In the Heart of my Home

May Crowning Day

photos by Mary Beth

 

After lunch, Fr. T. said he had to get back to work. Here's where we found him half an hour later. Photos by Paddy:

 Psst, he can dunk.

Not Bad

for this homeschool graduate's  first week at a "real" job:

Here

Here

Here

bloomin'

A photo essay by Mary Beth

 
 
 
 

Serendipitous Solitude

The other day, I happened upon an overstuffed envelope filled with old columns. Most of them pre-date my time on the internet. I enjoyed some quiet time, re-acquainting myself with the young wife and mother who wrote those columns. And since I'm need of a bit of a blogging break, I'm going to share her with you in the next few weeks. I hope you are blessed.

from February 1998

In A Gift from the Sea, Anne Morrow Lindbergh writes, "It is a difficult lesson to learn today--to leave one's friends and family and deliberately practice the art of solitude for an hour or a day or a week. And yet, once it is done, I find there is quality to being alone that is incredibly precious. Life rushes back into the void, richer, more vivid, fuller than before."

She's right. It is a difficult lesson. I have adopted a style of mothering that leaves little room for solitude. For 10 years now, I have had a child with me almost constantly. I don't even share the collective sigh of relief that echoes in the neighborhood when the school bus lumbers off in the morning. My children are home, looking at me expectantly, ready for a day of home education.

This is a carefully chosen lifestyle, one which I embrace wholeheartedly and love dearly. Still, I have days when I crave solitude. I yearn for time to think uninterrupted thoughts or not thoughts at all. Usually, if I am alone or if I am at home with sleeping children, I am sitting in front of the computer, frantically trying to meet a deadline.

There is a time, however, when the very clinginess of my children gives birth to time alone. When my fourth child was born, my mother gave us a king sized bed. While this is certainly not on ordinary baby gift, she knew that she was giving my husband and me the precious gift of sleep. She knew that ours is very much "the family bed."

The nursing baby is often allowed to nod off between us because I have nodded off before her. The three-year-old who insisted on his own bed until his second birthday, now insists he can't sleep can't sleep alone. We start him off in his room; he usually migrates to ours. And the five-year-old still hasn't slept through the night. (Please don't send me suggestions for solving my child's sleep problems. I've been there and don't care to do that.)

When our bed reaches capacity, at five bodies, I crawl out. I go to my son's room where the blinds block the light totally and the bed is made with inviting flannel sheets and a flannel-covered down comforter. It is a twin bed and the first time I escaped to its safe harbor, I felt like I was back in college. It was so quiet. I was so alone. I made a personal rule not to think of anything in that bed that I wouldn't have thought of in college.

I don't think about kids, or teaching, or homemaking. I don't compose columns in my head to be written at dawn before children arise. I don't think of my husband in anything but the romantic, dewy-eyed, "engaged" frame of reference.

Since I don't have any exams, term papers, projects, or extra-curricular activities to think about, I usually just fall asleep. But for the few moments between leaving the crowded bed of grown-up responsibility and falling asleep in the solitary bed of a carefree youth, I am completely relaxed and very open to creative ideas. It is enough to make me wonder if I shouldn't pursue solitude occasionally when I am fully awake.

Light a Candle...

...pray for Stephanie.

A Few of My Favorite Things

Dear Mrs. Mitchell,

When three little girls receive a package of homemade dresses,

 

and they learn the dresses were made from curtain fabric,

 

they will burst into song and

 

sound rather like the von Trapp children!

Thank you!

Chapter's End?

It's a road I've traveled hundreds of times. When we first moved to this town, it was the road to Little League. But soon, it became the road to the midwife. Back and forth, back and forth, I'd drive, the rosary CD keeping me company, all the way there anticipating hearing the sound of a tiny beating heart, all the way home reveling in the joy of it all. But that's not why I'm driving here today. I'm on a mundane errand.

Except in my memories. In my memories, I'm re-reading all the stories of their births. In my memories, I'm smelling newborn hair.

All my adult life, with the exception of the year I had cancer, whenever I've had a toddler, I've had a baby on the way. Even in the long gap between Katie and Karoline, there was a baby; we just never got to hold that one. But not this year.

This year is different. It is springtime again. Eight--no, nine-- times, springtime has brought forth the bud of early pregnancy (Christian was the only exception--he was a summer bud). First there is the pregnant spring and then there is the infant spring, the lovely pattern of my life. A sweet, predictable story.

It's not an infant spring, so my mind keeps telling me that it must be a pregnant spring. Except it's not. And that feels very strange.

I remember once when I told a friend that my sixth baby was on the way. She said, "You know, one day, one of them will be the last." And I did know. And that day was always somewhere in the future. I was glad of that. I didn't like to think about it.

Except now I think it might be today. And I'm not quite sure what to do with that thought. I'm reading the last few lines of this chapter very slowly, trying to savor every word. Because really, once I turn the page on these very long, exceptionally sweet phrases, the chapter will be over.

Forever.

Never again.

Never.

That's a long time.

Garden of Hope

We finally got a ten-day forecast of which Francesco diBaggio would approve.

 

So seedlings were set in the ground.

 

A little girl with golden curls has great hope that soon she will pick "squirty tomatoes" warm from the vine, "the sweetest, most goldenest tomatoes in the whole world." She remembers from "a long time ago, back when I was only two."





 

Strong arms and gentle hands take tender care of summer hopes.



 

First fruits of the season. Springtime sweetness dripping from dimpled chins. 
 







 

We can smell grilled chicken rubbed generously with rosemary and thyme, served with tomatoes, basil and mozzarella. Grow, little plants, grow!
 

Note to the world:

My phone won't allow me to send text messages. And it won't allow me to receive text messages.

So, if you've texted me in the last few days, I didn't get it.

And I won't be texting you back.

And I don't know when I can fix the situation, because I really don't have a window for arguing with ATT&T on the calendar any time soon.

I am surprised by how much I miss the ability to text. This time last year, I rarely sent or received any text messages. I pretty much thought they were dumb. Pick up the phone already or send a letter or an email. These snippy little things are hardly communication.

I remember a conversation late in August with Colleen. We were lamenting the effect of text messaging on the youth as only a couple of English teachers could do. No, we were all about more "complete" communication.

And then Bryce died.

The first text I received from Colleen was utterly unintelligible. I had no idea what she was trying to say there were so many typos. Soon, though, we fell into a pattern. She could escape the constant throng of people and tap out a few words of sorrow or a prayer request and I'd know what to do. She didn't have to speak, because really, speech was too much at the time, and so were long letters.

For me, texting was a way to tell her I was available without the jangle of the phone intruding upon her. I'd let her know that I could talk and invite her to call if she wanted. Before we knew it, we cultivated that habit of always texting first. And it's a habit that remains today. By sending a short text, we don't intrude on each other's rhythm. I still don't have conversations via text, but I do see the usefulness of short messages.

I text my children to remind them of all sorts of things. Like

I Love You.

Don't forget your meds.

Buckle up.

Good luck; you'll do fine. 

Thunder at L'ville. Pls go get Nicky and Stephen.

You are not a test result. You are the image and likeness of God.

Short. Sweet. They get the message.

And I text my husband, too.

But I think I'll keep those to myself.

Come to think of it, maybe I can find some time today to get to AT&T:-)

Mother's Day Manicures and More

My babies were sick for Mother's Day. Both Sarah and Karoline had wicked coughs and fevers.  Mike was gone, so Christian dragged himself out of bed to drive Stephen to a far away soccer game and Paddy went along to make sure they didn't get lost keep them company and cheer Stephen on.

I snuggled my  little girl and nursed my baby. And ran out of ginger ale and generic Motrin. I called my mother on the way to the grocery store. Dropped the call

I actually ended up at three different stores. Generic Motrin is hard to come by in these days of the McNeil recall. And Tyelenol alone wasn't touching the fever. When I finally found what I wanted, I wandered down the aisle with bubble bath and nail polish. There were three little girls there with bouquets and cards. They were holding their Daddy's hands as they chose bubble bath gifts.

I have little girls.

I briefly pondered the possibilities of a pity party.

Nah.

Instead, I decided that bubbles are a girl's best friend. Especially when she's not feeling well.

I picked Mike up at the airport in time to for him to take all the boys to Nick's game.

And then I revealed the Plan to the girls.

Flowers on the tub.

An assortment of yummy smelling goodies for during and after a warm bath.

 

Fun in the bubbles.

Pink bathrobes for all of us.

A baby massage while we sing, "I rub, rub, rub you 'cause I love, love, love you." (It usually makes her much happier.)

Pink pedicures and Pink manicures.

Tiny fingers and toes and a wee bit of a smile on those faces.

Our favorite cookies

Gingered tea punch.

And an unexpected  phone call with the news that Gracie will soon be home. To stay. Not long now, and there will be ten children under the roof, if Michael still counts as  a child.

Dad and the boys came bearing gifts: flowers, an Indian feast, espresso chip ice cream and the promise of a darling movie. We ate together around the big table and then snuggled up for the movie. Sarah felt well enough to dance little jig to the Irish tunes and Karoline sighed contentedly at the end, "Now they are married and they will have babies and whole big family. What a happy story!"

I put my babies to bed and my husband put me to bed.

Mother's Day. Lovely.

What a happy story!

Daybook for Mother's Day

Outside My Window

There are all kinds of flowers eager to burst into bloom. It’s truly the height of spring.

 

I am Listening to

Elmo’s song.

 

I am so Grateful for

1.)    Dear local friends who have made me take care of me this week and come along to add a lot of laughter and good advice to the adventures.

2.)   Spanx.

3.)   A big brother, who dropped everything on a Friday night to rescue his younger brother and to offer encouragement in what is an increasingly discouraging challenge …

4.)  Bifocal contact lenses. What a great, great invention! I only have one ear, so keeping reading glasses on while I looked down to read was darn near impossible. God bless the person who invented these little gems.

 

I'm Pondering

We fall, we step back, we step forward, we feel embraced, we feel abandoned, we feel energized, we feel slammed on the ground. We feel paralyzed and puzzled. We feel – accidie.

It’s okay.  Just – and here is the lesson of monastic life – keep praying. Keep letting yourself be shaped by the Psalms. Keep serving and working. Pay attention. ~Amy Welborn

 

I am Reading
lots of books on St. Benedict. I plan to make a list of them in another post and perhaps to annotate, but I wanted to take a moment here to talk about this prompt and others. I tell you honestly what I’m reading or wearing or cooking or whatever. I don’t edit myself much, mostly because my daybook is where I gather my own thoughts. I sometimes pretty much forget you’re reading. But you are. And so are other people. Some of them write to tell me they disapprove of what I’m reading or wearing or cooking (or cleaning even). It is my challenge to learn to listen to those criticisms without having them rock my world.

 

I mention what I’m reading, knowing that most of you understand that reading is a process by which we understand better people who are not ourselves. We are called to make believers of all nations. We are called to be salt and light to the world. I don’t think we can do that very effectively if we don’t listen to anyone who isn’t just like us. (Note: I also talk to strangers in the grocery store and at the ballpark and find what they say to be very interesting.) And I think that you all can think for yourselves. You are not going to assume that everything I read is the gospel. Actually, nothing I read except for the gospel is the gospel. All I can assure you of is that if I’m reading it, it’s making me think. Sometimes, I never get around to telling you what I think. I finish a book and move on and that’s that. You never know if I thought it was good or bad or weird. Because, I sometimes forget I was telling you about the book at all. So, “I am reading” (or eating or wearing) means just that—I’m doing it. It doesn’t mean I’m telling you to do it. Or even that it’s good. It just means I’m recording an honest snapshot of my imperfect, always seeking life.

 

I am Thinking

About  how hard it is to write when I know that every word is being judged and scrutinized and people are waiting and watching for me to fall. And fail.

 And I will.

We always do.

 

I am Creating

Lesson plans. Lots of lesson plans. We’ve been writing like crazy, but none of us at Serendipity has posted anything. We’re doing some serious discerning about sharing. See the two prompts above.

 

On my iPod

Acedia and Me. I was going write about this, but I’m kind of burned out on it right now. Amy Welborn has a good review here.

And the Anchoress, here.

 

Storybooks from touchoo.com

 

Towards a Real Education

We are test driving a Family Bible Study and a new plan for the Liturgical year this week. I’m looking forward to having these two components be the core of our studies this year. It has been very therapeutic to work with some dear friends to craft these plans. Even if they remain forever private, they are better for having been born of the need to stop and hear God in the voice of the liturgy.

 

Towards Rhythm and Beauty

I have been giving thought to the way I look around the house day in and day out. Do I walk with rhythm and beauty? Or do I drag through my days looking like I just woke up? I’m working on this in a big way lately, with lots of encouragement from my friends (the ones who regularly see me looking like I just woke up;-).

 

I am wearing

Earrings, again. I finally got my ears re-pierced. And I got bifocal contacts. Quite the week for self-care, last week was.

To Live the Liturgy

It is a paradox of human life that in worship, as in human love, it is in the routine and the everyday that we find the possibilities for the greatest transformation. Both worship and housework often seem perfunctory. And both, by the grace of God, may be anything but. At its Latin root, perfunctory means "to get through with," and we can easily see how liturgy, laundry and what has traditionally been conceived of as "women's work" can be done in that indifferent spirit. But the joke is on us; what we think we are only "getting through" has the power to change us, just as we have the power to transform what seems meaningless--the endless repetitions of a litany or the motions of vacuuming a floor. What we dread as mindless activity can free us, mind and heart, for the workings of the Holy Spirit, and repetitive motions are conducive to devotions such as the Jesus Prayer or the rosary...

~Kathleen Norris

.

 

I am Hoping and Praying

For a child for whom life itself is a constant challenge. I am humbled by his holy struggle.

In the Garden

It’s true what they say about wave petunias—they spread like crazy! I am so looking forward to a whole bed of purplish pink!

Around the House

 I think it’s time to shop for rugs. The wood throughout echoes and oh how loud it is here!

 

From the Kitchen

Fish tacos. Mike doesn’t like them at all. I think they’re awesome. Mike’s rarely here on a Friday night. Works for both of us.

 

One of My Favorite Things

Girls day out. I took my first one in five years last week. It’s a happy memory.

 

Sarah Annie this week

 She has decided that Stephen is her favorite. She calls him all the time.  We all call Stephen “Super” (it’s short for Superman). Sarah Annie can’t say Super. She calls him “Pooper.” Poor Stephen.

 

A Few Plans for the Rest of the Week

I just got the to the end of a Mother’s Day Daybook and haven’t mentioned Mother’s Day at all. Mike’s in Utah. Yesterday was the book signing and so the week kind of geared up to that. Today, Stephen plays an hour south of here in the morning and Nicky plays 1  1/2 hours north of here in the afternoon. Sarah and Karoline both have fevers and Christian still has pneumonia. I have no idea how this day is going to work. So…any personal consideration of Mother’s Day slipped my mind until I noticed a whole bunch of pink construction paper happening all over my house last night. We have no specific Mother’s Day plans. But we have a lot of kids—no doubt something will materialize.

Some real life planning and curriculum testing with Marisa later in the week.

 

 

Picture thoughts:

 

"Pooper" and Sarah Anne

 
 

That Was Fun!

I spent the afternoon at the Catholic Shop,

hanging out with some of my favorite people,

(Mary Chris, Jen, Marisa with Johnny, and Mother Teresa;-)

signing some books,

and meeting some online buddies in real life.

That's Abby Sasscer. We've had some long talks. It was nice to get a real hug:-)

 

This is Gracie. She was on a Mommy Date.

Mary Beth was behind the camera. Come to think of it, she was on a Mommy Date, too!

Looking for a Mother's Day Idea?

Happy Birthday, Christian!

You Rock!

More on Monks & Liturgy

First, an amazing tip kindly passed on by Amy. You can hear the Liturgy of the Hours and pray along with human voices here. My kitchen will never be the same.

And this is Sarah Anne's current favorite video. I think there must be something at the very core of our being that is drawn to prayer sung this way. Hat tip to the Anchoress.

Baby Steps

This is totally adorable. Just makes me smile in anticipation. Aquinas and More is having a Small Steps contest. Just send them sweet pictures of cute baby feet. I can't play. But since I happen to have a picture or two;-)

 

Seedlings

I gathered my girls in the morning, just after Morning Prayer. The day had dawned a brilliant, beautiful sunshiny blue. This is the day the Lord has made!

My mood did not match the day, nor did it reflect our stated mission. I was decidedly melancholy. And I was decidedly determined to shake the sadness. I considered my options. I could try to figure out why I was feeling the way I was or I could just determinedly push the feelings out of the way. I chose the latter, though I knew full well that strategy hadn't always worked in the past. The former, quite honestly, just seemed like too much work.

This was a much anticipated traditional trip to the nursery near our home. As I loaded four girls into the van, I remembered the first time I ever visited the nursery. Mary Beth was a baby. It was three boys who tagged along with us. I was so thrilled to be in a new house with room enough for a proper garden. I learned quickly that the farmers at this renowned nursery took their plants very seriously. Their gruffness caught me by surprise and I wondered if perhaps I should not have brought children. Now, thirteen years later, I wonder the same thing. Actually, I have wondered that every year, as the ownership has transferred from Tom deBaggio to his son, Francesco. But now, I have come to expect his manner and not to take it personally. I even giggle a little at the predictability. When, I wonder, will the words of other people roll so easily off my back. Ever?

When I returned home after my first outing here all those many years ago, I wrote about it for Faith and Family. Only it wasn't called Faith and Family back then and it wasn't in color. It wasn't even a magazine, but a newspaper, all in black and white. Come to think of it, I don't even think I filed the story via email...

What a long way we've come.

I push thoughts of the book from my mind and focus on the task, the joys, at hand. I read tomato descriptions with Mary Beth and let Karoline rub and smell every variety of basil (watching carefully for Mr. de Baggio out of the corner of my eye).

I say Yes when the girls ask to buy rose-scented soap, even though we have a generous stash of lovely soap at home. I carry Sarah from the back porch to the greenhouse to the pond to the store, pointing to this plant and that, trying not to notice that it is growing increasingly hot and she is growing increasingly heavy.

At the checkout, Francesco de Baggio offers his annual stern warning. "I don't want my peppers to see nights below 55 degrees, nor should the basil. And tomatoes don't go in before you are sure it won't go lower than 45." I solemnly assure him that I wouldn't dare plant until the seedlings are properly hardened off, all the while wondering if I can get these plants in before the weekend. He reads my mind." It's going to be in the 40s Saturday and Sunday night." I consider taking my chances. Nah. The forbidding in his foreboding gives me pause.

These are his precious plants. He spends the whole year preparing them, tending them, researching how to make them better, loving them into existence. How hard it must be for him to send those plants out into the world! He doesn't know me at all. Will I appreciate the toil he put into bringing them to me. Will I love them? Will they bear fruit under my care?

Suddenly, try as  might, I cannot forget the books. There they go, out into the world. Every long bedrest afternoon, spent surrounded by books of saints' quotations. Every  early morning, up before the rest of the world, crafting prayers and praying for inspiration. Every warm friendly conversation, headset in place, reaching across geography to write with a friend in New Hampshire.  Every revision of manuscripts. Every consideration of format and layout and font. Out into the world

Seeds of my heart, tended in my own greenhouse, cultivated with care. Out into the world.

I can only hope and pray that they blossom brilliantly.

Not mine any more.

They are yours.

 

Rites of Passage

I used to like driving Patrick to soccer.

Three or so times a week, we'd make the trip. He sat next to me up front and we talked about all sorts of things. Sometimes we just listened to music on the radio in companionable silence. Those days are over.

Last Monday, he got his Learner's Permit. Now, he drives and I sit next to him up front. We talk about driving, both of us very intent on the task at hand.

And I'm sort of sad. Because I know what the next step is.

He's going to drive alone.

Daybook for the Beginning of May

Outside My Window

There is a soccer game about to begin. I’m sitting in the rec center, soaking up the last of the cool comfortable air before assuming my position in the 90 degree heat next to artificial turf which will make it feel like 110.

 

I am Listening to

Rec Center noises.

 

I am so Grateful for

I’ve always meant to join Ann’s gratitude community but never got organized to do the posts on time. Ann told me that this Daybook is my gratitude journal. So, with that kind of encouragement, here’s my list for last week. Last week was quite a week

1.)    My husband won an Emmy Award as Director of Pardon the Interruption. And then, Christian’s godfather won two Emmys for camera work on a long feature and a tease. Interestingly, my children all took to their cameras last week and videos were multiplying in my house like mushrooms in the rain. Patrick and Mary Beth collaborated here.

2.)   On Wednesday, Mary Beth and Patrick were confirmed. It was everything I’d every hoped and prayed.

3.)   On Thursday, I marked a bittersweet anniversary in the company of good friends.

4.)  And then, on Friday and Saturday, our new book began to make its way out into the world…

I'm Pondering

Perfection consists in being what God wants us to be. ~St. Therese

 

I am Reading
lots of books on St. Benedict.

 

I am Thinking

About how I spend my time online. Again. Over the past few years, I’ve come to cherish quiet and a place of my own. And then I think about how Pope Benedict has called us to be the soul of the internet. What does that mean? Certainly, it is a matter for prayer.

 

I am Creating

Lesson plans. Lots of lesson plans.

 

On my iPod

 

 

Towards a Real Education

This week, we move back into a more bookish rhythm. It has grown quite hot outside and the transition towards indoor pursuits during the heat of the day will be a welcome one.

Towards Rhythm and Beauty

Giving lots of thought to our summer routine. Gracie will be back among us, so I want to pay especial attention to plans for little girls. I think we’re going to make the summer a Little Flowers camp sort of thing and do two wreaths over the course of the summer.

 

To Live the Liturgy

As I think about time and how we manage ourselves in time, I am ever more aware that truly living the liturgy of the hours is the best way I can live authentically in God.

 

I am Hoping and Praying

That I can remember that we are all in need of healing, and so not let the words of others pull the scabs off my own wounds.

In the Garden

Mike and the boys worked really hard in the garden on Saturday. New soil was trucked in and weeds were obliterated. They built up the beds and put in some edging material. Our strawberry plants are full of green fruit and sweet white flowers. The roses all have buds and Karoline brought me the first rose of the season yesterday. Newly planted petunias promise to bring us a summer full of color and the peonies are truly about to burst into bloom.

Around the House

The house is pretty clean, top to bottom. On Friday, Mike announced he might like to go down to the basement this weekend. He put the fear of God in his progeny. Next thing I knew, big people and little people were moving mountains down there. At one point, they imported neighborhood teenagers to help. No doubt the order of things makes sense only to them and I will have some work to do, but it’s progress. I think.

 

From the Kitchen

A cookout today after soccer: hamburgers, hot dogs, baked beans, potato salad, fruit salad, avocado salad, and those amazing Pioneer Woman mocha brownies.

 

One of My Favorite Things

The first Mass of the day on Sunday. I love the early morning walk to church. I love the whole idea of starting the week with an early beginning before the tabernacle.

 

Sarah Annie this week

My little monkey wants climb all the time—at the playground (up the slide and the ladders), in the kitchen and the bathroom, and especially on the dining room table. Speaking of the dining room, she wants nothing to do with the high chair. That particular peculiarity is downright annoying.

 

A Few Plans for the Rest of the Week

Mary Chris and I are going shopping. That’s huge news for me. I love Mary Chris, but I don’t like shopping at all. Alas, I need clothing and the catalog buy and return drill isn’t very practical. So we will go shopping and she will make it fun (or at least keep me from crying).

 

Going to head back down to Bull Run to see how much it’s changed in the last couple of weeks.

Christian turns eighteen on May 6th. That's big.

 

Mike’s heading to Utah. He handles television for Real Salt Lake. He spends a lot of time in Utah. This time, however, he’ll come home with an MLS championship ring. An Emmy, a ring—the man has acquired more bling this week than in his entire lifetime.

 

I will be signing books at the Catholic Shop in Chantilly, Virginia from 1-4 on Saturday afternoon. I sure would love to see you there!

 

Picture thoughts:

 


 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

 

Dear Danielle,

 

 

It's REALLY Real!