from the field of blue children

week at a glance

2012-01-27T10:47:00.010-05:00

"Seven Quick Takes" is a great way to get back into the swing of things with blogging. Here's my week at a glance, bloggy-style.

1. I got a compliment today, via email from my former boss. Now living and working in Italy, he took the time to send me a brief note complimenting the last issue of "my" magazine. It meant a good deal to me, mostly because he is a man with high standards who doesn't hand out compliments when they are not earned. It was also a good reminder that taking a few minutes to do something nice (an email, a sincere compliment) can make a big difference is someone's day.

2. I bought something for $7.99 that changed my life. It will save me time and money and make me look younger. I am VERY EXCITED about this. (Women of a certain age get excited about these kinds of things, trust me.)

3. My son John is 12 1/2 and in the seventh grade. He completed his science fair exhibit this week - completely without my assistance. This is a glorious, awe-inspiring, unprecedented event. He also told me last night that during the school day, right before lunch, he thought of me and really wanted to give me a hug. So he is the child of the day, my current favorite.

4. I have a new washing machine! Well, new to me. Last week my old one died a quick and painless death, and thanks to some networking, I was able to remove one in great condition from a friend's garage for a very good price. I also have a new to me coffee maker! Ask and you shall receive! Now, to replace Luke's glasses and find another car!

5. I started playing at Pinterest. Everyone is talking about it these days, and since I want to be popular, I figured I'd see what all the fuss is about. I started a board with some ideas for my son's August wedding. I'm not quite addicted - yet - but there is potential!

6. I have super cute grandchildren, and the littlest ones are now super-mobile! Jude is walking everywhere, and I swear, every time I see him he is better looking. Seriously! And Gigi is crawling. And totally rocking baby leggings.

7. It's my dad's 91st birthday. He is a WWII veteran, married to my mom for 51 years. He worked hard his whole life to provide for others. He is generous, creative, and an incurable flirt. I love him, a lot.

How was your week? Join the quick-take fun at Conversion Diary.

sh*t my mom says

2012-01-26T10:40:00.003-05:00

If you are a mother, you will repeat yourself many, many times.

"Stop touching that, leave your brother alone, be quiet, stop it, no, no, no, eat your dinner, we HAVE a dishwasher, get ready for school, where are your shoes? why don't you hang up your coat? do you have any homework? leave your brother alone, I said no!"

Like all moms, I say the same things over and over again. I know that words don't mean nearly as much as action, and that whacking someone in the back of the head, or taking away video game privileges, is far more motivating than the sound of my voice. Still, I talk. I talk and I talk and I talk. I'm Charlie Brown's teacher, white noise, a butterfly batting its eyelashes in a thunderstorm. So why don't I just shut the heck up?

I'm a mother, remember? Watch your attitude and don't you dare tell me to be quiet.

My kids don't seem to listen to me, just like I didn't listen to my mom. I know that I didn't listen because even though I am now old and she is older, she still says the same things to me. Over and over.

In a flash of insight something occurred to me today. Maybe she, like me, says these things over and over because {{GASP}} I need to hear them.

My mother has said something like 5,343,890 important things to me in my life, and twice as many unimportant things. (Love you, Mom.)But two sayings come to mind that I seem to have heard more than the others.

One: "Live within your means."
Two: "Everything in moderation."

I can't decide which one I dislike more. Living within my means? That's preposterous. And not fun, not fun at all.

Everything in moderation? Just as bad. Even chocolate? And wine? They are much more fun in excess.

I am very bad at both of these.

I struggle with the constraints of my circumstances. I have never been good with budgeting, planning, or staying home from the mall when I have no cash.I am one of those people who glows with self-satisfaction when I get something on sale - see how much I "saved?" - even though I paid for it on a high interest credit card.

And moderation? Someone famous said that complete abstinence is easier than perfect moderation, and dang, that is so true. Once I start, I just don't know when to stop.

Now I know why my mom has repeated these sayings so frequently. It all makes sense. She repeats them because I do not listen. She repeats them because I need to hear them. She repeats them because she loves me.

I believe God gives us the right mother. Babies don't really get mixed up in the nursery, no matter what we'd like to believe, or what our older brothers may have told us. These things that she says that really get under my skin? It's all about not wanting to hear the things that will force me to look in the mirror and see someone who needs to change.

Mothers are for loving. Good mothers love both soft and strong - they will even tell us what we don't want to hear.

As often as necessary.

Now, go brush your teeth, put away your shoes, eat your dinner and don't forget - we HAVE a dishwasher.

free expression

2012-01-24T11:55:00.005-05:00

...there's no such thing.

Expression comes with a cost. If you join a protest, you might be attacked. If you put up a billboard, it might be vandalized. If you write about it on your blog, a coworker might mention it at lunch. And so it goes.

I know some people who don't seem to know how to express themselves. Either they do it inappropriately ("Hey, you've lost weight! You're not nearly as fat as you used to be!") or not at all. I actually prefer bad expression to none. I'll never understand those who don't write, sing, draw, dance, construct things out of popsicle sticks, swear, or complain. I mean, how can they live? Sometimes I'm afraid of sitting next to one of those non-expressers at church or at the doctor's office. What if she suddenly explodes? I mean actually explodes - flesh and bones and emotions splattering everywhere. Isn't it inevitable, if you keep it all in?

I'd been clamming up lately, keeping a lot in. Facebook is nice, and I share some there, but who can really expressed herself adequately in a status update? I need more.

I decided to stop stewing and start writing again after reading some of my favorite and least favorite blogs. The good ones remind me that I want to write ("Wow, she said that so well! I have something to add!") and the bad ones remind me that I should write ("Why are people reading this? Why am I reading this, instead of writing my own?") It occurred to me that there are blogs that actually mean something to me. I don't read many these days, but the ones that I do make a difference in my day. Even the ones that irk me (maybe especially those) give me things to think about. They irritate me, make me laugh, inform me, inspire me. I started to wonder if maybe my blog had meant something to someone. I wondered if it still could. So I came back.

But as I said, there's a cost, a personal cost. I just can't write impersonally. Here you will learn what I'm really thinking and feeling, and sometimes I'm thinking and feeling boring or irritating things. But those things are especially difficult to get out of the carpet. So I'll just write, instead of spontaneously combusting in my family room.

being broke

2012-01-22T10:27:00.005-05:00

There is thick, dark brown goo leaking from the backside of my coffee maker.

The washing machine was worse off than we originally thought. The seal was rusted, and the the motherboard was shot. We put it on the curb. On the bright side, we didn't have to call for a special trash pick up; a Sandford and Son contingent swept the neighborhood yesterday afternoon, and my trash is now their treasure.

The blinds in my bedroom don't open; the bathroom drawer doesn't shut. The exhaust fan is exhausted. The kitchen cupboards are trashed. The fridge's ice machine works well most of the time, but when it doesn't, there is minor flooding. The futon frame is split. I can't imagine why, because boys weighing 100 pounds and more hardly ever jump on it. They do jump on Luke's bed, which is why that is broke, too.

Our printer does not print.

Luke's glasses are held together by electrical tape. You can hardly notice it, really.

The only thing that doesn't suck is my vacuum cleaner. Well, it sucks, but just barely. And makes a really scary noise.

The dryer made a scary noise for awhile, but I kept ignoring it and it finally stopped. I guess it realized that around here, whining gets you nowhere.

Everything is broke. We're broke.

However, there is a big difference between being broke and being poor. Broke people are experiencing a temporary state of inconvenience, which may last weeks or years or even decades. But they just know good things are around the corner. Even though they are without money, time, or reasonable house repair ability,they convince themselves that they will dig their way out.

The truly poor don't have the options that I have. They don't have the education or safe housing. They might lack the familial support and network of friends that I'm blessed with. They might deal with prejudice, abandonment or abuse. They might be homeless, jobless, disabled or ill in body or mind.

So I'm broke. But I'm not broken - at least not in anyway that God can't heal. He renews me and strengthens me, even when I am looking at yet another car repair or trashed appliance matched with an empty bank account.

Yesterday, my baby granddaughter spent the morning at my house. She napped like an angel in my room. I peeked in to check on her, and saw that she was awake. She wasn't crying. She was cooing to herself, lost in a frothy pink and purple afghan,her cheeks rosy. I lay next to her and looked into her round blue eyes. She smiled at me, and I stroked her face. She held my hand.

Later I stopped in to see my parents. My mom told me she liked her new doctor, and I almost cried because it made her so happy. I kissed my dad on the cheek before I left, and his skin felt fragile, like my granddaughter's but in a different way. He will be 91 this Friday.

This morning I went to Mass. I watched my young sons assist as servers; John too tall for his age, carrying one candle; Luke at his side, with his curly hair and broken glasses. After church we ate donuts in the school hallway - vanilla fluff donuts. They got powdered sugar all over their faces and coats. On the way home, John, who is too tall and almost 13, told me he loved me.

I'm not poor. I might be broke, but I'm rich. Richer than any woman has a right to be.

But I'm still hoping for a little break in all the broke-ness.

watching weight

2012-01-18T09:38:00.006-05:00

So I am a Weight Watcher.

For the past 18 months, pretty much every Thursday afternoon I've parked my butt at an official Weight Watcher's meeting. I'm the one in the third row, middle seat. I still have about 10 pounds to lose to get to my "doctor certified goal," which is nine pounds greater than the one WW has set for me.

Whatever.

In WW-speak, I need to "get to goal" and become "lifetime." What this means is that a magic number appears on a scale and I can come to these meetings for free, and have that $48 a month to buy more wine or pay a bill or something.

It's all starting to seem odd.

The people are nice, but the only thing we all have in common is that we are not happy with ourselves the way we are. This makes for some tension sometimes.

Barb, our leader, is perky. She is close to sixty, but from row three she looks younger. She is very tan and has cute clothes. She is always happy. But then again, she is "at goal," and "lifetime." So of course she is happy.

No one else is happy, unless the magic scale said they were down .2 or more. Then the happiness is overwhelming.

There's one gal, let's call her Anita, because that is her name. She sits in row two and has lost over 100 pounds! Anita joined WW the same week I did. I have not lost 100 pounds, but then again I never needed to. Barb calls her by name and practically bursts with excitement when Anita has any sort of victory. Anita still has quite a bit of weight to lose, but she is a winner. I'm not, because I haven't lost 100 pounds. This is starting to not make sense.

Teresa (also her real name) sits in the front row, and she pays herself a dollar every time she drops a pound. (I'm using real names because if any of these gals have the misfortune of coming across this, they will recognize themselves right away anyway. Might as well be upfront and honest.)Teresa has lost about 60 bucks worth. She pretty much glows with self-assurance and good advice about weight loss. She should know; she's done this before. I happen to know that because she used to work with my husband. He told me that the first time she got skinny, her husband bought her a sports car. By the way, her husband is fat in a sort of Humpty Dumpty way, and he used to come to meetings, too, but for some reason he doesn't anymore. Maybe he's pissed that no one ever bought him a sports car. Anyway, I don't think she will be able to buy herself new wheels this time, if she's counting on the cash in the jar. And no one is buying me a sports car. So what will motivate ME, huh? What's keeping ME from looking like a character in a nursery rhyme?

Every day I count points and track food. Pretty much every evening I drink wine and eat things like croutons without counting them, and the scale pretty much stays the same. Has for about six or eight months now, but still I spend 36 minutes every week hearing how Anita is now able to walk for three miles at a time and Teresa has extra dried peanut butter to sell, because she just bought a case online and it is low points and delicious.

This is all starting to seem odd.

But I'm not quitting anytime soon, because "getting to goal" and "becoming lifetime" takes my mind off the real problems in my life. Watching my weight is way more fun than watching cars get repossessed or children make life-altering decisions or parents grow old. And besides, Teresa might order low carb tortillas next. And I really am wondering if she'll get a new car.

a story about important things, like Feelings

2012-01-16T14:20:00.003-05:00

Once upon a time there was a girl who liked to write.

From the time she could pick up a pencil with her chubby little fingers, she wrote. She learned to read at an early age, and discovered that while stories were fun to read, it was even more fun to write them. So she wrote stories, about orphaned children and puppies and fairies, and she wrote other things, too. When she was in the second grade, she and her best friend wrote a play about Easter bunnies, and in the sixth grade, she wrote one in honor of her country's bicentennial. There were parts in the play for everyone in the class, and her teacher told her she was good at type-casting. She didn't know what that meant.

As she got older she wrote poems, mostly about clouds, and stars, and boys, and sex, but sometimes they were about important things, like Feelings. Sometimes they rhymed but mostly they didn't, because rhyming was lame and everybody knows that violets are purple, not blue.

She, of course, wrote in a journal, which was called a diary back then. But she stopped that when she was 20 and her mom read it and found out more than any mother needs to know. She never really got over that.

Well, that girl, she wrote and she wrote and she wrote some more. She liked to do it and convinced herself she was good at, even though she maybe wasn't that great. Or maybe she convinced that she liked it, because she really was good at it. Doesn't matter either way. What matters is that she wrote, and it felt good, and necessary, like breathing.

Then the girl grew up. She grew and she grew and she grew. She grew up so much that she had girls of her own, and boys too. Before she knew it she had grown so much that she was a grandma, with a full time job and no money to spend on fun things. She still wrote, but now she got paid to do it, which meant she had to write when other people told her to, about things they wanted her to write about. She was happy, mostly. At least she pretended to be. But she missed being that girl who wrote.

She never wrote stories, or plays, or poems. Once she wrote some haiku on Facebook, but that doesn't count. She never wrote about boys, even though she really wanted to, because she still didn't understand them. And saddest of all, she didn't write about important things, like Feelings.

She wrote so little of what was in her heart that she even stopped talking, too. It was as if her voice got small, smaller and smaller as she grew bigger and bigger. It was as if she had so much to say that she might burst, but she just couldn't speak.

She had lost her voice.

Sometimes, that girl cried a little bit, but only when no one could hear her. She didn't write about it and she didn't tell a soul, not even herself, because if she did she just might be tempted to write about it; to write about It. And she just couldn't so she kept it all hush hush.

And that's why you don't hear from her anymore; she stopped and because you can never go back, never go back to the Not Knowing, she may never have another word with you again.

But maybe someone, or something, will force a pencil into her chubby hands, and tell her it's OK to write about boys, and Feelings, and they'll promise not to laugh, and they won't read her diary when no one's looking. Then it might be safe again.

Then again, if it was safe it wouldn't matter, and she wouldn't be drawn to it like a moth to a white hot light.

So that girl thought about writing, and one day she wrote something, something silly and more than a little scary, because it was true.

And that girl, she may or may not live happily ever after.

The End.

If you think I'm a jerk...

2011-08-22T10:46:00.003-04:00

If I didn't know me, I'd think I was a big jerk.

Well, yes, I am a big jerk, at least sometimes. I'm vain and selfish, and I tend to leave my shoes around the house for people to trip on. I like things done MY way (i.e. the right way) and I talk too much. Way too much. So in fact, I am a bit of a jerk.

Jerk is really not the word I want to use. I'm thinking more of a word typically used to describe a woman who is vain and selfish and likes to show off. And maybe I'm really one of those too.

I'm pondering this today because I'm going through pictures from my anniversary event on Saturday. I put some on Facebook, because that's what you do with pictures, and I love to share pictures. But I saw my smiling face, my pretty dress, my beautiful family, and I thought, what a b....., I mean "jerk."

I mean, really. I imagined someone who doesn't know me really well looking at these photos. I'd think, "Who does she think she is? She really needs to get over herself. How embarrassing, posing for photos like she's a young bride or something. She's almost 50 for God's sake. And all those kids and grandkids. Does she have to keep throwing it in our faces that she's got this perfect family? Man! How annoying!"

I suppose someone who doesn't know me well might think these very things, and I can't blame him or (more likely) her. (I know it's we girls who tend to judge one another harshly.) I know sometimes I've seen pictures of Facebook friends' homes or vacations and felt a twinge of jealousy. But honestly, I mostly feel happy for them. Really.

I LOVE photographs. I like photos of the sky, and puppies, and houses, and trees, but mostly I love pictures of people enjoying life. I could spend hours looking at photos of babies and weddings - even if I don't know the subjects. Good photography is one of my passions. And even poorly taken snapshots from cell phones can be wonderful - if they tell a story about someone's life. I love that.

Pictures of my family, and yes, well, myself are important to me, too. My closest friends know that one of my big sorrows is that I had very few wedding photos, and not a single full length one of myself. Those same friends also know that I did not have a "dream" wedding. It was a difficult time in my life, and I'm sure there are many who thought we wouldn't last 25 days, let alone 25 years. So this occasion was extremely meaningful to me, and photos are a big part of it.

The thing is, when I share the blessings of my life, I feel, well, like a jerk sometimes. I know that many of my friends are single, not by their own choice. My photos highlighting my 25th anniversary might bring them more than a bit of sorrow. I know my friends who long for a baby might find my large family to be a sad reminder of their suffering. My four grandbabies, who all live within minutes of me, remind the grandparents whose kids live across the country that they won't see their grandchildren until Christmas.

And that makes me feel like a jerk.

Sometimes I think about sharing more of the negatives of my life. Facebook is tricky. I usually aim for a balance: lots of positive encouragement, good news when I have it, a sharing of blessings, tempered with an occasional prayer request or acknowledgment that we're going through a tough time. I err on the side of the good because I really don't want to be that complainer whose every status features the word "annoyed."

But I'm thinking maybe I should share more "reality." Instead of pics of me in a pretty dress, I could show the mismatched outfits I wear around the house, or the many pairs of jeans I have that highlight my muffin top. While you look at those photos of Aaron and me lovingly staring into one another's eyes, I could tell you stories about some of the difficult spots in our marriage, and perhaps recommend one of the several marriage counselors we have met. While feeling a little jealous about the beautiful ring I'm wearing (thank you to my wonderful mother-in-law!) I can make you a cup of coffee so we can chat about the possible foreclosure of our house. We could take a drive to chat some more, but we'd have to pray for a cool day, because there is no air conditioning in my van. Maybe we should just hang out in my kitchen, since coffee is kind of expensive. I can make you a cup, but it might be hard to find a spoon, because my kitchen drawers have no fronts, and several of them have no backs, and the silverware tends to fall behind them. And when we're done we'll have to wash the dishes, because there's not a working dishwasher.

Now, wouldn't pictures of all that be refreshing? Oooh, we could even include shots of our current day trips - to the DHS, applying for food stamps! Or more couple pics, of Aaron and me arguing (more like crying) over bills, or bleary eyed from computer job searches! Yay!

I think I'll stick with the pretty ones, and take my chances. :)

Because I know that my friends and family understand. You know that I truly want to share my joy with those I love. We've shared so much sadness - the loss of our baby daughter, the challenges of Aaron's health, the job loss, the financial strain - that we want to share our happy moments as a way of saying, "God is so good to us. We know you are suffering sometimes, and so are we. But there is so much good in our lives. Let's celebrate."

I hope that comes across. And if you still think I'm a jerk, that's OK. Message me and I'll send you some pics of my kitchen, and you'll feel much better.

In the meantime, enjoy the above photo. A quick search of my computer did not reveal many unflattering shots (duh, I'm vain, remember? Those get deleted ASAP)but I did find this one with such a very "revealing" angle. And you thought that blonde was natural, right?

endless summer

2011-07-20T13:06:00.004-04:00

It's summer in Michigan - a particularly scorching, dry summer. The lawns are crispy, yellow beds of straw. It's a good thing I didn't buy any annuals this year, because if I had, they would certainly be just leggy stems holding up tiny faded blossoms by now. Even so, I miss them. My budget didn't allow for them. I didn't even buy The Ferns, the ones that adorn the gazebo, the ones that I hang as soon as the last frost melts. They herald Summer, and I love summer. Even summers like this one, summers of simplicity and even want.

I was blessed to be able to vacation last week. We went to a resort in Virginia that we had no business visiting. As I told the saleslady giving us the timeshare pitch (hey, we got free breakfast and water park tickets!) we are so broke we can't even afford to pay attention. We only took the trip because we had paid for it almost two years ago (we "won" it in an auction for our parish.) We knew the incidentals of the trip were still more than we could justify, but we went. Aaron and I were weary; our boys needed us to be with them. So we spent a week in the mountains swimming, hiking, eating ice cream and having adventures. The highlights included episodes of me facing My Greatest Fear: heights. I navigated the zip line and conquered the chairlift with style. And sweaty palms. And more than a few tears. But I hope I taught my two youngest boys that we it's good to push the boundaries of what makes us comfortable. And I solidified that I am a super-cool mom.

Today is John's 12th birthday - the event that kicks off our family summer week of celebrations. John is such a wonderful boy. Really. Mothers say things like this about their kids all the time, but in this case it's true. He is gentle (most of the time) and quiet and polite. He says "I love you, Mom" about a dozen times a day. (And that's a lot, considering we only see each other for a few hours.) He is TALLER THAN I AM. Love that kid.

I have shared that John was our only "planned" child. That makes me smile when I think about it. Of course God plans all children, but John was the one I waited for and thought about before he began. Does that make sense? There are five years between him and his elder brother Joey. We missed him. When he arrived it was like a reunion.

We will spend the week celebrating John, then Rachel, my eldest who will be 25 on Friday. 25! Oh my goodness I must be old! Then we remember Celeste's birthday into heaven on the 23rd. It has been six years. It takes my breath away....

On the 25th my mom will be 83, and we will celebrate that was well. She is my hero lately more than ever. She cares for my 90 year old dad day in and day out. Mom is the ultimate example of patient love, of living out marriage vows. She inspires me.

And speaking of marriage vows, can it really be that it has been 25 years since we said ours? August will bring a celebration of that, too.

The summer is hot and dry and heavy with concerns sometimes. But it is full of refreshment; the blessings of family. John, and Rachel, and Celeste, and my mom, and Aaron, and all the others, my children, my sons-in-law, my precious grandbabies - they are my lemonade, my ice-cold watermelon, my luscious ferns, my ever-blooming hydrangeas...my endless Summer. Praise God.

blessed

2011-05-11T09:43:00.004-04:00

As I hold my newborn granddaughter in my arms, marveling at her full head of almost-black hair, stroking her petal soft cheek, smelling her baby perfume, I'm transported back to the six times I experienced this joy myself, and the one time it was withheld from me.

My heart is full with memories. All at once I'm there; welcoming my firstborn, so like me I'm breathless. I am only 21, naive, inexperienced. I have never held a baby before. Will I break her? Will she break me?

Only sixteen months later I am in the same hospital, in the same room, in the same bed, gazing into the eyes of a chubby little girl who is gentle and observant from the very first. Now she is the Mother, and as I help her to walk to the bathroom, as she recovers from the birth of her second-born, I'm overcome with the surreal nature of it all. Could it be that she is now a parent, I the grandmother of this little one and three others? Wasn't I just moments ago wondering at the birth of my own daughters?

Then, I recall the four boys that followed. The long labor that brought me my firstborn son, who at 19 continues to tug at his Mama's heart. My next, my biggest baby, my boy who is so righteous and strong and pure; a champion. My fifth child, the only one we "tried" to conceive, who we teased because he was bald. He was like a little lamb, so sweet, so quiet. Now, at 11, he is as tall as I.

When the sixth one came, I prayed for a girl. I got another son; he teased us from the first moment, rolling and turning and playing hide and seek. When he is born I am in love, so thankful for another son, so enthralled with his black hair and rosy face and spunk. Now he reads stories to me and falls asleep singing. I am smitten still.

When I am 40, and I think my baby days are over, I am waiting for a little girl. I can't believe she is a girl! The blue baby days are gone; these are brilliant in pink. When she arrives, she is so tiny I can't believe she is mine. And she is not pink, as she should be. With this precious angel I am denied the blessing of holding her in my arms at birth. I am denied much with her, but I am given more than I could have imagined in my wildest dreams. She leaves me at such a young age to go home to heaven...but she is my baby forever, my purest, sweetest blossom that will never ever fade. I miss her, but then I look into the eyes of my newborn granddaughter....

My fourth grandchild. As the first three arrived - and one, only eight weeks ago! - I am each time so overcome with joy and gratitude that I can hardly stand. How can it be that I am so fortunate? How can it be that my family has been so blessed in the treasures worth more than mountains of gold?

So last night I held my newborn granddaughter. I looked out the window of the hospital room, and I saw the hospital next door when her aunt, my seventh baby, had lived her whole life. I imagined that I could look right into the room where she had lived and blessed us and then died. It was, in fact, possible.

I smiled. As I had arrived that evening, I was handed a parking pass marked "Children's Hospital." I remembered the hundreds of those I had collected during my daughter's life. I reached to turn off the radio before I parked; I stopped, stunned. I hadn't heard her song in at least a year. And there it was. Break Away. My baby Celeste's song was playing. She was watching over her niece, celebrating with us.

I held my newborn granddaughter in my arms.

Here name is Gianna. Gianna Celeste.

dreaming big

2011-02-09T11:46:00.003-05:00

Yesterday I picked up an issue of Oprah's magazine "O" and read an article that got me thinking.(Oprah-haters, hang in there.This is a good one.)

The article was about "getting what you want out of life" or something like that. Come to think about it, aren't all the articles in this magazine about that? But anyway, this one focused on a technique that I find intriguing, and even helpful. It involves three steps.

One, think about what you want - that "Big Dream" you have convinced yourself that if realized, would make you FINALLY happy. Examples in the article included a woman who wanted to own her own business and another who longed for a baby.

I pondered my own life and realized I don't have a "Big Dream" like these. I have a wonderful family, and I like my job. I don't think climbing any particular mountain, or winning any award, or even writing a best-selling book would provide me with ultimate happiness. But that's not to say I don't dream of something. I forced myself to come up with a few things I dream of that I believe would really, really thrill me. And call me materialistic - most of what I came up doesn't deal with achievements I want to succeed at - they are things I want to be given!

The first big dream I've had since childhood, and I'm quite certain I "inherited" it from my mother. I want a house. Not just any house. Like the little girl in "Miracle on 34th Street", I want a particular kind of house. It's not so much large, as spacious and airy. It is new, clean, and organized. And most of all, it's beautiful. It has a modern, gorgeously appointed kitchen. It has durable, attractive furniture and stylish accessories. Its walls are painted all my favorite colors. The laundry room is big enough to turn around in, and it has a real floor. The carpet is unstained; the windows mildew-free. And best of all, it's mine, and I live in it with the people I love most.

The second dream is to travel - regularly - to exotic locations. On these trips I would be treated to wonderful meals in upscale restaurants. The beaches of my dreams are pristine and uncrowded, and there is always a cute cabana boy within earshot who can bring me a fresh towel or a drink with a little umbrella in it. The ocean is turquoise; I can see it clearly from my suite. My darling husband accompanies me, of course, and he enjoys every minute of making sure I'm having fun, and loves taking me out shopping for some new jewelry while we're there. The weather is warm, the breeze balmy; I am in paradise. Ahhhh.....

My third dream is the only one that involves any commitment or sacrifice on my part, although to me is seems just as impossible as the others.I dream of being thin and beautiful.I am thinner than I've been in over 30 years, and I look amazing.I can wear any type of clothes, and my closet is full of beautiful outfits. And I'm not just thin, I'm healthy and strong. And my joints don't ache!

OK, so there it is, in black and white. My impossible dreams. So now, onto the next step: I'm to put myself in the dream, and imagine it has come true. I am living my dream, touching it and feeling it. So, how do I feel? I'm told to come up with three adjectives to describe this.

In my dream home:
Successful, joyful, indulged

On vacation:
Successful, cherished, peaceful

Thin:
Successful,beautiful, accepted

(Yes, I've noticed there is a common theme.)

All three also make me feel something I'm having trouble putting my finger on. I think it's something like "appreciated." As if having these things would make me feel that God really loved me, that He would be allowing me to have something I want so much, because He loves me and wants to give me pretty things and happy experiences.

I never claimed I wasn't shallow.

Anyway. Step 3: I'm to look at my life, right now, and identify in which situations I already feel these feelings. When do I feel successful? Cherished? Peaceful? Beautiful? Accepted? I'm told to realize that of course I have many current experiences that provide these feelings, and to enjoy them, and live in the moment.

The bottom line is that we don't want things or even experiences. We want to feel something. Something our lives are probably already filled with.

It's an interesting experiment. I'm now left pondering the truth that I am indeed blessed with many people and circumstances in my life that make me feel all of these wonderful things and more.

But I still want to be thin and beautiful, living in a gorgeous house in between Caribbean vacations. Sigh.

What do you dream of? What feelings are YOU longing for?

I still believe

2010-12-08T10:31:00.002-05:00

Some years ago, I watched a TV special starring Richard Thomas ("John-Boy" of the Waltons - remember?) In it he portrayed the father of little Virginia, the one who asked the famous question "Is there a Santa Claus?" (Interesting I should be thinking about it today, as a google search reveals the video was released on this day in 1991.)

Charles Bronson portrayed the newspaper editor struggling with issues of faith following the death of his wife. (Most likely a contrived element, but that's OK.) As a writer I've always enjoyed the story of Virginia. I imagine the day when little ones thought newspaper editors, rather than internet search engines, had the answers, and it makes me smile.

I smile also when thinking about Santa. We are a Santa-believing bunch, my family. Last night I sat with my youngest son while he penned a letter to the old gent. At first he hid it from me, then revealed it, which I thought spoke volumes about where he is on the "still believing in Santa" continuum. I fear this might be our last Christmas of full-out belief, and I'm savoring every moment.

Not that my children ever really stop believing. Really. Ask them.

Anyway, the list.

"Dear Santa, Here is my Christmas wish list," it began.

1. a DS
2. polar express movie and game
3. a reindeer and sleigh toy
4. a snowglobe
5. DVDs of all Toy Story Movies

It's an interesting list. First of all, he already owns the first two items, but he can't find them. That tells you something about the little urchin. The other thing about the list - it's very, I don't know, Christmasy. That I love.

If Luke were to write a letter to a modern-day newspaper editor, or do a google search, I hope his beliefs would not be dashed. Santa has something to give that cannot possibly be make-believe. I wrote about it here, in one of my favorite posts, two years ago, and I am still holding fast to my belief.

I hope you are, too. Believe in Santa. Believe in the goodness of others and of yourself. Believe that miraculous things can happen on Christmas Eve - and every day.

Yes, Virginia - Yes, Luke - there is a Santa Claus. Don't stop believing.

'tis a gift

2010-12-07T10:13:00.004-05:00

In a season of want, relying on Him for my needs, I find peace in simplicity.

Snowflakes.

A simple chant: "O come, O come...."

The smell of fresh balsam; a single red bow; three pine cones.

Dad's hands, cool, with paper thin skin, gripping mine tightly as I help him stand.

The smiles of teenage girls.

One purple candle, then two, lit with wooden matches.

Cans of peas and corn and pumpkin, boxes of macaroni, lined up on my counter. Gifts that mean more than words can say.

Boys in blankets, warm with sleep, pretending to doze in the morning darkness. A little dog, black and white and happy all over, nestled with them.

Blue eyes that are sometimes green. With crinkles at the corners.

Toddlers squealing while I chase them.

A hug, unsolicited, from my grown-man son.

Simple, precious gifts. Look around. They're everywhere. Enjoy them, and rejoice in preparing your heart for Christmas.

WWJD? What should I do?

2010-11-30T10:59:00.006-05:00

I don't know about you, but the phrase "What would Jesus do?" gets under my skin.

We all know what Jesus would do. He would do "the right thing." He would act completely within the will of the Father. He would do only the life-giving, good, holy thing.

I know I should have those goals in mind as well. The thing is, I feel like I'm up against some questions Jesus never had to face.

Jesus didn't have to help his children to decide which college to attend; he didn't have to filter though 300 cable channels; he didn't even have to decide what to wear to work in the morning.

And he certainly didn't have to deal with these people. :)

Of course I'm not intending to trivialize the life of Our Lord. (You know me better than that.) I'm just trying, in a silly way, to point out that life in Jesus' time seemed to be far simpler than ours. And of course he was infinitely holier than we are. Our fallen state makes our every breath a challenge.

So I think a better suggestion might be to consider what Jesus wants me to do.

And that's not exactly simple to figure out either.

Do I speak the truth, always? Even when it will hurt feelings? Do I apologize, to make "peace," even when I have done nothing wrong? Do I spend time with people I'm obligated to be with, even when they continually mistreat me?

Yes, I know about turning the other cheek. Then I will be called a "fake."

Sometimes we are in "no-win" situations, and I can't seem to figure out what Jesus would have me do. Even when consulting good, well-meaning friends, I'm confused. Advice is abundant, but often contradictory.

I know the first rule - and last - is to love. As St. Augustine said, "Love, and then do what you will." But what to do when it is unclear how to be the most loving? What if you will be perceived as unloving no matter what you do? Is it better, in some cases, to love, but from a distance?

I know that the opinion of Jesus is the only one that matters, and as for the others - as Mother Teresa said - "it was never about them anyway." But that doesn't stop me from trying to figure out how to do the "right thing."

So I'll do what we sinful-yet-saved, striving Christians do. I'll pray about it. I'll keep my eyes and heart open. I'll even think about what Jesus would do, and his friends, the saints, as well. Then I'll probably continue on making mistakes and loving very imperfectly.

But I'll keep trying. I know with certainty that Jesus would want me to do that.

good housekeeping

2010-11-15T13:53:00.007-05:00

Anyone who knows me well can attest to the fact that I carry a seemingly tiny yet excruciatingly heavy cross.

My house is messy.

It is a burden I have borne for many years, and I see no end in sight. I am not naturally tidy, and while I wouldn't describe myself as a true "Oscar," I definitely lean in that direction. And my progeny definitely don't put cleanliness at the top of any list.

My house is not only messy; it is also somewhat, well, decrepit. Now, I can see my husband's face growing red right now. This makes him crazy, when I talk like this. I know he feels defensive and responsible for the fact that our home is not as I'd like it. He knows, however, that I don't blame him. It's just the way it is. We are not particularly handy people; we are creative and fun and busy, and we don't always clean up after ourselves. We have six people living in a small home (we once had eight here) and we have declared other priorities for ourselves. I know that the condition of our home is a side effect of the choices we have made, and truth be told, I rejoice in those choices. But it still makes me suffer - sometimes, a great deal.

My husband's recent unemployment has brought our family many challenges, but also many unexpected graces. He is home during most days now, and he has proven himself a worthy homemaker. I've had to take my full time job quite seriously, and have learned it isn't always easy to go to work and miss the children's activities, something my husband had done for more than 24 years without complaint.

I've also been blessed with a new understanding of what matters - and what doesn't. I would've hoped to have received an epiphany about my home, but not so much. It would have been great to have total peace about the dirt on the kitchen floor, the dust bunnies under the bed, the broken down dining room chairs and non-functioning appliances. Not having the money for repairs or carpet cleanings should relieve some stress, right? Naw, I'm not that mature.

I did have an experience in the forest of Brazil that did, however, make me give my home a second look.

We drove with Fr. Robert to one of the remote chapels he visited once a month. There he was to say Mass for the small group of faithful who had gathered there. The chapel was tiny, but attractively painted and adorned with small statues. The worshipers had traveled some distance to attend this monthly celebration of the Eucharist, some of them walking several miles through the pitch black forest to get there.

One was an older man, the chapel "coordinator." It was his job to care for the chapel in Father's absence. It was clearly a job he was proud of.

Upon meeting Father's American guests, he spoke excitedly in Portugese. Would we come for a visit to his home before Mass?

We did not hesitate to accept his invitation, and to my surprise, none of those who had come for Mass seemed to mind that there would be delay. They had been waiting over a month already, so apparently another half hour or so didn't make a difference to them...

We hopped in Father's 4X4 and took another bumpy ride several miles deeper into the forest. There we found a home, where the man and his sister lived in simplicity.

Flashlights led our way. Our host beamed as he led us to the entrance. A dog and her new puppies warily greeted us; chickens and ducks scattered into the darkness. We walked through the threshold, and I had to remind myself that we were indoors. More ducks and chickens scurried about the dirt floor. Several cats wandered lazily around their mistress as she prepared a meal. She smiled warmly, clearly pleased that Padre had graced her home with a visit, and with guests from America! She showed us how she cooked, announcing that she much preferred the old fashioned oven to the more modern stove. I asked her if I could take her picture, and she looked down demurely. She and her brother were so happy to have us....

I felt ashamed. I thought of the times friends had stopped by unannounced, times when I was embarrassed because of the clutter or piles of unfolded laundry. I thought of the times I complained about my inadequate dishwasher (it wasn't even built-in!) or the tiles that were coming up in the kitchen. Now I stood in the middle of the Amazon forest, an undeserving guest to humble hosts who radiated hospitality.

My home is still a cross for me sometimes. But I pray the memory of this visit will stay with me and help me to focus on the fact that it is also an unmitigated gift, and that I am much more blessed than I deserve to be.

menina

2010-11-08T14:37:00.002-05:00

Can you see why I was captivated?

bom gia!

2010-11-07T06:54:00.005-05:00

Yesterday, I returned from Brazil. What better time to surprise the world with a blot post?

I'm still struggling with "re-entry" to normal, so my mind is fuzzy and I'm not sure yet of how to tell the story. I spent 12 days visiting the missions of Rio Preta da Eva and, after a 20 hour boat ride down the Amazon, Parintins. The PIME Missionary priests and brothers were our hosts. The lovely people of Brazil were our teachers.

It is a beautiful country. It is hot. And humid. Did I mention it is hot? Every day we realized that we couldn't talk about the weather as we did at home. There was no wondering, "What will it be like today?" We just knew it would be hot. And it was. There was no relief from the heat, and that made it profoundly different from the steamy days I might've experienced on an July day in Michigan. I couldn't step into the air conditioned comfort of my home, or a restaurant or mall. Every where it was like a moist oven, and we wondered how the people there seemed to tolerate it so well.

The children were breathtaking. Photographing them was one of the most joyful experiences of my life. On our first evening in Rio Preta, one of my traveling companions (Seth) and I walked down the street to a small "corner store" and stopped to photograph some neighborhood kids. Knowing no Portugese (except for "obrigada" - "thank you" - which had taken me two days to learn)I would hold up the camera and smile, sometimes saying "foto, por favor?" The children smiled, and looked at me with genuine warmth. I would sometimes show them the pictures I took of them, and their smiles would grow wider, or they would blush through their bronze skin and look away.

I will never forget the first little girl whose smile I caught. She spoke patiently to Seth, trying to understand his Portugese, speaking kindly to him. She was about five. As soon as I can, I'll share her photo. It's going in a frame on my desk to remind me of the beauty and simplicity of the Brazilian children.

Enough for now. Despite the fact that I was up for 34 hours with only a few cat naps on the plane, I did not sleep well last night. I developed the a side effect from traveling early Thursday morning, and I'm still recovering from it. My nurse daughter, in true American fashion, overreacted and wanted to take me to the hospital. I'm seriously fine! It made me think once again of how cautious and afraid we can be in this country. The trip made me much more fearless and intrepid! But that doesn't mean I still don't need prayers! Hopefully today will bring rest and recovery, so that tomorrow I can return to work, and begin telling the story.

I am so thankful for what I have experienced. Mostly I was reminded of this: leave everything to God. Trust Him for your every need, and abandon all your plans to Him. He is all you need.

cuttings

2010-08-12T10:36:00.004-04:00

I remember the days when the field was fresh. On those days I could run here and bury my face in the blossoms, like Myra, angsty and tortured and passionate and alive.

Now I find I avoid the solace that brings. When I write, really write the way I'd like, I regress to a state of in which I am perpetually seventeen. Sometimes, that's charming. But usually it's draining or even cloying, and if I don't leave the field in tears, I'm sure my readers do. And they're not tears brought on by deep emotion, unless you consider annoyance deep.

Today I'm feeling seventeen and forty-something, which means I'm hormonal and weepy and passionate, but not quite sure about what. I'm also angry, but I'm not sure about why, either. I'm somewhat concerned that I might actually click the orange box and publish this post when I'm finished throwing words up here. And then all this nonsense will be cast out into the world where others can scoff at it and discover what I already know - it's really all vanity, and nothing more than that.

I'd like to start blogging here again, but I'm not sure there's a place for this. Now that I'm a Professional Communicator, with a Title and an Office and a paycheck that comes every other Thursday, I spend my days doing Real Work and writing about Important Topics. I think I'm pretty good at that, and I have a very sweet thing going. But there's a part of me that misses this...this flowery heart-revealing stuff that would make Certain Persons in my life (and probably most who happen upon this post)gag.

Enough. Until I can purchase one of those little diaries with a key, I have this place and no other. It's still my field, and if I want to throw daisies and write about rainbows and butterflies, that's my choice. If I want to be a pretend poet, or obsess about death, or marvel at God's grace, or just complain about my lot in life, or my husband, or my dog, this is the place I intend to do it.

I'm not going to tiptoe through the tulips; that's just not my style. Sometimes the pretty flowers are going to get all smashed up and messy. Sometimes I'm going to fashion odd bouquets, like the kind little boys bring to their overwhelmed mothers. Sometimes I'm just going to shove a bunch of dandelions in your face. I might weed the plot occasionally, but mostly I'm just going to hang out and see if I can still catch the fragrance wafting through the air.

And if you can bear it, you're welcome to join me.

good morning!

2010-08-08T11:43:00.001-04:00

It's been a long dark night here in the field, but I'm coming back.

If I try to write something clever and smart, something that will remind the both of us why I started this blog, I'll hesitate too much and won't write a word.

So, inspired by the CNMC I just attended, I'll just write something, anything, to get the ball rolling.

There. I did it. :)

I'll be back soon to write something real. The sun's coming up. It always does, come to think of it.

visit me at work!

2010-05-26T11:52:00.002-04:00

I'm doing most of my writing for the PIME Missionaries these days. Today I share about a recent incident with my pup Sophie. (Click here to visit me at the office!)

In His Shadow

2010-04-04T08:50:00.001-04:00

A repost of a poem I wrote on Easter morning, 2008

I had walked within your shadow
On the road in Galilee
I watched in awe your hands work miracles
Lame men walk now; blind men see.

I felt your shadow fall upon me
When the widow touched the hem
Of your cloak as you passed by her
With your crowd of holy men.

I was jealous of her boldness
As she put out an eager hand
Afraid to walk too near you
I just followed in the sand.

I was in the crowd that greeted you
As you entered like a King
Your shadow cast a regal sphere
As our bold hosannas rang.

You walked that path again so soon
Your blood fell upon the stone
I hid in a darkened doorway.
I let you walk alone.

Was there a shadow cast on Calvary?
Or was the darkness vast and deep?
I do not know.
I did not go.
Alone, I cried myself to sleep.

Yesterday there was no shadow
No place left for me to hide
No one there to heal this cripple
Maimed by selfishness and pride.

This morning Mary ran to greet me
Though I can scarcely take it in
She says the tomb is empty
She says you live again.

Is it true? Am I still dreaming?
Have I been given one more chance?
Might I be able to follow you again?
In your shadow, now to dance?

Mary smiles and says, "Just trust Him.
'Do not be afraid,' He said."
I go with her to see the shadow
Of the stone that guards no dead.

You are alive and I am weeping
Standing in a bold new place
Soon I'll glory in the shadow
Of your brilliant, Holy Face.

I used to fear the darkness
Like a child in bed at night
But I no longer fear the shadow
For in it I am close to Light.

a beautiful ministry

2010-03-15T15:06:00.003-04:00

The Apostolate of Hannah's Tears is a ministry of mercy to suffering families.

From their site:

We offer prayer support and comfort to the brokenhearted who suffer the pains of infertility at any stage of life, difficult pregnancy, miscarriage, stillbirth, the loss of a child and the adoption process. This apostolate intercedes for Catholic doctors, nurses, and their supportive personnel. We also serve as a vehicle of education in the proper channels of Catholic fertility practices as well as offering information resources to those seeking adoption and fertility care.

I am honored to have been invited to contribute to their blog. Please visit here to read my thoughts on Celeste's fifth birthday.

celebrating this weekend

2010-03-12T15:15:00.002-05:00

...what would've been her fifth birthday.

nine months and ninety minutes

2010-02-16T15:21:00.002-05:00

Every life matters.

Please read about Gianna here.

word search

2010-01-25T14:42:00.005-05:00

Fortitude. Patience. Belief. Faith.

Grace. "Fiat." Wisdom.

It appears that choosing a "Word of the Year" is in vogue, and for a change, I'm wordless.

As I wrote here, I've been coming up blank these days. Regular readers of this blog (are there any left? I know I haven't given you much to read these days!!) know that I specialize in long-winded posts. Wordiness is my thing. I love words. I'm all about words.

But a word of the YEAR seems like an awfully big commitment, one I'm not sure I'm ready to make.

One of my favorite bloggers wrote about it recently, revealing that her WOTY is "fortitude," which happens to be one of the gifts of the Holy Spirit. Other bloggers shared their selections, including some of the ones mentioned above.

Are you noticing a theme? These words are all fabulous, and worthy, and, well, pious. I don't think any of them quite capture how I'm feeling these days.

Where are exhaustion, boredom, and irritation? How 'bout frustration, annoyance and impatience? Oh wait, the word is supposed to be positive, I forgot! It's supposed to be a reminder of what we're seeking - where we're going, not where are now.

OK, so how about chocolate? Or diamonds. Maybe vacation, or even weekend. Remodeled bathroom is two words, but that'd be cool too.

I suppose it's supposed to be something a bit more simple and precious. I could go with sunshine. Or maybe rain. Or leaves. Or rainbows. Unicorns? Care Bears? (Drats, two words again.)

I know I'm poking fun at the idea, and I don't mean to mock anyone who's chosen a Term for '10. I suppose I'm just annoyed at how boggled I am by this.

I love words, but the angst I feel at choosing just one reveals a certain aspect of my personality. I stink at making choices. I always feel like this is the last handbag/couch/dessert/WOTY I will ever get to choose, and I'm afraid, that like that guy in Indiana Jones, I won't choose wisely.

Soooo, I'll take a deep breath and pick one.

Erudite? Crudite? Carnivore?

Carnival? Validate? Liquidate?

Quiver? Sluice? Spore? Orifice?

Now I'm out of control.

Any suggestions? What's YOUR word of the year?

words, words, words!

2010-01-22T13:43:00.003-05:00

I created this "word cloud" at wordle.net based on the content of my website. Fun!

wordless wednesday

2010-01-06T14:20:00.001-05:00

all my world's a stage

2009-12-07T14:07:00.002-05:00

The show opened Friday, and it went amazingly well! Our audiences were wonderful (a packed house on Saturday!) and our performance finally came together.

I thought I knew this story inside and out, but performing the role of Mary has given me a new perspective. I wrote about it today here.

I can't believe it, but I'm actually looking forward to performing again next weekend! (It was such a grueling tech week it's hard to believe I feel that way.)

But sometimes theater is magic, and when it is, it's irresistible.

it really is wonderful

2009-11-11T14:06:00.002-05:00

Our community theater is performing the stage version of the ultimate Christmas classic movie. I'm sure we won't even come close to the original, but I pray we can capture the spirit.

In a "art imitating life" fashion, my husband is playing George, and I've been cast as Mary.

2009-11-06T10:05:00.003-05:00

Feeling the pain of lost relationships, but knowing that there is really only one relationship that matters, trying and failing (again) to do my best and experience "success," today I wrote this.

ashes to ashes, again

2009-11-02T09:36:00.001-05:00

A repost from last year. This year, I'm Mary instead of Maxine. But life is still just as horrible and wonderful - and worth living - as it was then.

Today, on the Feast of All Souls, I stood at my own graveside, but I didn't shed a tear.

I thought about my daughter, who awaits me there, and I remembered her life with awe and gratitude. I missed her with an ache that will never leave my bones, but my heart is not heavy. It soars to meet her.

I looked at the descriptions cast in stone: husband and father, baby girl, wife and mother. The roles that will define us for all eternity.

I suppose it is an excellent practice to ponder the fact that we will all be dust some day. As I stood on the very spot where I hope my grandchildren and their grandchildren will kneel someday, begging mercy on my soul, I realized the truth.

It will all be over in a flash.

From the cemetery we stopped at Starbucks for something hot and chocolately. From there I went to a community theater audition. I was cast in the role of Maxine, who has good hair and make-up and is learning to tap dance.

Life is short, but it's grand. Live it up, and do much good with it.

Eternal peace grant unto them O Lord, and may Perpetual Light shine upon them. May their souls, and all the souls of the faithful departed, through the mercy of God, rest in peace. Amen.

2009-09-29T10:00:00.003-04:00

Lukie and the F-bomb

2009-09-23T14:30:00.006-04:00

Since I haven't been posting many anecdotes here lately, it seemed appropriate to kick things off with a humdinger.

Lukie is in the second grade at our parish school. He sits in the front row, first seat on the left. He spends his days learning about subtraction, spelling words with silent e, and other mysteries of the universe. He's a good kid, I suppose. At least I haven't heard too many scary stories about him. Until now, that is.

Lukie sits with two other little urchins, we'll call them Butch and Buster. The three of them apparently had quite a scintillating conversation last week, according to Butch's mom, who shared this story with me.

Buster: (in a clear, loud voice) My brother said "F" to me. (Note: he did not exactly say "F.")
Butch: "F"? What's "F"?
Lukie: Yeah, what's "F"?
Buster: I don't know, but he said "F."

(At this point I imagine their teacher rushing toward them, her eyes wide, her hand over her open mouth, aghast. I also imagine this in slow motion, for effect.)

Teacher: WHAT are you boys saying????

At this point a lightbulb appears over Lukie's head, and wisdom and insight are his.

Lukie: "F"...hmm..what is "F"? I know. "F" is a cow.

Huh?

Yep, my son then proceeded to tell the other boys that he was pretty sure that "F" was another word for cow.

Butch's mom and I enjoyed this episode more than we probably should, for two important reasons.

One: Lukie (and her Butch) did not report to the teacher that they heard their older brother/uncle/dad or MOM say that word, EVER. Thank you God.

Two: There is still some innocence left in this world. And some of it is in our particular children.

Thank you God.

my crown of roses: prayers of love

2009-09-18T14:46:00.005-04:00

The goodness of God continues to touch me, daily, in ways both simple and profound.

Today I received an email that reminded me that His ways are so far above ours that we cannot fathom it.

I was reminded yet again that prayers are not just good thoughts, or "positive energy." They are real communication between us and Our Lord. Prayers are bonds that connect us with heaven, and with one another.

Please visit my Australian "cyber-friend" Therese, and read the brief story that stunned me and filled me with joy.

God is so good, and I am so blessed.

wink, wink

2009-09-17T11:25:00.001-04:00

I think she knows something we don't know. :)

My granddaughter, Grace Philomena (Gracie Mena) at almost five months.

Live is good.

welcoming Zeke

2009-08-30T10:35:00.003-04:00

My grandson Zeke is here!

Lauren headed to the hospital on Thursday afternoon for an induction of labor. Saturday morning at 4:59, Ezekiel Jacob Vitale was born; 7lbs, 5 oz, 20 inches long.

As you can imagine, his getting here was quite a journey, to say the least.

Lauren endured a long, painful labor, an epidural, two hours of pushing, and then a c-section when she developed a fever and the baby refused to move down. Turns out he was "sunny-side up," which makes delivery difficult. His heartrate was high, and disappointingly, she really needed that c-section.

We were worried already, but then they took her into surgery, began the procedure, and she began to experience pain. They had to put her completely under. Her poor husband was asked to leave the OR - and Lauren's sister and I waited with him worriedly.

Thank God - all ended well, with the arrival of our beautiful baby boy!

He and his mama are doing well now. I must say I am so incredibly proud of Lauren. She was so courageous and patient - so strong! And my daughter Rachel was such a wonderful coach to her sister. She never left her side, never wavered in her encouragement. Lauren's husband made me proud, too. He certainly loves my little girl.

Being a part of this child's birth was such a precious experience. I've been so incredibly blessed with my family. I can't wait to see the blessings in store for them!

princesses or victims?

2009-08-20T13:36:00.004-04:00

I don't get this:

Aren't children cute enough just as they are?

What is wrong with our society? It's bad enough that adult women and teen girls are made to feel that their looks aren't up to par. Now even children and babies are open game. The site on which I found this "before and after" pic offered all sorts of "enhancement services" for children's photographs. Apparently they are required for some pageants.

Shows like Toddlers in Tiaras make me crazy. Like many people, I sometimes watch them (sometimes I can't peel my eyes away from an accident scene, either.) The parents are just so pathetic to me. I try not to judge them, I really do. But I just don't understand how they convince themselves that they are doing something worthwhile for their children.

Do you think pageants, of any kind, are good for kids? Good clean competition, or reckless objectification?

I share some of my thoughts here, as well.

What do you think?

please send prayers and patience our way

2009-08-06T15:19:00.002-04:00

I'm looking for prayers today, friends.

My mom is currently having surgery for her breast cancer. I was just informed that her lymph nodes are clear, which is excellent news. She is still in surgery, though (has been for about two and a half hours now.)

Mom doesn't do well with doctors, hospitals, or surgeries. In fact, just walking into a medical facility makes her blood pressure go sky high. (Just before surgery it dropped - yes, dropped - to 222/111.)

She also doesn't tolerate medications well AT ALL. We joke that she is sensitive to the world, and it's just too true.

Add to Mom's troubles the fact that she is also anxiety-filled and impatient. It's been a rough day.

I'm holding up well, praise God, but she could use some extra prayers.

I'm trying to cash in on the opportunity to learn a virtue I REALLY lack. (More about that here.)

hot off the presses!

2009-07-29T15:25:00.005-04:00

The first issue of PIME World Magazine edited by yours truly is available now!

I'm pretty excited to share this. When I started as Communications Director and editor of PIME World the first of June, I wasn't quite sure what I was getting myself into.

Now, I've got my first issue under my belt, and it's not too shabby. Thanks to the highly talented staff (most especially the creative director) I was given the tools, info, and encouragement I needed to get the job done.

I feel very blessed to be a part of this organization, which honestly feels more like a family. I wrote recently about how I've felt God placed me here for a reason, and I'm seeing proof of that every day. (One of my co-workers insists God has placed me here to help him find a Catholic wife, which could be the case! Know any young ladies looking for a very eligible bachelor? We'll talk about that later.)

If you'd like to learn more about the PIME Missionaries and the amazing way they are sharing the Gospel and serving the poor in 17 countries, get yourself a FREE one-year subscription here.

And while you're being missionary-minded, check out the blog I'm writing for them. (And please share it - we need to raise mission awareness, now don't we?)

Thanks for your prayers as I continue to explore just what God has in store for me here.

a time to weep and a time to laugh

2009-07-23T18:50:00.004-04:00

Today's the kind of day when I need to come here to the field, lay down, and let the blue blossoms swallow me right up.

Four years ago today Celeste died. I usually do quite well on this anniversary. I don't cry, and I don't get all melodramatic. I comfort my husband and children, and I tell people her life was a blessing and I have no bitterness, only joy.

Today wasn't exactly like that.

I was with "others" today - people outside of the family - something that's not happened on an anniversary yet. I thought I'd be fine, then I knew I wouldn't be. I thought about staying home from work. I'm glad I didn't.

I went to work, and I cried, and I talked and I allowed myself to be comforted. I'm not used to that. I'm used to being the the one who's doing the comforting.

I'm so blessed to have family, friends, and now coworkers who care about me.

Today I remembered Celeste, and I remembered her suffering, as well as the great blessing of her life. Life is filled with suffering and blessings. To be truly alive is to embrace them both.

Once again I'll share the video I made for Celeste. I hope it will make you smile - and cry.

Be alive. And thank God.

telling stories, telling lies, teaching truth

2009-07-09T19:10:00.005-04:00

Today, Fr. Ken looked me straight in the eye and asked me a shocking question.

He followed it with a shocking personal revelation.

He was smiling, and his blue eyes twinkled, but I still panicked a little, unsettled. I wiped my sweaty palms on my pants and took a breath.

Was he serious? What should I say? How to answer such a question?

I had a feeling my answer was important, but I wasn't quite sure why. Was he testing me? Seeing where I stood? Wondering if they had made the right choice when they hired me?

I took a breath and dove in.

"Yes," I answered.

"I have thought about becoming a saint."

Fr. Ken really asked me this today, and, quite frankly, I believe he wanted me to answer. He might have been surprised to discover that I have given it some thought, but I don't think so. I have the feeling he already knew the answer. He was just trying to get ME to discover it.

What led to such a profound conversation? The current project we're working on in my office involves writing copy for our website. And where there's writing, there are words. And where there are words, there's amazing, unbelieveable, awe-inspiring....power.

Power.

Yep, that's what I said. Power. And with power comes responsiblity. And challenge. And most importantly, with words come

Stories.

What Fr. Ken was trying to illicit from me was not just a confused "Huh?"
Rather, he wanted a story - more exactly, he wanted MY story. He wanted to know why I wanted to be a saint. He wanted to know who had influenced me, why I had chosen my path in life. He was hoping to inspire the writing I would do for the website.

He wanted me to function in the most profound capacity for which I had been hired.

He wanted me to be a storyteller.

Once I grasped this, he hit me with the personal revelation about the life of priests that is sure to shock.

Did you know, my dear friends, that sermons are not always true?

According to Fr. Ken, priests sometimes do a bit of er, embellishing when it comes to their sermons. Have you ever noticed they tell charming little stories to hook you, to get the Gospel to come alive?

Sometimes they make them up.

Sometimes they tell stories about other folks and pretend they are about themselves.

But despite this creativity, these stories are still true, in the very best sense. As Father revealed to me, we can't ignore the facts: sermons are always true, and sometimes they really happened.

I thought about our conversation on the way home from work. I thought about it a great deal, especially when that guy cut me off on the freeway and I almost drove off the road.

Have you ever thought about becoming a saint?

Yeah, buddy, I'm thinking about it real hard right now. I could've been killed! What if I were? What kind of life am I leading? Am I becoming a saint?

I thought about it again at my doctor's appointment, particularly when the nurse informed me my blood pressure was sky high.

That's a dangerous number! I could have a stroke! This could be it for me. Am I ready? Have I really thought about becoming a saint?

I thought too about storytelling, and about the task that had been set before me. Designing website copy is all in a day's work, right? No big deal. Get some words out there, and there ya go.

At the risk of sounding like the biggest butt kisser in the history of the world, I must say that my employers deserve more than your average website, and I intend to give it to them. I didn't take this job just for the paycheck and the status and the pink desk - I took it because I believe God has placed me here for a reason.

Boy, that sounds awful. I don't like to use spiritual lingo to make me sound well, spiritual. But in this case I'm going to go wild and be honest.

The week before I was hired, I prayed. I didn't pray to get this job, although I really wanted it. I prayed that they would hire the person that would do the best for them, the person who would tell their stories with clarity. And perhaps, with power. And even truth.

So now I am that person. I'm not weighed down by the responsiblity. Rather, I feel lifted up by it. I'm going to be the storyteller they deserve.

And I might even be truthful.

As for this post,it may be not be entirely factual. Perhaps there has been some embellishment. But in my book, blog posts fall in the same category as sermons.

They are always true.

Once upon a time, there was a little girl with blonde pigtails and brown eyes. And she wanted to become a saint...

Thanks, Fr. Ken, for reminding me to write the story.

And perhaps even tell the truth.

what in the world I'm doing

2009-07-08T10:23:00.002-04:00

Well, I'm certainly not writing here, that's for sure!

Instead I am doing "real" work for the PIME Missionaries - including - gasp - writing a blog!

You can check it out here.

enough already

2009-06-20T18:47:00.004-04:00

Let's just get this over with, shall we?

I feel like I've been away so long that I don't know how to come back. It's like going back to the gym - and I like going to the gym - I just don't like going BACK to the gym. It feels like every one is looking at me, wondering where I've been. I can just imagine what they're thinking: she's gained some weight. I bet she's been noshing on chocolate cake every day during the hours she used to work out with us. Who does she think she is? She's not one of us anymore.

It' silly, because after 30 minutes on the eliptical (OK, 15, it's been awhile, right?) I feel like I'm right where I belong. No one cares that I've been away for awhile. They're truly glad I'm back. And so am I.

Same goes for the old blogity blog. I feel shy whenever I've been away for awhile. I think all of my followers are ticked at me. I don't think I'm a real blogger anymore. I'm hoping you'll graciously welcome me back, and not wonder whom I've been cheating with while I've been gone.

Nothing can take the place of my blog, and the kind of writing I'm free to do here. But I'm happy to report I have been doing something good in my time away.

The new job suits me nicely, I think. The hours are wonderful (8 am to 3:30 pm) and while I'm there I'm able to combine my two loves: my writing and my faith. I don't like to over-spiritualize things, but I'm convinced God placed me there for a reason.

For, I don't know, years, I suppose, I've been asking Him to give me an opportunity to use my "gifts" in a larger way. I used to get so frustrated, wondering why God would give me a love for writing, and some talent in it, and not want me to use it.

The whole concept of "in God's time" is being played out right before my eyes. I believe I'm right where I need to be, and that He has put me here, today, because that's where He can use me.

Last summer, I was so disappointed when an opportunity I thought was just perfect for me was pulled out of my reach. I found out last week that that whole thing fell apart - I thought I was missing an opportunity of a lifetime, and it turns out it was no such thing.

It's easy to tell each other to trust Him, isnt' it? When we're not on the receiving end of that advice, it all seems so clear. But the truth is it's a bear to hang in there when we're seeing nothing. It's exhausting to keep trusting when we see nothing in the way of "results."

I was starting to wonder if He heard me at all. And now I'm just in awe of how He put it all together for me. Yes, for me, His girl, the one He always looks out for.

If you're waiting for Him, please be patient. He will never, ever forget you. He's got something planned for you that is just right.

Trust me.

Better yet, trust Him.

I'm a Catholic New Media Awards Nominee!

2009-06-07T15:44:00.009-04:00

I'm pleased as punch (you don't hear that often enough, do you?) to report that "the field" has been nominated for several Catholic New Media awards!

You can cast a vote by visiting their site (simply click here, spend about a minute signing in, and vote away!)

The field of blue children has been nominated for the following:

Best Blog by a Woman
Best Written Blog
Funniest Blog
Most Entertaining Blog
Most Spiritual Blog
People's Choice Blog
Blog Nominated for the Most Categories by her Husband and/or Children

Just kidding about that last one. :) I'm honored to be nominated. (Thanks, family.)

What are you waiting for? Get over to Catholic New Media and vote for your faves!

a new path

2009-05-31T20:39:00.004-04:00

I have neglected you so!

As I've said so many times, during busy periods in my life, I don't write here as I'd like to.

I have so many things to share! As I write this my seven-year-old, who should be in bed, is standing over my shoulder, asking for ice cream.

Tomorrow I start a new job! I've been hired to serve as the editor of PIME World Magazine. PIME Missionaries, based here in Detroit, serve the poor all over this world of ours. They bring them provisions, companionship, and hope. And they preach the Gospel, in word and deed.

I'm so honored and humbled to be joining them.

I'll share more about my journey to this job, and my adventures once I get there. For now I'll beg for your prayers as I follow where God has lead me!

San Antonio, anyone?

2009-05-18T19:04:00.001-04:00

I'm thinking about attending the Catholic New Media Conference in San Antonio.

Are you going?

7 quick takes

2009-05-15T09:05:00.008-04:00

Jen rules for plenty of reasons. One of my favorite things about her? She hosts 7 Quick Takes Friday. That's an opportunity for slackers like me to get a post out with seven recent highlights from the week. Here are my picks for today:

My granddaughter Grace is now three weeks old. Of course, I am totally objective about this: she is the most beautiful girl ever.

My son Joey did something radical this week. He shaved his head. Has he gone all emo? Is he joining a band or a gang of hooligans? Naw, he did it for a much nobler reason - to support his friend Chris, who has cancer. A bunch of other guys from his youth group went bald as well. In my opinion, they rock. It's still a little hard to look at Joey, though. He had more hair when he was born.

I had an exciting event myself this week. I went to a job interview for a "real" full-time job. It went well and I've managed to get a call back for a second one. I'm so nervous and excited. The possibility of getting the job is just as scary as the thought that I might not. This one is entirely in God's hands.

Sophie has finally figured out that the backyard is the best place to "do her business." I can't really overstate the importance of this achievement!

Our community theater production of Cabaret was nominated for ten PAGE Awards! These awards are the local equivalent of the Emmy's for us. I didn't get one for my work on costumes. Oh well. It's hard to compete with big budget period shows. I did my best, and that counts for something, right?

Life doesn't usually get easier as we age, does it? My parents need your prayers. Mom has been diagnosed with breast cancer, and she needs surgery. She just found out she is losing her part time job, as well. Dad is consumed with the reality that he just can't garden like he used to. (He' "only" 88, and he should be able to get out there and hoe, right?) He's also worried about Mom, who he loves like crazy while driving her crazy. I'm trying to be a good daughter, but ya know what? That ain't easy either.

Tonight my parish festival begins. Imagine this: you are seven years old, and two blocks from your home a ferris wheel towers above the neighborhood. Elephant ears covered with cinnamon sugar, foot long coney dogs, and snow cones are calling your name. All your friends are there. Are you excited? Are you kidding? You are jumping out of your skin! My boys can't wait to get there tonight!

What's going on in your world this week? Join the party at Conversion Diary.

becoming "Grandmom"

2009-05-12T17:57:00.003-04:00

I'm having a bit of an identity crisis.

For over 22 years, I've been "Mom." I'm cool with that. I've kinda got this gig figured out.

But now, I'm someone new. I'm a grandmother. You know her, she's the old lady in the rocking chair, the one who only gets up to bake chocolate chip cookies.

Just kidding. I know that today's grandmothers are much hipper than that. When my own mom became a grandmother, at the age of 57, she had a full time professional job. She wore stylish clothes and earrings to work every day. She had two college graduates for children. She only baked cookies at Christmas.

As for me, the new grandmother?

I'm just not sure how to roll here.

How do you describe a grandmother like me? I'm not quite 57 (only 44, in fact.) And I don't bake cookies. Ever.

I've got two college grad children. But I've still got children at home, including two boys under the age of 10.

I've coined a name to describe my condition: I'm a "grandmom." I'm a grandma, yes, but I'm still totally in "Mom" mode.

I haven't mentioned that I'm got a few other roles as well. My husband might say he thinks I've forgotten him, but I am a wife, too. And I'm also a busy daughter to elderly parents.

I want to claim the maturity and wisdom that goes with the grandmother moniker, but I'm not quite ready to let go of being the young mom that I feel like. And when I spend time with my folks, well, then I feel like I'm 12 again.

So I'm in one of those "transition periods." I know where I've been, but I'm not quite sure where I'm going.

The good news is, I won't be lonely on the trip there. I've got plenty of companions on my journey. I just hope someone has remembered the diaper bag and has packed lots of snacks.

Any other "grandmoms" out there? How have you kept it all in balance?

do you like me? do you REALLY like me?

2009-05-04T12:36:00.002-04:00

It's time to show your love for your favorites in the Catholic media!

Nominations for The Catholic New Media Awards (formerly the Catholic Blog Awards) open today. You must log in to nominate (it only takes a moment, and don't worry, they won't send you spam.)

Just click here for more info!

Here are this year's categories:

Blogs

People's Choice Blog
Best Blog by a Cleric
Best Blog by a Religious
Best Blog by a Man
Best Blog by a Woman
Best Group Blog
Best Written Blog
Most Spiritual Blog
Most Informative Blog
Funniest Blog
Most Entertaining Blog
Best New Blog

Podcasts

People's Choice Podcast
Best Podcast by a Cleric
Best Podcast by a Religious
Best Podcast by a Man
Best Podcast by a Woman
Best Group Podcast
Most Informative Podcast
Best Produced Podcast
Most Spiritual Podcast
Best New Podcast
Funniest Podcast
Most Entertaining Podcast
Best Video Podcast

Web 2.0

Best Catholic News Website
Best Social Networking Site
Best Overall Catholic Website

shepherd me, O God

2009-05-03T12:23:00.003-04:00

I don't know much about shepherds.

I've always thought of them as loving caretakers who stayed on watch for wolves and such. Loving and patient heroes, I've pictured them gently herding their flocks, guiding them to safety, caring for their every need.

Recently I heard something about the shepherds of Jesus' day (and perhaps today, as well) that I found shocking and intriguing.

Sometimes little lambs are naughty. Instead of staying near the shepherd's side, where they would be safe, they wander off. They get caught up in brambles. Even devoured by nasty beasts if they aren't careful.

So what do the shepherds to to keep the fluffy little rascals safe?

They break their legs.

Then, while they heal, they carry them. When the lamb's wounds have healed, and only then, the shepherd allows the little one more freedom.

And those lambs? The ones who have been broken by their masters? The ones who were carried until they can walk again?

They do not stray again. Instead, they remain near the shepherd's side.

Something to think about on this Feast of The Good Shepherd.

Shepherd me O God, beyond my wants, beyond my fears, from death into life.

This image of the Good Shepherd was drawn by Seattle artist Tracy Christianson, who drew the portrait of my daughter in Jesus' arms.

she's here!

2009-04-24T10:16:00.001-04:00

Grace Philomena arrived at 4:33 pm after over four hours of pushing! She was 7lb 8oz and 19 inches long.

We're in love.

baby day?!?

2009-04-23T06:20:00.003-04:00

This could be the day!

Rachel is at the hospital! For those of you who want the "gory" details (and of course I know you do) she is 3cm and 80% effaced - they are keeping her in triage for an hour or so to see how she progresses.

I don't think I've ever been so excited!

Lauren and I are getting ready to head over to the hospital. Along with Rachel's husband, we are the lucky support people who get to witness the birth. I've done this seven times myself - but I've never watched someone else give birth. This is so awe-inspiring.

And it's my girl, my girl who was born just an instant ago! Could it really have been almost 23 years ago???

Thanks for your prayers. I'll keep you posted!

Don't you love this picture? Not like that anymore, is it?

one more soul

2009-04-20T14:13:00.004-04:00

Have you ever wondered what your life would be like if you had had one more child?

My first grandchild, my granddaughter Grace, will be here within the next few weeks. By summer's end, my grandson will be here as well. I know that they will enrich our lives beyond belief. I will cherish them as my own babies. But they won't be my babies, they will be my grandchildren, and that is not quite the same, is it?

My daughter Celeste, who died when she was four months old, would have been four now. My youngest at home just turned seven. This is the longest I've gone with empty arms, an empty womb.

When Celeste was in the hospital, I remember telling my husband that I wanted to have another baby, whatever happened to our baby girl. I wanted to "normalize" the experience of having a baby again. I was so traumatized by what we went through with her that I was certain the only healing I'd come to would come with the arrival of another - healthy - child.

After she died, I needed time to recover. And soon the months and years flew by, and I was suddenly who I am now - an "old" woman of 44, a grandma-to-be, a mother of "only" seven children, with six here who still need her, one in heaven praying for her.

Should I have had another baby? Have I been too selfish, too concerned with money, or time, or health, or freedom?

Did I deny my husband, my children, the world, another person who should've been here?

My grandbaby will be here soon, and I can't stop thinking that I'm not sure how this works. I've been a mother - just a mother, only a mother, always a mother - for 23 years. I know what it is to hold a newborn in my arms and love it completely, because it is my baby. I'm so anxious to meet my grandchildren, but I think perhaps I am mourning the end of an era.

And I'm haunted by the thought.

Should I have had another baby?

Have you ever wondered the same?

mercy me

2009-04-19T09:37:00.005-04:00

Rumors of my demise have been greatly exaggerated....

No, I'm not dead. At least not literally. It seems that when life, real life, gets busy and overwhelming, the first thing I let go is my writing. Isn't that unfortunate, for the both of us?

The boys will be returning to school tomorrow (I honestly can't believe I ever managed to home school!) Then perhaps I'll make, or take if I must, the time to write again!

For now, a brief thought about the feast we celebrate today: Divine Mercy.

Aren't you supremely thankful that God FORGETS all our transgressions?

Aren't you amazed that he shows us MERCY when we least deserve it?

Aren't you blown away with the thought that Jesus is waiting, eagerly, to BLESS us when we run to Him?

There's one catch.

He asks us to show mercy to our neighbor. You know the one, the guy who's harmed you, the one you can't forgive.

A thought: pray for that person today, the one you simply can't forgive. Forgive him with your will. Show him the mercy he doesn't deserve.

And bask in the mercy that is yours for the taking.

Learn more about the Divine Mercy Devotion here.

In His Shadow, again

2009-04-12T09:13:00.001-04:00

Easter morning, 2008

A "reprint" from last year. Alleluia! Enjoy your Easter.

I had walked within your shadow
On the road in Galilee
I watched in awe your hands work miracles
Lame men walk now; blind men see.

I felt your shadow fall upon me
When the widow touched the hem
Of your cloak as you passed by her
With your crowd of holy men.

I was jealous of her boldness
As she put out an eager hand
Afraid to walk too near you
I just followed in the sand.

I was in the crowd that greeted you
As you entered like a King
Your shadow cast a regal sphere
As our bold hosannas rang.

You walked that path again so soon
Your blood fell upon the stone
I hid in a darkened doorway.
I let you walk alone.

Was there a shadow cast on Calvary?
Or was the darkness vast and deep?
I do not know.
I did not go.
Alone, I cried myself to sleep.

Yesterday there was no shadow
No place left for me to hide
No one there to heal this cripple
Maimed by selfishness and pride.

This morning Mary ran to greet me
Though I can scarcely take it in
She says the tomb is empty
She says you live again.

Is it true? Am I still dreaming?
Have I been given one more chance?
Might I be able to follow you again?
In your shadow, now to dance?

Mary smiles and says, "Just trust Him.
'Do not be afraid,' He said."
I go with her to see the shadow
Of the stone that guards no dead.

You are alive and I am weeping
Standing in a bold new place
Soon I'll glory in the shadow
Of your brilliant, Holy Face.

I used to fear the darkness
Like a child in bed at night
But I no longer fear the shadow
For in it I am close to Light.

holy saturday...life

2009-04-11T08:29:00.004-04:00

Good Friday is so raw, so full of vivid suffering. But Holy Saturday is the tomb, the waiting. We sit in the stillness and wring our hands. We know in our hearts that Sunday morning will dawn before we know it, but the hours pass by so slowly.

Holy Saturday is an empty church. I can barely stand to visit there on this day, when Jesus is gone. The tabernacle candle is extinguished; the altar bare. I know He is coming back, but the golden promise of Easter is just that, a promise. For today I sit in the shadow of the sun, hoping and longing. The cross is ever-present, too fresh to be forgotten. My eyes are dry now, but remain swollen and red. I am too tired for more tears, too frightened to stand by the grave, too weak to stand at all. So I sit in the darkness, waiting, knowing He did not lie to me. But I am sad, and scared, and weary.

Of course, I am not alone.

We all wait together, anxious and trusting, looking at each other with both anguish and hope in our eyes. If we can just hold on for one more day. Yes, we can, certainly we can. We will hold tight to one another, dry one another's tears, and wait. He did not lie to us.

Soon Easter will come, and the sun will be so glorious and bright that we will forget our sorrow. The stone will be rolled away, the tomb will be empty, and we will run to one another with only tears of joy upon our cheeks.

But for now, we wait.

baby love

2009-04-02T08:32:00.003-04:00

I never get tired of looking at ultrasound pictures.

I'm fascinated by the technology, even though the pics sometimes look to me like maps of the moon.

But when the ultrasounds are of my GRANDCHILDREN? Then I'm really in love.

The above photo is my darling grandbaby that is due in September, cousin to little Gracie who will be here in a month or so. Lauren and Giovanni were so excited to find out the gender. A boy? A girl? Either would be lovely, but they had their fingers crossed for a son.

They got their wish!

My little grandson will be here before we know it. I just can't wait to see if he has Giovanni's curls or Lauren's blue green eyes. I can't wait to kiss his chubby little cheeks and smell his sweet baby smell.

I love babies. I LOVE LOVE LOVE my grandbabies!

I'm one lucky lady.

help wanted

2009-03-26T10:12:00.004-04:00

Large yet cozy company staffed by moral, kind, interesting professionals seeking candidate for as yet unnamed position.

Ideal candidate must desire affiliation with a business that will not condone putting work before family. As such, mother of large family and expectant grandmother preferred.

Interested individual must possess strong communication skills and be fluent in languages spoken to disobedient children, husbands who want to know how much those shoes cost, and rude strangers who wonder why you have so many children. Ability to house train puppies and organize junk drawers not required.

Experience must include documented instances of: saving over $100 on a grocery order using double coupons; racing through an airport with five children, while pregnant; and praying rosary for teenagers late for curfew. Passion for doing the right thing, showing up day after day whether you feel like it or not, and washing three loads a laundry a day a plus.

Must be able to easily transition from birthday party for 13 six-year-olds to evening at Boogie Fever. Ability to keep checkbook balanced, mouth shut, and weight steady insignificant.

Ideal candidate is funny, creative, and loyal with a strong inner life. Must sincerely desire to serve others while remaining true to herself.

Pay commensurate with number of times awakened from a deep sleep to clean up vomit.

There's got to be a job out there for me, right?

beers to you

2009-03-17T16:35:00.003-04:00

"I would like a great lake of beer for the King of Kings; I would like the people of heaven to be drinking it through time eternal." -- St. Brigid of Ireland

Facts about beer from today's reading in the "Little Black Book":
--In the Middle Ages, beer was one of the safest, most nutritious drinks available.
--Bock beer is brewed in the fall, aged throughout the winter, and served in early spring. Beer festivals traditionally began on March 19 (the feast of St. Joseph) and often included the blessing of the new beer.
-- Many monasteries brewed their own beer, referring to it as "liquid bread" because of its nutritional qualities. This was especially true during the lenten fast, when solid foods were restricted.

Enjoy a beer (perhaps a green one?) today. Happy St. Patrick's Day!

on my mind

2009-03-16T14:23:00.003-04:00

Imagine for a moment that you have a medical condition that makes it impossible for you to keep your thoughts to yourself. Whatever crosses your mind - no matter how inappropriate - is on your lips.

Scary, huh?

Fans of "House" will recognize this scenario from last week's episode entitled "Social Contract." The contract refers to the unspoken pact that civilized people have with one another, the one that makes us keep some things ourselves, and to lie to comfort and console. It's the agreement that we make with each other every day about what we'll hide and what we will reveal. You bite your tongue, and I'll bite mine. You tell me I don't look fat in these pants and I tell you that of course that mole can't be cancer.

When I watched the show found myself frantic at the thought of what I would say if every thought I had was vocalized. Like the character on the show, I would certainly be offensive. I would hurt strangers and loved ones alike. I would occasionally make interesting observations, but mostly I would land square between sophomoric and vile.

Have you ever wondered if others can read your mind? It was kind of like that, pondering this rare condition that might strike at any moment. What if everything I thought was out there for the world to see? How horrific.

I share a lot here on the blog, share it with the whole wide internet world. But of course I don't really reveal what's on my mind. That would be scary for the both of us.

But this really got me thinking today, thinking about thoughts. I realized that so much of what goes through my mind is negative, faithless, and even cruel. I am often vulgar and vindictive. I'm extraordinarily impatient, and supremely vain.

My husband, who is remarkably wise, is always reminding me that my thoughts have power, and that I will become what I think about. He is no doubt familiar with this scripture:

Finally, brothers, whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is fair, whatever is pure, whatever is acceptable, whatever is commendable, if there is anything of excellence and if there is anything praiseworthy-keep thinking about these things. (Philippians 4:8)

If I want to speak things that are true, and honorable, and fair and pure, that's what I need to be thinking about.

Just in case I'm stricken with that strange malady, I'm going to work on my positive thinking.

“We are shaped by our thoughts; we become what we think. When the mind is pure, joy follows like a shadow that never leaves.” -- Buddha

remembering my baby girl

2009-03-14T12:17:00.002-04:00

Celeste would have been four today.

I'm sharing the video (again) that I made last year on her birthday.

Thank you for remembering our family in prayer today!

the power of a compliment

2009-03-11T15:47:00.004-04:00

I heard once that when someone has a negative experience, they will share it with (on average) ten people. When a person experiences something positive, however, they usually tell only one person.

Let's change all that, shall we?

Today I was on the receiving end of several compliments. Now, we can talk at length about receiving compliments,and how hard it is for some of us (particularly us girls.) I've actually trained myself to receive compliments graciously ("thank you.") What I'm pondering today is how absolutely good a compliment can be - to both receive and give.

A very creative friend of mine, a musician, told me this morning how much she likes my writing. I'm still floating on that one. It means a lot to me because I know she doesn't hand out compliments easily - she is always genuine.

When the lady at the cosmetics counter told me I had beautiful skin, I liked hearing that, too. It may just have been her sales training doing the talking, but that's OK. It was nice to hear something positive.

I felt so good after hearing these good things today that I decided to do a little experiment. I know it is great to receive compliments, but I also realize it is pretty cool to hand them out.

Recently I met a young woman at the Crisis Pregnancy Center where I am a volunteer. She is 32 and expecting her fifth child. Like many of the woman who come to the center, she is overwhelmed. She has so much responsibility, not much support. As I got to know her I was wowed by her intelligence, courage and ingenuity. I was impressed by how much she had sacrificed for her children. I was absolutely amazed at how hard she was willing to work to make her life better for herself and her children.

So I gave her something in addition to some diapers and clothing for her baby: I gave her a sincere compliment.

She smiled a beautiful smile, and her eyes absolutely shone. I could tell that she did not receive genuine praise very often. I was hooked.

So today, after I was fortunate enough to hear a few good words myself, I started that experiment in earnest. I sent my husband a text message: you are a good husband.

He texted me back, then called and left a voice mail.

First: "the suspicion is rising."

Then: "OK, so what did you buy? Either you bought something, or you want to buy something, or you want to go somewhere. So text me and tell me, what did you buy, and where do you want to go."

Apparently I do not compliment my Big Man enough. Or perhaps my compliments appear to be only well-placed bribes.

My goodness. Now I'm on a mission to give my husband - and the other wonderful people in my life - real, honest, non-self-serving compliments. I really need to work on this.

By the way, YOU look mahvelous!

when God says no

2009-03-10T16:52:00.004-04:00

Some time ago I wrote about prayer. Convinced that God is most definitely not Santa Claus, and that He is more interested in making me a saint than He is in making my wishes come true, I may have come across as more of a cynic than a saint.

My husband and son called me a "negatron", incapable of a positive attitude. I prefer the "realist" tag, and I wear it proudly, right next to my smiley face button.

Anyway, since it's Lent and all, I've been pondering prayer once again. I've been considering the kind of prayer that I'm most familiar with: the type in which I talk to God, ask for something, get an immediate answer - a simple, unqualified no.

OK, that's not entirely true. Sometimes He takes days and days to answer. Sometimes months. I wait patiently then, and keep asking, pleading even, and I always get an answer eventually.

And it's no.

I learned about this type of communication at my mother's knee, literally. By her telling, she has had a lifelong history of requesting things - a date for the prom, money to purchase her childhood home, a cure for cancer - that have not been delivered to her (at least not to date.)

My husband attributes my negative attidude to Mom's example, but I can't really blame her. I've had enough first hand experience. That job I really coveted? Didn't land it. A date with the most popular boy on campus? Uh-uh. An expansive home with a modern kitchen, whirlpool tub and fireplace? Not so much.

Many, if not most, of my requests have been selfish. But I have certainly prayed for some things that seemed only to be good - for others as well as myself. At least that's what I thought, what I earnestly believed. Why can't my friend, a good Catholic man, find a job so he can support his large family? Why can't my single brother find a nice girl to marry?

Why did my daughter have to die?

Before we all go off the deep end of despair here, let's return to reality. Reality is about a Father who says no to His children - even when they can't possibly understand why.

I started reading a book today. The story, a true one, tells of a woman who is known world-wide for the horrors she has endured and for her great faith.

So far, I don't like it. It's really ticking me off, in fact.

I admit I started reading with a prejudice, a bad attitude so to speak. I can't really explain why, but as soon as I learned this woman's story, I was annoyed. She relied so fully on God that she didn't seem real. Her explanations about how she dealt with the extreme challenges in her life - by simply asking God for what she needed - irritated me to no end.

And you thought I was such a nice person!

The friend who gave me the book pointed out a passage at the end, in which our heroine felt called to marriage. She simply sat her good self down, sketched a portrait of her prince charming, wrote out an extensive list of all her future mate's qualities, and presented it to God.

Three months later she met her dream guy. They got married and had two perfect children.

WHAT?!?!?!

So I've come to the conclusion that 1. I am so lacking in faith that God doesn't even hear my prayers, let alone consider answering them; 2. I am so out of touch with the will of God that I habitually ask for that which lies outside of it; and/or 3. I'm a spoiled brat.

I was discussing this with friends today, and one quoted St. Catherine of Siena as she spoke to the Lord: "If this is how you treat your friends, it's no wonder you have so few of them!"

That rings true to me.

God doesn't answer our prayers because we are His "favorites" or because we know the magic formula.

Scripture does tell us, repeatedly, that if we ask, we shall receive. Does that mean if I don't receive, I haven't asked properly?

Or maybe that I've asked the wrong question?

I wish I could end this post with a pithy commentary on perfection in prayer. I can't. I can only ask questions, and wonder.

And trust.

God is God, and I'm not. He will answer prayer as He wishes, not as I command him to.

I'm going to read the book, and really attempt to open my heart to its message. I can't judge her life through the filters of my experience. God gave her what she needed; He gives me what I need.

And for now, that's enough.

At least it should be, right?

a love story: paperback edition

2009-03-09T14:37:00.005-04:00

Have you ever fallen madly in love - with a book?

I realize I have just effectively narrowed down my audience to the one or two of you who don't think I'm in urgent need of psychological treatment. That's OK, those that remain (fellow bibliophiles) know of what I speak.

I've met my share of books over the years. Some, despite their simplicity, have kept me entertained for days, largely because they were so fun and good-looking. They weren't very smart, but they fed me grapes and fanned me, like well-trained Cabana boys.

Others have teased me at first, then left me high and dry, wanting more, unsatisfied. They seemed to have so much promise. I gave them a chance, but sometimes I had to turn away prematurely. I don't feel obligated to finish that type when they don't deliver their end of the bargain.

I've found others to be intimidating, even when more experienced friends assured me I should dive right in. To be honest, sometimes I judged them, unjustly, by their covers. If, for instance, there was lots of small print, or if the author's name appeared to be Russian, I might not even take a sample. I'm cautious when sampling new flavors.

But every so often something scrumptious is delivered to me, and I devour it and wish I could read it every day for the rest of my life.

OK, so maybe that's a bit much. But I am about to finish a book that was just so real, and refreshing, and funny, that I think I want to marry it.

I've already mentioned it here, a few posts back: it's Anne Lamott's classic book for writers, Bird by Bird. So now I've really done it. I've eliminated even more of my audience. It's just you and me now, my fellow-writer-blog-reader pal. (I know everyone else is disappointed, thinking they were going to discover a hot new fiction title or at least a helpful weight loss manual.)

Actually, the subtitle is "some instructions on writing and life," so those who are interested in life, not just writing, might find some gems in these pages as well.
I always regret not having a highlighter in hand when I read (I was taught not to deface books, and I just can't get used to writing in them; it feels like savagery.)
So I'm left with my (poor) memory to find the passages that spoke to me. Oh dear. Let's see...

This is hard, harder than I thought it'd be. That's because this book is just so filled iwth inspiration.

A taste:
"My deepest belief is that to live as if we're dying can set us free."

"...Perfectionism is based on the obsessive belief that if you run carefully enough, hitting each stepping-stone just right, you won't have to die. The truth is that you will die anyway and that a lot of people who aren't even looking at their feet are going to do a whole lot better than you, and have a lot more fun while they're doing it."

And this: "Hope begins in the dark, the stubborn hope that if you just show up and try to do the right thing, the dawn will come."

I will finish the book tonight. I've been saving the last chapter, like a dark chocolate truffle in a box of chocolates. I plan to savor it, enjoying every last morsel.

I know this book has been around for years, and the serious writers have already read it. I'm slow, I know. Slower than me? That's OK. Read this book. Ignore the vulgarity if that sort of thing bothers you; forget the fact that you probably wouldn't like Lamott very much if you met her at a church function or the home of your liberal neighbor.

If you are a writer, or want to be, get this book.

What are you waiting for?

heart of stone

2009-03-08T19:17:00.004-04:00

One of the things I like best about the internet is that because of it, I have friends.

I'm serious about that. I have a few "real" friends, of course, the kind that I go shopping with and get drunk with and speak to on the phone with when I am having a nervous breakdown. But I mean it sincerely when I say that I have found some friends through the wonders of the "worldwide web." (Does anyone call it that anymore?)

I joined facebook and 4marks (a very cool Catholic networking site) because I wanted to connect with old friends and make some new ones. I believe I am managing to do both of those things, and avoid doing housework to boot. (But that's another story.)

I especially enjoy the connections I've made to Catholic writers, artists and musicians on 4marks. I find those creative types intriguing, and while I may not want to talk to them on a daily basis (many of them are quirky, like me) I really like getting to know them the new-fashioned way: through what they reveal online.

One new friend, Patrice Egging, is a songstress and all-around cool pro-life Catholic lady. Among other things, she collects rocks. But they're not just ordinary rocks - she favors a special kind, those shaped like hearts.

I was out walking the other morning when I came across a whole pile of rocks. They were lined up along side a fence, where other folks have little green plants sometimes. I immediately thought of Patrice, and of my son Luke, who brings home rocks EVERY DAY that he picks up on his way home from school.

I thought maybe I could find a cool rock to send to Patrice. I didn't have much time to search, because I was walking Sophie, and she didn't want to stop to look at rocks that did not smell the least bit like bacon. I also didn't want the homeowner to come out and inquire why I was digging through his stony border, so I glanced around quickly, figuring that if there was a heart to be found I'd spot it, grab it and make a quick get-away.

But I found nothing so I went home.

Don't be ridiculous! Of course I found a rock! A beautiful one! A perfect one!

Here it is:
I was going to send it to Patrice, really I was. But the more I thought about it, I knew it was intended for me. When I look at it, I see a heart. You, or Patrice, or any other normal person probably does not. You see a bumpy misshapen thing, a rock that looks quite ordinary and rough.

I see a heart. One little girl taught me that hearts are sometimes imperfect. They are rarely shaped like valentines, and they are usually kind of crazy and torn-up.

And they are all unique.

I put the rock, the imperfect heart-shaped rock, in my pocket, and smiled all the way home. It reminded me of friends, old and new, and of hope, and spring, and love. It reminded me that you can find the right thing if you look in the right place, and look with the eyes of a child.

Did I mention it's pink?

you lack disclipline

2009-03-06T12:41:00.002-05:00

A while back, one of the goofy folks who lives in my house discovered a website that provides sound bites of famous people saying the fun things that famous people say.

We spent many happy minutes at this site. We soon found a favorite: the sage words of Arnold Schwarzenegger.

The best of the best? Him shouting "You lack discipline." We laughed and laughed, then went back to looking for other dumb stuff on the internet rather than doing anything productive or meaningful.

Last week I mentioned that my theme this Lent is "Speak Lord, your servant is listening." So we're a week into the season here, and I discovered that once I removed my fingers from my ears and stopped chanting "I'm not listening, I'm not listening" the Lord had plenty to say to me.

I lack discipline.

I think I have discovered something profound and life-changing here, people. I lack discipline. It's real gold, the key to all my troubles.

They say that recognizing you have a problem is the first step in making real change. OK, fine. I'm admitting it here. I am so lacking in the ability to control myself.

I do fairly well when I am given a set of standards, rules to follow. But left on my own, I stink. I just can't seem to get a handle on that most important type of control: SELF control.

It's why I eat too much, drink too much, talk too much. It's why I spend hours on facebook rather than doing research for an article. It's why I started to write this post, got sucked into an episode of "Ten Years Younger" and ended up spending 60 bucks on a pair of red pumps at zappos.com before returning to finish writing. (Honey, if you're reading this, when you see these shoes you're going to agree that I really, really needed them.)

What was I saying? Maybe I also have adult ADHD, but that's another story.

So what do I do? I'm tempted to do what I always do when I discover some real or imagined fault in myself: eat an entire package of Dove dark chocolate bliss and wash it down with a bottle of merlot. Just kidding. (sorta...) Actually I'm tempted to devise a very complicated "improvement plan" that will include all sorts of constraints on my thoughts and behavior. I will forbid myself to do anything I might even remotely enjoy. Doesn't that sound smart?

Obviously I've found this method to be less than effective, so I'm going to try something new this time. I feel rather like an alcoholic chanting the "one day at a time" mantra. There is true wisdom there. If I bite off more than I can chew, I'll just end up choking.

The path to self-discipline? Must start with something simple. So this morning I got up early, when I wanted to stay in bed. Then I took Sophie for a walk, instead of surfing the net. Later I had a Lean Cuisine for lunch, and ate only two handfulls of Wheat Thins, rather than half the box.

The best decision though, the one that will surely teach me the most? I went to Mass. Received Jesus in the Eucharist, and just sat there for a minute and said "Speak Lord, your servant is listening."

He told me I lack discipline.

But He also told me He'd help me find a way to improve.

Pretty cool.

Anybody else struggling with this? I'd love to hear how you are conquering the out-of-control in your life.

mindless drivel

2009-03-03T10:09:00.004-05:00

"While it's fresh in my mind."

If you're a writer of any sort at all, you've muttered these words to yourself. I've just got to get this down on paper, while it's fresh in my mind. Perhaps you just returned from the senior prom, or your first job interview, or the dentist, and what occurred there was so inspirational or stupid that you just must jot it down, for posterity. Or for giggles.

Maybe you're not an "official" writer, but even so, you've done it. You remember something you have to tell your best friend or therapist. You recall the words to that song. You remember what you really need to pick up the next time you're at the grocery store. And while the thought's fresh, you grab it.

The problem I'm having lately is that nothing at all stays fresh in my mind. It's as if someone has left the fridge door open a crack, or maybe knocked the plug clear out of the socket, and now everything in there has gone bad. The eggs are rotten, the milk is sour, the butter is rancid, and don't even think about touching that bread that's sitting on top. It's stale as hell.

I'm not sure if I'm mentally ill or brain damaged, or just tired. Is it hormones? Too much wine? Not enough coffee? Or is it that my brain is just crammed to capacity, like that old 512 megabyte computer we put on the curb?

The old steel trap had denigrated into a crumpled wad of aluminum foil.

I have no real excuse or explanation. It's just that I've lost my mind, and I miss it. We used to be so close, my mind and I. We went everywhere together. Now, I'm left to travel this lonesome road, mindlessly.

While it's possible my mind and I might be reunited someday, I'm not optimistic. I think I just need to accept the fact that things have changed. I need to rely on my kids, and my friends, and a daily planner. That's where I sometimes write important things.

While they're fresh in my mind.

it's a small (interesting) world

2009-03-01T10:45:00.005-05:00

One of the benefits of living with teenage boys and having hip sons-in-law is that I get to hear about all the latest cool stuff on the internet.

Thanks to my son AJ and my son-in-law Giovanni several fun things were brought to my attention this week.

One is the absorbing site diddit.com. Here you can track all the interesting things you have done - and the things you want to do. There are tons of suggestions for new adventures to experience. I figure this fits right into my New Year's Resolution about trying new things! I just signed up and haven't started checking off items yet, but I can tell this will give me a really fun new way to avoid doing laundry.

Thanks to Giovanni I was introduced to "drop box" (getdropbox.com.) Here you can download a program that allows you to access files from your computer from wherever you are, eliminating the need to email files to yourself or use USB. (Just yesterday I was emailing myself from our main home computer to my lap top. I do own a flash drive but 1. I never learned how to use it and 2. I can never keep track of it!)

I have to say the most awe-inspiring find of the week was google earth 5.0. (No, it was not that nasty SNL short you shared with me, AJ.) I cannot believe the detail that you can see when you google any location on the planet - no, make that the solar system! AJ was showing me pictures of the surface of Mars!

I must admit it was more than a little unsettling to see a pic of my house with my daughter's car parked out front. Big brother, anyone? But as AJ zoomed out from that view, out to a view of my state, our country, and our planet, I was mostly blown away by this thought:

I am very, very tiny.

The sense of the smallness each individual, of our apparent insignificance, left me wondering...

What sort of a god could create so many tiny souls, and remember them all?

What kind of creator could put a planet in motion, fill it with millions of beings, and love each one with a unique and personal love?

What type of man could give his very life to save each and every one of these miniscule specks on the surface of a big blue marble floating through an infinite space?

My kind of God.

My kind of Man.

Wow.

dinner's ready!

2009-02-28T17:01:00.008-05:00

3. What would be on the menu for your ultimate birthday party?

Oh what a yummy interview question from Cassie!

Let's just say this right upfront: I love food. And drinks. And food.

And I adore parties.

Unfortunately I've developed a life rule for myself that involves just one simple edict: don't eat anything you like.

Isn't that the saddest thing ever? Of course I'm just kidding. Anyone who's seen me can attest to the fact that I am very well fed, or at least I certainly give that impression by my appearance!

OK, so the dream menu...

I really like simple foods, especially pizza, the really gooey good kind with lots of cheese and greasy toppings. I also love Mexican food. The botana from Xohchimilco's in Southwest Detroit is one of my favorite things in the world. Ooooh, the avocados, the green olives, the melted mexican cheese.....
I also love bread, real bread, with a chewy crust, covered in butter or dipped in olive oil.

I stopped eating bread for YEARS in my locarb days, and I still don't eat much. If I start I just can't seem to stop! During that same time I actually started to enjoy salads, so I figure my dream meal would include one of those. It has to feature fancy lettuce - no iceberg allowed - and fun things like nuts and gorgonzola cheese. Maybe a few bosc pear slices, too.

I am female, so of course I love chocolate. How about a dark chocolate cake with really thick ganache for dessert?No chocolate in the house? Then bring on the creme brulee.

And to drink? I can't eat without a glass of good red wine. OK, I often settle for cheap, mediocre red wine, but for my birthday? At the very least I require several glasses of my new favorite, Penfolds Shiraz/Cabernet.

The truth is I'm really not that fussy. As I write this my son is preparing dinner: broiled sirloin steaks, sauteed spicy broccoli and red-skin potatoes. I'm sipping a glass of shiraz. Please don't hate me.

I'm a lucky, well-fed lady.

I know it's Lent, but gimme the dish: what do you crave?

7 quick takes: my premiere edition

2009-02-27T08:21:00.008-05:00

You may have noticed that I don't have a blog roll on my sidebar.

I decided not to add one because I'm 1) a slacker; 2) I'd feel bad if I hurt someone's feelings by leaving them out and 3) I'd feel obligated to visit listed blogs all the time and I'm bad at that.

Of course I do have my favorites. Every so often I come across a blog that is so smart, funny, spiritual and/or insightful that I swear I must've started another blog in my sleep and forgotten about it.

Those of you who are better at scouting out the gems probably met Jen at Conversion Diary long ago, but I just got around to sniffing around her site recently. Her blog has all the qualities listed above, and more.

Fridays she hosts "Seven Quick Takes." I'm often tempted to pick these ideas up, and when I do I'm inconsistent. But I've decided to give it a go, mostly because I'm jealous of Jen and want to be more like her. (That and the fact that I've committed to more writing are my motivators!)

So here is my first edition (it might be the last, I'm not making any promises, so don't get excited.)

--1--
I've come up with a "theme" for Lent: "Speak, Lord, your servant is listening." I realize that my relationship with Jesus is not all that different from my other relationships: I do most of the talking. I'm attempting to spend some quiet time every day just being. I trust that He knows what He's doing, and He'll fill me in as needed.

--2--
I can't believe my first grandchild will be here in only a couple months! When I noticed the number on the widget had dropped to the 60s, I started to get really excited.

I admit I'm feeling some of that "how will I ever love this baby as much" that moms feel when they are expecting their second child. Remember that? Of course we always love them with all our hearts, because as I tell my children, the hearts of mothers grow every time a new child comes along. (The pie doesn't get cut into smaller slices, the pie gets bigger!)

Experienced grandmothers keep telling me I will go absolutely wild for my grandbabies, and that I will love them so much I won't be able to stand it. I'm sure that's the case, but I still feel they're not going to be as amazing as MY babies.

But like my mom has told me, these ARE my babies, in a very real sense.

I'm sure I'll figure that out when I see the little cuties. In the meantime, an important question to consider: what will they call me?

Grandma, Nana, Memaw, Grandmother? All we've come up with that feels right is Grandma Hottie. Your thoughts?

--3--
Sophie is the cutest thing ever. Yesterday it was springlike enough outside for me to take her for her first Long Walk. She did great, staying right by my side. I was unprepared when she pooped on someone's sidewalk (I'm so sorry, neighbor!) but other than that it went well.

She is still not housebroken, which is her only real flaw. I know, that's MY failing, not hers. I'm going to buckle down and really work with her soon to get her going outside in the proper spot ALL THE TIME.

--4--
My kids are doing really well in school. John and Luke are getting good grades, and more importantly, excellent marks in their behavior. Joey has also really taken to high school living. He's decided to take band next year, because if this family needs anything, it's a trumpet player.

AJ is taking classes at the local community college. I'm officially done with our homeschool days, but I still spend time with him talking about his photoshop class, setting goals for his future (culinary arts, perhaps?) and watching inappropriate videos on youtube. It's all good.

Lauren is preparing to graduate, with honors, from nursing school in May. I'm incredibly proud of her. It looks like she'll be continuing her job at Children's Hospital on the rehab/burn unit after she gets the RN after her name.

Rachel's a student in the school of life now, scoring at the top of her class. There might be a prenatal class in the next few weeks as well, although she's informed me that she really already knows all there is to know. That's my girl.

--5--

The Big Man and I have been discussing the possibility of me getting a "real" job. I'm alternately terrified and excited by the idea.

--6--

I've set up an interview Monday with a Real Live TV Star. I'm more than a little nervous, because he is a Real Live TV Star, one that I used to watch on my favorite soap opera (as Meg Ryan's love interest) when I was in high school. He is tall and good looking and he lives in Hollywood, and did I mention he is a Real Live TV Star? He is also a committed Christian who is using his acting ability to present the Gospel to his audiences. Pretty cool, huh? Visit his site: frankrunyeon.com. And pray that I don't get all goofy when I talk with him next week.

--7--

I've decided I cannot ever watch "Baby Story" on TLC again. I used to watch it when I was pregnant, and I'd ball my eyes out when the babies were born. When I wasn't pregnant I'd think it was somewhat inappropriate to be a witness to such a highly personal moment in a woman's life.

Now, I'm a pre-menopausal woman who isn't pregnant, and watching it makes me cry AND wonder what in the world these women are thinking. And it makes me mourn my Baby Girl, and wonder at the fact that I survived losing her.

She's on my mind a lot these days. I miss her.

This is one of my favorite photographs: it reminds me of her.

thanks!

2009-02-25T19:14:00.005-05:00

The first day of Lent feels like New Year's Day. The champagne has stopped flowing, or, er, the paczki are gone but for the crumbs, and I'm left here with a dirty forehead and a question: Can I do this?

I'm not good at resolutions, so I don't usually make them. I tend to be so all or nothing that I lose sight of the reasons for the changes I'm trying to make. This year I made a great New Year's Resolution: to try new things and meet interesting people. Finally, a resolution I have a chance of keeping! I couldn't come up with something quite so fun for Lent, however. I'm kicking myself today because I allowed Lent to start without a concrete plan in place. Now I'm one day in and I haven't developed any hard and fast rules for myself.

I like rules. I may not always obey them, but at least if they're there, I can feel safe. I feel I would've done well in pre-Vatican II days, when penances were set so clearly before the faithful. Now, left to my own devices, I tend to be overly harsh or really easy on myself.

It's just too vague to say "I'll grow closer to Jesus" this Lent. So I'm going to make a handful of solid plans for myself, here on the first day of Lent. (Tell me it's not too late....it's never too late for this, is it?) I'll keep them mostly between me and The Big Guy, but I'll share the one I've come up with so far: I'm going to say "thank you" more often.

I'll start each morning by showing my gratitude to God for giving me one more day to serve Him. I'm going to keep it simple: Thanks, Father.

I'll say thank you to my kids when they help with chores. I'll thank my husband for working so hard for our family. I'll be grateful to my friends who listen when I call them or email them to whine about my latest problem. I'll thank my parents for putting up with me when I was a teenager. I'll thank the lady at the dry cleaners and the mail carrier and the pharmacist for doing their jobs and making my life better as a result.

I do really appreciate all of these people, but my goal is to tell them. We all need to hear those words, don't we?

And I just might develop a more grateful heart, something I sorely need, in the process.

And a grateful heart is one that is necessarily closer to Jesus, right?

fat Tuesday reflections

2009-02-24T17:24:00.003-05:00

I used to live in Hamtramck, arguably the Paczki Capitol of the World.

For the uninitiated, paczki (pronounced "poonch-key") are much like jelly donuts, but with extra added fat and calories. Folks eat them on the day before Ash Wednesday, stuffing them greedily into their soon-to-be fasting mouths.

When I lived in good ole Hamtown, I would wake up on Shrove Tuesday to the smell of those delicacies wafting through the air. The streets would be crowded with suburbanites who drove through Detroit and to this charming ethnic hamlet to load up on the plumb pastries. We even hosted a Paczki Parade, which featured the mayor of the city and some lucky guy dressed in a paczki suit. Good times.

It's a good thing I don't really care for jelly donuts or their chubby Polish cousins. If I did I might be joining the binge today, but instead I'm pondering our human tendency to load up on things that are just not that good for us.

I'm guilty as ever when it comes to this behavior. I may not be jonesing for donuts, but I'm saddled with more than my share of addictions. Lent begins tomorrow, and like many Catholics I'm considering today that age-old question: What shall I give up?

Now let me assert that well-intentioned spiritual folks would agree that the idea is to give up something good. Offering to stop freebasing cocaine or abusing puppies is not exactly in the spirit of the season. The idea is to refrain from the enjoyment of something wholesome and good that God has given us, with the idea that by sacrificing that allowed created thing we might grow closer to the Creator.

But of course we need to let go of the yucky stuff, too.

Today I'm digging deep, examining my conscience, seeing what stuff, both yucky and good, that I can let go of this Lent. It might be easier to give up jelly donuts, but I know this is what I'm called to do.

I'm not very good at any of it. Not good at the self-analysis; even worse at the letting go. There is so much to be attached to, so much to distract me from my pain, my challenges, my self, and ultimately My Lord.

I'm good at using the things of the world to numb my pain, to relieve my boredom, to stroke my ego. The whole world sits at my fingertips, eager to suckle me with the milk of self-indulgence. And so often I seek comfort there, instead of at the feet of Jesus, where my inner heart desires so much to be.

So this Lent, what shall I give up? I feel like Emily in Our Town, lamenting all the things in life she will miss, things she has taken for granted. I could give up hot coffee, hot showers, or hot dogs with everything. I could ignore all my favorites: dark chocolate, red wine, books by Dean Koontz, songs by the Killers, theaters and plays and movies. I could give up blogging and facebook and tilting my face towards the sky on sunny days.

Somehow, rather than making me feel closer to Jesus, the thought of all that "giving up" makes me feel like Emily in Our Town, lamenting all the things in life she will miss, things she has taken for granted. Does Lent mean I must "say Good-bye to clocks ticking. . ..and Mama's sunflowers. And food and coffee. And new ironed dresses and hot baths. . .and sleeping and waking up?"

Yet I feel a tug on my heart to let go of all of the yucky, and even some of the good, so that I may be open to a deeper relationship. I am, sadly, attached to more than my share. My heart can't be bound to so much of the world, no matter how good most of it is. I have to release some things so that I may grasp others with my freed up fingers.

I'm hoping, too, that by giving up some of the beautiful distractions of the world, I will grow to appreciate their wonder even more. Isn't that a worthy Lenten goal as well? So now I'm praying for the grace to let go, to hold on, to move ahead, to trust.

Like Thornton's Emily I'm in awe of the glory of the world. As she says, "Oh, earth,you are too wonderful for anybody to realize you. Do any human beings ever realize life while they live it--every,every minute?"

That's OK. But done right this Lent will help me see more clearly the glory of God.

So if you feel like it, have a paczki or two today. Enjoy the good things God has given you. Then spend some time thinking about what else He might have in store for you this season.

Have a blessed Lent.

summer breeze, makes me feel fine

2009-02-21T11:28:00.003-05:00

The flakes are falling around here, big time, so I think it's the perfect time to answer Cassie's second interview question: What is your favorite summertime activity?

I absolutely LOVE summer. I live in Michigan, where winters go on forever and bring lots of cold and that nasty white stuff, so when summer comes I'm beyond excited. I don't mind the heat, or even the humidity that much. I am blessed with an air conditioned home and even a groovy little pool out back, so I can escape from the warmth if I must.

But I usually just escape to one of my very favorite places in the whole world: my backyard gazebo.

The Big Man put in a lovely stone patio a few years ago. On it sits one of those gazebos with a really nice Martha Stewart patio beneath it. Every spring, as soon as we've endured the last frost, I go to the garden supply store and buy four of the biggest, most expensive ferns I can find. They always end up being the only plants I care for consistently all summer, rewarding me with those gorgeous waxy fronds all season. I hang one at each corner of the gazebo, and AJ puts up the twinkling lights and perhaps a wind chime. It's perfection.

The only adornment it needs is me in my Mrs. Roper dress, and I don't disappoint. (I have this floral dress that is really fun and a bit sexy, and when I bought it I told my best girl friend I felt like Mrs. Roper. The name stuck.) I love sitting out on the patio on summer nights, sipping an iced tea or a glass of Winking Owl (the house wine around here. If there is an Aldi grocery store near you, get yourself there immediately and purchase this awesome stuff - only $2.99 a bottle. The Cabernet is my fave.)

Sometimes it's just me and the Big Man out there, talking about the kids or his job or my insecurities in between sips. Sometimes all the kids are there, in their bathing suits, dripping wet and eating hot dogs. Often we are entertaining our friends (love you Jim and Mary Lou!) or our pastor. Last summer Fr. Jeff "offered me the opportunity" to have him and the seminarian who was visiting our parish eat dinner with us every Monday night. Often we ate on the patio, with the pasta salad moving around the table as fast as the conversation about everything from church committees to the latest episode of SNL.

I have a small home, and summer means my home gets a whole lot bigger. My digs expand to include my beautiful gazebo and all the fun beneath it.

I just can't wait for summer to come again!

taking it like a man

2009-02-19T18:11:00.003-05:00

I want to be one of those saints I've read about.

Not the kind who got beaten and killed for his faith. Not the type who wore a hair shirt and/or ate locusts. Certainly not the kind who got her hands all dirty waiting on people.

I want just one thing: the ability to accept all that happens to me with an attitude of acceptance and peace.

Some years ago a good friend gave me a book of daily readings about the saints. It was one of those books I read over and over again, each time finding new wisdom. It was in this book that I found stories of saints who truly knew how to punch themselves in the gut and take whatever life had to throw at them.

I've had a few things thrown at me this week.

It really doesn't matter what they are, I suppose. But I know it does matter what I do with these goodies that've come my way. I wonder at the way God doesn't seem to answer my prayers, then ponder the possibility that He has something better in mind. In the meantime I am left with difficult circumstances that force me to acknowledge that God is in the business of making saints, not successes.

One of my biggest crosses is the one of being misunderstood. Anyone else carrying this one with me? You know the kind. I want so badly to explain myself, to make people understand what I meant. But they're not always listening. And I can't seem to say anything to earn respect, to make my voice be heard.

But He's listening, right? He respects me, all the time. He knows what the little (and big) sacrifices cost me. And He will never, ever, let me down.

Yep. I want to be That Kind of Saint.

a little doll

2009-02-18T16:32:00.004-05:00

Once upon a time there was a little girl.

She was a nice little girl, with brown eyes, blonde hair, and chubby thighs. Her mother also tells her she had an unusually large head, and that it was difficult to find t-shirts to fit over it.

Of course this lovely little gem was me. Why the sudden self-disclosure? Cassie at A Blessed Life sent out an offer to be interviewed a few weeks back, and since I love talking about myself, I took her up on it. She kindly sent me a list of questions (she's just DYING to know more about me. Who wouldn't be?) so I've finally gotten around to it.

There are five questions vying for my attention, but since I'm nothing if not verbose I decided to simply tackle them one at a time. (Plus, it will give me writing material for such a long time that way!)

So back to Little Cathy: the answer to question number one - What was your childhood like? What were you like as a little girl?

I was actually a holy terror who chased boys around the playground and stuck wads of gum beneath my desk.

Just kidding. I was a nice little girl, like I said above. (The part about my chubby thighs and big head are true, as well.) I grew up in a suburb of Detroit with my only brother, mom, dad, and a parade of small animals like hamsters and chameleons. I was on the smarty-pants side, in more ways than one. I taught myself to read before I entered kindergarten. When I got there, the teacher encouraged me to help the other children who didn't know how to read, tie their shoes, or properly identify Dick and Jane in our readers. I contend to this day that therein lies the root of my servant complex.

I spent the first two years of elementary school teaching the other kids stuff and putting my head on my desk because I talked too much. Somewhere around this time my father began telling me I would argue with the Good Lord rather than accept something I didn't agree with (Smarty-pants, for sure.)

One day in the spring of my first grade year, the principal came into my class and announced I was going to join the second graders. I walked across the hall and bam, I was "double promoted." The older kids accepted me, but my best friend from first grade never talked to me again. (I recently hooked up with her on facebook, so I'm finally hoping to set things right.)

The rest of grade school is kind of a blur. I can't name my teachers or tell you who I sat behind in Social Studies. I can say that I loved school, and that I always got A's. And I can honestly say I didn't feel that was any big achievement. I didn't feel proud or anything - my parents had told me I was an A student, that was how God made me. No special credit on my part.

I never got in much trouble, except for that time in 7th grade when I stole the teacher's gradebook and hid it in Ray Hudson's desk. I was so scared I was going to get paddled, but instead I had to write an essay on the Importance of The Gradebook in The Classroom. Go figure.

My home life focused on trying to get my brother, Chris, to stop pestering me. He was two years older and ten years less mature than I was (in fact, that's still true.) We used to sit in the back seat of my dad's olive green Oldsmobile, which was like a mile wide, and do the "he's touching me" thing. Chris and I had the misfortune of having to share a bedroom, which is probably the most traumatic thing I have ever endured. My mom hated it too, and spent years trying to get my dad to move us to a larger home. Mrs. Morrison, the real estate lady, spent so many years trying to track down a house to please my parents that I thought she was part of the family, and that every kid had a resident Real Estate Lady.

I had a huge collection of Madame Alexander dolls, thanks mostly to my Aunt Anne, who worked in the toy department at Muirhead's, in the basement. (How cool is that?) I had every country in the world (just about), and all of the Little Women, the ballerina and the bride. My brother and I used to have beauty pageants with them. Miss Argentina always won.

For a time my dream was to become a cosmetologist. My mom went to Bingo on Tuesday nights, and I used to do her makeup before she went. I loved to cake on the light green and blue cream eyeshadow. Mom swears she didn't wipe it off. She really loved me.

My favorite childhood activity was sitting in the apple tree in our backyard reading Nancy Drew mysteries. Isn't that the quaintest thing you've heard all day? I loved books and would read five or six of them a week. I wrote my first story when I was seven, my first play the same year.

I was always attracted to spiritual things. I really, really wanted to be good, and to get to Heaven some day. Still do.

I could tell you more about Little Cathy, lots more. Some of it would make you laugh, and a lot of it would make you cry. Fortunately, like it or not, she's always nearby. Hang around here long enough and you'll get another peek soon enough.

sick days

2009-02-17T14:10:00.002-05:00

I am not, it turns out, invincible.

I'm sick. I'm one of those people who (claims to) NEVER GET SICK. I might have a scratchy throat or a runny nose every so often, but seldom do I develop a "real" sickness.

Today I decided to just admit that I have a bug. The primary symptom (which is, incidently, the most annoying one) is that I'm so tired. I don't want to do anything. That, coupled with the fact that I've been in an emotional funk lately, is leading to a whole lot more nothin' going on around here.

There is laundry up the whazoo (is that a word?) dishes to match and several real live writing projects to be conquered. There are also a ton of "household projects" vying for my attention (the kind that make me want to pull out my fingernails by the roots rather than even think about them.)

At least I have a companion in my malaise: my dear Lukie. I wish I could say he was better, but instead he's getting worse. I took him to Urgent Care yesterday when our regular doc couldn't take him. The poor little guy had a temp of 104.7. That's saying something - the fact that I took his temp. I'm one of those "hand on the forehead" moms. Anyway, looks like he has bronchitis at the least, pneumonia at the worst. Prayers are appreciated.

But I'm here! Yay for me! Sucking it up, punching myself in the gut, all that good stuff. My goal today is to try not to each too many Cheez Its, and to only watch the really interesting shows on TLC.

And to write on my blog. Wow! Now look who's showing off!

resolved

2009-02-16T11:27:00.004-05:00

I am completely overwhelmed by my lack of effectiveness these days.

It seems that everything I touch turns to I don't know, nothing. Just nothing. Please hold while I take a phone call.

Might it be that I am constantly interrupted?

Not to say that the interruptions aren't important ones. People need me. All the time. I know I'm a wife and mother who has a job to do. I'm just sayin'.

But I am going to keep the little promise I made here yesterday.

I've decided I will commit to writing a little something here each day, weekdays. There, I've said it. You can hold me to it, and I hope you will.

I've claimed to be a writer since I was a little girl, but truthfully I suppose I'm more of a thinker. I think about writing all the time, and I'm one of those folks who believes she's done something if she thinks about it enough. Last night I went to bed early, in a huff, realizing that I've pretended to a writer for long enough. It's time to get to work.

Motivation came in part from my current read, the classic Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott. (Thanks, Jen.) I stuck just the tip of my nose inside its covers and was snatched right in. It's so delicious. It's making me sigh and just want to cry. I want to be a real writer, like that, one who can turn a phrase without constantly turning to cliches like "turn a phrase." Sigh, sigh, sigh.

So here I am, working out the Catholic Writer title I've christened myself with. I'm ashamed to say I hardly deserve it. But I desire it, and I plan to get busy earning it.

Luke's word (he chose this title)

2009-02-15T19:41:00.002-05:00

Last week I attended the Catholic Writers Conference Online, and as a result I've joined the Catholic Writers Guild.

You can click on the handy pic to your right to learn more about this group of faith- based writers.

So what makes a Catholic writer? I've been pondering the meaning of the vocation quite a bit lately. I've come to a few conclusions, but I simply keep coming back to the same fundamental fact.

I'm itching to tell you all about it, but right now there's a six-year-old boy coughing in my ear, begging to sit on my lap.

He needs me. He's reminding me that I'm a Catholic mother before I'm a Catholic writer, and the former needs no explanation to this audience.

For now I'll just say that a Catholic writer is both, all the time. I'm working on improving in both categories. I'll start by promising this to myself and you: a prayer and a word here each day.

I'll leave you with a word from Luke (my son, not the evangelist.) "I want to live for my whole life."

Don't we all? At least, shouldn't we want to live our whole lives, and live them well?

I'll be back tomorrow. Praying and writing, each day, becoming what I am.

all hail

2009-02-12T13:57:00.002-05:00

Rachel gave me a copy of this Mary Englebreit print this week. It is just so "me" that I had to post it here.

This Queen Mother is a spicy, blonde, young grandma type with cute eyeglasses and bunny slippers. And that drink in her hand? Long Island Iced Tea, I say.

If you look closely (I had to look over the top of my glasses and lean in real close) you will notice she is sporting a magic wand and has what looks like a chocolate cupcake at the ready.

That's my kinda role model.

I aim to please

2009-02-11T22:54:00.001-05:00

You didn't like the picture, so I changed it. Is this one better? I rather like it.

I didn't even send a card

2009-02-10T20:03:00.005-05:00

Will you forgive me?

I let our anniversary pass with nary a mention, hardly a thought. There was no candy, no flowers, so sentimental words between us.

But I do love you.

And even so, I missed our blogoversary.

February 7 passed without a mention. Please forgive me.

It's been quite a year. Together we conquered our fears, tried new things, made new friends.

You made me a better person, I think.

A better writer. A more interesting friend.

Someone who is constantly distracted by the thought of how she'll write about this or that.

But anyway...I'm glad I'm here. It's been a good year. Here's to many more to come.

tummy tuck and tell!

2009-02-07T19:59:00.001-05:00

I'm working on a writing project and I need help!

Visit my faith and fitness blog to find out more!

curtain call

2009-02-06T09:16:00.003-05:00

So the curtain fell on Stepping Out for the final time last weekend. Can't say I'm sad about that.

It was a tough show. Usually I feel somewhat bittersweet at the end of a run, but this show was so draining that I was ready to let it fade away. I could spend hours discussing all the problems behind the scenes (oh wait, I've done that!) but I'll just say here that the drama backstage was more interesting, compelling and entertaining that what happened on stage.

My biggest complaint had to be with the script itself. When you audition for a show you're not familiar with, you are certainly taking a chance that it won't be that great - either that you won't personally care for the story or that it won't be all that well-written. Both were true in this case. I never grew to care much about any of the characters, including my own. That is not good. I wish there was at least one character I loved or loathed. No such luck.

But there's always an up side. I learn something about myself and others with every show I do, and this one came through in that regard. So rather than share all the ugliness that we endured in the wings, I'll let you in on the life lessons I've snared this time around.

1. You can really, really like to do something, do it often, and still be really bad at it.
2. Tap dancing is harder than it looks.
3. People always know when you are talking about them behind their backs.
4. Audiences know when cast members are not getting along.
5. Some folks are just plain mean.
6. Most people do not appreciate it when you try to improve things - especially if your actions draw attention to the fact that they are not doing their job.
7. Everything to be printed should be proofread by several people.
8. I tend to judge people by their appearances, even though I will swear I don't.
9. I need praise, I thrive on applause, and I'm much more vain than most people who know me realize.
10. I simply want to be in charge of everything. If everyone else were as perfect as I am, all would well.

Right....

We had elections for our theater's Board of Directors. We have a new president who has lots of interesting ideas, and it seems a new era is underway. It's exciting, but more than a little intimidating. Will I perform again? Of course. (See #9 above.) But in the meantime I'm enjoying working behind the scenes to make this company successful, and to (hopefully) ensure that our upcoming productions go more smoothly than this one did.

So I'm lined up to costume our next show (the dark and edgy Cabaret) and I'm hoping to kick up a publicity committee. Keeps me off the streets, I suppose. I guess the theater's not a bad place for me. I can play and pretend, wear a mask. I can learn to tap dance and sing in harmony and maybe even keep my mouth shut when I should.

Those of us who love the theater can't always explain why. What I've learned so far, from the first time I stood in the dark wings, waiting for an entrance, to the last time I took a curtain call, is this: the theater is my teacher. And the lessons I learn are certainly worth the price of admission.

who knew?

2009-02-05T08:29:00.001-05:00

84%

parmesan encrusted tilapia

2009-02-04T21:40:00.003-05:00

...adorned with fresh lemon, accompanied by spicy sauteed spinach and brown rice.

That was last night.

Tonight's dinner featured homemade handcrafted turkey burgers with american cheese with a side of sauteed spinach and fresh grape tomatoes.

Both meals were made for a busy mom during a busy week by her 17-year-old son. If your child did something even half as amazing as this, I need to know about it!

happy birthday to my Daddy

2009-01-27T12:49:00.003-05:00

The way he tells it, his dad had to shovel a path for the midwife on that January morning in 1921. While the snow fell, his mother labored with him, and on that same day her mother gave birth to his aunt.

The youngest of four, not counting the two baby boys who had died before he came along, my father was born into a poor Slovak family in the hills of Pennsylvania. His father had immigrated from Europe just a few years earlier. When my grandfather married Anna, she was only 15, and by the time she was 25 she had her last baby, my dad.

His father worked hard in those hills, carving out coal from the dark earth. His back was marked, his lungs scarred, his spirit squelched. Not wanting a similar fate, my father left the mines for the Europe of World War II. Hitler apparently seemed a less daunting foe than those black caverns.

When he returned from the war, he had no intention of spending his life in the mines. His father had died while he was gone. His mother and sisters were going to Michigan. He soon followed, to take up residence in an apartment attached to the back of a home in Dearborn. That house belonged to my maternal grandmother. It was there that he met Joan, my mom.

They married in 1960 after a long courtship. Even though Dad had only an eighth grade education, he had a good job at General Motors Clark Street plant, where Cadillacs rolled off the assembly line in a steady stream. He was a union man: he gave an honest day's work for an honest day's pay, and when he came home each night, he worked hard around our home. He didn't expect much, just dinner on the table promptly at five.

Since he had to drop out of school at such an early age, he valued education greatly. Nothing pleased him more than seeing my brother and me graduate from college. It was something that he never dreamed for himself, but was thrilled to be able to provide for us.

Dad worked hard all his life, paying his bills, supporting his family, not seeking glory or honor. He had his struggles, his personal battles. He was not, of course, perfect. There were times when I think I hated him, and there were plenty of times I feared him. But he was strong, and loyal, and honest. I have never, to this day, heard him say a profane word. And each night of his life, he has knelt by his bed to pray. That's some kind of man.

We've never been the kind of family to share lots of hugs and "I love yous." I can still remember the first time my dad said those words to me on the phone. I had just given birth to my youngest daughter, and I was in the hospital recovering. I was 40 years old.

Now each and every time I speak to him on the phone he ends the call with the words: "Love you." I wonder if he realizes how much that means... It proves to me that it is never, ever too late to love.

Today my father turned 88. We joined together for dinner at Old Country Buffet, sharing chicken and macaroni and cheese, too much dessert, and many laughs. Dad doesn't usually smile for pictures, never has, but I captured a few smiles tonight. It was good to be together. As I snapped pictures I felt wise: I know I will treasure them.

Dad still talks about the things he loves: Mozart; the slopes of the Austrian Alps; praying the rosary; growing cucumbers in his garden; playing the lottery; baby girls. I have not always understood him, and I've often been impatient with him. But today I feel extraordinarily blessed to have known him.

Happy Birthday, Dad. Love you!

not on my shopping list

2009-01-20T11:36:00.003-05:00

And I thought I needed to go on a diet!

It turns out I just need to stretch the waistband on my favorite jeans with this handy device. Which leaves me thinking....wouldn't it just be simpler to spend that $29.95 on a new pair of pants?

three left feet

2009-01-18T19:26:00.005-05:00

I've metioned several times lately that I'm involved in a show, so here it is, The Theater Post.

My love for the theater began when I was in the second grade. That's when I wrote, produced, directed and starred in my first play. I can't remember the name of it, but I do recall that it featured the Easter Bunny and a serious dilemna: the price of eggs had risen to $2 a dozen, and EB and friend Peter were in big trouble. (FYI, back in 1972, the price of twelve eggs was only 53 cents, so this was dramatic.)

In the sixth grade I co-wrote, produced and directed, with my good friend Corrine Meadows, the classic production "Famous Americans of Our Nation's Past." It was 1976 after all, so a bicentenial tribute was in order. It was historically inaccurate (we had President Jefferson telling Lewis and Clark to take their teddy bears with them) but it was fun. I was hooked.

I didn't hit the stage again until high school, when I landed the role of Aunt Eller in Oklahoma!. It was a challenging role, but I was well-suited to it, even though I (of course) wanted the role of the cute, flitatious Ado Annie, the gal who couldn't say no. (What 16 year old girl in her right mind would choose the role of an old lady rather than a fun chick who loved the boys?)

Our director, like all of his kind, was evil, and I'm not exaggerating. He expected a flawless performance from a bunch of kids, and amazingly, he almost got it. It was a tramatic, exhilarating, exhausting, invigorating experience. I hated the director but loved what he got from me.

It took many years for me to return to the stage, but when my eldest daughter expressed an interest in the theater we got involved in our local community group. Now I'm on the board, have done costumes and performed in musicals, dramas and comedies. Our current production involves tap dancing.

As "Maxine" in Stepping Out I'm a 40-something gal who used to dance quite well. Now I'm in a tap class once a week, running a boutique and raising a step-son.

It's the hardest show I've ever been a part of, and that's not because I've never tapped danced before. (Although that's true, too.) All productions have their share of backstage drama, and this one is no exception. In fact, I keep thinking that if the audience knew what we've been doing at rehearsals, they'd want to buy tickets.

I find that every show I'm involved in brings with it a unique lesson. I learn about people; I learn about myself. This show, of course, is no exception. Not everything I've discovered has been positive, particularly about myself.

I feel like I'm dancing with not two, but three left feet. Oh, I've managed to learn how to tap dance quite well, actually, it's not that. It's just that I've found I'm unable to let go, to let others manage details, to not take charge. It's much more complicated than I'm letting on, and I'll spare you the details. But I'll say this: it's been a rough time. But am I regretting it? Never.

From the time I painted on a pink lipstick nose back when I was seven, I've loved the theater. I love the excitement, the wonder, the challenge. I love being myself and being someone quite different. I've loved and hated scripts, questioned directors and been in awe of them. There is nothing quite like that moment before an entrance is made...nothing quite like standing backstage, in the black, straining for a cue, hitting it spot on, feeling the lights on your face, getting the line just right, your heart beating so hard you feel it might burst. There's nothing like opening night, the jitters, the fear, the adrenelin; there's nothing like closing night, either, knowing that the art you've worked so hard to create will soon be just an echo on an empty stage.

There's nothing like a curtain call. There's nothing like applause.

So for the next few days I'll endure tech week, and on Friday I'll stand backstage and wonder why in the world I'm doing this. And then I'll remember how I love it, and how I really believe that there is value in sharing our talents through the theater.

Good theater can inspire, enlighten and educate, as well as entertain. I'm not sure if this show will do any of those things, but I know one thing. I'm going to enjoy myself, and I'm going to do it, because I can. For now, I think that's reason enough.

If you live in my neighborhood and want an entertaining, cheap night out, check out our site. (We are also doing a fund-raiser for our local crisis pregancy center, The Lennon Center, at all performances. Pretty cool, huh?)

stomach flu remedy

2009-01-14T13:00:00.004-05:00

There's not one available here, but I got your attention didn't I?

After reading about what happened to Laura when she included "stomach flu" in a blog post title, I couldn't resist. (Laura, I told you I was not above this!) Thankfully, no remedies of that sort are needed around here, although several of us are now battling colds in addition to our other woes.

I'm managing my crosses a bit better today, thanks in part to the wonderful encouragement I received from my dear blog readers. Have I thanked you all lately? I had tears in my eyes more than once as I read your comments on my last post. I felt so encouraged, so thankful for the friends I have found here in the blogosphere. I'm one of those who believes real relationships can be formed online (I certainly hope so - my daughter married the young man she met that way!)

As an update - the driver of the other vehicle appears to have told the truth about the matter, which is great news! I paid $120 to have my dishwasher "fixed" - the filter needed to be cleaned, that's all - but it's working now and I'm over it. The rest of the house is still somewhat "imperfect" but it's warm and filled with people I love. I'm focusing on that today.

So on from stomach flu to other fun things that start with "s" - for that's today's theme, thanks again to my favorite Catholic school teacher on the planet.

Here's my assignment: list ten things I love that start with "s." Wow, what an easy assisgnemt! "S" is like the best letter ever!!!

Here's the first ten that came to mind.

Silence
I like it, I love it, I want more of it! I so rarely experience it that when I do I want to hold gently like a precious jewel. Just one of the reasons I treasure my chances to visit Jesus in the Blessed Sacrament. The silence feeds my soul.

Solitude
Like the first item, it's a rare and priceless gift I long to give myself. I like me. I miss me. I want to spend more time with me, just me. I vant to be alone.

Sunshine
Michigan winters can be lovely, all covered with fields of white, barren branches bejeweled with icy crystals. But how much lovelier it is on a sunny day! I miss the sun! I put my sunglasses on yesterday, for the first time in weeks, and almost wept. I adore the sun, and I tend to go all seasonal-affective when it goes missing for months at a time. I can't wait for spring, when I'll throw caution to the wind and sit outside in my shorts, sans sunscreen. (I know; no lectures. I need vitamin D, right?)

Seasons
Even though midwest winters can be harsh, they lead us to really appreciate spring. I really enjoy the change of seasons. The carnival of lavender, fuschia and chartreuse in spring, the sand and hot blue skies of summer, the butterscotch leaves of fall, the moonlight diamonds of winter....what gorgeous gifts He gives us!

Spices
Cayenne, garlic, rosemary, savory, thyme, sage. Bring 'em on. Wouldn't food (and life) be boring without them? I like to spice things up, both in the kitchen and elsewhere. That whole variety thing makes things fun.

Strawberries
They're visually interesting, delicious, nutritious and lo-carb. Try them with sour cream and brown sugar. Yum.

Stagecraft
I love everything to do with the theater. I love being on the stage, behind the scenes, or in the audience. One of my favorite aspects is the magic that can be achieved by creative folks who understand one of the most important truths about it: good theater can educate and even heal us.

Stories
Everybody's got one, and I want to hear them. I love all kinds of stories, the kind we speak to one other, the kind we read, and the kind we tell through the quality of our touch, the timbre of our voices, and the emotions in our eyes.

Splenda
For someone sensitive to sugar, splenda is a godsend. It's a small but lovely addition to my day. I feel so indulgent when I'm drinking my sweet cup of tea that only contains one calorie and no carbs!

Sweaters
Can a woman have too many sweaters? I think not. They are soft, pretty, and cover up our imperfections, real or imagined, if they are cut nice and generously.

I could go on and on here with the letter "s." Songs, silver, sons, supercailifragilisticexpealidociuos. Sangria, Santa Claus, Santa Fe, San Diego. Saints, stars, symphonies, sandwiches, soundtracks. And let's not forget Sophie!

Would you like your own letter? Visit Laura and she'll assign you one. Let me know when your list is up!

(If she gives you "f", will you include "flu?" If you do I'll look the other way!)

picking up sticks

2009-01-12T12:14:00.003-05:00

I was going to title this post "do the right thing."

Then as my thoughts came together, and the morning's events transpired, I was going to call it "if it's not broke don't fix it, but if it is, please get busy!"

Then I read Kate's post over at Momopoly, and I started to cry.

I'm having a rough morning.

I'm carrying a cross, and it's a light one. I call this kind a toothpick cross. It's so tiny that when you look at me, you probably won't even notice I'm lugging it around. But like a toothpick in a pile of toothpicks, it can be hard to pick up. And it can be very draining when it seems you're picking up this same one again and again.

Things are falling apart around here, and I mean that literally. On Saturday I was in a car accident. Don't worry, no one was injured, which is all that really matters. But my van is smashed up and in need of repair, and I spent the morning on the phone with the husband of the gal who hit me and with insurance agents.

That leads to the "do the right thing" angle. It was snowy Saturday, dangerously so. The roads were horrible, and I really had no business being out. But I had a rehearsal to get to (don't worry, I'll fill you in on the show soon!) so I ventured out. When that other car came careening through the intersection I was in the middle of, there was really no stopping it. She had hit a slippery spot, and she was driving too fast. I saw her coming, tried to accelerate, but my wheels spun and she hit me, sending me spinning 180 degrees.

When I got out of my van and saw the other driver, I was relieved. She was OK, so was I, and even better, it was someone I knew! We had gone to high school together and her husband and mine had played in the same softball league in recent years. That would make things easier.

We assured one another we were fine, found both our vehicles to be driveable, and decided no call to the police was necessary. We both knew it was her fault, but I figured I'd spare her the ticket and the points that may accompany it. (I knew this might happen - a good friend of mine was in a similar accident last winter and that's what happened to her.)

I decided to be nice.

This morning her husband called and said he was going to try to "fix things" with his insurance agent who also happened to be the best man at his wedding. He explained he planned to simply say the vehicle was parked on the street and was struck by some unknown car.

Oh no.

I don't do well with this sort of thing. I had no intention of participating in insurance fraud (and why should I? I had nothing to gain and something - the payment of my deductible - to lose.) I told him I was not comfortable with that idea, and that I planned to do something wild and just tell the truth.

He handled that pretty well, I guess, but he said he wanted me to wait before I called my company. I stupidly agreed, then realized after I hung up that I had no intention of doing that. I called him back and left a message on his voice mail telling him I was going to make the claim. So I did and now I'm waiting to see what happens.

It appears that if they call with a different story, I might be out the $500 deductible.

That stinks. That's the price I've paid for "being nice." I suppose the lesson is that sometimes "doing the right thing" includes following protocol that protects me rather than trying to be nice to someone else.

That's just the beginning of my toothpick collection today. The dishwasher's broke. My blow dryer shot sparks at me this morning. Last week my microwave broke, so I threw it out and got a new one. Today I found out it was covered on a repair plan and if I had called I would've received a check for $125 if they couldn't fix it.

My lap top is malfunctioning, randoming shutting itself off. The kitchen drawer fell apart the other day. The lightswitch in the bathroom wants to permanently stay in the "on" position.

My home is falling apart, and I'm frustrated, angry and sad.

The condition of my house is a really heavy cross to me. We redid the living room and my room this past year, and they are quite attractive right now. But I'd be lying if I said I was content here.

It's a "starter home" at best, and we're way past getting started. We will probably never be able to move to a larger home, and that is something I just have never been able to get over.

We have three bedrooms, no basement, only 1300 square feet. The house is not ancient, but it's no spring chicken, either. We use our family room for so many purposes; now Sophie stays in that room too, and it's insane. I don't know how we do it.

But we do. I pick up the toothpick every day, and it's exhausting sometimes. Like Kate said, people might look at me and think how great I have it. (Especially people who've never been to my house!) They look at all the blessings in my life (and there are indeed many) and they don't even know how much I suffer because of my inadequate kitchen cupboards, damaged tiles and stuffed closets.

I feel ashamed that I whine about this. But for some reason, this cross seems almost unbearable at times. I imagine that's because I've had it for years, and I don't imagine it will ever be lifted from me.

So today it's messed-up, screwed-up, broken around here. And it probably will be tomorrow, too. So I'll do my best to hang in there and not break anything else -- especially my spirit.

writers living, writers writing

2009-01-11T19:42:00.003-05:00

I fancy myself a writer.

I've written a book after all, and lots of articles, and I've got this snappy blog, after all. And ANOTHER blog, 'cause I'm a show-off. OK, so none of the above have received much attention lately. That's all right, I think I'm finally grown-up enough to realize something I didn't get back when I wrote this catchy phrase in my diary when I was 19: "When a writer stops writing, she stops living."

That's rather embarrassing.

I think what I meant to say was that those of us who "write", those who find it something as natural as breath and as essential as oxygen, feel very "un-alive" when our pencils lay unsharpened on our dusty desks. That is true, I suppose. But the living doesn't stop just because we're not recording it, in journals or notebooks, on yellow lined steno pads or computer screens.

Life goes on.

It's been going on here, that's for sure, even though I've been neglecting the preservation of it. The most important and delightful development is that I had a wonderful late Christmas gift delivered on the Feast of the Holy Family.

I'm having another grandbaby!

My daughter Lauren, who married in August, is expecting, just like her elder sister! (That sibling rivalry and competition never ends, does it?) Her baby will arrive in September, with the gold leaves and Indian summer breezes and back to school supplies. I'm thrilled! Our little Grace is due in early May, and Lauren, not to be out done by Rachel, will bring our second grandchild to us in the fall. How blessed we are.

I've been so busy these last couple weeks, even though the boys are back in school. They're doing so well, by the way. I think we made the right decision. It's strange, but I can't believe I ever homeschooled my children. Isn't that odd? I find as I get older that I am continually amazed by the things I did in earlier years. Did I really have four kids in that old flat in Hamtramck? Did I really manage to get around for years without a car? Did I really live without the internet? How did I homeschool children for 15 years, when what really felt natural was a career in business or advertising or fashion or photography? Did I really breastfeed several of them for one or even two years? How did I do all that?

So now I'm older and wiser, and a puppy is sleeping at my feet while I write. Sophie is adjusting well; we grow confident together. She is not accurate or consistent with her well, "eliminations" but she is improving. AJ has taught her to sit. She has gained a TON of weight (when you only weigh three pounds, going up to five is a big increase!) I'm getting to the point where I can't imagine not having her in my life. That's a happy feeling.

My Big Man made an amazing dinner for us tonight (stuffed pork tenderloin, asparagus with gorgonzola and almonds, cucumbers with sour cream, fresh berries.) Yes, I am a lucky woman. He just asked me if I could wash the dishes (the dish washer is broken - how shocking!) and I laughed out loud. But I'll do them, of course, how could I not?

I'd like to share more about one other thing that's been keeping me really busy these days -- my upcoming performance in a community theater show. Now you are intrigued, aren't you? Let's just say for now that it includes tap dancing. Isn't that enough to bring you back for more?

So I'm living, and maybe not writing so much, but living. If I don't I'll have nothing to say, right?

Gratituesday...for my Friend

2008-12-30T14:00:00.003-05:00

Did you miss me?

I missed you!

Christmas (and my birthday, which was the 23rd) was wonderful, as always, but I'm still recovering. A holiday "hangover" of sorts, I suppose. All the food, the wine, the relatives, the spending...it can get a bit exhausting. I figured I get back to some kind of normal with a Tuesday Gratituesday post.

Do those of you who have blogs like mine, with your full name and picture plastered all over it for all to see, ever wish you had an anonymous one? I sure do. Especially on days like today, when I'd really like to vent here about certain people who are driving me crazy. But I digress. I'm supposed to be talking about what I'm grateful for, right? So here it is.

I'm grateful for Jesus.

I mean really, really grateful. For so many reasons (the least of which being that dying for me thing) I am so glad I know Him.

When I am feeling really challenged by the people in my life, I know I can turn to Him, and He will be there, my steadfast Friend. He is never too busy or stressed to listen to me. He always keeps His cool and His sense of humor. His patience never ends, and He never tires of my complaints or poor jokes.

When I have been really down, and I mean down, I have been given the good sense and the grace to turn to Him. Like everybody else on the planet, I've had some real lows. When I mentally list them (I can't reveal them all here - remember - that anonymity thing?) I am sometimes overcome by how absolutely horrid some of the things I've gone through have been. Can you think of some times like that in your life? I know you can.

And then I remember what Jesus did for me during those times. He reached down (way down) to my level and hoisted me up. He kept me going. He was my brother and my friend.

Things will go well, and things will go off track. Today I'm thankful that where ever I'm at on that path, Jesus is right there beside me.

I've got much to be thankful for.

So I'm going to visit my Friend. He's waiting for me at my local church every Tuesday, all day (something else to be immensely grateful for.) Is He waiting for a visit from you, too? Go say hi. You won't ever regret it.

yes, Virginia

2008-12-21T19:28:00.007-05:00

I believe in Santa Claus.

I'm not saying I simply promote belief in Santa with my children, although that is also true. I'm not saying I think the Santa myth is fun, and that I like to pretend he's real.

I'm saying I believe in Santa Claus.

Like most, I grew up believing in Santa. I wrote lists of gifts I would like, and well-crafted letters mailed off addressed to Santa, North Pole.

I visited him not at a crowded mall, but at the local Hudson's Budget Store. There on a make-shift throne sat not one of "Santa's helpers," but the real Santa. At least that's what my brother and I were convinced. He had a real beard and kindly blue eyes. I remember preparing for our yearly rendezvous for days, overcome with nervous excitement. I was not a terribly shy little girl, but I was certainly not the type to be comfortable sitting on some old man's lap and rattling off a list of toys I wanted.

I did ask for toys, and sometimes I got them, and sometimes I didn't. I remember that one year I decided there was only one gift for me: a miniature toy vacuum cleaner. I had spotted it in the Sears Catalog, and had carefully drawn a circle around it. It was just like my mom's, only in wonderful toy form. On Christmas morning I excitedly tore open the packages marked To: Cathy From: Santa. I'm sure there were lots of wonderful gifts there. I don't remember what they were, but I remember that I didn't get the vacuum cleaner. But I still believed.

I never had a Christmas on which I "discovered" that Santa wasn't real. We had a book on our shelf that told a story about a little boy who got a black eye at school when someone challenged his belief in Santa. (I'm pretty sure there are no books like that in print these days!) The book went on to explain Santa's origins in the form of St. Nicholas. I used to imagine I was a bit like that boy: I would be willing to go to the mat for the Big Guy. In fact, I still am.

There is a trend in some circles to deny the existence of Santa Claus, a trend I find quite disturbing. I know some folks quite well who raise their children with the belief that St. Nicholas was real, of course, but that Santa Claus is merely a modern invention of consumerists who want us to spend more money this time of year. (They also demonize Halloween, which is another story entirely.) They contend that if they indulge a Santa fantasy, which they will someday say is a fib, their children won't believe anything they've told them, and will end up doubting the existence of God, which they will now identify as a myth as well.

I've heard this theory more than once. It's interesting, but the fact is I have never, ever heard of a case in which this has happened. Rather, I've many examples of well-rounded folks who love Santa and love the Lord and live a healthy, well-balanced life filled with ample amounts of fantasy and reality.

Fr. John Dietzen, in his recent column for the Catholic News Service, agrees with me. He eloquently defends belief in Santa, acknowledging that fantasies such as this are "doors to wonder and awe, a way of touching something otherwise incomprehensible."

Fr. Dietzen also share the words of G.K. Chesterton spoken in Santa's defense. Chesterton compares Santa's generosity with that of Our Creator Himself, and contends that our experience of Santa's goodness becomes a reflection of God's great gifts to us. (Read Fr. Dietzen's reflections and Chesterton's words here.)

So I believe in Santa, and like Chesterton, I find that "Santa Claus has grown larger and larger in my life until he fills almost the whole of it." I believe in Santa, and I believe in the magic of Christmas. If your belief has dimmed, take a moment to remember what it is like to be a child on Christmas Eve. That night contains all the wonder, joy and magic that can ever be. I admit that every Christmas Eve, while I join Santa in fulfilling the wishes of my children, I start to believe that anything is possible. I recall the Christmas Eves I have lain in bed, a new baby growing beneath my heart, considering the Holiest of Nights when another young mother gave birth. And what does that have to do with Santa? Everything.

I believe in Santa. I believe in goodness, and in selfless giving. I believe in wondrous nights on which anything, even the miraculous, can happen.

One of my favorite bloggers wrote recently about a little girl who "found out" there was no Santa. I wished I could tell her what my mom told me through her actions when I was a little girl, and what I told my children who began to doubt his existence. Santa is real, as real as wind and warmth and love. If there is a time when you doubt that he lives, it is time for your belief to evolve. It is time for you to be Santa for others.

Every Christmas Eve my belief in Santa is renewed. It may be me who fills the stockings, and my husband who eats the cookies.

Then again, maybe not.

I believe in Santa. I hope you do, too.

gifts for me under the tree!

2008-12-21T12:41:00.003-05:00

Not exactly what I had in mind.

Sophie has been leaving presents like this all over the place, so now we've confined her to the family room. I'm reminded of the days potty-training my children, something I was terrible at even though I went through it six times. I admit that sometimes I look at my adult children and am amazed that they made it this far without thousands of hours of therapy -- and in dry pants, no less.

Puppy love can be fickle, but I'm not giving up on my girl, or on myself. I know that she and I will figure this out. Since I've been spending all my free time searching the internet ("puppy poops in crate" and "how do I housetrain?" were recent searches) I've had little time to blog. When I'm not looking for training assistance I'm locked in the bathroom with her (that's where her training papers are) praying that she will let loose. It's a pain, but I'm still glad I got here. Weird? Love, puppy and otherwise, is like that.

I'm learning about myself, of course, as I struggle to train the little sweetie. Every puppy training manual (including my current fave read, Puppies for Idiots) claims that it is indeed the owner who first needs discipline. Oh dear. Discipline is NOT my strong suit. My lack of it leads me to say things like, "I'm a great mom, but a lousy mother." I'm horrible at providing boundaries, for myself and others.

This experience is reminding me that I need to grow in this area. Developing a schedule, following rules, erecting barriers, establishing boundaries -- all these ideas make me exceedingly uncomfortable. They go against my nature. But that is not an excuse to abandon them.

Sophie and I can learn together, and we will. I talked with my brother the other day, who is proud "papa" to a black lab and a life-long dog lover. He reminded me that I need to exude confidence, and that I should essentially "fake it til I make it." Sophie will learn that I'm leader of the pack, and she will be my faithful friend and companion. It will all be worth it.

Just another reminder that living a full life means doing things that are challenging, taking risks, pushing ourselves. It also means there will occasionally be unexpected presents under the tree. That's ok. Just clean it up and keep going!

'twas the week before Christmas...

2008-12-18T09:38:00.005-05:00

Yes, I am still alive!

It seems that the more I have to say, the less time I have to say it. I've been wanting to update and have been simply overwhelmed lately.

Sophie is cute as ever, but she DOES NOT WANT TO SLEEP AT NIGHT. She has found barking at all hours to be her favorite pastime. She also enjoys pooping in her crate instead of on her papers. I know, puppies are like babies, blah blah blah. I'm tired and cranky. I know, I'm the one who wanted a puppy, I have to deal with it. Blah, blah blah. She's grow up and learn and life will go on, right?

Luke has been sick all this week with something nasty. I sent him off to school this morning (after three days at home) even though he was moaning and saying his stomach still hurts. I haven't gotten a call yet, so he's fine, right?

I'm off to renew my driver's license now. Even for a gal like me, who likes to have her picture taken, this is not fun. I know this pic will be hanging out in my wallet for the next ten years, and they are not very accomodating photographers at the police station. They ignore me when I point out that photos look best when taken from above, and they don't even want to know which of my sides is best. Can you imagine?

Tomorrow we are due for a snow storm around these parts, so I'm hoping to be snowed in enough that I might find myself trapped in front of my computer. I've got a great post on the Big Guy of the season -- our man Santa -- that I want to share with you. I just haven't written it yet (small detail) but wow, it's great in my mind!

For now I leave you with this detail of our Christmas tree. It is real, as in not artificial, a caveat to my Joey who was threatening to boycott Christmas if we switched to the storebought variety. It looks quite beautiful, I must admit, very traditional and festive.

Bear with me while I sort out another traditional occurrence -- one that happens yearly but without festivity. I'm experiencing that week-before-Christmas stress we moms are all familiar with. Breathe in, breathe out. I'm better now!

gratituesday

2008-12-09T13:00:00.005-05:00

I'm thankful for Santa Claus and little boys.

More about both later.
Don't forget to visit Laura to see what's she's thankful for this week.

meet Sophie!

2008-12-04T21:33:00.005-05:00

Thanks for all the great input on the puppy names. I must admit that I spent most of last night obsessing. (Especially after reading Christine's comments! :))

Should I name her a "real" name? Will I offend someone? Should I even get a dog at all?

I admit I wracked my brain for a "dog" dog name, and I couldn't think of anything. Well, I actually thought of a few things, but then I realized I knew (or knew of) PEOPLE with these names! (I know of a human Sunshine, Candy, Trixie, and Buffy.)

Anyway, when I saw this little girl last night I knew the name I had dreamed of for a puppy was just right for her.

She's Sophie, and she's the newest member of this crazy family.

She is so cute, cuddly and affectionate, with just enough spice to keep things interesting. I'm feeling quite peaceful that she's just the right pet for us.

Isn't it great when things work out like that?

puppy love, part 2

2008-12-03T13:22:00.004-05:00

A while back I mentioned I was thinking about getting a dog.

Yesterday my husband nudged me along, since I've been talking about it for months. So today I took the plunge and actually called about an ad I saw for adorable pek-a-poo pups.

The female is black and white (with an "active" personality) and the male is a laid-back brown and white cutie. As of this morning, no one has left a deposit, but several folks are interested. So tonight we are going to meet them (the Big Man called it pet speed dating.)

I guess it's a sign that I really want to do this because I am so excited and hoping no one else will claim them both. I originally wanted a female, but now I don't care (that calm male is sounding great.)

But I have a very serious problem, and I need YOUR help! What does a smart, sassy, sophisticated grandma-to-be such as myself name her new doggy?

If you're going to suggest Hank, Spot, Buffy, or Rufus, think again.

I need something original. Maybe a literary reference, a cool, little known saint or a moniker with a significant meaning.

I like Sophie for a girl because Sophia means "wisdom." (Just sounds like a very empowered feminine chick, but still a little darling, like her owner, of course.)

Should I get a male pup, I'm at a loss. Suggestions, please!

pink or blue?

2008-12-02T11:39:00.003-05:00

Yesterday my daughter and her husband shared one of the most wonderful moments a couple can -- they saw their new baby on ultrasound.

It seems things have changed quite a bit since I had my first baby over 22 years ago, and even since my last one was born less than four years ago. Pregnant moms no longer need to drink gallons of water before the procedure (wasn't that evil?) and Dad is welcome to stay for the whole thing. They also had a handy TV screen hooked up that Rachel could view the entire time. I remember straining to see the screen throughout, but the techs always insisted on keeping it out of sight until the very end. And even then, you only got to see a brief glimpse of a fuzzy image that looked more like a map of the moon than a human baby.

We've all been anxious around here for this particular ultrasound -- the window into the womb that would reveal the Peanut's gender. I've been pondering it often in recent weeks. Will my first grandchild be a boy or a girl?

It is God's honest truth that we would joyfully welcome either variety. I found myself wistful for another boy, like my four urchins. Little boys are wonderful; they remind us of our husbands in all the best ways, and they adore their mothers. My boys bring me so much joy. I could picture a little grandson, with my daughter's chubby cheeks, my son-in-law's curls, and my husband's disposition. A little boy would be wonderful.

Then I dreamed of a granddaughter. A little girl would be so exciting! It has been so many years since I bought a doll! She would be our little princess, protected by a whole team of uncles, doted on by an aunt who would spend her paycheck on dresses. My heart also longed for a girl since my little Celeste is gone. She cannot be replaced, of course, but I admit the thought of having a little girl was a comfort.

So yesterday when the baby had "its" photo shoot, we waited anxiously to find out. A boy? A girl? What will that grandchild be????

It's a .....really cute wonderful little baby that we will love!

And her parents will name her Grace, and that is what she will bring to our family.

Congratulate me!!!!

post-holiday musings

2008-12-01T08:57:00.003-05:00

Today I share a commentary at 4marks.com. It's a sad story. I hope we can glean something positive from it: we need to evaluate our priorities and focus on the right things this Christmas season.

Around here I'm trying to get "back to normal" after a fun holiday weekend. My daughter hosted her first ever Thanksgiving meal, and it was joyous. (She had a little help with the prep but the clean-up was all on her and her husband. That's pretty cool!) It was the passing of the torch (the turkey?) so to speak and a transition I must say I'm enjoying.

Here's the fam around the table (minus nine-year-old staff photographer John.)
Norman Rockwell, eat your heart out!

Elfing Ourselves 2008

2008-11-29T11:17:00.000-05:00

Send your own ElfYourself eCards