On the eve of eighteen

My baby is sick. My first baby, that is. He's not just sniffly sick, he's totally wiped out sick. He's the kind of sick that has a very pregnant mother haul herself out of bed two or three times a night and go down two flights of stairs just to hover over his bedside. And then, because I'm so very pregnant and feeling way too maternal, I fight the urge to cry. Who will hover next year? Who will be there for this midnight vigil when he is living on a college campus? The convergence of new baby and "newly minted adult" is brought home to me at three in the morning with an overwhelming force.

Tomorrow is Michael's eighteenth birthday. As this baby stays tucked up tight, my husband jokes that we will never have eight children. Tomorrow, we will have seven children and a brand new adult. Someone decided that my first born baby is now old enough to vote, to go to war, and (joy of joys) to get a Costco card. What a momentous occasion it will be. We made it--the three of us: Michael, Mike and me. We navigated an entire childhood. And he's really a wonderful young man.

I remember so well the day he was born. I remember becoming a mother. And I remember every single lesson he has taught me since that day. The irony is that we are probably hours from beginning the adventure again with a new baby. And much of the reason we are so eager to do so is Michael. That first childhood entrusted to us was such a joy, let's do it again. And again. And again. Well, you get the idea.

I think that I loved being a mom and he loved being a kid because we lived a lifestyle of connected parenting (sometimes known as attachment parenting). We kept him with us. We answered his cries promptly and then, when they evolved, we listened to his every word. We respected the person in the child. We loved wholeheartedly. And we were so richly rewarded.

He talks often about how we fostered independence. But I think what we fostered was interdependence. We grew up together in many ways. I was barely older than he is now when he was born. And as Mike and I caught a vision of life, we naturally shared it with our child. We knew he was capable of great conversation even when he was very young. And so we talked. We talked and we talked and we talked. They say that you can't or shouldn't be a friend to your kids. That's probably true. Children need to see a clear authority. But the goal is to raise children whom you would love to have as your friends. So, you can and should be a friend to your young adults, right? Because this kid--I mean, young adult--is one of my best friends.

It's all good right? I can go out and tell the world how well attachment parenting--especially Catholic attachment parenting--works. I can shout from the moutaintops what a beautiful way it is to raise a family.

Well, yeah. Except I really should tell you about the tears, too. A couple of weeks ago, Michael sat in the seat I'm in right now and learned that there really isn't a place for him on the soccer team of the local university where he hoped to spend the next four years. It had nothing to do with his ability and everything to do with a quirk of numbers. They had long told him he'd be there, but there was a dawning realization that this year's kids weren't playing; there wasn't going to be room for more of them next year.

We live in an area that is flush with colleges and universities. He began to look at rosters of every school in the area--a wide area. And with every click, we learned together that there is an abundance of underclass defenders on the area's soccer teams. He looked at me, blue eyes wide and filling, and said, "I'm going to have to pick between my dream and being close enough to be an integral part of the lives of my little siblings." He pretty much hasn't slept since that night.

Nothing else was said. He is acutely aware of my pain. And I am aware of his. We are connected.

Loveliness in Family Living Spaces

Like in the bedrooms, all the furniture in the living spaces of our home has a history. Nothing in my living room and dining room was chosen by me. It was all "inherited." That means I have really lovely things, but that they're not quite what I would have chosen. They came from formal living spaces in other houses and we truly don't have those formal "no kids" rooms in our house. There are too many of us to designate that much square footage to adults only. My "loveliness decorating philosophy" is that children should live with and in love. That means we try hard to teach them to be good stewards of nice things. It also means that we accept with love the inevitable dings and dents and stains that go with the learning process. The same furniture that was in my mother's, my aunt's, and my grandmother's house sees a whole lot more action in my house!

When we first bought this house I was disappointed that the living room and dining room were really just one large room, divided visually by pillars. I wanted a traditional center hall colonial.

But then, I recognized that this floor plan suits the way we use the space very well. We have GIGANTIC gatherings for holidays and birthdays and, if we move the table from the kitchen, this space can lend itself to this:

On the other side of the kitchen is our family room. It sees quite a bit of family every day and night! The centerpiece of this room is the table. I think it's perfectly lovely. It was rather formal once upon a time and then it was "loved" a great deal by some rowdy little boys. Finally, it came full circle, when Michael re-created it for Mother's Day and it was lovelier for having been loved. That's kind of the way the whole house should be isn't it?

Where I'm From From--Anniversary Edition

I am from a 13-year-old girl in a brown turtleneck and tweed skirt who somehow caught your heart forever.

I am from ooey gooey bars in your locker, from state championships in Charlottesville, and from apple fritters at the Dutch Pantry.

I am from a perfect Homecoming Dance and a perfectly awful Senior Prom.

I am twenty years from a sun-dappled autumn afternoon when you slipped a ring and a promise on my finger. I am from a wedding a year later, another ring, and more promises--always kept. I am from more time in my life with you, than without.

I am from hours and hours of long distance telephone calls (harbingers of things to come) and regular treks up and down 29, wearing your ring on my finger and a song in my heart.

I am from the a little dollhouse on Donegal Lane, full of cottage charm, lots of dreams, the epitome of “cozy.”

I am from the basil on the deck, impatiens (better known as “poppers”) in the front, a swingset in the tiny backyard. From stolen kisses at Lake Accotink to Pohick Valley Stream park outside our bedroom window, deer in the morning and a rushing creek after the rain.

I am from five anniversaries spent nine months pregnant, from Michael and Christian and Paddy and then a girl named Mary Beth. I’m from the “twins,” Stephen and Nicky, from Katie Bean the family queen, and a little miracle girl we can’t wait to meet.

I am from early lessons in “in sickness and in health.” I am from an IV push with wicked red fluid that made my hair fall out; raging fevers and no white blood cells; and you, always you, right there by my side.

I am from giggling children in tickle jail to “go far post” to “Love you Forever” every night into your cell phone since she was able to warble the words.

I am from far too many teary goodbyes, sweet, memorable reunions and everything in between. I’m from no honeymoon. I’m from Christmas in Hawaii, to a pilgrimage to Chicago to lay it all at the feet of St. Therese, to American Girl Place with our ladies, to filet mignon and fine art in Florida (just us this time—oh, and great Aunt Ida;-)

I am from twelve years of Campus Ministry at the best CCM in the world, Mass in the Lecture Hall, groundbreaking for the chapel, seven (eight) Fr. Bob baptisms, the excruciating pain of the local mission, the comfort of St. Veronica.

I'm from midnight rides to 4 different hospitals and quick labors and deliveries, from craving watermelon in January to “needing” Pho in July, from three precious babies waiting in heaven, to 76 total months of pregnancy (but who’s counting?).

I’m from humming nebulizers all night long, butterflies over stitches nearly always. From chiropractors and orthopedists and orthodontists. From the first time we sped to the hospital with a child who couldn’t breathe to the time you cut his finger with the hedgeclippers.

From buzzcuts in the summer and curly-haired Christmas pictures.

I’m from watching Michael take the PK and breathing again when he makes it this time, from crying when Mary Beth danced Clara, from blushing in the heat while people marvel over Paddy’s footskills, not knowing that he belongs to us.

I am from Christian’s perfect Little League Season, coached by you. I am from sending you all out to play family soccer and counting the minutes until I hear the latest competitive squabble.

I'm from finding Nicky's blinking and repeating very endearing and being amazed at his number sense.

I am from very late nights when all is quiet and the heartfelt conversation murmured in a hush, lest someone wake and come to sleep in the middle.

I am from seven nearly identical baptism pictures on the wall in the hallway (with space there for new additions), from seven birth announcements framed at the foot of the stairs,seven christening candles. I am from a hope chest filled with notes from high school, wedding shower mementos, teeny-tiny hospital baby bracelets, a few stray bald chemo pictures I can’t deny but don’t care to remember, programs from dance recitals and remnants of soccer tournaments, and hope—hope that our tomorrows are as rich and filled with love as our yesterdays.

Bedrooms and Babies...

It was midnight dance of sorts, that four-times-a-night shuffle I learned to do eighteen years ago. Awakened by the cries of my firstborn, I'd stumble to the bathroom to wet a washcloth with warm water. I'd take it to the nursery and lift the baby from his crib. I'd pass the rocking chair on the way back to my bed. (It was too big for me, it turned out, and I never used it.) I'd nurse the baby on one side, change the diaper, nurse him to sleep on the other side and then carry him back to the crib. I'd dump the wet diaper and washcloth in the diaper pail and crawl back into bed for an hour and half of sleep before repeating the dance. If I lucked out. More often than not though, Michael wasn't too happy about the transfer back to the crib and I'd have to nurse him to sleep again sooner than later.

I was committed to attachment parenting; it was the logistics that weren't working. So, desperate for sleep, we tried some things. We wedged the fullsized crib into our tiny bedroom. He hated the crib. We took the side off the crib and anchored it to our bed. He still hated the crib. I slept in the crib with him next to our bed (I was much lighter then;-). He slept; I didn't. Finally, we ditched the crib and put him between us in the bed.

When our second baby was born, we didn't even put up the crib. By the fourth, we'd given it away. Over time, our nighttime parenting and our bedroom design and decorating have converged. Furnished entirely with gifts and hand-me-downs, no other room in our house speaks so much to our lifestyle as our master bedrooms does.

Two summers ago, my aunt moved out of a large house and into a smaller one. She called to tell us that a van was coming to our area to bring some things from that house to a friend of hers. She said she had a few other things and asked if we would like them. Not sure at all what we were getting, we said we'd take whatever. Mike was out of town the day the truck pulled up and it was rather like reality TV to stand at the truck's door and make decorating decisions as previously unknown pieces were unloaded and carried into my house.

A massive desk ended up in the sitting area of our bedroom. I wasn't sure its purpose (and I still don't know), but there was no place else for it and I had vague plans for a desk all my own. It's so huge and was so hard to get upstairs, that whatever we do with it, it's going to stay right there.

A very comfortable armchair worked well in that space, too. The picture above it came off the truck and I knew immediately that I wanted it within sight of my bed. It is an Asian mother and two children. Before this baby was conceived, we were prayerfully discerning a Taiwanese adoption. When the picture arrived, I knew it would be a constant reminder to pray for Taiwanese women and babies upon awakening and before I went to sleep. Even though the adoption plans were set aside, the prayers continue.

The dresser for the new baby was rescued from Bobby's house before he left to play in England. It was falling apart and Michael rebuilt the back. It will serve nicely as both clothing storage and a changing table. The nightstand next to it is from a set my mother bought us when we were married. We moved it away from our bed to make room for baby's bed. Here it holds a stash of diapers and wraps.

And then there's the glider...I am so looking forward to having a rocking chair that's made for a petite person! My sister generously provided both glider and ottoman for the baby. She said that everyone assumes you have everything by the time you get to eight, but sometimes there something you never indulged in that will make this time extra-special. I am looking forward to spending time here. My girls have already filled the side pockets with their collection of First Little House books. And the little touch of pink, the piece that really says "Baby Girl," is the quilt, a gift from Donna Howey.

The baby will sleep right next to me in a co-sleeper purchased by grandparents four years ago for Katie. My mother updated its cover and bought leg extensions so it would work against our new king-sized bed (yet another piece of furniture that came off that truck). I love my co-sleeper and the midnight dance is completely eliminated. A small table my mother found in Amish country sits at the foot of the co-sleeper with a basket of nighttime diapers and wipes and my CD player. No need to get out of bed at all--just reach over, nurse the baby and leave her sleeping in her bed. Diaper changes are bedside business too. There is something to be said for the lessons of experience! Maybe they'll compensate for the fact that I'm forty, have seven other children to care for, and much less energy than I did at 22.

The hope chest was an engagement gift from my father. It survived a flood in my mother's house before I was married and my father-in-law rebuilt the bottom. The baby's scrapbook sits upon it and I sincerely "hope" to work on it in a timely manner.

Though most of our books are shelved in our library closet, each bedroom in the house has a bookcase for special books. Mine is no exception. I loved this bookcase in my parents' house growing up and I think it's perfect in this corner of my bedroom.

When the baby is about a year old, she'll move to the "Rose Princess" room.

There, she'll find a dresser, rescued from my father's storage space and a closet festooned with flowers. The doors kept falling off, so I took them down and hung a curtain and some tulle.

The desk was a hand-me-down we painted (and need to paint again). The bed belonged to the set in my room but belongs to the girls now, who love to sleep together under the canopy. And the bookcase? The bookcase I actually purchased because I just couldn't walk away from it.

I have no idea how the baby will fit into this room, but it's a decorating project that could make for some summertime fun--next year!

What is submission?

Sarah asked, in this thread, what submission really is. There was some conversation and then Martha expressed genuine confusion. I turned to Fr. Lovasik, who time and again, can cut to the chase and bring clarity to weighty topics that tend to be muddied when they are viewed through the lens of today's society. In 1962, Fr. Lovasik quoted Ephesians 5:20-6:4 and then he had this brief elucidation:

This is a perfect solution to a major family problem. Let the wife be subject to her husband as if he were Christ. Let the husband love his wife as Chrsit loves the Church. If such a relationsip existed between husband and wife, they would be in harmony as the Church and Christ are--in perfect love and peace.

"Yes, but..." I hear you thinking. But my husband isn't perfect as Christ was. I can't submit to a man who isn't perfect. I might be smarter than he is. I might be better educated than he is. I might be more thoughtful than he is. I might be more religious than he is. How can I submit to him?

The Blessed Mother was conceived without sin. She lived a sinless life. The only other person on earth who lived such a life was Christ himself. And they both lived under the guardianship of Joseph. God didn't make a mistake there. He could have saved Joseph from sin before he was born, just the way that He saved Mary. But he didn't. He put a flawed man in charge. And then, it took a sinless woman to have the humility to truly submit to him.

So, the two sinless saints lived in perfect obedience to the imperfect man--the father, the husband, the clear head of the household. When we look at the model of true perfection in family life, the indisputably holy Holy Family, we see how to submit. We can clear out the clutter of our present society. We can quell the voices that tell us that the Bible didn't really mean that one is in charge of the other. Of course it did! Women are created differently from men. And we need to trust the Creator with His plan for the family. He knew you would be smarter than your husband. He knew that you would be more devout. And still He made him the man and you the woman and he told you "It is not good that the man should be alone; I will make him a helper fit for him." Genesis 2:18.

"But that's Old Testament," comes the protest. "Christ changed all that." No, he didn't. Mary was the new Eve. She perfected that. Christ deliberately came to live in the midst of the Holy Family. There, Mary was the model of humility. She was an inspiration to her husband. She was his helper, first and foremost, because she perfectly loved her Son, and she modeled for everyone--even Joseph--how to do that.

How do we submit? We ask ourselves, "What would Mary do?" I promise you she wouldn't pout, she woudn't connive, she wouldn't demand her own way. She would draw heavily upon the sacraments to live a life of gentleness and grace and perpetual blessing to her family. Always. Not just when Joseph was behaving like the model husband. Not just when he was as holy as she was. She was a blessing when he brought a bad day at work home to the dinner table. She was a blessing when he was demanding. She was a blessing when he was hungry and irritable and when he forgot to take out the trash. We are helpers fit for our husbands when we are inspirations to them. We are imitators of the new Eve, the Blessed Mother, when our homes radiate the peacefulness and the faith of the little cottage in Nazareth.

Put yourself in that little cottage. I cannot imagine Mary grumbling or complaining as she went about her daily round. I can't hear her muttering about the menial labor of yet another workshirt to wash. I can't see her arguing at Joseph's decision-making ability. "But Joe, I'm nine months pregnant! Get real. You want me to travel to Bethlehem on a DONKEY?! And you want me to trust you--a mere mortal of a man--to get me and this baby there safely? You're nuts. That's not prudent. And I know prudence because I know virtue better than you do."

Instead, she trusted God's plan for the family. She inspired her husband to holiness. She modeled for all of us, including him, a perfect love for her son. And she lived a life of humility and grace. That's submission.