. I tend to say the same things day after day after day. Of course, if they would just.do.their.school.work I might be spared the necessity of sounding like a broken record.

And if they would stop asking the same questions every day, we might have some variety in our evening conversations as well. Instead, this is what we get:


Random day, random kid: Mom, what's for dinner?

Me: Grilled chicken.

RK: Do I like grilled chicken?

Me: Of course! It's your favorite!



Another random day, another random kid: Mom, what's for dinner?

Me: Meatloaf.

ARK: Aww, I don't like meatloaf!

Me: Yes, you do! It's your favorite.



Another random day, another random kid: Mom, what's for dinner?

Me: Ziti.

ARK: Ziti? What's ziti?

Me: It's your favorite!



Another random day, another random kid: Mom, what's for dinner?

Me: Chicken livers and brussel sprouts.

ARK: Do I like chicken livers and brussel sprouts?

Me: Sure! It's your favorite!



They haven't noticed the trend yet.

Back Labor No More

Denise at Ordinary Grace is currently my Favorite Person in the Whole World. She loaned me her copy of the book, Back Labor No More by Janie McCoy King.

In an email to me she writes, "I figured the math/engineering side of you would get a kick out of testing her hypothesis." I am so transparent. The first thing I read was the back cover which had this to say About the Author:

"As a math major...Janie McCoy King developed a thorough understanding of vectors and their application to natural occurrences. Little did she guess that childbirth would lead to her most significant application of this knowledge. {snip} In 1985, faced with her fourth delivery, and painfully aware that back labor was no minor inconvenience, she analyzed her three prior birth experiences and began to see vectors at work in labor and delivery. When she applied this insight to her fourth delivery, the results were remarkably effective. The pain was abolished, and her son, Thomas, was born within twenty minutes."

My husband will attest to the level of excitement that paragraph generated in me. I think I said something along the lines of "Math majors rule!" The book came just as we were leaving for the Renaissance festival, and I read it while Bill filled the car with gas. I read it while he drove down winding country roads until I thought I would puke. I read it in the parking lot of Petsmart while my two youngest children slept, and Bill bought a dog toy in the hope of distracting Greta from hunting the moles who live under our yard. By the time he returned to the car, I had learned the technique she describes to change the direction of the vector of labor pains directed at the back instead of at the pelvis.

I especially LOVE the cautionary words which warn a woman to not try the technique in any place other than where she intends to give birth...like in a car on the highway in a traffic jam.

Yes, I really look forward to testing her hypothesis.

I'll let you know how it goes.

Renaissance Festival

Because my blog is my default photo album of family life, here are some pics from the Renaissance Festival we went to on Saturday.

Sir Thomas and Sir Christopher face each other in a joust.

Billy and Katie ride a camel.

King William VIII.

Jenny and Billy on a Merry-Go-Round...or is it a carousel?

When we pulled into our parking space, Fritz wanted to know why there were so many telephone poles. Bill explained that it was a telephone pole farm. It always amuses me when I hear my own dad's words come out of his mouth.

After walking around this festival for about three hours, we decided we weren't tired enough and dragged the kids to a Greek Festival. Bill got in line for gyros while I got in line for baklava. It was crowded and tables were scarce, so we ate on the road. It took all my self control to avoid the gift shop at the church. Beautiful icons...and a nativity set like I've not seen before... Sometimes having grumpy children who don't like ethnic food is a blessing in disguise (at least to my wallet).

I am still very sore from all that walking around. But I hear there's a Polish festival this coming weekend...mmmmm...pierogies....

Pregnancy Insomnia

Because 2 am is THE best time to clean your desk.

Movie Review: Old School

Last night, Bill and I watched Old School starring Luke Wilson, Will Ferrell and Vince Vaughn.

The first adjective that springs to mind: juvenile. There was not a single mature character in the flick. If you have a problem with nudity, sex outside of marriage, sex with more than one person at a time, sex with minors, or unmarried people co-habitating, then this is not the movie for you. The warning of "adult situations" doesn't quite prepare you for ninety full minutes of that sort of thing.

The second adjective that occurs to me: hysterical. The whole thing was funny. I laughed from one scene to the next, often through tears, often suppressing myself so I could actually hear the lines. Each situation led to another one even more preposterous than the one prior that I was no longer constrained by any sense of decency and could just laugh at the silly people doing ludicrous things. Yes, it was an "Oh my gosh...!!!" kind of laughter, and if I actually knew people who were like this I probably wouldn't find it nearly as funny. It is that the characters are so very unreal, that the movie is so very funny.

Definitely not for little eyes and ears. In fact, I would be embarrassed to watch this with my parents, and don't think I would ever watch this with my own children, even in twenty years. But I did enjoy it and do recommend it for those still slightly in touch with their own immaturity.

Can you ring them all up separately?

Apparently, my children don't understand the concept of buying in bulk. This is the sign for their pretend pet store I found:

4 Orphan Puppies for Sale
1 puppy is $1.00
2 puppies is $5.00
3 puppies is $10.00
4 puppies is $50.00

Sure the subject/verb agreement is off, but at least "puppies" is spelled correctly. Their English teacher is only half bad. It's the economics teacher who needs to be fired.

Morning exercises

Like Matilda, I'm considering a ban on toys made in China. From a moral standpoint, I should have banned all things Chinese years ago, but it is so difficult to be diligent about things like that when my daily life is filled with the adventures of real life such as teaching children to read and chasing naked toddlers through the neighbors' yards.

But as much as moral reasoning may be brushed aside out of convenience (or inconvenience), when I need to begin scheduling product number checks on toys we own, thus taking away precious time from the creation of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches or other highly important tasks, I begin to think that perhaps a bit of anti-China vigilance wouldn't save me effort in the long run.

The latest recall includes the Little People Animal Sounds Farm which of course we own. Unlike the Dora and Sesame Street products listed in the last recall that we happened to have, the recall date on the farm goes back much farther than 2006; the date goes back to 2002. Dutiful Protector of My Children that I am, I go through Mattel's "help me determine if my product is included" link for the farm and it shows me where to locate the codes that identify when exactly it was made.

I, and my computer, are on the first floor. The farm is in the basement toy room. But I'm procrastinating on laundry anyway, so I grab a notepad and pen and haul the waiting dirty clothes down the flight of steps as I go. That's one trip down.

I notate the appropriate codes and then turn to the laundry. Fold the clothes in the dryer and add them to the already folded clothes sorted into three baskets based on ownership. Move the load in the washer to the dryer. Empty and sort the mesh hampers and add another load to the washer. Carry the basket of boys' clothes to the landing halfway up the stairs. That's a half trip up. And a half trip down.

Carry the mesh hampers up to the first floor. One trip up. One trip down.

Carry the basket with the girls' and Pete's clothes up to the first floor. One up. One down.

Carry the basket with mine and my husband's clothes up to the first floor. One up.

Forgot the notebook. Another trip down. Another trip up.

Back at the computer, I follow the instructions related to the codes on the farm. The next screen wants another code from the same spot. I hadn't seen this number, or I would have written it down "just in case." Cursing Mattel for not telling me everything I needed to get from the beginning, I make one more trip down. And one more trip up.

Once again at the computer I briefly ponder whether I want the item to be on the recall list just to make all these trips up and down my basement stairs worth the effort, or if I would just be that much more annoyed with the hassle of having to return a product. Fortunately, my codes passed the test and we're lead paint free.

The boys will fetch their own basket from that landing, but I've got to carry those other two very full baskets up to the second floor. Two up. Two down.

And then I think I'll be ready for a nap.

It was the best of times...

I thought it was just pregnancy, but it's a small wonder that my rear end has been hurting. Bill found three matchbox cars shoved through a tear in the vinyl upholstery of my desk chair. I think the chair has finally made it to the list of Things-I'll-Put-Up-With-For-Now-But-Will-Throw-Away-When-We-Move. It's only ten months.

Yesterday was a great day. The kids did their morning chores and routines with little complaint. They got right into their school work with minimal procrastination. Fritz was the last one done - at 1215 pm - but that was only because I was eating lunch and waited until I was done to check his math and have him correct the few problems he missed.

After eating lunch, the kids were running around outside, including Peter whose outfit of choice was his birthday suit. They were in the back yard, so it was fine. Then Jenny and Peter decided to play dress up and this is what I saw:

"Mommy, look! It fits him!" Jenny was very happy that her witch's dress from last year's Halloween costume was just right on Peter. Personally, I love the patent leather tap shoes, but I think I preferred him naked. And the beads around Jenny's waist are very Franciscan, don't you think? Bill came home briefly and just shook his head at the sight.

I enjoyed a few minutes of playing around with my blogger template, because I have nothing better to do, really, and then decided to go check on the kids who had first migrated from the back to the side yard and now seemed to be in the front. It was getting close to 1 pm and Pete's nap time.

Sure enough, I found Peter the Witch playing football with our three-year-old neighbor while his mom watched in complete amusement. I'm glad she has a sense of humor. The other kids were running around and burning off excess energy, happy to be free from the shackles of formal schooling for the day. And then...

...and then, a woman and her young son walked up to talk to my neighbor. The neighbor introduced us. The woman tried to count the swarming masses, and I told her there were five, yes, we homeschool. This was all very positive. I love living in a community where there are so many homeschoolers that it's just accepted as another alternative. But this poor woman was trying to figure out how many boys and how many girls I had and was very confused. Finally I explained that Peter was a boy, and we follow the old-fashioned custom of keeping the boys in dresses until they are 5 or 6 when they graduate to knickers.

I guess it's a good thing I really don't care too much what other people think, eh?

Or rather, I guess it's a good thing I don't mind people laughing at my family.

After this, it was nap time. I told the older kids they could watch TV (oh! the cheers!), and Pete went right away to sleep. I finished cleaning up the kitchen, told the kids they couldn't watch Animal Planet without an adult (too late: we got a discourse on the mating habits of frogs at the dinner table) and went up to lie down myself for an hour.

And the best part of the day? In the morning I had said to Bill, "I have to go to the grocery store...can you be home by 4 pm?" Six months ago, I would have been happy to have him home by 6 pm, so I laughed to myself that I was even able to make such a reasonable request. But the best part was when he came home at 315 pm, and apologized for being late!

Yes, it was a good day indeed.

Blessed Teresa of Calcutta

Interesting article on Mother Teresa's Dark Night of the Soul.

"...believers don't claim to "know" God. That's why they are called "believers." To be a believer means, "Even though I do not know, I have faith." Nor do believers, however devout, experience God on a constant basis. There is a big chasm that [sic] between the terrestrial and the transcendental, and a terrible silence usually separates the two. A glimpse or foretaste of eternity, this is all that we get, if we're lucky."

I didn't realize that Christopher Hitchens' hate-filled book on Mother Teresa was called The Missionary Position. I hope I never understand this ideological loathing. The most despicable "religious" practice I can think of is that of human sacrifice, but I don't hate a religion that espouses it, and I certainly couldn't take one person and direct all of my animosity against human sacrifice to that one person. I don't care that Christopher Hitchens is an atheist, and I certainly don't hate him because of it. I don't even pity him because he is an atheist (sadness, not pity, and still firm hope...always hope). But I do pity him for needing to sink to such depths to...what? justify? his beliefs. He cannot prove that God does not exist any more than I can prove that God does exist. Does slandering a saintly dead woman really win him converts?

Blessed Teresa, please pray for Christopher Hitchens, and I will too. It's the meanest thing I think we can do to him.

Technical difficulties

Oh, so much for trying to be pretty with my blog. This is why I have such a Plain Jane look!

I just barely got that big belly of mine out of the posts on Jennie's computer, and now Mrs. Marco is saying they are doing the same thing. Mrs. Marco, is it the belly picture?

Anyone else?

My computer screens are wide, so I have lots and lots of white space here and can't tell. Please complain away in the comment box and I'll start working on losing that gut.

Labor Day

We celebrated Labor Day by laboring. I did my best to ignore the phone and the doorbell and plowed through our usual Monday curriculum. Bill became the de facto doorman chasing away the neighborhood children who wanted to play. I am quite certain that my children, the neighborhood children, and all the adults in the area are convinced that either 1) homeschooling is an oppressive burden or 2) Fritz and Billy's mom is the meanest person on earth. We were done by 1130 am; it wasn't that bad.

I like a day off as much if not more than any school kid. Believe me. And since I'm not used to starting school in August, I would gladly have taken a four-day weekend like the kids here. But I'm banking my vacation days for October when I'll really need them. My kids will love me then.

And besides, it was Labor Day, a day to honor America's workers. I suppose, being the descendant of factory workers, that I should swell with pride at what blue collar workers have done for my country. I don't know. I have a feeling that most laborers are just trying to put food on the table and a roof over their heads and aren't particularly concerned about the "big picture" and how their little cog moves the great wheel of the US economy. Yes, they worked hard and deserve a pat on the back. But Labor Day isn't like Memorial Day where we honor soldiers who died doing their jobs.

Timed nicely for the "holiday" was this report from the UN about American workers being the most productive in the world. It was a pretty interesting article, not so much for the statistics about industrialized nations but for the comparison to people from other countries. The next time someone talks about "poor people" in America, it might be worth a second of thought to think about what poor really means, on a global scale. An industrial worker in China produces, on average, over $12k worth of output compared to an industrial worker in the US who produces over $104k worth of output. A farmer in China produces $910 (that is nine hundred and ten dollars) worth of output compared to an American farmer who produces over 52 thousand dollars worth of output.

Last year, I spent more on groceries than ten Chinese farmers produced. That's a lot of rice. And I'll bet there's no holiday to recognize their labor either.

Birth plan

Later this week, I have another appointment with my midwife. The due date is a mere six weeks away. I forgot to mention in my list of to-dos this month: unpack the baby stuff. That would probably be helpful, huh? Do I wash it all in Dreft, too? One mom told me she just uses the second rinse cycle instead of bothering with Dreft. I've used Dreft with all the baby's things until it's used up and then switched to the double rinse. Such big decisions...so much extra work...

My midwife, Suzanne (I may as well name her, since she'll be a big part of my life in the next six weeks), is interested in my birth plan. I've never really had a provider care about my birth plan. If we wanted to set a mood, that was up to us. All other ideas, like pain medication or breaking my water, were on the spot decisions ...or orders ("I'm going to break your water now...whether you like it or not...").

Since I haven't yet settled in my mind the home birth or hospital birth question (I have six weeks, right?), I've come up with two plans. They are pretty similar.

Hospital birth plan: I wake up well rested on a Saturday morning (has to be a Saturday). I feel some regular, dull achiness about my midsection, but I'm able to rotate the laundry, eat a nice breakfast, feed my children, and take a shower. At a reasonable hour, say, 8 am, I use the toilet and my water breaks, conveniently, at that time (who wants to be mopping while in labor, right?). This gives me a clear indication that the baby will be coming soon. I call the midwife who says she'll be right over. I call a few neighbors who gladly take the children. I begin to notice stronger contractions, but they are not too uncomfortable, and they are definitely not in my back. Suzanne shows up, checks me, and lo and behold, I am fully effaced and at 5 cm! We head to the hospital (it takes us about 40 minutes), and my contractions continue to be manageable, but I notice they seem to be only 3 or 4 minutes apart. Once at the hospital, they seem a bit stronger, but I'm still walking around and smiling. Imagine my surprise when Suzanne checks me again, and I'm at 8! The next half hour is a blur, and those contractions become pretty uncomfortable, but then I feel the need to push, and out comes a beautiful new life. Bill is home in time to put Petey down for his 1 pm nap.

Home birth plan: After several hours of good solid sleep, I wake up around 1 am. While going to the bathroom, my water breaks, and I decide I better call the midwife right away. As I'm doing this, I notice some strong, but not too bad, contractions happening every few minutes. Suzanne says she'll be right over. I decide to wake Bill, and pull the comforter off the bed (and fold it neatly off to the side). When Suzanne shows up, she checks me and, holy cow, I'm at 7 or 8 cm! The next half hour is a blur, and those contractions become pretty uncomfortable, but then I feel the need to push, and out comes a beautiful new life. It's about 2 am. I didn't scream, and my moans do not wake any children. The dog remains calm despite the middle of the night interruption. By 3 am, the house is clean, I've showered, the paperwork is done, Suzanne leaves, and Bill and I and the new baby settle down to sleep.

Alright, so I'm an optimist.

As you might imagine, I've never had a birth story like one of those. I generally have a good day or two warning that labor is coming: I've had prodromal labor each and every time. I've had back labor each and every time. With my two non-epidurals, I screamed, quite loudly.

And may I just say right here that there is perhaps nothing more irritating than having someone criticize your screaming while you are in active labor? The very idea that there is a wrong way to scream makes my blood boil.

But I can dream, right? I can imagine and plan for a calm, perfect birth. I can pray to St. Gerard that I don't have back labor, and that I learn just how manageable contractions can be when one can actually relax between them. I can hope that I'm not totally exhausted from days of prodromal labor that I have no strength left for the real thing. And I can expect that I won't have to bother neighbors in the middle of the night to be with my kids, and that schedules and routines won't be thrown off track from Day 1?

I suppose I'll just have to make sure that I know where the matches are for that "Clean Linen" scented candle and make sure that my favorite classical music CDs are all in one spot. I guess I'll put together my list of neighbors who are willing to come over in the middle of the night, or who can handle my brood while still getting their own off to school. And I'll have Bill practice his back compression techniques, just in case.

"Ask, and you shall receive," says the Lord. Okaaaay...I'm trying to be really specific to avoid any confusion. But Lord, I will accept any alterations to that plan that you deem necessary. If I wake up at 2 am, instead of 1 am, that's fine by me.

Time marches on

Except for my husband and my daughter, Katie, everyone has a different birth month. It's great. I love spreading the celebratory cheer throughout the year. But, naturally, this inspires some of my children to think ahead to their own birthdays and ask for things that they would like. My usual response is always a request that we discuss the matter in the appropriate month for them. It's a habitual question asked without thinking.

On the way to church today, Jenny was asking for some product she had seen advertised on TV that she isn't likely to get. Out came my knee-jerk retort:

"How about we talk about this in Septem---, oh. Arrrrgh!"

New Month's Resolution for September

I am so glad that we moved recently. The necessary clutter and disheveled closets that inevitably occur when one lone woman tries to stay on top of a household full of small children are still in the manageable stages.

I am so glad I started school three weeks ago. Routines are in place. If I say, "Go fetch the Solutions Manuel," my son knows what I'm talking about. I understand all those cryptic abbreviations on my daily planner.

Topping this month's to-do list are some pretty big chores. I could put them off, but I'll regret it. One is stocking my freezer and pantry with at least the ingredients for some basic, easy meals. It would be nice if I actually converted the bricks of ground meat into homemade meatballs or hamburger patties, too, but I'm not going to push it. If I have meat, pasta, and a jar of Ragu, I can throw together dinner in short order. And heaven forbid we run out of frozen waffles and I have to listen to complaining after being awake all night with a baby.

And then there's the big clothing swap: the dreaded chore of pulling out long pants and shirts and then lugging kids to stores or the thrift shop to find pants long enough in the leg but narrow enough in the waist. Finally, the temperatures are showing a bit of promise that they may go low enough that someone might actually want to wear pants. I'm not getting any skinnier, so the awkwardness of doing the chore with a big belly can't deter me from this. I might gamble on decent temps through mid-October, it could happen, but doing this job with a newborn who must be held constantly doesn't sound very appealing either. It's really got to be done by the end of the month.

And then there's our fourth annual Oktoberfest. Bill actually suggested not doing it. I actually considered his suggestion. But I think if we keep it simple, it won't be too overwhelming. Of course, if you know me...or Bill...we don't know how to do simple. The date is September 29th, so if you think you might be in the area, and you like German beer, bratwurst and warm potato salad, this is the place to be.

With such a busy month, who has time for a resolution, right? No, no, no. This is exactly the kind of month where one does need to resolve something to keep one's sanity. For me, it will be my walking. I definitely feel much worse if I don't go out and stretch those aching hips with a stiff waddle around the neighborhood. I'm aiming for three days a week, minimum. The dog is hoping for every day. That's it: 20 to 30 minutes around the block.

Do you have a new month's resolution?

Nice Matters

The ever so sweet Rosemary has nominated ME for a Nice Matters Award. She obviously can't hear the evil thoughts that frequently pop into my head!





When I read The Story of a Soul by St. Thérèse of Lisieux, I was really blown away by her "little way." I could understand why this text propelled her cause to sainthood. I thought I was doing well by not voicing those less than polite opinions. And here is a woman who wouldn't even nicely ask someone to please stop splashing her with water as they washed the laundry. She preferred to just happily offer it up. When I think of nice, I think of her, and I know I don't rate anywhere near that!



“This award is for those bloggers who are nice people; good blog friends and those who inspire good feelings and inspiration. Also for those who are a positive influence on our blogging world. Once you’ve been awarded please pass on to seven others whom you feel are deserving of this award”.



I'm pretty sure I don't read mean people's blogs, so don't be offended if I haven't listed you here. I think you are all nice. And for those of you I have listed, I'm willing to bet you don't feel you can compare with St. Thérèse! Here we go:

Kristen Laurence with Small Treasures

Margaret the Minnesota Mom

Esther, A Catholic Mom in Hawaii

Lillian at Smithflections

Michele, Queen of the Castle

Celeste on The Great Adventure

Melissa with Bountiful Blessings