Building Up

I just don't want to get in the way of who my kids are supposed to be. 


An older mom in my bookclub summed up her parenting philosophy in this one sentence. She, who has 2 daughters married, 4 grandchildren, and her youngest a mere 8 years old, is always someone I keep tabs on. I listen extra hard when she speaks. I like her family, love her kids, and want to know more, always more. But she is reluctant. She doesn't have all the answers...


Not a single one of us does.


I look back at the early years with my most erm... challenging.... child. That would be Little Boo.

She entered the world innocently enough.


Then, as she grew older, and her personality emerged, she totally rocked it.

She became THAT child.

The child who needed to push the buttons on the microwave to warm her bottle.
The child who would put her own shirt on, backwards if need be thankyouverymuch.

The child who could feed herself, climb up and down from the table by herself, and wash her hands... all by herself.

The child who insisted on buckling herself in her car seat. Even though she had tried 24 times to do it and failed. Even though her siblings were ready to scream in frustration. Even though her mom wanted to leave, no one was allowed to MOVE (esp the car... don't even THINK about inching down the driveway while she's attempting time #25...) until she is securely buckled. (damn those 3-point harnesses)

THAT was my Little Boo.

And now....

Now, my Little Boo is a true joy, genuinely funny, and a real help. She comes out with the best comments. She has a hilarious outlook on life. She was a huge help with Little Dude during his fussiest moments. And lately, she has been known to come home from school, dump her stuff in the home school room, and scrub the entire kitchen top to bottom. Just because she wanted to.

How did this metamorphosis occur?

I wish I had an answer. I wish I could say I followed thus and such philosophy of parenting. I wish I could point you to THAT book that was the key to our seeming (read: insert huge disclaimer here) success.

It was nothing I did. I think it was more what I didn't do.

I went with it. Whatever she thought she could do, as long as it wasn't dangerous, I let her do it.
Case in point...  At the age of 2, she was climbing in and out of her crib at 3 in the morning, turning all the lights on in the house and playing. To me, that was dangerous. She could have probably opened the front door and walked down the street. So, we bought a crib tent and zipped her in it every night.
But by the age of 3 and a half? She slept on the top bunk of the bunk beds she shared with Little Dear. I knew she could climb steadily and would not fall. She was definitely the more sure-footed one of the two. And? She stayed in bed... no night time wanderings.

The car seat fiascos? Sigh. Yes.... every time we had to go somewhere, we got in the car 15 minutes before we had to leave just so she could buckle herself. I know some of you are shaking your heads... sucker, you are saying. Well, Little Boo would scream for HOURS if I buckled her in. Trust me, we tried quite a few times... and I do NOT exaggerate. It would be HOURS of shrill screaming. An extra 15 minutes was worth hours of peace and happiness, as far as I was concerned.

I guess my philosophy was a lot like the mom I admire. I didn't want to break Little Boo's spirit. I didn't want to mess it up. I wanted to form her and mold her as best as my fumbling hands could. 

I'm not perfect. I know there were things I could have done better. But God has abundantly blessed my meager efforts. Little Boo is a very driven little girl. She is super organized, and very diligent with her school work. So much so that putting her in school was a necessity. The fluidity of homeschooling would have killed her. It was, in fact, frustrating her to no end.

Her competitiveness is apparent on the soccer field. She plays on 2 teams, still. She loves it. And while she is competitive, she is also a fiercely loyal friend. If people are not kind, or the other team is too rough, she goes into defensive mode like nobody's business. She sticks up for her friends and gives back what the other team dishes out. She is not afraid to make a stand.

Her gentleness reveals itself in her ability to identify with others and their feelings. She is very sensitive, and sometimes with her hilarious comments and toughie exterior, I forget that. But she senses when others have been wronged, and comes to me... concerned. She doesn't always get it right. Sometimes she makes assumptions about intentions that aren't there... we are working on that. But at least her intuition is being honed. And I love that she feels comfortable enough to chat with me about it all.


They are all so delightfully unique. And there are no pat answers.
If you have your own Little Boo, and are in the thick of it... hang in there!
I know it can be daunting....

And yet... the peace of knowing that no matter what, God blesses our efforts, He knows our hearts...

When we get a glimpse of the fruits? It's such an awesome thing.

:)

When Approaching This Child... A Repost

from the archives...



Looking back at the change that has taken place in me these past 14 years, the transformation from a know-it-all college grad into a full-fledged mother... I am astounded.

Astounded that God has taken a self- absorbed, self-seeking individual and achieved a metamorphosis that seemed at one time to be impossible.

When DH and I were first married, it seemed a natural result of the love we had for each other, to extend it to a third party. Within our first month of marriage, we acquired a cat.

:)

To our defense, we were eager to have children, but God's timing was to postpone that event. Of course, He truly knew best. We conceived Action Man at the end of my first year teaching, and gave birth to him during my second year. I squeaked through that year, bringing him to school with me, directing the play, and just barely surviving the insanity of it all. DH graduated with his MBA, and I never worked outside of the home again.

My work took what I thought to be an alarming turn. You'd think that being the oldest of 6, I would have some sort of an inkling of what I was getting myself into.

Nope. I was pretty clueless. (remember how self-centered I said I was?? yeah. God had his work cut out for Him.)

And so, when Action Man reared his screaming head, I was stunned. I was even more flabbergasted when I realized that this screaming thing was here to stay. God had seen fit to bless my first born with a severe case of colic. Unable to nurse, spending gobs of money on formula, working my tail off while recovering from an emergency c-section, I was a wreck.

In short, God threw me to my knees.

Which is where He wanted me all along.

In blessing me with such a needy child, and then 2 more births in quick succession, God was going cold turkey on me in the selfishness cure. No "miracle patch" for me. No siree. I suddenly found myself surrounded by irrationality with no time to read, write or pee. My only vivid memory of that time was the three of them: Action Man, Sports Fan and Little Dear (ages almost 3, 1, and 2 months respectively) lined up on my bed, ready for their diaper change. Yes, three in diapers at once. It's quite a war story.

It's also a love story.

God was pursuing me. He sought to change me, to mold me into something better, a more productive worker for the harvest of souls. He knew that the only way he could force me outside of myself was to place a loved one in my care. And just for insurance, to place many little loved ones in my care. He knew that a mother cannot ignore the needs of her child. That the midnight wail, the hourly call to duty would not fail to re-mold a heart hardened by selfishness. That the first bend to another happens automatically in the will of a new mother. An eagerness to serve, to soothe the cries and nourish the heart, soul, and stomach of this precious child comes first without a second thought.

Until, overnight it seems, this clueless 20-something woman is transformed.

It is no wonder, then, that the awesomeness of God comes to us in the tender form of the infant Jesus. Who can deny Him his due? Who can turn away from His cries? Who can refuse Him?

“There is nothing more mysterious than infancy, nothing so small and yet so imperious. The infancy of Christ has opened a way to us by which we can surrender self to Him absolutely, without putting too much pressure on our weak human nature.”

(Wood of the Cradle, Wood of the Cross)

God, in His all-knowing, all-merciful way, chooses to come to us humbled and makes it easy for us to submit. He coaxes us to bend our ways ever so gently towards His will by having us first gaze into the eyes of the Christ-Child. We forget ourselves and all of our grandiose plans, and instead look for ways to please this most precious infant, even to the point of radically re-shaping our entire lives.

:)

Ethan These Days

The last in my insanely long series....  :)

Ethan is our Action Man.  But I seriously think I need to change his blog name to Sleeping Man.  When Ethan turned 13, the dynamics of our home and family took on a whole new charism.

For example.  It seems we now own a humongous St. Bernard.  Ethan shot up like nobody's business these last 6 months and is almost as tall as I am.  With his new height and long limbs comes the interesting feat of having them all constantly under control.  Alas, our new yearling behaves much like a bull in a china shop.  All brawn, no brains.  We will hear various thumps and bumps, and all of us run expecting to see some maimed corpse at the bottom of the stairs, only to find.... yes, it was Ethan, and yes, he fell.... but it was... up the stairs.

:P

The sleep patterns.  Oy, the sleeping patterns.  How they have changed. We now have a nighttime wanderer.  I'll be half-asleep, dying to get into bed, schlepping around getting drinks of water or blankies or whatever, and suddenly a beam of light hits me full in the face.  Just when I think the aliens have come for sure, Ethan's scratchy voice assails me with some hair-brained idea for fixing the whachermacallit and he's off, bounding to the garage, headlamp sending bouncing beams of light everywhere.  He's like his own disco ball and dance partner, rolled into one.

He eats. Does he ever eat! Actually the question should be... does he ever stop eating?   I restrict snacks with the other kids, but not him.  He is constantly hungry.  Period.  I've given up trying to "solve" the hunger problem. I just tell him to go find something to munch on.  And he does.  Pickles, bananas, peanut butter, eggs... it doesn't matter, he'll try anything.  I'm just happy if we can make it an hour between binges. And, as long as he doesn't eat up the dinner I'm hoping to serve that evening, I'm thrilled.

:P

This is the child that tears at my heart the most.  What can I expect? He is the oldest.

Every time I turn around, he is breaking new ground.  There was one particular incident that occurred right around the time Little Dude was born.  Suffice it to say that liberties were taken and trust was broken.  I was devastated.  Yes, probably overreacting, but it broke my heart. Ethan was penitent. Extremely so.  The result was that our relationship has never been the same.  In fact, it has grown exponentially.  Surprising?  Yes.  And I would not have a re-do for all the world over.

 

There is an understanding and a softening of his eyes when I look at him during one of our (many) "trying" moments.  He seems to suddenly remember "that time" my trust was wounded and wanting... and instantly he backs off. He seems to know that having Mom on his side is more important than being "right" and, wanting to preserve the relationship, he acquieces to whatever maddening demand I am making on his time.  He has grown up quite a bit.

Ethan has weathered a few other storms recently.  He played baseball this past spring. I was strangely quiet about that on this blog. We'll just say that he learned a lot.  He learned that even adults do and say ridiculous things. That some people never quite grow up and will forever have a chip on their shoulder.  He also learned that most of the language one hears in a dugout filled with teenagers is not for the ears of siblings, as he deftly would persuade his sisters to sit at the other end of the bleachers during games, and could I please make sure they didn't hang around when he was out on the field? He never complained, was never made fun of, was never cast out... he just dealt with it.  I was very proud of him for that.

And I was very glad that his Dad was there with him, every step of the way.

I still worry.  This is my oldest.  He has so much more ground to cover, so many more goals to reach.  I wonder if he will succeed.  Have we taught him enough? Does he understand how cold and cruel life can be?  Is he ready to venture out?  Yes, I worry a lot.

His first step out comes this fall.  He will go to school, and I will not cry.

But I will be a stronghold for him.

Because, you see, I've got his back.

I know that he knows that.

And I think that will make all the difference in the world.

Another "Rejected by Employer" Poem...

I should note that this one was "rejected" because it was deemed too complex for 5th graders.  Given the ones my 1st grader has to memorize, I disagree.  I'm not holding the purse-strings, however.....
:P

HOPPITY-HO

Peter the Rabbit is showing his skin

His cousin did once realize.

He served him tomatoes

And day-old potatoes

But couldn’t increase his size.

To the garden we go, hoppity-ho!

But his mother shivered and shook,

"No! No! If you do,

They’ll turn you to stew

For the wife, she's a fiery cook!"

The cousin did scoff, as he said in reply,

"Dear Auntie, you must worry so.

That silly old farmer

Though not quite the charmer,

Is hopelessly feeble and slow."

So Cousin and Peter did set off in haste

To fool the Farmer just so.

What they failed to consider

Was that he’s just no quitter

And he’d learned to jump: hoppity-ho!

:)

Noah These Days

Yes, I am still plowing through this series.  It has taken me quite a bit longer than I had hoped.  By the time I'm finished, I'll have to start all over again, since Little Dude will surely be walking or heading off to college.

:P

Noah is our Sports Fan.  He has always been drawn to sports, particularly sports heroes.  He was the first to be attracted to super heroes as well. His first super hero-love was Buzz Lightyear.  We joke that one time during mass, DH picked up our two year old mop of blonde curls and he raised one arm over his head and lifted one knee in perfect Buzz imitation.  Made me giggle uncontrollably. How cute that he thought his Papa could lift him to "infinity and beyond."

Noah is at a tough spot right now, I won't deny that.  At the age of 11, he is on the cusp of those teen years.  He's caught dead in the middle between still wanting me to snug with him, and then holding me at arm's length, his blue eyes sharp and unyielding. He nurses a constant chip on his shoulder, sarcasm being his defense mechanism.  It's difficult sometimes to peel back the layer that he has built up, to penetrate the wall.  Lately, DH and I have made the extra effort to "collect" this child.  And our diligence is paying off.  He is eager to remain in the fold of our family, but constantly tests our hearts. And that's not a bad thing, either. It reminds me of my priorities as a mom.  That I cannot push my children to the side, no matter what deadline or last-minute interruption has sprung up.  This young man keeps me in check. Although I still have a lot to learn.

Noah plays soccer in our city league.  He's on a team of mostly new kids.  He is also one of 3 non-Spanish speaking kids.  I watched him during his first practice, his arms folded, only half-kicking the ball, eyes bored.  His coach was yelling instructions in Spanish, and Noah turned away, frustrated. I watched the coach. He's an outstanding coach.  After practice, Noah and I had a chat.  He wasn't quitting. (but, oh! How easy my schedule would be if he did! :P) He was going to milk this for all he could.  This coach knows what he's doing, I told him. If he could stick it out, and go 110% at every practice, his game would skyrocket, I could guarantee it. Noah's eyes lit up.  He has been giving it his best shot, and yesterday at his game, I saw him deek around the other team's forwards, jumping over cleats and sending the ball to his own front line.  A little rough aorund the edges, but it's there, I thought.  Good.

He is the older brother I go to when I need help with Little Dude.  Noah is a natural when it comes to caring and nurturing the others.  He sees with a provider's eye, and steps in when I need him to.  Of course, he's not always as gracious as I'd like him to be... we're working on that.  Mostly, though he sees the need and delivers.

I am proud of this young man.  He has grown so much.

If I can only keep him close while encouraging him to explore new horizons.


:)

A Heart Unguarded

I have a long history with heartaches.  From the moment I enetered grade school, I wore my heart on my sleeve.  I often opened myself up to people who would prove to be less than ideal friends. My parents endured many days and nights of tears... betrayals and meanness... it was always the same story.

I don't think I have changed that much.  I still wear my heart on my sleeve.  I go out of my way to befriend, and be friendly.  I've learned that not all will appreciate my friendship, that there will be moments of heartbreak, of disappointment.  I also know that I am broken, a fallen creature.  I will make mistakes, will unknowingly offend, will be a less than perfect companion.  And that makes me grateful for the friends that I do have, that have stuck it out with me, warts and all.

I've found, when embarking upon a new adventure, or a new friendship, I have a choice.  Do I guard my heart?  Do I lower my eyes and offer little... or do I meet the newcomer face-to-face and plunge right into the dialogue?  Do I put myself out there, my arms and heart open?

In my family, do I spend time with my aging grandparents... do I make the effort to conect and re-connect?  Do I spare myself the ache of separation, of sorrow at their passing and remain aloof?

Similarly, when that extra pink line appears... how do I react?  In fear and trepidation?  Or with joyous welcome, no matter what the cost?

So it goes for friendships.  Do I spare myself the pain of being misunderstood, misjudged and ignored... and simply fade into the background?  But then. Then I will miss out on the joy of being known, of being treasured and loved.  I will miss out on the opportunities to be generous and giving, to grow in ways unimaginable.

Besides, I've seen what happens when I put myself out there.  I've experienced some pretty amazing things.  I've met some awesome people, and heard some unbelievable stories.  And it has all become a part of me.  I'd like to think I've left a bit of myself behind, something for the other person to take with them, something inspiring, something good. 

Oh how I hope I've left them something good.

Who Will Lift You Up?

A year and a half ago, I wrote an entire series of my trip home to NY for the funeral of  my Grandfather.

Here.
Here.
Here.

And the one I want to focus on is here.

The one where I remember (so vividly, still!) the picture I have stored in my mind of my ten male cousins, bearing my Grandfather to his final resting place. Their faces, so stern... their backs, so proud.  The casket, laden with the American flag.  It was a scene of pride and sorrow.  I will never forget it.

And now, with the passing of my Grandmother, less than two weeks ago, the story behind the picture has been revealed.

Apparently, the director of the funeral home was in a bit of tizzy regarding the number of pallbearers.  He "had words" with my older cousin, fussing over the enormous amount of young men who would be carrying the casket.  My older cousin looked him in the eye and told him to "deal with it."  In other words, buddy, we all will be sharing this honor.  No one will be left out.  You have ten pallbearers.  Just deal.

And again, when my Grandmother was laid to rest... these same ten young men would carry her, ever-so-gently, to her place beside my Grandfather. Not having been there, I can only imagine the care and love with which they did their duty.  Yet once again, the funeral director was forced to stretch his resources in accommodating such a large number of pallbearers.  And from what I heard, he wasn't too pleased.  He normally doesn't have this many... it isn't the normal protocol....

Which got me thinking.

How many old people, Grandmothers and Grandfathers, die alone?  How many are carried to the graveside by strangers?  How does this happen?  Is it the person's fault?  Is it indicative of the lives they have led?  Or more indicative of those who were supposed to love them to the end?

And what a witness, to the type of people my Grandparents were.  The funeral home was packed at all the viewings, likewise the church for the funeral mass.  Their love for each other gave life to a whopping 26 grandchildren... 10 of whom were strapping boys.  Boys who grew up to be strong young men.  Strong enough to lift the burden of love to it's final rest.

It is something for all of us to think about.... to ponder.  When it comes down to it, when it comes to the final end...

When love is all that is left...

Who will lift you up?

A Blessedly Ordinary Birth Story

Looking out of my two eyes, I saw my feet, for, perhaps, the first time in awhile.  I felt the weight that they had to bear, the unyielding gravitational pull.  And I felt my knees weaken at this pressure.  For the first time in my life, my earthly body seemed nothing less than a burden.  A burden to be borne and endured, not adorned and arrayed.  And I could truly whisper to myself that the promise of the Kingdom to come is surely a blessing and a welcome comfort.

~Nutmeg, 2004

I started blogging when Little Love was 8 months old.  The above was written by me in my (handwritten!) journal after a particularly difficult c-section recovery with her.  I had gained a lot of weight that pregnancy, and the after-effects of the pain medication, coupled with an extremely colicky baby was taking it's toll.  Throw in my stair-stepped children (ages 2,4,5 and 7) and I was seriously pushing the limit of my sanity.  Other moms are more resilient, I'm sure.  But #5 drove me to my knees.  Don't get me wrong, I was so thrilled to have my Little Love.  A traumatic miscarriage one month before conceiving her had cured me of any selfish doubts.  But it was by far the most difficult recovery I've ever had.


Naturally, I've been gun shy ever since.  After Little Dude's existence was made known to us, I was thrilled, but cautious.  Ok, who am I kidding... I was scared sh*tless.   I did not want to go through the fear and anxiety I experienced during the surgery... did not want the horrific recovery... did not want the colicky baby with acid reflux.  I wasn't sure that all of my longing for another little one would turn out to be the best thing for us.

*smile*

The morning of Little Dude's scheduled birth, I explained to DH my need for some Mama time.  I needed to shower, to do my hair, to accomplish some detailed grooming... because I knew it would be at least a week before I would be strong enough to give any attention to detail in regards to personal hygiene.  Sorry, (tmi?) but surgery recovery is no picnic.  And I knew it.

Surprisingly, I was calm.  Begging for prayers from all corners of the internet and real world friends, I was amazed at the effects. I had a game plan, and was following it to the letter.  Baby steps, I decided.  Take one thing at a time.  First step, pack.  Next step, get to the hospital.  And so on from there. At each turn, I would take a deep breath and submit.  Hospital gown?  check.  I.V. line?  check.  Scary consult with the Anesthetist? You betcha. Throughout all of this, my mind focused on something I had read that morning.  A poor woman had revealed on the Faith and Family blog that her husband was caught in the throes of a porn addiction.  My heart ached for her, and I was moved to promise her that I would offer up my sufferings that day for her. Oh, to think that maybe my meager sufferings could aid in his release from that bondage!  My resolve was hardened.

The peace was unbelievable.

There were moments of pain and panic, I will not lie.  I have a slight scoliosis in the base of my spine, and the positioning of the epidural was tricky... and painful.  Having the anesthesiologist ask you which nerves were spazzing out as he pushed the needle one way or the other?  Yeah.  Not pleasant.  Lying down on your side to let the medicine have easier access to that one side that wasn't quite numbing properly? Wondering if they'd have to redo it?  And what about the surgery?  Eeeek.  Yes, there were moments of panic.  DH was not allowed in to the O.R. at that point either.  I had forgotten about that.  He would not be allowed in until I was numbed and the sheet was positioned.  And that added to my anxiety.  To be suffering and in pain and confusion without my stronghold beside me.  That was probably the hardest part. But I remembered my resolve.  I was determined to hang on to my peace.  And the prayers carried me through.

And as the medicine took effect, DH was ushered in.  He took my hand and smiled.

My arms were outstretched and the words of Our Lord took root in me. This is my body... given up for you.  I was fully living this truth at the time that the first incision was recorded.

During the surgery, with all of it's strange sounds and smells, I had my eyes closed.  My doctor asked how I was doing, and the nurse anesthetist said I was smiling.  Strange, huh.  I was thinking about Little Dude, and how we would meet him soon.  And I couldn't wait.

The moment I heard Little Dude... the tears sprang up, unexpectedly.  And as I laughed them away, I remembered that I always cry when I first hear those wails.  They wrapped him up and laid him on my outstretched arm, close enough so I could kiss his face.  My arms still immobile, DH held him in place for me. As my doctors finished their work, I lost all sense of time just gazing at his face.  And during recovery, the protocol at the hospital is for complete skin on skin time.  Having him nurse and snuggling him close made the time go by quickly.  I can barely remember my doctor checking in on me before he headed home.  Something about how it all went well.... and then he was gone.


My doctor.   A few words about him.  He is Catholic, Pro-life and NFP-only.  Knowing that the man who was performing the surgery was most likely in the state of grace gave me a confidence that I hadn't thought of before.  I could almost picture the guardian angels guiding his hands.  He is meticulous.  So much so that he refuses to deliver his own children... afraid that his emotions would cause him to lose focus.  He plays the role of dad then... but for us, he was all business.  And I just love him for that.

After I was home a few days, and reflecting on how God's grace and many prayers carried me through each hurdle of recovery.... (first time up, first shower, removal of bandages, then removal of staples, etc) It dawned on me that it's really all about trust.  Trust in God.  Trust in your caregivers.  Being rolled from the operating table to the recovery bed and then onto my hospital bed.... ever had that done?  They tip you on your side, then lift you by the sheets and plop you on the other bed.  I was completely numb, staring at the floor, as they tipped me one way, and then another.  Totally helpless.  But I had to trust.  If I freaked out just a little, tried to steady myself with my arms... then the IV bag would have gone flying, and in their surprise, the nurses may have lost their grip on me.  And those nurses?  They are good. Protecting my dignity, soothing my fears, all while letting you know that this is routine.  It's done all the time.  And while you are uniquely you... you are also just part of their normal day.  And there is something really comforting in knowing that.

How much more God loves us.  He paralyzes us with his love.  Tips us one way, then another.  Only asking us to trust, not to freak out.

Because his grip on us is secure.

And there is something even more comforting about that.

Ordinary Heroes

I am really liking Little Boo's soccer team.  After two full seasons, I am finally getting to know and feel comfortable with the parents and family situations that encompass this team.  As usual, there are lessons learned at every turn, and I regularly walk away with a renewed sense of gratitude and awe at how God provides and how I feel particularly blessed.


I have a good rapport with Little Boo's coach.  You may remember, in the beginning, how we were a bit concerned about his ...  erm, zealous coaching style.  Having gone through two seasons, though, I have now developed a lot of respect for his level of commitment.  He puts a lot of time and energy into coaching the girls, and all he is asking is that we get them to practice and games on time.  Not really that unreasonable.  And since DH has coached quite a few seasons himself, I can appreciate the frustration of trying to coach a team that is consistently late.  Hard to put in a good one hour practice, when half the team shows up 15 min late.


Furthermore, I think he respects a mom who knows and loves the game... and occasionally still plays.  Even though he teases me for being completely unable to keep my mouth shut during the game,  he also is glad to have Little Boo out there.  Little Boo knows it, and plays her heart out for the team.

But this is all just background.  Social butterfly that I am, the chats I had before and during yesterday's game is the reason for this post.

At the end of the spring season, as I was emerging from my first trimester nausea-haze, I found out that Coach Matt was in the process of getting a divorce.  He and his (soon-to-be) ex-wife seemed on friendly enough terms, and so I had had no idea.  In chatting with some of the moms at that tournament, I found out that the fall season had been impossibly tough for everyone.  The team was awful, and Coach was not mentally there.  They stuck with him, though, and were so grateful for the turn-around that the spring season had brought.  I was impressed.

Coach has a sister... 7 years older than him.  She has become the "acting" mom for his children.  She comes to all of the games and watches his younger son and helps out with his son's soccer team... which he also coaches.  She herself has two sons.  And... she is also divorced.  Apparently her husband is what she called a "deadbeat dad".  Her oldest son plays football.  Guess who is the coach?  That's right, their Uncle.  Coach Matt.  As I watched her sons, ages 12 and 10, run around and tease each other while playing with their cousins, I thought how fortunate they were to have this brother and sister combination to keep them grounded.

In chatting with this woman yesterday, she revealed something else to me.  As the older sibling, she said, she was always protective of her little brother.  Especially, she said, after their Dad died.

Coach Matt was 13.

And I was astounded... almost to tears. To think that this Coach had to navigate the rocky waters of life without a Father, and ends up becoming a Dad as well as a surrogate Dad to his own nephews... and then choosing an authority role as coach for 3 different teams... it was amazing.

These people are not what you'd call the religious type.  I think they go to church, but not on a regular basis.  I'm positive they are not Catholic. And I wonder where they draw their strength from.

To be sure, I don't know all the intimate details of their lives.  I have no idea what the states of the souls are.  But I do know and recognize natural virtue when I see it.

And I have been continually impressed with the way Coach Matt has handled Little Boo's team.  Just the right combination of pushing them to do their best, yet joking around with them, and even sternly telling them when they were not performing the way he knew they could.  My own Dad and DH have been the only other coaches I've ever admired.  So this guy had a lot to live up to.

I came away from the game yesterday with a renewed sense of gratefulness.  God works wonders in people's lives, whether they fully recognize it or not.  He has blessed me with an overabundance of grace and happiness.  Much much more than I deserve.  I look at my family, at my husband who shares this life with me, and I am so very grateful.  At the same time, I do not ever think that I am better than those He chooses to place in my path.  I am continually humbled by the lessons I am learning, because I know that it is most definitely not I that deserves the credit for this blessed life I lead.

In fact, the knowledge of my own sinfulness only makes me cling all the more closer to Him and my Faith in awe and thanksgiving.

Advice For A Young Heart

Dear Nutmeg, at the tender age of 21~

So, you've met this guy, and started dating. And you've got a zillion questions swirling around your head and you are so very confused right now.

Two years ago, when you first laid eyes on him, you were astonished. His crystal blue eyes penetrated your heart in a way you never thought possible. His crazy hair and wild clothes only furthered your intrigue. His easy smile cinched the deal. But it would be years before you knew for sure...

He's a soccer player. Goalie for the college team. Funny how you didn't realize it at the time, didn't recognize the pattern... but this would be the third soccer player you had dated since high school. Standing on the sidelines, cheering loudly (a passion which continues as you cheer on your own children now) was a familiar scenario to you. Comforting, and sure. This is where you belong. This is instinctual, not learned. And the other girlfriends look to you to explain this enigmatic sport and all it's nuances... just to be able to relate, to understand their guys a little better. But for you? This is home.

You've had your ups and downs together. The "Junior Year" deadline is rapidly approaching... the one you had set at the end of Freshman Year.... If we're still together by Junior Year.... and suddenly here it is. And you feel no more sure about what God has in store for you than you did right at the beginning, at the first introduction when your heart was swept up in the moment and your eyes met, and your souls touched.

You've seen so much, and done so much these past years together. The west coast is an amazing venue for courtship. From Napa Valley to Tijuana... you have traveled it all. But most important were the talks, the time shared, not necessarily the backdrop. For each discussion, and yes, each fight, you both came away changed. The potter was molding the clay, and however painful it sometimes was, you will see also how necessary... and you will be grateful someday.

As you embark on this journey, this beginning, with all of it's uncertainty and trembling joy... here is my advice.

Stay ever close to Him. He alone knows your heart completely. No one else ever will, and... you know what? That is how it is meant to be. And because He knows you like no one else, He will find and mold your perfect fit. If you trust Him with this task completely, your life and your love together will become the most wondrous work of art imaginable.

As you look back on this time of your life, dear Nutmeg at 21... you will wish you had enjoyed the ride a bit more. That you had not worried so much, had not tried to take the helm and steer the boat. You see now how fruitless and pointless that was. You were never in control. You were never meant to be. How could you have known what a beautiful masterpiece was being woven in your life? How could you have taken the place of the master at work? Those knots you see? They are your own doing.. your own bumbling attempts to interfere....

As I sit here, expectant with our 6th child, dear Nutmeg at 21, I can assure you. God knew what he was doing. When your paths crossed and your eyes met, it was meant to be. When your heart was full of doubts and your heart full of pain, He was there, guiding the strokes that brought you closer together.

This uncertainty and trembling joy? All part of the plan.

Immerse yourself in it.

It's the stuff of Life.



*These ruminations may or may not be due to the fact that Lil Sis will be leaving(!) us(!) at the end of the month... and while I am excited for her, I am nostalgic as well for that time in my life of new beginnings....

When He's Gone

Mornings are spent assessing the day.  Coffee in hand, eyes searching the rooms of the house.

What can be done..
what needs to be done...
how to pass the day...
make it go by faster....

Children are restless, what are we doing today, Mama? Is a question that rings in my ears... echoing off the empty walls.  Empty now for only one reason.

He is gone.  On a business trip.  On a family trip.  The reason is not important, just the absence.  And the yawning of the days in front of me... days that must be filled.  Filled with purpose and accomplishment.

And maybe?  A bit of joy and memories?  To report to Him when He comes home to us again?  That we did survive, that we did enjoy?  That it was okay for him to leave...

Afternoon, and I am in the kitchen, scrubbing away breakfast and lunch dishes.  Children are full, resting and reading, and I am alone with my thoughts.  Dinner, afternoon activities, and evening time.  All are a-jumble and I try to focus on the task at hand.  Try to mentally fill the hours of the afternoon, trying to juggle the necessary with the superficial.  Do I really need to stop at the store?  Can it wait?  Who can I leave home?  How will it work in the plans for the day?

Dinner time, and His place sits empty.  The kids clamor to fill it, but I refuse.  Another battle I simply cannot initiate.  Who sat in Papa's seat last night?  No.  Amidst all the other 'battles' and 'turns', this one will not be among them.

Dishes and feet scrubbed, sweet-smelling hair and children tucked in.  Doors and windows are locked... front door made extra secure.  I follow the children up the stairs and run my own bath.  It is my own little secret... to not be downstairs alone at night in the quiet.  My oldest, almost a man himself, reads in my bed as I soak in the other room.  His presence is comforting somehow. 

In a day or so... He will be home.  And the rhythm of the house will return, and all will be as it should be.  His footsteps coming downstairs in the morning as He heads off to work.  His key in the lock when He returns home. I will breathe again, and life will resume.

In the meantime,  we will wait, and fill our days. 



Note to concerned family and friends... (and especially any people with malicious intent...) this post was written after the fact. DH is safe and sound at home now... :)

One More Life

A wave of nausea washes over me and I grip the edge of the kitchen counter. Children and chaos swirl around me as I struggle to maintain my composure while giving voice to restore order. No matter that I have tried to explain to my older children a thousand times before, no matter that they themselves have just recently recovered from the stomach flu and should be able to sympathize a bit.

No matter.

Being infertile for 6 years has afforded me an excuse of amnesia. I have simply forgotten. Forgotten what it is like to be 2 months pregnant. Forgotten the nausea and fatigue. Add to that a houseful of children and the duties of homeschooling, and you end up with one bewildered and exhausted Mama.

But I wouldn’t change it for anything.



Read the rest here.

Living in a Third World Country... Part IV

Part I here.

Part II here.

Part III here.


To be an American living in one of the upper provinces of the Philippines was difficult in so many ways. Not difficult as in "impossible to handle", but more as in "I obviously have so much to learn."

By the time I went to visit my family, they had been there for almost a year, and had adjusted quite well to their new life. I was duly impressed. Little did I know what a culture shock I was in for, when they took me from the big city of Manila to the upper part of Luzon where they had set up their home.

I had no idea how much we, as Americans, would stand out. I had no idea how much their life had become akin to living in a fish bowl. The differences in culture would be magnified a hundred-fold once we left the big capital.

The most obvious difference between Americans and Filipinos is purely physical. Well duh, I know.

Here in the States, we do not gawk at foreigners. I guess we consider it nosy or just plain rude. Besides, we live in a country filled with immigrants. Yes, we all fall into that category. Our ancestors were once immigrants, and to see citizens of other countries walking our streets is an everyday occurrence. Not so in the upper provinces of the Philippines. There, Americans are idolized. "Whitening" creams are sold, so Filipinos can lighten their skin tone... while we in the US have tanning creams... ironic, no? And blue eyes=beauty queen. My sisters were the belles of the school.

;)

Anyone over 5 feet tall is an anomaly. I can't tell you how many times I was asked my height before my name, when being introduced. And the inquiries were borne of awestruck innocence. They simply could not believe that anyone could be that tall.

I think the hardest part for my mom and I especially, was the seeming apathetic nature of the Filipino people. This is a tricky subject to navigate, but it must be brought out. Americans would not stand for a bridge half-built because the local government authorities pocketed the rest of the money. Americans would riot and demonstrate against a government that stole and lied and cheated it's people out of their due. Americans would stand up to police officers who attempted to extort money or demand bribes for the release of innocent citizens. Sometimes my mom would go on a tirade against the injustices of the Philippine government as she explained the depth of corruption that existed. I think she'd have taken on the whole country if my Dad would let her.

:)

It is difficult to watch a people that you have come to know and love, be cheated out of the necessities of life at every turn.

Yet, the people of the Philippines were not bothered by these injustices. They dealt with the half built bridge by taking a make-shift ferry across the river every day. They handed over hard earned wages to the police just to have the privilege of going home. These people are so poor that they must buy their cigarettes individually... not in packs or (oh, the luxury!) cartons.

And so it must seem very ironic that these people all have one amazing thing in common.

They smile.

They smile constantly. At everything, and everyone. As a reserved NYer, this was something I had to quickly adapt to. Like, instantaneously. My parents told me that it would be very rude if I did not smile at everyone I met or passed. And, being the only American family in the province, we attracted a lot of attention wherever we went. With eyes always on us, we lived and smiled.

It puzzled me then. As a spoiled American, I was astounded at their cheerful attitude. And it puzzles me now as I look back on it. I did not know what they had to smile about.

I am convinced, however, at the wisdom in their being content. Maybe "apathy" is too negative a word for their attitude. Maybe "resignation" is too weak a word. Maybe their joy came from simply living. From being alive and surrounded by friends and family. The government they regarded as a pesky fly that sometimes got in the way, but was tolerated.

They could be cheated, lied to, and stolen from... but no institution on earth could rob them of their joy.

Living in a Third World Country... Part III

Even though my parents and siblings had work and school during the day, they were able to take some time and show me around like a regular tourist.

It was during these trips that the Philippine way of life became real and known to me.

Traveling with my parents to their teaching sessions (their ministry was to offer support to the teachers of the diocese) I experienced the insanity that is the "law of the road" in the provinces. There is a hierarchy. And if a bus wants to pass, everyone makes room. So a two lane road suddenly becomes a three or four lane highway! Jeepneys (open smaller buses) get the right of way over tricycles (small motorcycles with a sidecar) and bicyclists, though they also travel the roads, need to constantly pull to the side to let the other vehicles roar past. Allowing a bicycle to go first, and remaining behind it at a crawling pace will only get you honked at... as I learned while navigating the roads myself.

Another interesting sight in driving the country roads near the farms, is the inevitability that there will be huge patches of roadway covered with rice. The farmers need to dry out the rice pods before shelling them, and since the ground is marshy wetland, the obvious solution is to rake the rice right out onto the road. When possible, it is preferred that you navigate around these patches of rice, but given the hierarchy of vehicles, that is not always possible. I was horrified the first time we plowed over some poor farmer's swath of rice, but soon realized it was that or suffer a collision.. either head on, or from behind. And so we just drove on.

I think the scariest ride was the one we took to Baguio, in the province of Benguet. It was a three hour drive, through the most beautiful and rugged landscape. The city itself sits in the Cordillera Central Mountain Range, and therefore boasts more mild temperatures. I was eager to experience some cold air again! The last part of the drive, though, almost made me regret our trip. Since Baguio City is on a mountain, we were driving switchbacks on a road that really seemed to be meant as a one lane only. Now picture our little jeep sharing the road with buses and jeepneys, and yes, the occasional bicyclist? Yes, I kept my eyes closed a lot.

This is what I was fearing, and what actually happened during a typhoon last year:















(photo credit)

This is the very road we took.

As you will come to realize throughout the rest of my posts, one comes to the reality of "letting go" of the insulated fears of the west. It's hard to explain... but bouncing along in a tricycle on rocky, muddy roads, or holding on for dear life at the front of a fisherman's boat as you speed through an inlet on your way to an island in the South China Sea, you truly realize that your life is not your own. You are at the mercy of the elements, simply because you are too poor to keep the elements at bay. And you have a choice.

You can choose to live in constant fear of the next wave, the next bend in the road, or the next typhoon. Or you can simply accept what God has in store, relying on His grace and wisdom and love to see you through. Either way, you cannot have the final say. So you may as well smile a lot, (the Filippinos are always smiling) hold on tight, and enjoy the ride.

Living in a Third World Country Part II

In the humid and close mornings, Geckos scattered over the floor and walls as we wakened. At first, I was startled by these little lizards, appalled to think that my mother tolerated their presence in her home. When questioned, she shrugged her shoulders and explained that they were a natural mosquito repellent. After that, I was very careful about where I stepped and even regarded those little creatures as friends.

After our morning showers, we would all pile in our car (a very old sedan, no A/C). Since there were 7 of us, there were not enough seat belts. A very real problem here in the U.S. but not even a consideration there. I didn't say a word, but pulled one of my little sisters onto my lap to make room. Off we went to the church "compound" where my siblings went to school and my parents worked with the Bishop.

One day, my mom took me to the "marketplace" downtown. If you were to look in a National Geographic magazine that pictured marketplaces in Africa, the same would apply here. I was really enjoying myself, looking at all the exotic fruits and even purchasing a few to try. My favorite was a round spiky fruit called Rambutan. When you peeled it, there revealed a milky white slippery fruit which you popped into your mouth, being careful not to bite the pit. It was incredibly sweet and juicy.

What I wasn't prepared for, was the raw meat section of the market, located under the tents. There was no refrigeration, and the stench was unbelievable. My mom led me past the barrels of fish and, noticing my wrinkled nose and gagging mouth, warned me not to offend by my expressions. I pasted a smile on my face and tried not to throw up. We purchased our chicken, and I watched in amazement (and I hope, not horror) as the smiling woman whacked the head off the hanging whole chickens and handed them to my mom who placed them into her bag, paid, and walked serenely away.

I helped my mom carry our goods to a waiting tricycle (small motorcycle with a sidecar) and we zoomed home.

I'm pretty sure she held on to the chickens...

:)

Living in a Third World Country... Part I

To spare the reader, I will break this series down into parts. The recent destruction in Haiti, and the descriptions of their life has triggered many memories of visiting my parents in the Philippines the summer before my senior year of college.


When I was a junior in college, my parents sold everything they owned and moved the family to the Philippines.

Sometime soon I'm going to have my mom do a guest post on here. Their experience spans almost two years, and is something that would be good to read about given the recent devastation in Haiti... if nothing else but to begin to understand the way of life of a people so poor and desolate.

I was fortunate enough to visit my family in the province of Pangasinan, living with them in their second floor apartment in the city of Alaminos for two weeks before I returned to college as a senior.

During my stay, my eyes were opened in many ways. What I witnessed there would sometimes make my jaw hit the ground in disbelief, but there were also moments of extreme beauty and peace. Maybe because I knew I would be leaving I felt I could truly drink in my surroundings... but as someone who was not trapped there. I did not have to scratch my living from the harsh and fickle landscape. There was a rhythm to these people, especially in the provinces... a connection to the land that was not present in the cities. (And isn't that case, no matter what country you live in?)

While we did travel around sometimes in a borrowed jeep (with A/C... what a luxury!) we did sleep in our rooms with fans blowing and windows open. No covers were needed, and cold showers were taken at least twice a day. I have never known such humidity. I think we could have made water by trapping air in a cup and making it condense. Any clothing with an ounce of polyester was unwearable, and make up was useless. So, we were not insulated by any means. My family was out there, living and moving and breathing with the locals.

And this enabled me to experience firsthand, albeit for a brief time, what it was like to live in such a poor country.

Kindness in Word and Deed

It's hard to keep your mouth shut.
Harder still to make noise.
But we can't have perfect 20/20 hindsight
That our fate enjoys.

So save me from a villainous imagination.
Deliver me from my friends.
If I said something to make you mad
I will take it back.
I will take it back.

~BNL Take It Back

Charlotte asked some awesome questions on my last "real" post. I had made some reference to a lesson I thought we bloggers could benefit from learning. My wording was admittedly vague, and Charlotte rightly called me on it.

I think it would behoove us to investigate further.

Here's what I said:

I am grateful for... good true friends. A bit of disillusionment going on over here. I am just so grateful for those people who listen to understand, not condemn. Think about that for a moment. It's invaluable wisdom to ponder, especially for us bloggers. Take that into the real world, and you've got yourself a mission for life.

And here are her questions:

No stranger to disillusionment you have sparked some curiosities... does listening to understand mean never disagreeing or just not giving voice to it? Is listening to condemn really listening?

Awesome questions, and well worth some ponderings.

My own answers would run something like this:

Listening to condemn is not truly listening. It is hearing what the other person is saying, but hearing only in the sense of how we would respond. And it is not giving the other person the benefit of the doubt.

Listening to understand would be truly listening, putting yourself in the other person's shoes, and giving them the benefit of the doubt. This is extremely hard to do, given the medium through which we bloggers communicate. The written word can be read with so many different inflections and tones... we have to be discerning about what we write and how we write it.

Can we disagree with the opinions of others? Of course. But this is where we have to be careful. Very very careful. The women who type out these mommy blogs are intelligent, purposeful and hold high standards. We hold our opinions firmly and close to our hearts. So much so, that sometimes we take personal offense when someone disagrees with us and it quickly becomes a moral issue. We need to keep in mind that the women we are conversing with here (for the most part, I know that there can be those who troll around just to make trouble) are well-intentioned. However, we also must keep in mind that they have an entire background that we may not know or understand, and this influences their thoughts and reasonings. Speaking harshly about their views may open up hidden wounds and cause a fierce backlash. Most of the time, these are benign subjects we are dealing with here, things that have no moral culpability... and we need to be comfortable with agreeing to disagree. It is not worth upsetting our peace or the peace and friendship we have with others.

This advice is something I am trying to hold onto when dealing with those I encounter IRL who make decisions I wouldn't have made, or hold views I don't hold... none of them detrimental to the state of anyone's soul! But sometimes, again, the arguments are taken to a moral level, and there is no need for that. Charity and understanding must prevail. Always.

Writing is a responsibility we bloggers take on. As soon as our written word is published, be it on our own blog or on someone else's, it's ours to defend or recant. And so we must be super careful as to the content. I have seen posts by bloggers I thought I had come to know, saying some uncharitable things in other forums. It angered me greatly, and I felt betrayed. And I vowed never ever to let my words be unkind or cause scandal in this way. I hope I haven't ever done that, and I am truly sorry if I have.

I probably have not covered all the bases here. I am sure that more can be said. Please remember that charity must be the word of the day. I am not claiming expertise or superiority of word or thought. I have a long way to go. I'm simply striving like everyone else.

Poetry Friday

From the "rejected by employer" department:

THE CATCH

Wind-whipped blue sky
Mountains rushing past.
Orange vest
Life is best
On the oceans vast.

Fish, birds, swim, fly
Sea salt and water wet
Curved line
Life is fine
Flippers in the net.

One, three, seven, ten!
Pouring through the hatch.
In the hull
Life is full
Bringing home the catch


:)

The Butter Dish

You can tell a lot about a family by looking at their butter dish.

If it's crystal... no kids.

If it matches the plates... maybe one child, or at least a newborn.

If it is chipped and/or mis-matched or does not have the top... probably a few children.

If there is no butter dish, only a small dessert plate, and the contents are mashed beyond buttery recognition... you are at my house.

:)

My mother is a genius in the realm of butter dishes.

She has a metal one.

Completely lightweight, sporting a classy black handle, this butter dish is indestructible. And when I opened it that first evening, the butter was smooth and unblemished. How lovely! I couldn't wait to sink my knife in and spread it's goodness all over our french bread.

Fast forward a few days.

Madly dashing around the kitchen, putting the finishing touches on a meal for the masses, I opened the butter dish and my heart sank. Gone were the smooth edges, the firm corners, the anything-that-remotely-resembles a stick of butter. In it's place was a big messy mosh of creamy yellow. With lots of bagel bits mixed in. The culprit was clearly Sports Fan. He had been scarfing down bagels since we arrived, and his buttering skills had not improved a whit.

I sighed a Mama-sigh and wondered to myself if I would ever possess a smooth wedge of butter again.

I thought about my parents, and how they would once again have smooth butter, but -alas- not until after we leave.... and could I even salvage what was left and make it presentable for the table?

And then my Mom walked in the door, home from work. The grand kids surrounded her and hugged her, calling out to the various siblings and relatives...

Grandma's home! Grandma's home!

Little Love danced and twirled, Little Boo jumped up and down. And my Mom's tired face broke into a grin. She hugged me and surveyed the dinner plans while the kids regaled her with stories from the day. A young babe was placed into her arms for a fervent snuggle, and a glass of wine was poured...

I cleaned up the butter in the dish that night, adding half of another stick to make it look decent. But I didn't begrudge the messiness. It's another way these children thrust themselves into our lives. The mastery of spreading butter neatly will come another day. For now, they have a more important task.

They teach us to look beyond the mess and the noise. To wonder at the mundane and the beautiful. To notice their handiwork, even in the butter, and realize that you will miss these days. These days when even your butter dish tells the story of the crazy love and joy that is your life.

:)


~cross-posted to DFW Catholic.

North of the Storm

We've had quite a week of Texas weather. Every day has brought clouds and a feeling of being acutely unsettled. Mornings would greet us with indecision, and the close humid air was suffocating.

Saturday evening I checked the weather and saw a huge line of storms moving along the southern border of our county. They were tracking due east. My children ran outside to dance and sway with the trees and they squealed at the distant thunder, knowing that we were safely out of reach.

I gathered up my keys and purse and headed out to buy some last minute birthday gifts for my Little Boo. The stores were north of my house, so I didn't need to worry about boots or rain gear. I took DH's little car, once again confident that the roads were not going to become flooded.

As I drove, facing the glorious blue sky and piercing sun, I was amazed at the contrast of my views. Out my windshield was the remnants of a typical Texas summer day... streaks of clouds with a tint of amber, the brilliant blue sky just beyond. In my rear view mirror, a muddy sky with gray and midnight blue, flashes of lightning, and grumblings of thunder were dotted by the headlights of those cars emerging from the storm.

I was caught somewhere in the middle.

To my left, the fingers of the storm were stretching, eager to bring the northern towns into it's wrath and fury. As I sped north, I could almost feel the struggle. The draw of the beautiful storm was fighting the serenity of sunset... and losing. There was security in that, and my shoulders could relax and enjoy the dichotomy.

There have been a few storms in my life these days. This summer has been filled with them. Luckily, though, I've managed to stay just out of reach of the main fury. There have been no direct strikes so to speak. But they have been just close enough to exude feelings of anxiety and even fear. I could smell the the storm just as those old Texas ranchers can catch a whiff of rain on a cloudless day and herd their cattle to safety.

The answer for me has been to flee. Flee to the comfort and safety of prayer and abandonment. Knowing that however this all turns out, I am ultimately not in control. There can be fear even in that knowledge, especially for someone as domineering as myself. The fingers of fear have clutched around my heart threatening to bring me under and pound me with their 'what ifs' and 'what might have beens.' And so the cycle of prayer and abandonment continues, until there is nothing left between me and He who steers the ship.

Between me and my North.



Cross-posted to DFW Catholic.