Sad.

Really.

I just don't know what else to say.

'Designer Vaginas' Blacklisted in Australia

"In one case we heard of a man bringing in a Brazilian pornographic photo and saying: `Make my girlfriend look like this.'''

A (bath)room with a view

If you walk through the front door, you are in the living room.

This is open to the dining room, which leads to the kitchen, which is connected to the sunroom, which has the door to the master bedroom.

The master bedroom has a master bath.

This house was originally a ranch with the typical three bedrooms and one bath. At some point someone built an addition with the sunroom and master bedroom. They converted one of the original bedrooms into the master bath and left the original door.

So the master bath opens to the hallway with two other bedrooms and the one original bath.

And the hallway leads to the living room.

*******

Peter wakes up in a happy, drowsy mood and curls up in my lap. Within minutes though, he begins to squirm as he realizes that he needs to go potty. So he and I and Mary (because she has decided she wants my lap, too) go from the sunroom, through the master bedroom and into the master bath. I put Mary on the floor (half the floor is carpet), lift Peter up on the potty and sit on the edge of the tub and wait.

This is my morning routine (slated for 7:18 am).

I don't close the doors, because he's three.

Today, I should have closed the doors. I didn't realize that today I live in Pamplona. The poor baby almost got trampled by the children running 'round and 'round, followed by the dog, of course.

This master bath is decidedly the most highly trafficked bathroom I have ever known.

Real Heroes

My sister's husband left for Iraq a little over a week ago. Pray for them.

"Send me a picture of Bill," I said. She married a guy named Bill, too. Makes things easy for my Dad. "I want to keep it out so I see him all the time and remember to pray for him all the time."

So she sent me a picture of him taken as he and his unit were leaving.

"Why is Uncle Bill carrying a gun?" asked one of my sons.

"Because he's in the Army," I said in my Duh-voice. It's funny. My boys play Army all the time. They even argue about whether or not the General would be carrying a gun, and frequently discuss which war they're fighting in for the tactical nuances in their games. But for them, and for most of us, we forget that it's real people who carry real guns and go off to fight a real war.

*******

Yesterday we went to the pool at the Officer's Club. The kids couldn't help but notice the man with one leg who went to the lap pool for a workout. "Did somebody cut off his leg, Mommy?" asked Peter. The older kids accepted my explanation that he lost it in the war, but Peter is too young for that. I just agreed that someone had cut it off because it was broken.

...real people...real war...

*******

Bill flies to Atlanta today. Last night I asked him, "Are you flying in civvies?"

"No, I'll go in uniform." And then he explained how the Army thinks it's good for regular folks to see them.

"Well, if you see somebody do this (I put my hand to my chin and then extended my arm - the ASL way to say "Thank you"), it's not meant to be an obscene gesture."

But my husband doesn't need a thank you. He doesn't feel he's doing anything heroic. He's just a guy doing his job. And even though he wears a uniform, he doesn't carry a gun to work.

{As an aside, please feel free to participate in the Gratitude Campaign. Believe me, that soldier may just be doing his job, and may not have ever deployed, but it's not just an ordinary job. It does deserve a thank you.}

Last month, Bill flew from Virginia to Ohio to meet me and help us drive the last leg of our trip to our new home. He was in normal, everyday, vacation clothes. There were two soldiers in uniform on his flight, one sitting near him. The stewardess offered the soldier an empty seat in First Class, but the man, of higher rank than my husband, declined. "Give it to somebody else."

Like my husband, he probably gets embarrassed at thank yous. Like my husband, he probably recognizes that there are many others who have done more, sacrificed more, suffered more, lost more, deserve more.

Like the man with one leg.

Like those in harm's way right now.

Like the family members left behind to wait and worry.


Real people. Real war.

Real heroes.

Slipping Down the Slope

What do a communist election and euthanasia have in common? In the practical application, you are left with only one "choice."

Since the spread of his prostate cancer, 53-year-old Randy Stroup of Dexter, Ore., has been in a fight for his life. Uninsured and unable to pay for expensive chemotherapy, he applied to Oregon's state-run health plan for help.

Lane Individual Practice Association (LIPA), which administers the Oregon Health Plan in Lane County, responded to Stroup's request with a letter saying the state would not cover Stroup's pricey treatment, but would pay for the cost of physician-assisted suicide.

Next up, doctors deciding who lives and who dies with no regard for the wishes of the patient or the family. After that, we'll start targeting people with pricey conditions.

Mr. Jones, I regret to inform you that you have diabetes. Please call this number to schedule an appointment with a Life Planning Agent who will help you and your family arrange for your Afterlife Procedure. Be sure to bring all financial documents with you. They will also help you make a will, if needed, and other arrangements. We have some nice package deals with Sunnyside Funeral Home (they put the FUN in funeral!).

A Day Off Work

I didn't move back to the area soon enough to go to the National IHM Conference, and my good friend (and my favorite vendor) aren't going to the Catholic Family Expo in Baltimore, so I pretty much decided to not go to any homeschool conferences this year.

Then Margaret said she was going to the Family Centered Learning Conference, and Lancaster isn't too too far away, so I decided to go.

And I'm so happy I did.

Homeschool conferences, especially faith-centered ones, are like day spas for your mind. It is so refreshing to be in a room full of funny, intelligent, charitable women who share your daily struggles and have similar hopes and dreams. It is nice to listen to speakers who do liturgical crafts with their children or one-on-one preschool time with the little ones even though they too have a large family. It is good to be challenged to challenge your children in their reading and writing and inspiring to hear how one woman struggles with a large family and a special needs child and still manages to be full of joy.

I'm glad it's still summer, and I have another month to relax and think about school but not actually do it. I need this time off to recharge my energy level and my spirits. And even though I didn't really know it, I really needed that conference.

Reading Level

I'm putting these links here so I can find them again, but perhaps there are others who could benefit from this information.

This link is a reading level assessment. There are two word lists and the student simply reads until it is too difficult. Note that this doesn't judge comprehension. Billy was able to accurately pronounce the word "enumerate," but he has no clue what it means.

This link gives instructions for evaluating the reading level of a document in Microsoft Word. The one bit of instruction left out is that you then do a spell check, and it will give you the information after that is complete. There are many uses for such a tool. You could type in a few paragraphs from a library book to see if it is a good level for your student. But most useful, I think, is in evaluating the student's writing. It's nice for evaluating your own writing too.

To understand the Flesch Reading Ease number, go here.

Must read

If you read nothing else today, read this.

Many thanks to Kristen for sharing it.

Mirror, Mirror, on the floor

Hi, I'm Mary, it's a pleasure to meet you. Lovely outfit. And your eyes are so sparkly! Really, I don't think I've ever seen a more delightful baby.

Golly, you're making me blush!

Exactly what color are your eyes? Blue? Green?

Yes, I have one of those "cracker" things too. Simply delectable. I especially love how they disintegrate all over the floor. I have one of those things that automatically picks up all the crumbs...I think they call it a "dog."

Please, taste some of mine.

My! You are so sweet, I could just eat you up!

Say it like you mean it

Boy: Are you calling me a liar?

Girl: No-oo. If I were calling you a liar, I would say, 'Liar, liar, pants on fire!'

From the battle front

What a quagmire.

We got involved in what should have been a simple "humanitarian" relief effort. Providing food for the less fortunate. A real feel good project.

We set up several drop off points to ensure direct aid to those most in need.

The locals were happy...at first.

Then the warlords moved in and seized most of the supplies.

We're now on the brink of war.

Kinder, gentler members prefer tactics that prevent the warlords from gaining access to the supplies. But the budget is already stretched to meet these charitable efforts and any additional resources will reduce the amount of actual relief given.

Additional troops have been brought in to assist in defending key distribution points.

Some ideas are just simply not viable.

Unfortunately, certain members are strongly urging for a more permanent solution.

Only one thing is certain: we're in this for the long haul. There is no "quick-fix" solution, no "get-in-get-out" answer. We can only hope that, over time, we can win the hearts and minds of the locals who will either help defend against the warlords or help convert them to a more equitable distribution of the goods.

Your prayers, in this time of crisis, are appreciated.

I'm flexible, I swear

Several months ago, Bill and I attended a marriage retreat. One of the talks centered around our expectations: conscious or unconscious, realistic or unrealistic. The moderator asked for any examples. I raised my hand. My husband groaned.

It wasn't until that talk that I was able to pin down a source of friction in our marriage. Bill had always come home at dinner time...or later. The house was reasonably tidy. Dinner was nearly ready. If it was a late night, the kids were in their PJs and it was let's-be-quiet-and-read-stories time, or they were already in bed. Over many years, I had conditioned him to expect a relatively quiet and pleasant home. In fact, he was usually home so late the year before our year in Kansas, that the kids were often not even awake when he got home, and the "baby" was a toddler not an infant. He was pretty much out-of-the-loop on 90% of the daily chaos that filled my life, and I was pretty much in-the-groove and managing just fine.

In Kansas, his school building was a five minute walk away. Classes were usually over by 1230 pm, or he might have to return after lunch for a guest speaker or one more class. He would come home around 1 pm to find a disaster. As I struggled to have my three students finish up their schoolwork for the day, he would have to blaze a trail from the front door to the kitchen through toys, books, puzzles, clothing and whatever else my mobile little ones had gotten into while I tended to the newborn and tried to keep students on task. In the kitchen, the breakfast dishes would be buried under the lunch dishes, and the counter would be covered in peanut butter and jelly and bread crusts. The floor would be sticky, and the milk would be getting warm sitting in the open. He would start yelling at the kids, and I'd get mad because they would only have a half hour more work to do, and I didn't want to prolong the school day.

"So, it was unreasonable for him to expect a clean house when he got home at lunch time?" the moderator asked.

"Yes," I said to a chorus of agreement from all the other stay-at-home moms with little ones.

But in recognizing my husband's expectations, however unreasonable, I could address the issue or at least be more understanding of his irritation. I tried harder after that weekend to stop at some point in my morning to do a kitchen clean up before he got home and even to at least offer to make him his lunch, and I think he was more tolerant of the debris littering the floor.

For me, a schedule isn't about knowing exactly what I'll be doing at 3:17 pm. It's about recognizing my family's needs and priorities and assuring everyone that there is enough time for important things, including snuggling on the couch. It's about managing expectations, so that the kids know mom isn't going to suddenly interrupt their play because she just discovered the by-products of an hour-long art project or that dad won't cancel their promised bike ride when he sees the mess in the kitchen. It's about everybody knowing their role in the smooth functioning of the household, and it's about dividing up the housework into small jobs done at different intervals so that nobody is overwhelmed.

It's about me having the freedom to say "yes" to a child's request for attention because I already have dinner in the crockpot, but also about me not feeling guilty for spending the baby's morning nap time on the treadmill.

And so, here is my loose, flexible daily routine with plenty of margins:

7 am breakfast and cleanup, grooming and morning chores
9 am school (or free time)
12 pm lunch and cleanup
1 pm quiet time: naps or reading or coloring
2 pm free time (or finish school) and TV time if earned
430 pm afternoon chores, tidy house, dinner and cleanup
630 pm family time: reading or games or just talking
730 pm baths and pajamas
8 pm prayers and bedtime

Prior to 7 am and after 8 pm is "adult" time with obvious exceptions for sick children or extended family time. The children's chores don't usually take very long ("feed dog" = 1 minute, "vacuum dining room" may take 6 or 7 because of all those chairs that have to be moved). And the afternoon "free time" is for the kids, since that's my time to prep dinner, make phone calls, pay bills, plan meals, etc. Even then, I don't mind interruptions once I have dinner prepped, especially knowing that at 430, the whole household begins to tidy up and work together to get dinner on the table.

Speaking of interruptions...Bill is home and we're off to his company picnic. Woohoo, no kitchen cleanup!

Prayer request

Please pray for Sarah and her unborn child. Sarah's water broke and the baby is not yet 24 weeks gestation.

Why have a routine?

In yesterday's post, Mau reminds me that we need to be flexible, especially when considering the typical military man's schedule, which is not very family friendly.

I agree! (One of the reasons I homeschool is to take advantage of family time when we can, not when the school system and the military schedule happen to mesh.)

But I don't think having a routine means slaving over school work on Dad's day off. I think having a routine means ensuring the family's needs and priorities are met.

If I stay on top of the laundry every day, we can take a day off (even two) for family fun and still find clean underwear in the drawers.

If there is a set time during the day to do chores, the entire family focuses on getting the house in order, so that when we decide to go to a free outdoor concert after dinner, the condition of the house at our very late return doesn't make me regret that choice.

If there is a set time in the morning for breakfast and other things, I don't feel guilty at 630 am telling my early birds to leave me alone while I type a blog entry. I will give them my attention at 7 am.

If there is a set bedtime for the kids, there is a set mom-dad time afterward.


I don't want to be a slave to a routine, but I also don't want to be overwhelmed with basic household maintenance. Not prepping dinner, a family necessity, means not having a healthy dinner or means eating late. Not expecting my children to do chores at regular intervals means raising children with very bad habits and expectations and means having parents who are angry that the kids make messes and don't clean. Not doing the bills on time means paying late fees.

None of these options are good choices.

Later today or tomorrow, I'll share my schedule. I think it's fairly loose - has a lot of "margins" - and really just lays out family expectations and priorities.

Gearing up for the new school year...

...and for life in general.

I've been reading this free e-book (Education is...) as well as the instruction manual for this P.E.G.S system, and I've been feeling like a bad mother.

In that e-book on Charlotte Mason-esque education, it lists 60 or so good habits and suggests working on them one at a time for about 2 months each. It also points out that at that rate it would take you ten years to get through the list. For someone like me who wants instant results, that seems like an awfully long time. But it serves as an excellent reminder that raising children into decent adults is an awfully long process.

Among the habits is listed Use of Time. Since our move last year, followed a few months later by the birth of Mary, my personal use of time has been less than stellar. And, unfortunately, when I fall apart (in one sense), it is unrealistic to expect my little children to keep things together. So meal times have not been at a regular hour, laundry is often done "as needed," and bedtimes for me and the children have been later than I want.

I've been working on a schedule (with plenty of "margins"), and plan to implement some changes with the children beginning next week and taking a few weeks to fully affect. But this week, I'm working on me. I must, as much as possible, keep my own priorities in mind as I choose how to spend these lazy summer days. Is the laundry rotated? Is dinner prepped? Have the children done their chores? Did I spend any time reading to the children or playing a game with them?

Interestingly enough, I began my planning by first outlining a school day. I think a non-school day should resemble a school day as much as possible for consistency. The difference, of course, is that school work hours become free time.

And now, as the hour approaches 7 am, I must get off the computer and make some pancakes for my kiddos. If I'm really good and get my chores done, I'll get to come back later!

A Royal Procession

The parade passes through the kitchen.

"All Hail, Mary the Baby."

The infant is carried, her royal entourage follows waving arms and beaming their adoration.

"All Hail, Mary the Baby."

The parade moves on to another part of the house.


There was a time I worried that my younger children would never have the same love and attention I gave to my older ones. I was right. It's not the same. But I'm no longer worried about that.

I'm now worried about how I could ever possibly keep that little girl from being spoiled.

Near enough to death experience

We left four kids at a friend's house and headed to the grocery store.

The mom joked if we weren't back in 48 hours, she would sell the kids.

We advised her that Fritz should fetch a good price, since he was a good worker.


Ten minutes later, we were nearly hit head on by a driver who inexplicably crossed into our lane.


As Bill calmly got back on the road, I asked him, "How's your adrenaline level?"

"Oh, it's pumping," he replied.

Mine was, too. It's amazing to me how in those split seconds there isn't time to think. You just react. After a minute, I was able to thank God for His protection. I think, had we been hit, I might not have thought to pray.


My friend assured me she wouldn't really have sold the kids.


It's small wonder that my husband was pondering heavy topics last night. Lest you think I have the emotional maturity of a 12 year old, I'd like to say that I don't always break out in song when discussing death.

I only do it when it's funny.

Time for a diaper change

Mary has chicken pox now.


Or perhaps it's just mosquito bites.


I think the only difference between the first child and the sixth is the degree of worry. With Fritz, I thought perhaps he was really sick, too, only with him, I took him to the pediatrician.

Now I just blog about it: I think my daughter's dying, but I'm going to wait and see.



But seriously, she does have a diaper rash (and some other bumps that are probably mosquito bites...or chicken pox), and it just won't quit. The creams work, but only if I keep putting it on. I think the heat is making is worse, but I know these disposable diapers with no air circulation aren't helping a bit.

And so, a bleg, for all you eco-friendly, thrifty, superwomen moms out there who cloth-diaper their babies' tender bottoms. Tell me what I need and where to get it and how many and what a good price is.

Freedom!

I'm still trying to get used to this metal-free smile. We tried to return to the same orthodontist we originally had, but she had retired. Her replacement just could not grasp the magnitude of my joy when I saw his latest dental photos showing fairly straight teeth coming in. There was one adult tooth on the bottom right that had been nearly perpendicular to its proper direction, and everyone was sure he was going to lose it.

You can read all about the cyst that caused us so much grief here.

God is good.

And now all I seem to hear these days is, "Mom, can I have some gum?"

On moving

Things that are more likely to happen in the weeks leading up to and after a big household move:

• Something you meant to keep away from the packers being taped up
• Something you were sure you wouldn't need (so you let it get packed up) being needed
• Something noisy like a toy or a battery powered alarm clock being taped up
• Damage to a vehicle (yours or one you are driving)
• Emergency room visits
• Other significant injuries (especially back aches)
• Lost wallet, purse or ID card
• Lost cellphone
• Lost paperwork
• Lost in transit (as in, "I thought we were supposed to go north, not south, to get to the interstate...")
• Lost locally (as in, "I thought there was a grocery store here...")
• Lost driver (as in, "I won't be delivering your stuff until next week...")
• Lost hardware (as in, "Where would they pack those brackets?")
• Lost tools (as in, "I just had the hammer, where did I put it?")
• Lost children (as in, "I thought you were watching him...")
• Having a credit card denied due to unusual activity
• Having a bank card swallowed because you used the wrong pin too many times
• Confusion over day of the week, time of day, or current location
• Upset tummies due to poor diet
• Headaches due to dehydration
• Dark circles under eyes due to lack of sleep
• Sunburn (since you taped up something you didn't think you would need)
• Excessive reliance on restaurants or prepackaged foods
• Money spend on things you don't need (like souvenirs)
• Money spend on things you shouldn't need (but need to buy because you can't find or get to the ones you have...like brackets...or sunscreen)

Items in bold happened this time around. Bill probably has a few more things to add. I'm sure I've already repressed a few memories.

Humility and Acts of Mercy

I've been feeling pretty badly for Kate Wicker who is taking lots of heat for having the nerve to feed her baby the way God intended.

I'm also angry that that statement would be viewed as controversial. I do not care what your personal choice is, nor do I mean to disparage those who could not breastfeed. But having the technology to safely raise healthy babies (intelligence and creativity being wonderful gifts from God) does not negate the fact that we are mammals and mammals feed their young with mother's milk. I have had my own difficulties in breastfeeding (you can search my blog for my many posts on this topic), and I am grateful for bottles, formula and safe drinking water that got me and my daughters through several rough months.

You can read all about Kate's issues on her blog. It started here (long post), continued here with a link to her column at Inside Catholic (this really got the fire going), and has more here and here.

If you have time, I also recommend this article which talks about the Vatican calling for more images of the Blessed Virgin breastfeeding the baby Jesus. Kate linked to it as well.

What's the hullabaloo? Kate confessed that she nurses her babies at Mass.

And now she's getting hate mail. Apparently, she is a stumbling block of sin for those attending Mass with her. I wrote about stumbling blocks of sin one other time. I think I need to expand on that topic.

If you read no other works by G. K. Chesterton, I suggest at least that you read his Father Brown mysteries. Father Brown is a Catholic Sherlock Holmes, solving crimes with reason, humor and, above all, with charity. Packed in each short story are lessons in Church teaching as well as the practical application of the virtues.

In Hammer of God, which I quote in the header of my blog, Father Brown is investigating the death of an evil man, crushed with incredible force by a blacksmith's anvil.

"Look at that blacksmith, for instance," went on Father Brown calmly; "a good man, but not a Christian--hard, imperious, unforgiving. Well, his Scotch religion was made up by men who prayed on hills and high crags, and learnt to look down on the world more than to look up at heaven. Humility is the mother of giants. One sees great things from the valley; only small things from the peak."

But it isn't the blacksmith who committed murder, it was the dead man's brother, a pastor, who loathed his brother's arrogant sins.

After a moment he resumed, looking tranquilly out over the plain with his pale grey eyes. "I knew a man," he said, "who began by worshipping with others before the altar, but who grew fond of high and lonely places to pray from, corners or niches in the belfry or the spire. And once in one of those dizzy places, where the whole world seemed to turn under him like a wheel, his brain turned also, and he fancied he was God. So that, though he was a good man, he committed a great crime."

Wilfred's face was turned away, but his bony hands turned blue and white as they tightened on the parapet of stone.

"He thought it was given to him to judge the world and strike down the sinner. He would never have had such a thought if he had been kneeling with other men upon a floor. But he saw all men walking about like insects. He saw one especially strutting just below him, insolent and evident by a bright green hat--a poisonous insect."

Rooks cawed round the corners of the belfry; but there was no other sound till Father Brown went on.

"This also tempted him, that he had in his hand one of the most awful engines of nature; I mean gravitation, that mad and quickening rush by which all earth's creatures fly back to her heart when released. See, the inspector is strutting just below us in the smithy. If I were to toss a pebble over this parapet it would be something like a bullet by the time it struck him. If I were to drop a hammer--even a small hammer--"

Wilfred Bohun threw one leg over the parapet, and Father Brown had him in a minute by the collar.

"Not by that door," he said quite gently; "that door leads to hell."

Bohun staggered back against the wall, and stared at him with frightful eyes.

"How do you know all this?" he cried. "Are you a devil?"

"I am a man," answered Father Brown gravely; "and therefore have all devils in my heart. Listen to me," he said after a short pause. "I know what you did--at least, I can guess the great part of it. When you left your brother you were racked with no
unrighteous rage, to the extent even that you snatched up a small hammer, half inclined to kill him with his foulness on his mouth. Recoiling, you thrust it under your buttoned coat instead, and rushed into the church. You pray wildly in many places, under the angel window, upon the platform above, and a higher platform still, from which you could see the colonel's Eastern hat like the back of a green beetle crawling about. Then something snapped in your soul, and you let God's thunderbolt fall."

In Catholic catechism, we learn the Spiritual Works of Mercy:

• instruct the ignorant
• counsel the doubtful
• admonish sinners
• bear wrongs patiently
• forgive offenses willingly
• comfort the afflicted
• pray for the living and the dead

Too often, it seems that good, holy men and women are willing to stand up and do the first three, but are less noticeable in their practice of the latter four. It seems that those most upset at the concept of women nursing during Mass took personal offense that a woman might arouse lustful thoughts by her actions. Sinner! they admonished. Did they stop to pray first, both for Kate and for themselves that their words would be of the Holy Spirit? Did they patiently accept that Kate was wrong and hope to soften her heart to the Truth, or did they blaze on ahead in full confidence of their position and with no regard for Kate's feelings and those of other mothers?

Good evangelization meets someone where she is and shows her the direction to go. This can never be accomplished in the comments section of an article or blog post. This requires dialogue. Kate, don't you think it would be better to go to the restroom? Aren't you concerned about someone seeing your breast? Aren't you distracted from the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass? What about those around you?

Interestingly enough, I didn't notice any anecdotal arguments. Nobody said they saw a woman nursing her child and was distracted. Nobody said their teen aged son was gawking at a woman breastfeeding. I wonder if any of these complainers have ever actually seen a woman nurse her child discreetly. My guess is that they have, they just don't know it.

Personally, the few times I am able to attend Mass without the distraction of my own little children, I hardly notice the antics of others. My focus is on the ambo or the altar, or my head is bowed in reverence. I am not looking around, at least I shouldn't be. If I am, it is my problem, and it is up to me to refocus. Yes, the screaming child is difficult to ignore. Yes, the toy banging on the pew is irritating. So, too, are the women whispering through the consecration as they make plans for after Mass. So, too, is the man with the hacking cough. So, too, is the altar serving snoozing through the homily. Deal with it. You can let the distractions keep you from worshipping God by festering anger in your heart toward those around you, or you can thank God for the opportunity to offer an even greater sacrifice than simply your attendance at Mass.


As for me, I did not nurse my first child at Mass. I spent the majority of Mass in the bathroom where there was no chair. I balanced against the wall, holding the baby in my fatigued arms.

I did not nurse my second child at Mass. I went to the bathroom, and my older son threw a fit because mommy was gone. On the frequent weekends when my husband was off serving the country, I tearfully did not attend Mass at all, because I would have to wrangle a screaming infant and a toddler by myself.

I nursed my third child in the pew, and everybody was happy.

To not nurse during Mass means that I miss Mass. And I would have missed most Masses for the last ten years. That just doesn't seem right. In fact, I have been commanded by God and the Church to attend Mass with no excuse for nursing a baby that I see mentioned. Does not that command trump my obligation to avoid causing others the near occasion of sin?

There must be something about the month of July that gets people all in a dander about breasts. Perhaps they recoil from too much skin at the pool, and they take it out on nursing mothers. Last year, there was furor over a magazine cover. I wrote about it here (pretty good stuff, if I do say so myself). I'm tired of the Puritan mindset which seeks not only to label every innocent act as sinful, but which also places the blame of personal sin on the behavior of others. Although I need to be discreet in nursing, I should not have to shut myself off from society to take care of my child. The casual observer has an obligation to put my child's legitimate need for food above his personal standard of modesty. Look away, say a prayer, and get a grip.

And how does one admonish sinners without becoming a stumbling block of sin oneself? That is the power of the virtue of humility. Once we can stop looking down from on high at the annoying bugs committing sins, we can direct our friends' attention to the glory up above.

Budding Exterminator

We have sugar ants having a grand time in my kitchen. Bill asked at the pharmacy for boric acid, but they were out. Odd.

I really can't stand the ants, but Petey loves them.

"They're my friends," he says. "See, they're friendly!" Not only does he enjoy letting them crawl up his arm, he's actually lain down on the floor in the middle of the swarm.

Does that make you queasy? Trust me, it is much much worse to actually witness it than to simply read about it.

Pete went with me to the grocery store, and I picked up some of those Raid ant baits. He wanted to know what they were. How could I tell them they were poison? I lied. Yes, I lied, and I don't feel bad about it at all. I said it was ant food.

He saw the box earlier today and expressed a desire to feed his little friends. I told him to wait until Daddy came home. When Bill got back from his errand (he's off today), Peter remembered right away.

So, Peter helped Daddy kill feed the ants.

I really hope he doesn't remember this when he's older.

Sometimes a little information is a dangerous thing

Mary has been sick for the last three or four days. This morning, she woke up with a rash. I used a handy reference book I have with a flow chart, and I concluded, based on the questions answered as best as I could, that she has measles.

Now she's not even 9 months old, and children are not routinely immunized for measles until one year, so she does not have that protection.

Online, I researched measles and found this site with a drawing of a child with measles. Her rash is no where near that dark, but it does have that same mottled look.

Measles, though, is not something that spontaneously springs from your body. You have to get it somewhere. Since it is spread through coughing and sneezing, I know that I could have picked up virus droplets in any public place and transferred them to her. She could have picked them up in a grocery cart or while banging her hands on the church pew.

Looking at measles cases in the U.S. brought me to this article from last month which states that there have been 72 cases of measles so far this year (and this article shows that one person in Fairfax, VA, which is in my general vicinity, brought measles over from India).

There is one comment on the News-Medical article:

I would rather my autistic son had died of measles than live the shadow of a life that he is destined for with his condition. Autism robbed him of his soul.

This is so sad. I cannot imagine the difficulties of raising an autistic child, especially one who seemed normal and suddenly had problems. I also cannot imagine the emptiness of losing a child. I do not think the grass is green on either side of this fence.

I don't really think that Mary has measles. The virus that has given her a fever for several days now was given to her by her siblings, two of whom have not been immunized for measles and neither of whom broke out in any rash. Besides that, she just hasn't seemed very sick. Sick, but not measly.

I'll keep an eye on her, and I'll pray that she gets better soon. And I'll pray for the autistic son and his parents, that they find healing: if not physical, then emotional.

Katie-isms

Said earnestly:

"Mommy! I taught Mary how to count to ten! I said one, and she said Eh! I said two, and she said Eh! I said three, and she said Eh! ..."


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At the dinner table:

"I am going to do something inappropriate."

belch

Do I thank her for the warning? Chastise her for her vulgar behavior? Praise her for an excellent word choice? And can you tell she has older brothers?


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Months ago, the kids all received brown scapulars at Little Flowers and Blue Knights. These are plasticy, rosary ones with a crucifix and tiny knots along the whole length. It's sized for an adult, too, so when worn, hangs well below a child's waist. Of all my kids, Katie has persisted longest in wearing hers. She has never taken it off: not in the bath, not at the pool.

Yesterday, I took her to a ballet class to see what level was good for her and if she liked it. I warned her that she might not be able to wear the scapular during class.

Tearfully, she said, "But Mommy, I promised God I would never take it off!"

So sweet!

But when I saw her in her leotard, I really felt that it shouldn't be worn. Not only did it protrude in the back and hang obviously around her neck, it bulged in the front where the excess length pooled around her tummy. I gently told her to take it off just for class. I felt horrible.

Anybody else have to deal with something like this? Scapulars are meant to be worn under clothing. They aren't intended for public display. The leotard is a standard leotard and not immodest (for a leotard), but you can't wear anything under a leotard without it being noticed.

I myself struggled with this issue when I was going to a military ball with Bill. My medal scapular hung low on my neck, but looked really silly outside my dress or inside and partially exposed. I finally bought a pretty necklace with a short string of blue freshwater pearls and a small silver cross.

Perhaps for Katie I should stitch a small woolen scapular inside her leotard?

Book Review

Happy Independence Day!

In honor of those who serve our country silently, I offer this book review of While They're at War: The True Story of American Families on the Homefront by Kristin Henderson.

Let's get one thing straight

I get a little annoyed when my kids throw garbage on the floor of the van. Normally, I discourage the consumption of food and drink while driving, and my kids know not to even ask for ketchup if they are lucky enough to get a drive-through meal. Despite this, the floor of the van looks like the inside of my toaster mixed with a city street following a ticker-tape parade.

I persevere in my efforts to keep the van in order, and even on our long journey East reminded my children to be tidy. At one stop, I handed out lollipops and waved a plastic bag at Jenny. "This is for trash," I told her as I placed it within arm's reach.

Back on the road, I hear Peter announce matter-of-factly: "Garbage!" He's my best one for keeping things neat and putting trash in the proper receptacles. But he couldn't reach the trash bag.

When his words fell on deaf ears, he repeated it: "Garbage!"

Nothing.

"Garbage!"

Nothing.

"Garbage!" Same tone, same volume, same response. The kids were engrossed in a video and all other sights and sounds were blocked.

Up front, I had finally had enough. I turned the volume down on the movie (that always gets their attention), and said, "Jenny! Please take the trash from your brother. You have the bag."

"I.am NOT.the GARBAGE WOMAN!"

Well, now. Peter threw the wrapper on the floor.

Time Warp

Somebody asked: "When did that happen?"

I answered: "A long, long time ago."

In unison, Fritz and Billy pipe up: "In a galaxy far, far away."

Birthday Do-Over

Petey was in a moderately better mood today. We have had some virus pass through the family - fever and headache - and he did have it. His whole world has been turned upside down with the stress of moving, vacationing in strange places with strange people, and now setting up shop in a new locale. And unlike his siblings, he doesn't remember the old friends we're seeing again.

It's rough.

But by the time came for cake today, he was plenty happy and ready for the singing of songs and the blowing out of candles.

Let's talk about that cake, shall we? Poor pathetic cake.

I really planned to make it through all my children's birthdays with just a plain old cake. Maybe some sprinkles. Good enough for me as a kid, good enough for them, right?

But somewhere along the way (recently), I got it into my head that I could do something fancier. How hard could it be?

Well...

I've watched Ace of Cakes a few times, and never have I seen six little monkeys and a dog running wild through the shop. Nor have I seen a clingy infant or a miserable tot hanging to a baker's leg as he tries to put the batter in the oven.

That a 13 x 9 pan of cake batter got baked was the first miraculous accomplishment. Then when the birthday boy saw me cutting the cake into a car shape, he pretty much lost it. His older sister had in her head that I was putting matchbox cars on top of the cake (Billy had put pinewood derby cars on a cake for Scouts), so she convinced him that was the plan. I kept correcting them, but to no avail.

I should have just put the cars on the cake. Much easier. Fewer tears all around.

Somehow I managed to get the cake iced. I think the older kids were left to amuse the baby, and I plunked Peter on the counter and told him that I was going to ice his cake whether he liked it or not. He watched. He licked icing. He declared it, and the cake, good.

But the kitchen was hot and humid and there are few spots safe from the beast, so I put the cake in the freezer, which was fine, except that the plate it was on was too big to fit next to the ice maker, so it was sort of balanced on top of some partially empty Popsicle boxes in order to fit.

Okay, so yes, I am the one who booby-trapped the freezer for an unsuspecting 4 year old who only wanted to get a pancake out. We didn't have that cake after dinner, so it stayed there all night, waiting for it's victim. This morning, she opened the freezer door, and out it tumbled to the ground shattering the dish.

I wept. It was only 830 in the morning.

Fortunately, the cake was frozen, so I could salvage it, sort of.

We have two birthdays coming in August. Oh boy, I can't wait to see what adventures they bring to my kitchen.

New Month's Resolution for July

You'll be pleased to know, I did, in fact, successfully keep my June resolution. I also increased Bill's life insurance policy, and make no promises of a similar nature for July.

Just kidding.

I didn't really change his life insurance policy.


This month, I resolve to spend at least 5 minutes every weekday straightening my desk. On a good day, my desk looks like this. I'm tired of it.

I was going to resolve to spend 15 minutes every day on it. But I try to keep things realistic. Not every day, I thought. Not the weekends. Okay, weekdays.

Not fifteen minutes, I argued. Surely ten is fine. No, wait, if I do it every weekday, surely five is more than sufficient.

Besides, I can have high standards, and fail...or low standards and succeed. And this month, I'm in need of some low standards. Five minutes a weekday it is.

Of course, federal holidays are excluded.


What is a New Month's Resolution? Every month I look at where I need to focus my attention. Perhaps I've been procrastinating on certain chores. Perhaps I need to spend some extra time with one or more of the kids. Perhaps I'd like to try a new habit. New Month's Resolutions are not grandiose plans to lose ten pounds or declutter the entire house or give up smoking (of course, I don't smoke, but if I did, this would not be the venue in which I would give it up). New Month's resolutions are short-term commitments; they are easily attained goals; they focus on what is needed right now, instead of what is best for a lifetime.

Do you have a new month's resolution?

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