In the Heart of my Home

Healthy Ways to Give and Get Love

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I've resolved to finish both the book studies begun here. I noticed that both of them petered out in the fall, one last year and one the year before. I figure if I start now, I can finish them both before whatever happens in the fall that makes me not able to finish things.

We were on Habit # 7 of The 10 Habits of Healthy Mothers.

Meg Meeker writes:

"We start to dream about her future because we want more. Maybe we want more than we had, whatever that was or wasn't. We want her to be polite because we weren't. We want her to come home during her summers in college because we never wanted to. She'll have a perfect mom. Our daughter will be the lucky one. We'll give her everything we missed.

"Can't you see? Early in our son's life, we lay out our hopes and dreams, not based on who he is, but on who we are. While we say that we will let him be who he wants to be and that we will love him unconditionally, the reality is, none of us mothers can actually do that. When we go to give him our love, our own needs become kneaded into that love and pretty soon, love can feel messy. But it doesn't have to be."

Ah. That collision of hopes and dreams with the reality that pains mothers so much, particularly as their children move through their teens and early twenties. We have talked about that before and you had plenty to say. It's interesting to me that I think I read this chapter differently than I did two years ago, when I first began this study and first read this book. I think that's because I'm more practiced in collision care. Happens all the time: they don't act according to my perfectly scripted daydreams. It doesn't always go as I'd hoped. Actually, it frequently doesn't go as I'd hoped.

"We fear that if we admit that it's going any way other than what we'd hoped, we'll also have to admit that something is broken in our children, or that something is off in our mothering. Neither of these is a fun thing to accept and so when it comes to feeling humbled or hanging on to a slow burn, we opt for the latter. Being angry is safe. It is easier to swallow than admitting that something is cracked. And it protects us from further hurt."

So let's just get that admission  out of the way right now. Let's say it aloud to one another: My kids are broken and so am I. If we can tear down the illusions of perfection and even the expectations of perfection, we can be genuine support to one another. Think about it: how approachable is the perfect woman in the PTO? How eager are you to share a cup of coffee and a heart-to-heart with the lady who has it all together? Let's struggle together. One point that several people spoke to when we listened to the Pat Gohn podcast was the pain caused by competition in friendships. I think we compete with each other and I think we compete with the ideal version of ourselves and our children. Chances are, we learned to do that from our mothers, who had their own ideal versions of themselves and of us, carefully guarded and perpetuated. Depending on how unhealthy this was, those lessons in accepting nothing less than the ideal can be very well ingrained.

It's not too late. We can learn this lesson. Our survival depends on it. If we can give and get love in a healthy manner, we will age beautifully. If we cling to the old paradigm, we will become lonely, embittered shriveled-up old women. I mean that. Nothing will age a woman faster than trying to make her children into something God never inteneded them to be. I promise you that your vision--no matter how lovely--is not God's vision. His is better. It might be really messy getting there. Nothing will make you uglier and more miserable than tightening your controlling grip when love goes awry.

Dr. Meeker suggests four ways to give and get love in a healthy manner.

#1 Take Calculated Risks

This means mom goes first. We tell them first how we feel, we apologize first, and we express our needs aloud. It's a good thing to be vulnerable and to take risks with our love. It's not a good thing to lock our hearts up in a chamber of anger in the hopes we won't be hurt again. With this vocation, comes ample strength and grace to do what we need to do. "If you lay your heart on the table and the person doesn't respond, you handle that. In reality, you can handle far more disappointment than you think you can." What you can't handle--really, truly--is to walk away with your lips pursed and your fist clenched inside your pockets. What you can't handle is anger. It will kill you.

#2 Don't Take Loved Ones So Personally

I think this one is my biggest change since I first started this study. Every time one of my children rejected a component of my Perfect Picture, I took it personally. What was wrong with my ideal? Why deviate from that plan? As they grow, there is great joy in seeing who they are unfold, in seeing the Creator's fingerprints on them. It is somewhat startling, I think, when we begin to recognize that the road to becoming who they truly are is strewn not with rose petals but with all matter of debris. The idyllic path is actually not often trod. Most kids take one of the messier routes and frequently they don't want us along for the ride (or at least they think they don't). They tell us so rather bluntly. Sometimes, "they have temper tantrums directed towards us and try to pull us into their private tornadic whirl."  This can be quite startling, to say the least. Tornados suck mothers in. We believe the anger in the vortex. 

"We can't afford to do this. When we are hurt by loved ones, we must stand back and assess their words as if we were mothers of toddlers. No, they aren't toddlers, but this helps us be more objective about the problem. When a loved one hurts us...review the words as thogh they were driected at a friend, not us. By removing ourselves from the moment [even if the moment is a season long], we can objectify the words [or actions] and try to see if they are reasonable of not."

#3 Learn to Read Loved Ones and Let Them Read You

The best resources on reading a loved on and letting them read you are Gary Chapman's books. I cannot recommend them highly enough:

The 5 Love Languages

The 5 Love Languages of Children

The 5 Love Languages of Teenagers

"Many mothers show love to their kids by cooking their favorite meals, driving them everywhere, or buying them gifts. While our intentions are good, these gestures don't ensure kids feel loved. Certainly kids learn to appreciate the work we do for them as they mature, but in the meantime, it is important to find the small things we can do to let them know that they really are loved by us. While they are growing up in our homes, much of our interaction with our kids is negative because we are correcting them or disciplining them. So find out what makes each child feel loved. When you do this and express it, it will come back to you tenfold.

#4 Express Love Even When You don't Feel Like It

Just be a big girl, already. Quit whining and complaining. Don't stay stuck as an adolescent. Do the hard things. Do them well. And do them gratefully. 

"Let's not be foolish The best love relationships require rolling up our sleeves again and again and saying a lot of things we really would rather not. Love requires that we take a deep breath and ask loved ones to forgive us for acting like jerks. It requires saying "no" to our kids and then being willing to reinforce the "no" for hours afterward. It means telling daughters that they can't wear teeny tops and skirts to school even when they wail and cry that kids won't like them. And it demands that we have the "talk" with our sons and daughters over and over about sex too soon with too many partners because hurt always follows. We do these things because we love our kids, but nothing is easy about doing any of them. "

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And it's not just about the kids. One of the greatest predictors of happy mothers is happy marriages. That doesn't mean it's impossible to be a happy single mother with happy kids. It does mean that the path is smoother for women in happy marriages. And by golly, ladies, we have to work at making marriage happy.

"So when a spouse drives us crazy, we must draw on the same internal gift that we use with our kids. Instead of complaining, we need to focus on appreciating him." When we live this model of appreciating over complaining, counting blessings instead of itemizing annoyances, we create a climate of love. Children learn from watching us. Let them learn genuine love in action.

{{This post is the 11th in a series discussing The 10 Habits of Happy Mothers: Reclaiming our Passion, Purpose, and Sanity.}}

The rest of our discussions of  The 10 Habits of Happy Mothers: Reclaiming our Passion, Purpose, and Sanity can be found here. 

Part 1(discussing Habit 1)

Part 2 (still discussing Habit 1)

Part 3 (still more on Habit 1)

Part 4 (Habit 2: key friendships)

Part 5 (Habit 2: your thoughts on friendship_

Part 6 (Habit 3: Value and Practice Faith)

Part 7(Habit 4: Say No to Competition)

Part 8 (Habit 4: Say No to Competition)

Part 9 (Habit 5: Create a Healthier Relationship with Money)

Part 10 (Habit 6: Make Time for Solitude)

 

Disconnected

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It's been nearly a week since my iPhone suddenly stopped working. I made a call to my husband that went off without a hitch. Then, I tried to text Colleen. My phone popped up a message that said there was no SIM card. Since there had been a SIM card three seconds earlier for the phone call and I was sitting the same place, with the same phone, I figured it was a little cyber hiccup. Tried again. Same message. Colleen is in the jungle in Costa Rica; only God knows where half the texts I send her actually go. I tried to text Katherine. Katherine is in very civilized Dallas. She has a fully functional iPhone. It didn't work. I tried calling home. Nothing. I tried calling Mary Beth. Nothing. 

Over the next couple of days, I backed up everything on my phone and then deleted and reset. Well, I tried to reset. One cannot reset without a SIM card and my phone continues to insist I don't have one. After two very disappointing trips to AT&T and Apple, I still don't know why my phone doesn't work. I do know that, at the time it suddenly quit working, I was 24 days past my warranty. 

My husband is going to try to see if he commands more respect from either AT&T or Apple. Mike spent all last week in Miami. Just as he arrived home for the weekend, his studio in DC flooded. My sense is that between catching up at the DC office and mopping up at the DC office, phone relacement for me is going to slip a bit on the priority list. I'm actually fine with that for now.

It's become a bit of an experiment. I decided not to fight it too much. This was as good a time as any for an Instagram break. I set a limit on Facebook to 5 minutes a day, mostly just to check local groups with  pertinent kid information. And I promised myself to embrace this opportunity to re-think my habits before getting a new phone.

I figured it would be a day or two. It's not, but God knows I'm a slow learner.

I do miss my phone. First, I miss it for the genuinely important things. There are at least three life-or-death situation text messages I have not read. Two are from friends facing tragic illness. One is much happier. When one of my friends in a tragic situation told me on Friday that she was worried I was mad at her because she'd been texting with bad news for three days and I hadn't responded, I felt terribly. I had put the word out on Facebook that my phone was out of commission, but that's not very reliable, is it? She and I made a promise to have a good, long face-to-face chat. Still, though, I'm haunted that I wasn't there to help in the moment.

When my phone first died, I felt very out of sorts. My phone, for better or worse, is an integral tool in many of my habits. I quickly learned that I check my mail far more often than necessary. Still, since I wasn't checking mail, I nearly missed the email demanding that I fax Stephen's sub order before a deadline or leave him to go hungry on a long out-of-town soccer trip. I've been checking too often, but how often is enough? I have no idea. One of the reasons I wanted a smart phone was because so many people associated with my children assume everyone has one. Checking mail whenever, wherever makes my mom job more efficient.

My prayer routine was seriously affected. Nearly everything was tied to my phone. I've since transferred prayers and such to paper, but I do miss the ease with which it was all there, ready and waiting. And I miss my chapel bells. On the other hand, I like very much that my phone isn't the last thing I put to bed at night these days. I think I will continue to keep night prayers in paper format even after I have a new phone.

I miss my iPhone camera. Ideally, its absence will force me to get to know my new camera and lens. My iPhone was instrumental in developing in me an eye for capturing moments in pictures. Before my iPhone, my brain always processed even the simplest things in words. I did--and still do--think in narrative. After getting an iPhone--now 1 year and 30 days ago--I began to think in pictures too. Or, maybe I always thought in pictures, but now I had a tool for capturing those thoughts with images. I miss that. A lot.

And I am pretty bummed that I missed the virtual waiting room texting party while a small group of us prayed for Patti as she labored and delivered her baby boy on Mother's Day. Early in the labor (the day before Mother's Day), I got an "I'm so sorry your phone doesn't work" email and I suggested that updates be texted to Christian's phone. Poor Christian, it was more than he really wanted to know! Poor me. Christian passed along news when it was convenient, not as it was happening. I had promised Patti to pray and pray I did. I didn't need to know the details. God knew. So often, when we get a prayer request, we press for details. Those details don't make us better prayer warriors. They just satisfy our curiosity. So, I prayed without knowing the updates in real time. I will admit, however, that I broke down on Sunday and asked for Mary Beth's iPhone so I could log out of her Instagram account and on to my own, only to see pictures of Patti's baby.

I was very late to the cell phone party. Everyone I knew had a cell phone when I first got mine for Mother's Day, 12 years ago. It was a super simple phone. I didn't want a phone I could take with me, but our house was on the market and our realtor really thought it was a good idea. I rarely called anyone but Mike. And when Mike called me, he could almost never reach me. It drove him nuts. I always deliberately left the phone in the car. I figured I only needed it when away from the house, so why even bring it inside? If it was in the car, I wouldn't forget it. I existed that way until about last year.

Until 1 year and 30 days ago, I didn't have a smartphone. I didn't even have a QWERTY keyboard. And I didn't much mind. I really wanted an iPhone for the camera. Since acquiring a smartphone, I've learned to appreciate text messaging. Mostly, I love to be able to send little notes to my husband and children. With Mike, I flirt. With my kids, it's so handy to be able to text, "Dude, I just put Sarah to sleep AGAIN up here. I don't care if it's overtime, do not yell at that TV, no matter how great the goal." And yes, I write it all out, just like that, with commas and such, because by golly, if we are all going to being writing so much more than we used to, let's practicing writing well.

Frantic bedtime texts aside, I am definitely missing being able to text my kids. I didn't recognize what a great tool texting has been in staying very connected to my teens.

When my phone first went down, I posted to Facebook. I was looking for suggestions on fixing it and I wanted to let people who usually call or text know that I was out of touch. Gretchen wrote this comment:

I haven't had a cell phone since December...sadly, that coincides with the date I lost all my friends. I am completely isolated from all my real life "friends."

I replied: do you still have a home phone? Can you call that way? Can you email them?

And she said:  I can call them or email them...but, most people want to text so they won't call me. I have a whole blog post going together on how the cell phone/internet ruined real conversations and friendships.

I thought she must be exceptionally unlucky in friendship. I have since discovered that there is a certain degree of truth to what she's saying. People are in the habit of texting instead of talking. It's been very quiet around here, despite my repeated attempts to persuade people to call my home phone. And of course, I'm much less available to those people because I'm only available when I'm at home. It's been really interesting to see how that dynamic works. It's also been very heartwarming to know that there are some people in my life who will always find a way to share.

It's going to be at least a couple more days until I have a cell phone again. I'm still thinking for that perfect balance of use. Surely, most people who read this will think I'm overthinking and it's ridiculous.

Regardles the outcome of this experiment, I need to cultivate a big camera habit. I have no pictures of the beautiful Mother's Day dinner Mike and Christian crafted. I have no pictures of Patrick (and Zach), bearing roses and surprising me with a visit on Mother's Day. I have no pictures of the glorious place where Nick played soccer. Well, actually, Mike took about a zillion pictures of Sarah there and they are wonderful. I asked him to send them to me, but he must have sent the small files. They're all pixelated. Maybe I can share those tomorrow. There no chance I'm calling the flood zone (from my home phone) and asking him to send the large files.

Mary Beth did grab the big camera a few times last weekend. Nick and I spent several hours on Saturday trying to tame the jungle that wants to be my rose garden again.They were mostly prickly weeds and it was slow going. Thank goodness for Christian, who bagged eight lawn bags full of the debris. I was undistracted by texting or by photographing. We made great progress, but there are still plenty of weeds to pull. Maybe once they're all gone, a phone will appear. Or maybe not.

For more about the lovely chair (including a tutorial) and for an introduction to my new favorite blog, click here. You will be so glad you did.

Let's Try This Again

Last week, I introduced you to  Pat Gohn, author of Blessed, Beautiful, and Bodacious.

I had hoped to spark some conversation about friendship and about spirtual mentors. Since I know you all are interested in both, and since usually it's not terribly difficult to strike up a conversation here, I was surprised to see so few people chime in. I'm thinking I just picked a super busy day for almost everybody. But this is a topic thtat's become a bit of a passion for me, so I'm going to go out on a limb and give it another go.

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I am truly amazed at the wisdom Pat has crammed into these ten minutes. I think her insight is so valuable that I stopped and let my girls listen. We had an excellent conversation about how these five principles can be adapted even if you're only ten years old. Life with four daughters has given me lots of insight from an adult perspective on what makes for healthy friendships. What a lot of friendships I witness these days! Some are genuine blessings. Some, not so much. Some girls have a gift for friendship. Some must overcome some real deficits to be or to have good friends. Just as we train our children in good academic habits and good moral habits, we need to train them in good friendship habits. These are valuable lifeskills. This book is a valuable life book.

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This time, after the podcast link, I'll recap Pat's five talking points, so that even if you don't have ten minutes to stop and listen, you can walk away this morning with some truly priceless food for thought.

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Pat has recorded a thought-provoking (and sweetly short) podcast for you to listen to with your morning cuppa. She's got me thinking about spiritual motherhood. I'm reflecting gratefully on the women who have taken the time and care to mother me spiritually throughout my lifetime. They have firmly imprinted goodness on my soul and I am eternally grateful. I mean that. Eternally. Those women who have mothered me spiritually have affected eternity for me. And, through me, they have affected eternity for my children.

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Spiritual mothers aren't just mother-figures, they're the good friends in our lives, even the ones who are from our peer group. I can think of at least two women who fill that role in my life who are much younger than me, too. We are all called to spiritual motherhood. And, I think, it's in answering the call to that particular vocation that we become genuinely good friends.

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Pat has some wonderful concrete suggestions for us. They aspire to help create spiritual mothers and strike right to the heart of creating really good friends. Oh, how the world of women is desperately in need of good friends!

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This is a ten minute podcast that might change your life-- and your friendships. I'm not exagerrating here. Take some time --just ten minutes-- to listen today. The world and your world will be a better place because of it. I know mine will be.

>>>Click here to listen to ‘In the Heart of my Home hosts the Blessed, Beautiful, & Bodacious Blog Tour’ on Audioboo<<<

Five recommendations for aspiring Spiritual Mothers (Pat fleshes out these ideas in the podcast. It's only ten minutes. You'll be glad you listened.):

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1. Make friends with one another. Create a non-competitive sisterhood. 

2. Find THREE. Find three friends: one younger, one from your peer group, and one older than you are.

3. Raise the fun quotient. Do things that bring a smile to the one you want to befriend.

4. Pray for one another.  Ask. Seek. Knock. 

5. Use the four gifts of receptivity, generosity, sensitivity, and maternity. 

After you listen, come back here, because there's something in it for you and for the community here at Heart of My Home. 

Let's have a conversation. I really, truly want to hear your heart on this topic and I want to share with you in the combox. 

Who has been a spiritual mother to you? Describe her ways. You don't have to name her, but let us know how she's been a help for you. Pat talks about five gifts. How can we live those? How can we encourage one another to be spiritual mothers, both in real life and here online? 

Winning a copy of this book is very simple. Listen to the podcast. And then join the conversation. If you come back here to chat with me, you will automatically be entered to win a copy of Blessed, Beautiful, and Bodacious. I'll announce the winner right here, next week:-)

I'd Dearly Love...

...just one more day of babymoon.

To hold you close all day and night, while the world swirls by.

To know that no one expects either of us to do anything except be here in the quiet and sweetness of each other.

To inhale that precious baby smell, blessedly sure that nothing, no one, has yet hurt you.

To hope and pray, with wide-eyed innocence, that no one ever will.

To rest in the assurance that I can provide absolutely everything you need today.

Right now.

I'd dearly love just one more day of that kind of mothering. 

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Even one hour of it would be a welcome gift.

How Compassionate Are You with Yourself?

It was something I’d done with ease just the previous week. This week, on the same mat, in the same space, I struggled. A trainer spotted me, steadied me and then whispered, “Compassion. Give yourself some.” That’s all she said. I admit leaving the gym berating myself, doubting my body’s ability to ever get the hang of it, and wondering if it was even worth it to return again the next day. I’d been working hard at this, every day for a month, and I felt like a total failure because of the last hour spent struggling. Please read the rest here.

Renew

 

Last year was pretty huge. I was so tired, so completely spent at this year's beginning that I noticed year-in-review posts on other blogs, and just pulled the quilt up tighter around my ears and closed my eyes. I didn't have the energy--physical or spiritual--to revisit it all, even virtually. It was just.so.much.

I went through that year of many, many transitions kicking and screaming. Turns out I'm not a big fan of change. The reality is that I liked the baby years, loved them, really and never once wished them away. And yet, in the big giant year of transition, they were indeed being swept beyond my reach. I left my children for the first time. And then for the second. Someone turned four and there was no one younger than her around the table at dinner. But there was someone new at the table. And she came to be one of us. I gained a new role. The transition was absolutely unmistakeable.

Our culture is so youth oriented. For the most part it seems, no one really searches out ways to be older. We celebrate 21 in a big way. We mark midlife with black-themed birthday cards and bad jokes about being over the hill. I think I bought into that mentality a bit. And I think I know a big reason I was such easy prey.

I was so dang tired. The truth is that this wholehearted, all-in, very attached parenting style had depleted me to the equivalent of soil dust. Nothing rich was growing there. If this was what the mid-forties felt like, I could not imagine sixty.

But I have a four-year-old. And my most fervent prayer is to grow old healthy, and holy, and helpful. I want to be there for her. I want to see how the story unfolds. I want to get out of bed in the morning without my knees cracking so loudly it wakes my husband.

In the blur that was the new year, friends were choosing words for the year--just single words upon which to focus, meditate, seek wisdom. A word to live for the whole year. I couldn't wrap my brain around one. 

And then I could. Aimee said her word was renew. Renew.

That's it. That's the word. It's the word that says that this stage in life is not the beginning of the end. It's the beginning, instead, of something better, stronger, wiser, and yes--older. But older in the richest way. That's certainly being proven true in marriage. Did you know that the sweetest wine is grown from the oldest vineyards? Grapes grow best when the farmer works in harmony in with the earth, when he embraces the whole and considers that plant and the land around it as they were endowed by the Creator, with an eye towards preserving the quality for a long time. The goal of biodynamic farming is to be sustainable. When you grow grapes, you draw something from the soil and you have to replenish that. 

When we learned about biodynamic vineyards, one point that came home to me is that growing practices greatly influence how long the vineyards will continue to bear fruit. The vines where the practice is focused upon sustainable growth--where the big picture is considered and every element of farming is oriented towards ensuring health of the vines down deep and over time--are the vines that bear the sweetest fruit. At first, the explanation of biodynamic farming sounds a bit hokie. But then, you can literally taste and see that the fruit borne of the wisdom of old is of a superior quality.

This image works so well for me. The Bible is rich with imagery of vineyards. Clearly, God wants us to consider how to grow in a sustainable way in order to renew the face of the earth. I've never been more certain of that than I was this morning. I had written the above over the course of the last few weeks. I clicked over to visit Aimee in order to link to her in my post. When I did, I learned she's writing today about sustainable homeschooling. My jaw dropped and I smiled widely at God's thunk over my head. If ever I asked for a sign that I was on the right track, I got a clear answer at 7:00 AM on Tuesday January 29th while visiting Aimee's blog. It's a post that just might easily have catapulted to my favorite home education post ever this morning. There is wisdom there, my friends. Rich, rich wisdom. Get this: middle aged wisdom. Yep. There is wisdom and it's invaluable.

I look around at the friends with whom I've had babies and I am blessed to know that they've grown wise. How amazing! We all learned something during those hazy, intense, sleep-deprived years.

So, now I embrace renewal. I look to tend the vineyard of my soul, to be sure, but I am not going to neglect the rest of me any more. The big picture of renewal is one that encompasses physical health, spirtual growth, creative energy and enthusiasm, and an invigorated sense of hope and optimism for the future. I look to my home, to my homeschooling, to the relationships within these walls and to the people I love beyond these walls. Renewal. All of it is waiting to be made new again. 

What a different perspective than that of a withering towards an inevitable end. We can renew and renew and renew again, until our dying breath. God is generous that way.

I've talked a bit about stillness. About allowing Him to come in the silence.

Be still and know that I am God.

The last two weeks at Mass, an old familiar hymn has settled on my soul in a new way. I've listened to You Are Mine and heard the refrain of stillness. I will come to you in the silence. But I've also heard the rest. I heard the echoes of Isaiah 43:1

But now, thus says the LORD,

who created you, Jacob, and formed you, Israel:

Do not fear, for I have redeemed you;

I have called you by name: you are mine.

There is nothing to fear. I am redeemed. 

And the promise of John 14:27

Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you. Not as the world gives do I give it to you. Do not let your hearts be troubled or afraid

Transitions can be scary. Aging can be scary. Renewal, though? The sustainable model of growth that keeps us renewing until we reach heaven? That's peace.

Last year, was a hard year. It was exhausting. It was a compost year, I think. A year of creating very fertile ground for renewal. 

Amazing Grace in the Combox

(Just a favorite picture from Christmas past, because it makes me smile.)

Yesterday was not a good day. I woke up ridiculously early (Mike had a 5AM flight; that means leave the house before 4:00). I had this sense that I had utterly failed at everything I think is important in life. By noon, seven of nine children had confirmed that reality for me. I don't look to the internet for support and encouragement on days like those. Really, I don't look to the internet for support and encouragement ever, not since the years the locusts ate. I "know better." For me, the worse the day, the more I go quiet. Whether online or in person, I just don't want to talk.

Yesterday, I had a post waiting to publish. Most posts this month are already queued up and ready, one of my strategies for managing time. I had taken an old post, written a quick intro on the evening of December 6th, and not really given it much thought.

You all read that post and somehow, you knew. You knew exactly what to say. I got up this morning and read your memories, your traditions. And, one after another, they shone hope on a dark morning. I have no idea which way this day will go. I'm not overly optimistic. But I am ever so grateful for warm grace in the combox. I'm incredibly blessed by your memories and I'm surprised by unexpected hope. So, thank you. 

Ten Ways to Make it a Good Day.

After a string of really bad days, I sat down to make a list of ten sure-fire ways to work towards making the day a good one.

Nail the prayer and exercise routine from dawn to bedtime.  

 

 

Make a good meal and eat it at the table, all together; candelight is a good thing.

 

 

Keep the laundry caught up or conquer the backed up laundry mountain.

 

 

Sew something, anything.

 

 

Read stories to my little ones-- the more, the better.

 

 

Make bathtime relaxed and happy for everyone.

 

 

Use online time with discretion, sparingly. Take my time online. *

 

 

Choose joy, especially when it's not the easy choice. 

 

 



Curl up and read a good book for mama. (...and maybe knit, too. I really miss knitting.)

 

 



Um. Curl up with him;-).

 

*Like the necklace? Me, too! You can shop for them here:-)

40 Ways to Keep Summer from Slipping Away

It's more than halfway through July. I paused a moment or two this morning to put to paper my intentions for the rest of the summer. I find that if I'm intentional, I'm better able to fully engage in the moment. I don't want to let a second of summer's goodness slip away unappreciated. So, I resolve to

1. Make sure it is Mama in prayer that my children see first thing every morning. Much preferred to Mama pounding away furiously at a keyboard.
2. Exercise both morning and evening. Evenings, with Mike.
3. Eat three small meals a day, nothing more.
4. Keep my kitchen Whole30 compliant.
5. Sit down and eat together every evening.
6. Completely refurbish the Homemaking Notebook, update routines, discard the unnecessary.
7. Paint the house.
8. Limit social media to pre-determined times of day, for very small, pre-determined periods of time. For me and for my children. 
9. Actually shut down the computer when finished instead of merely closing the lid or clicking "sleep."
10. Sew something for an hour (or more) every day.
11. Polish up the Alphabet Path and make two week lesson plans for every letter, transferring them to PDF so that I don't have to consult the computer for my lessons. And update that tutorial.
12. Make peach jam.
13. Whittle my Google Reader down to the top ten most inspiring blogs. Check in with them once a week. Read books the rest of the time
14. Keep my Instagram circle small. I treasure those snapshots of the lives of intentional women.
15. Stick to the "more prayer, less coffee" routine.
16. Take myself off every junk mail list and unsubscribe from all email blog feeds.
17. Keep a Mason jar of fresh flowers on the center island in the kitchen every day.
18. Visit every playground in my neighborhood at least twice before September 1st.
19. Make in-real-life play dates once a week--for me (pedicures might be involved).
20. Keep the first and last hours of every day free from digital interference.

 

 

21. Go to Adoration at least an hour a week.
22. Indulge in unlimited pillow talk. Sleep in if necessary.
23. Make a fresh pitcher of fruit infused water every morning. Drain it by the end of the day.
24. Keep my cell phone completely off in the car.
25. Plan a date night once a week.
26. Help Mike plan a 25th anniversary trip for September.
27. Watch the sunrise with Nicholas.
28. Kiss them goodbye when they leave the house. Every one of them. Every time.
29. Take Karoline fishing. Let her sing. Sing with her.
30. When someone--anyone, everyone--speaks to me, look him/her in the eye for the entire conversation. (Unless we're sitting and doing handwork together;-)
31. Stand in the pool and let her jump to me. Over and over and over.
32. Go to a Brad Paisley concert with my absolute favorite 17-year-old and his darling girlfriend and her awesome mom.
33. Finish knitting "Katie's" sweater so Karoline can wear it this fall.
34. Read five picture books a day to a child on my lap.
35. Pray the rosary together every night.
36. Tell my kids how much I love to watch them play.
37. Lots of bubble baths, followed by kid massages. 
38. Say "yes" to as many crazy, creative kid ideas as humanly possible.
39.Let Sarah paint my toenails.
40. Help Kristin plan a Christmas wedding.

Cocooning Reprise

I have long loved early childhood. From the time I was very little, I have invested much thought and prayer into the mother of young children I feel called to be. Much to the chagrin of pretty much everyone except my husband, I even majored in early childhood in college. (Just an aside: I had enough nursing and anatomy/physiology credits to also be certified to teach health and PE. God had a plan. I grew up to educate children who, when asked to name their school, inform the general public that they attend the Foss Academy for the Athletically Inclined. But I digress.)

 

I have held tightly to the promise that it's never too late to have a happy childhood. And since mine was not childish or carefree, I've set out very deliberately to create for my children what I think I might have missed and to enjoy it alongside them. Deep in my heart, my fondest wish was to be the very good mother of young children. You might say that I've dedicated my adult  life to that task.

Not too long ago, I can't remember where, I read about a woman around my age who said that she was too busy with her grown kids and teenagers to mourn the fact that her babies were growing up and there would soon be no wee ones in her house. I'm not. I'm not too busy. There are still small children in my house and they slow me, still me. I still stay with them at night as they drift off to sleep. I still sit with them at the table as they eat breakfast, lunch, and dinner, ever so slowly. I bathe them and brush their hair and braid it up before bed. I sit and rock and hold and read. I still thank God for them with every breath, much like I did the day they were born. I have plenty of time in the course of my day to be still and know that these are precious moments that will not be a part of my days in the not too distant future. 

In a way, I envy those women who blithely move along to the next stage of life and smile brightly and say, "There! That's finished. Wasn't it grand? Now what's next?" I'm not one of them. Perhaps I'm just not good at transitions. I sobbed at my high school graduation. I remember how reluctantly I traded my wedding gown for my "going away" clothes. I cried so hard when Michael left for college that I had to pull over because I couldn't see to drive. I held more tightly to each newborn than the one before. And this last one? I don't think I put her down at all for the first twelve weeks. My intimate relationships are deep and rooted and meaningful. When I live something, I feel it. 

I know it's time.

I know because my environment cries out that it is so. My house is full to overflowing with people. Several of them are more than twice the size they were when we moved in here. Some have left and come back and brought with them more of their own stuff. We are bursting at the seams. It is time to acknowledge that we are in a new season of life and to allow my house to reflect that.

And so. I cocoon. Somehow I know that this is intense, deeply personal business and at the end I will be the same and yet, forever different. I spin a silken thread tightly around my home. My cell phone goes dead. I don't recharge it. I don't touch my laptop. I don't carry the house phone with me. I don't leave for several days. It is time to conquer all those recesses of my home that I neglected while I held babies. It is time to let go.

We need space. We no longer need a co-sleeper. Or the sheets to go with it. We don't need a swing. I begin in the basement.

We don't need three neatly labeled boxes of beautiful thick, pink, cotton clothes -- 0-3 months, 6-9 months, 9-18 months. I carefully save the christening gown, the sweet baptism booties, the first dress Karoline wore to match Katie and Mary Beth. The rest I fold into giveaway bags.  Michael takes the baby "things" to the Salvation Army on Friday.The clothes remain until Saturday morning. The Children's Center truck is due to arrive at 8 AM. After I've finished with the clothes, I cannot  stay here in this basement on Friday. I've done what I know will be the most difficult task. I also know I'm nearly suffocating.  I need to go upstairs and get some air. 

I begin in Mike's office. This isn't really my mess or my stuff or even the stuff of children who haven't been carefully supervised. It is just the overflow of two busy adults who pile and stuff a bit too much. He doesn't use this room. It's a lovely room in the middle of the house with a bright window. I put a new sewing machine on the desk. I rearrange shelves, discarding things he no longer needs. I spend an hour or so carefully dusting his youth trophies and 25 years of sports paraphernalia. I think about this post and I know that we can (and should) share this space. I move some baskets in. My yarn, my knitting and sewing books, a few carefully folded lengths of fabric, holding place for a stash to come.

I stitch a few things in that room. And I am happy there. I am no longer knitting in my womb. But I am still creating. And it makes me happy. My arms are ever more often empty, but my hands are increasingly free for other pursuits. Still, a small voice whispers, knitting and sewing are nothing like the co-creation you've done for the last 22 years. I hush the voice. I have no idea where this is going. He is the Creator. He has written a beautiful pattern for my life. All He asks is that I knit according to His plan. Trust the pattern.

On Saturday morning, that truck comes. I can't even watch as they load my dear boxes. My stomach clenches and my eyes fill with tears. Things. They are only things. The girls who wore those things are safe in my arms. Another mother will be blessed to hold a sweet pink cotton bundle close and nuzzle her cheeks. I descend to the basement.

Here. Here is where I must force myself to cocoon. Here is where ten years of "put this carefully in the craft room" will come back to haunt me. They have tossed at will every single time. It never recovered from the great flooring shuffle. I do pretty well with the rest of the house, but I dislike coming down to the basement and Mike rarely comes down here. So, here is where the disorder has collected. The "craft room" is a jumble of stored clothes, curriculum, craft supplies, and 25 years of family photos. It is a mess.

I am humbled by the mess. Quite literally driven to my knees. But I have spun myself into this small space and here I will stay until I can emerge beautifully.

I have banished all outside interruptions, but I have brought with me the Audible version of this book. Good thing, too, because I will benefit greatly from the message within and, frankly, I will need to hear the narrator say "You are a good mom" as often as she does. 

I see the abandoned half-finished projects, the still shrinkwrapped books, the long lingering fabric and lace. Did I miss it? Did I miss the opportunity to do the meaningful things? To be the good mom I want to be? I am nearly crushed by the weight of the money I've spent on these things and the remanants of my poor stewardship.What was I doing when this mess was being made? To be sure some of the time was sadly wasted. It is easy to berate myself for time slipped through my fingers. Cocoons are really rather nasty things.

Determined, I clear out the clutter. I tell myself that life is not black and white. It's not all bad or all good.  I fold fabric and recognize that what I have here is the beginning of some new projects. I gather acorn caps and felt and label them and tuck them away for the fall. I make a very large stack of books to sell secondhand. I sort and sweep and remember. I see picture after picture of smiling children. I see, in those color images, time well spent. Time well filled.  Their mama always looks tired. I recognize in  those pictures that my children were happy--are happy. And I also recognize that it's been a little while now since I felt that tired. It is true that much of my time in the last twenty years, I have been filling well. I have been holding and rocking and nursing and coloring and listening and reading and giving and giving...I have been cherishing childhood. And it is a true that in a household this size, it is darn near impossible for every corner of the house to remain clean and every lesson to be carried out according to plan ,while caring well for babies and toddlers.  Messes happen.

The season just passed? The very long season? It was good and full and messy and cluttered. It was bursting-at-the-seams joyful in a way nothing ever will be again. It was also very hard work. Very, very hard work.There were utter failures and big mistakes. And there was a whole lot of good. 

This new season? I don't know yet. It's not nearly as cluttered. I have stayed in this cocoon until every corner of my home, every nook and every cranny, has been cleared of the clutter of the last season. Every poor choice, every undisciplined mess has been repurposed. Every single one. I can see my way clear to do the meaningful things. And the blessing is that there are still plenty of children in this house to do them with me.

As I sweep the room for the last time before considering this a job well done, I see a picture that has slid under a bookshelf. It is Mike and me at our wedding rehearsal. I stare long and hard at that girl. But I stare longer at him. He is still every bit as happy as he was that night. Happier, really. Really happier. These days in this cocoon, I have been brutally honest with myself. I've held myself accountable for every transgression. I have humbled myself before God and I have confessed my sins.  I look at his image and then back at mine and I realize something very important. Whatever my failings, I have consistently been a good wife. I wonder at the ease with which this recognition comes to me. I am certain that much of it is born of his frequent words of affirmation. I know it is so because he has told me it is so. But why is it so?

Grace. 

Ours is a gracious God. It is only by His grace that I am the wife I am. And it is by His grace that I have this sense of peace about the most important relationship in my life. These children willl grow in the safe home he and I have created together. And then they will fly. Mike and I? We will be us. Always us.

I carefully put away the very last picture, turn out the light, and climb the stairs.

I've cleared out the clutter, made peace with the past. I've learned a very valuable lesson that I'm long going to be pondering in my heart. It's time to fly free.

 ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

~ reprinted from the archives. I'm back in the basement today, but it's very different than it was last year. I'll be back tomorrow to share with you the rest of the story.

May We Talk About Something?

Recently, in a brick and mortar bookstore, I noticed something. If I were planning a wedding, I'd have plenty of books from which to choose. They'd all look bright, pretty, and cheerful. If I were expecting a baby, I'd be inundated with books. It would take me all of nine months to read them all and then, I'd have a ready supply of parenting books at my fingertips. That's as it should be, I suppose. All those books address big stages in a woman's life and we all agree that we can use all the help we can get when preparing to marry or give birth or raise children.

But what if I wanted to read a book on midlife? What if I wanted to learn What to Expect When Your Hair Turns Gray and Your Kids Fly Free? What if I wanted a helpful, hopeful, realistic, but bright and optimistic book on the next stage? There's not much out there. I might pick up a bestseller. And I might read this:

My personal experience, now shared by millions of others, tells me that the perimenopausal lifting of the hormonal veil — the monthly cycle of reproductive hormones that tends to keep us focused on the needs and feelings of others — can be both liberating and unsettling. The midlife rate of marital separation, divorce and vocational change confirms this. I, for one, had always envisioned myself married to the same man for life, the two of us growing old together. This ideal had always been one of my most cherished dreams. At midlife I, like thousands of others, had to give up my fantasies of how I thought my life would be. I had to face, head-on, the old adage about how hard it is to lose what you never really had. It means giving up all your illusions, and it is very difficult. But for me the issue was larger than where and with whom I would grow old. It was a warning, coming from deep within my spirit, that said, “Grow … or die.” Those were my choices. I chose to grow.

For most women, identity and self-esteem are generated by our associations and relationships. This is true even for women who hold high-powered jobs and for women who have chosen not to marry. Men, by contrast, usually get most of their identity and self-esteem from the outer world — the job, the income, the accomplishments, the accolades. For both genders, this pattern often changes at midlife.

Women begin to direct more of their energies toward the world outside of home and family, which may suddenly appear as a great, inviting, untapped resource for exploration, creative expression and self-esteem. Meanwhile, men of the same age — who may be undergoing a midlife crisis of their own — are often feeling world-weary; they’re ready to retire, curl up and escape the battles of the workplace. They may feel their priorities shifting inward, toward home, hearth and family.

It’s an ironic transposition: The man is beginning to look to relationships for his “juice”; the woman is feeling biologically primed to explore the outer world. In married couples, this often produces profound role shifts. In the best of all worlds, the man retires or cuts back on work, becoming the chief cook and bottle washer at home, and providing emotional and practical support for his wife’s new interests. She, in turn, goes out into the world to start a business, get an education or do whatever her heart dictates. If their relationship is adaptable and resilient, they adjust to their new roles. Some are so energized by their newfound freedom and passion that they fall in love all over again. If a woman’s partner is not willing to grow, however, he (or she) may become jealous of her success and independence, and put pressure on her to continue to care for him as she has always done. He may even get physically sick, often in the form of heart disease and/or clinically dangerous high blood pressure. It’s important to note that this is not a conscious or willful act; he’s simply responding to the promptings of our lopsided culture.

A woman often finds herself in the difficult position, then, of having to choose between returning to the role of caretaker to nurture her husband at the expense of her own needs and pursuing her own creative passions. It’s an old story, common to women in many cultures, not just our own. The woman in menopause, who is becoming the queen of herself, finds herself at a crossroads of life, torn between the old way she has always known and a new way she has just begun to dream of. A voice from the old way (in many cases it’s her husband’s voice) begs her to stay in place — “Grow old with me, the best is yet to be.” But from the new path another voice beckons, imploring her to explore aspects of herself that have been dormant during her years of caring for others and focusing on their needs. She’s preparing to give birth to herself and, as many women already know, the birth process cannot be halted without consequences.
Caring for others and pursuing unexplored personal passions are not necessarily mutually exclusive choices, but our culture makes them seem so, always supporting the former at the expense of the latter. This is part of what makes the midlife transformation so much of a challenge — as I know only too well.

Well, now, that was hopeful wasn't it? That makes you just want to rush headlong into this new season, doesn't it? I'm sure your husband will be delighted with this passage.There's just enough ring of truth in it that it is sort of scary. But there's no faith. No foundation in vocation. No honest Christian optimism. 

So, let's discard that book and let's write another. If you were looking for a book on midlife, what would you want to read there? What would you want that book to address? How would you want to come away from the book?

I'm really serious, friends. Really, really serious. Shall we make this book come to life? Together? 

Tell me what you're thinking. 

the face of attachment parenting

{All the pieces of my heart--Mother's Day 2012. Rose Creek Cottage.}

I was standing at my kitchen counter when I read the email asking me to consider flying with my toddler to New York for a Time Magazine cover story on attachment parenting. It took about a second to remember how exhausting (and frustrating) it was when The New York Times scrutinized our family for a piece on homeschooling. It wasn't terrible, but it was intrusive and in the end, I didn't feel like our message was conveyed well at all. In the next second, I thought of my nursling. Clearly, she's an "older toddler." She and I talk about nursing. And her nursing is limited to bedtime, in the dark and quiet of her bed. It's her snuggle time. It's our snuggle time. It was inconceivable for me to imagine nursing and posing. How would I even begin to explain that to her? This isn't photo op. It's a real life relationship. A relationship I would not exploit for anything in the world. Anything.

I declined.

It wouldn't have worked out anyway. Clearly, they were looking for a perky body. Mine is a body that has nurtured in this ancient fashion for so long that I, too, am ancient. Nothing is perky. It's all soft and squishy and well-worn. It's a real body. And I'm a real mother.

I was standing at the same spot in the kitchen when I first saw the cover. I felt physically ill. Literally. I felt the blood drain from my body and I gagged. Then, in the next second, I thought of what will happen when that cover child is 15 and a kid in his school finds that picture in cyberspace and posts it to his 2024 version of a Facebook wall. Attachment parenting is all about building trust. I think this young mother was shortsighted in selling out the trust of her son several years hence.

I commented on the post where I first saw the picture. I felt the adrenaline rushing. I felt all the sputtering arguments tingling in my fingers. 

I closed the computer. Physically removed it from the kitchen. Chopped a lot of vegetables. With my three-year-old. I knew I had to in order to survive.

The next day, there it was, all over everywhere. Everyone had something to say about it. Everyone was rushing to defend, redefine, articulate, refute, explain. Again, that physically ill feeling. I didn't revisit my Facebook or Twitter or Google Reader news feeds for the next three days.

I recalled a promise I had made to myself, after an extended period of thought and prayer: 

In part, I wrote: 

I need to start the day (after the prayer and exercise start) with a shower, clothing and lipgloss, and then some quiet time with the Bible. I want my children to find me in that room, with a candle lit and the Bible on my lap when they first wake up. I don't want them to find me staring into my laptop.

I need to refrain from internet drama, even a little bit.

This was internet drama. I knew I needed to stay far away from it. I had been thinking for a few weeks about attachment parenting anyway, and about social media, and about surviving cancer and living life knowing that it all can change with a single phone call. All these thoughts had been pressing upon me. 

I got an iPhone a few weeks ago. Suddenly, I was connected everywhere I went. I immediately made sure it would not chirp at me everytime I got an email, or someone posted to Facebook, or someone tweeted. The only notifications I left on were phone calls and text messages. Still, I heard the call of social media from anywhere, anytime. The weekend before last, I took my phone to a full day of dance competition. My daughter danced 3 times. We were there twelve hours. Nonstop dance, nonstop music, in an auditorium. I thoroughly drained the fully-charged battery on my iPhone. I was connected! I could post cute things about the day. Chronicle life's happenings on Instagram. Do something. Read something. Anything. Everything. And at the end of the day, I felt that sick feeling. 

I resolved the next day never to engage in social media chit chat and news feeds on my phone at a kids' event or any time at all over the weekend.  Nobody out there really cares that Johnny is up to bat more than Johnny-- and he would truly appreciate the full attention of his mother. (I use Johnny and baseball because I don't have a Johnny and no one here plays baseball. It's a universal sentiment for all the children in my family.)

Then there was the Time piece. Right there, just before Mother's Day weekend. I could almost hear an audible whisper: You have long lived this lifestyle. Surely you will step out and join the conversation.

No. No, I won't. Not now. Not this weekend. I won't read what everyone has to say. I won't keep responding here, there, and everywhere. Chasing conversation loses sight of the mission of this blog: encouragement to other women, yes, but mostly to leave a legacy for my daughters. 

My best writing isn't that which engages in up-to-the-minute dialogue. My best writing takes its time. Says its prayers. I'm not a news chasing vehicle and I'm not about promoting myself while fighting for a cause. And this "cause"? It changed my life forever long before it was a cause at all. Attachment parenting matters to me.

I wish that women of the digital age could have learned this parenting style the way I did. 

It first took written form in an old La Leche League publication of The Womanly Art of Breastfeeding that my roommate in the hospital loaned to me when I could not console a screaming newborn Michael, nearly 24 years ago. She was an experienced mom. She stayed up all night, her own newborn at her breast, mentoring me, voice-to-voice, shoulder-to-shoulder. She was Catholic, open to life. It was all grace.  I still look back with astonishment at the provision of it all. I have no pictures of our time. No journal of words. I don't even remember her name, but her legacy lives forever in my family.

That was an old version of the book, written in the voice of the women who founded La Leche League. It read like wisdom from moms at a church picnic. Did you know that La Leche League was founded on the grounds of a Catholic Church at a parish picnic?

Ten years later, I met Mary White, one of the founding mothers. That formerly crying baby was the altar server at a very poorly attended Mass at a La Leche League conference. It was just Mary, her husband, and my family. After Mass, she spent a leisurely time talking to me about big families and raising children in the church, all while my fourth child, Mary Beth, nursed in a sling. Tears still spring to my eyes when I think of the meaning that encounter held for me. She autographed for me a new edition of the book. I treasure the the inscription, but the book remains on my shelf, largely untouched. I still reach for my tattered, older version, the one written before "attachment parenting" was a cause. The one in the voice of wise Catholic mothers.

Mary White told me after Mass how mothering is a beautiful way to live the works of mercy every day, how mothers are especially blessed to extend the mercy of God to others. It was never about being "mom enough," but about being humble enough. Attachment parenting--and so, extended breastfeeding--is about the least of these. 

And the king will say to them in reply, ‘Amen, I say to you, whatever you did for one of these least brothers of mine, you did for me.’

All day, every day, serving the little ones with the mercy of Jesus. That's attachment parenting at its essence.

Attachment parenting grows up. And that doesn't mean nursing while standing on a stool. It means that mother and child grow together. It means that when it's not so simple anymore and all their needs can't be met by stopping to nurse, we still listen. And listen. And listen. We watch over three hundred dances because somewhere in there, our teenager is in three of them and she cares about the other 297.

If we are at our best, we do it with our full attention.

The face of attachment parenting? It doesn't reflect a computer screen. We can't let ourselves care more about the cause than about the children who compelled us to learn about the cause in the first place. We can't let ourselves be lured to spend our days chasing philosophies online, no matter how noble those philosophies are. We can't endlessly chase decorating ideas or knitting patterns or news feeds, either. 

I learned attachment parenting in a different age. And I'm very glad of that. I never cultivated a habit of nursing while scrolling my cell phone. I never took a laptop into a child's room at night to keep me company while I kept him company. There were no smart phones or laptops. I was blessed to learn a lifestyle before the distraction of technology and then to live long enough in that stage of life that I could take the early lessons and keep practicing those habits when technology started fighting them. 

It's astonishing how techonology fights them. Truly, if we let it, techonology can destroy parenting as God intended it. A tool for the good can be used for ill to the detriment of generations.

I feel sorry for the young mothers (perkiness aside). It must be so much harder to discern the wisdom of the church picnic from the hip, happening, cool of the attachment parenting "movement." It's not sexy. It's not hip. It's hard work and humble servitude. It likely will make you soft and saggy.

The key to being truly attached, even as they grow, is spending days looking into the eyes of a child, truly knowing our own children intimately and well and helping them to become the person God created them to be.

Attachment parenting requires incredible sacrifice on the part of fathers, when the chldren are infants and when they are older. When they are infants, fathers wait for wives who are nursing mothers. They wait, too, for the time when a child will want them as much or more than they want Mama. I see that so clearly now that I have lots of older children. My kids almost line up to wait for Mike to listen to them at night. I've been with them all day. I'm all childrened out. And all I want is his undivided, quiet attention. But there they are, one by one, asking for him. I can't help but think of all the nights he waited while I nursed them to sleep.

Attachment parenting is thoughtful, careful that we are attached, while still not fostering an entitlement attitude. Just because you can nurse on demand as a baby, doesn't mean you can demand anything you want and expect to get it forever. Actually, the contrary is true. When you are nursed on demand as a baby, you grow up with the sense that sometimes adults are called to sacrifice themselves--their wants, their immediate needs, even their bodies--for the least of these. Good attachment parenting means that we teach our children this same ideal of laying down one's life.

This is where my challenges in social media keep popping up. It's a repeated decision to set aside the pressing online conversation, relinquish the opportunity to join the opinionfest. Attachment parenting is about keeping my eyes steadfastly fixed on my own work--the most important work I'll ever be called to do.  Social media is most definitely about keeping my eyes on everyone else's work. It's fairly benign for me in very small doses, lethal in anything bigger.

I have thoughtful ideas on childhood. I've worked hard to live those principles. I see social media as the most insidious threat to living a life of grace-filled, purposeful moments of joy with my children. This is How to Miss a Childhood and this is The Best Part of a Child's Education. I mean to live those messages and I have to close the computer to do so.

Mother Teresa, upon winning the Nobel Peace Prize, was asked "What can we do to promote world peace?" She answered "Go home and love your family."

What can I do to promote attachment parenting? Go home and love my family. With my full attention. When I do, I will bear authentic witness and change the world.

{Comments are  closed. Prayers are always welcome.}

I might have had a meltdown today...

...and just maybe a boy who has been hugely helpful all week and not at all the source of my frustration turned back as he was leaving to run another errand.

"Hey Mom, you need to listen Scott McCreery sing Dirty Dishes. I'll be back in a bit."

Just in case you need to hear this today, too:

 

Much to be said for some time to ourselves

It’s one of those clichés that rings all to true: Most mothers have very little time alone. The joke is that she goes into the bathroom to be alone and often is joined by a child or two even there. Susanna Wesley, mother of 19 children, including John and Charles Wesley, threw her apron over her head in the midst of her crowd of offspring in order to “be alone” to pray. For many mothers, 40 days in the desert has a certain appeal. Read the rest here please. 

Do Something Extra {and a Giveaway}

~revising an old piece because it is so worth reminding myself today. And because I miss this friend and am ever grateful for this devotion to prayer...

Lent is about giving up, about surrendering ourselves to the will of God and being drawn into a deeper relationship with Him. It's about becoming more and more like Him. It's about allowing God to perfect His will in our very being. We talk about "giving things up" for Lent, about relinquishing those things in hopes that we will notice that we need God.

Often--hopefully--we find that when we've given something up, God shines a light on that cleared space in our soul. We find, when we give something up, that there is room for something more. Might I suggest something old and proven? Something Biblical? Something so close to God that with every prayer inhaled and exhaled, we walk with him through Scripture and hold His hand through the moments of His life?

Rosary Addiction

A few months ago, a friend suggested we pray a daily rosary.  Actually, she suggested a fifteen decade daily rosary.  We were both tired, frustrated and stressed to the limits.  We had exhausted all the typical remedies for this state of being.  Veterans of this Catholic home education large-family lifestyle, we tweaked our diets, our exercise plans, our chore systems, our sleeping (well, we tried), our school plans.  We both changed parishes (we live two time zones apart but somehow we both were in the wrong church). All the tried and true remedies for burnout and frustration were failing us.  As our families grew and our children got bigger, the stakes went up.  We recognized that nothing on earth was "working" to gain for us that much needed peace.  Our souls were restless indeed.

All of this we shared with each other.  We hashed out all the usual solutions, we swapped meal plans and chore plans and lesson plans.  Independently, we took it to prayer.  That's when she came back with the absolute certainty that she was supposed to pray a fifteen decade rosary every day.  And she was pretty certain I was supposed to do the same.  Only glitch was that she had this revelation while I was reading Rosarium Virginis Mariae.  I was increasingly sure that I was supposed to shower my soul with the light of those five Luminous decades as well.  Fifteen for her, twenty for me.

Our prayers are gathered as roses, whispered quietly or said internally, as we reflect on the moments of the Lord's life--the words He said, the miracles He performed, the joys, the suffering, the ultimate sacrifice, and the hope we live as Easter people. 

I bought a CD so that I could turn driving time, walking time, bed time into rosary time.  Really, the Holy Spirit did the pointing and clicking this time.  I bought Praying the Rosary with St. Therese of Lisieux. Now, there are several other options in the same series: Praying the Rosary with St. Maria Faustina, Praying the Rosary with Mother Teresa of Calcutta, and Praying the Rosary with St. Padre Pio. I admit we have quite a collection.

This beautiful CD has it all.  Lovely Gregorian chant in the background.  Soothing voices of prayer.  And every Hail Mary is preceded by a quote from the Little Flower  (in the case of St. Therese).  Those quotes have worked their way into my soul, they are becoming me... or I am becoming them. Either way, through the powerful intercession of the Blessed Mother, that elusive peace is happening. 

My daughter, always looking over my shoulder as I blog, objects to the "Just for Mom" category.  She reminds me that she hears the CD all the time, too.  And she is increasingly devoted to both the Blessed Mother and the Little Flower.  Those quotes are touching her.

My friend and I exchange emails, coveting each other's decades.  All is not peace and green pastures.  Life is still happening.  And it is really, really hard sometimes. There are days when I beg her to offer all fifteen of hers to me and days when I reciprocate. We rarely pray the whole thing at the same time; instead we snatch decades throughout the day.  And maybe that is better, kind of like booster shots for the soul. We've shared some pretty amazing success stories. And we're both pretty sold on the power of ALL those decades.

Now for the Something Extra: are you ready to add a rosary to your daily round? All the images in this post are taken from Loreto Rosaries--beautiful, beautiful works of art to aid your prayer. Ruth, the artist behind these masterpieces, is graciously offering a rosary bracelet to one of you.

 

Please go to Loreto Rosaries and look around. Come back and tell us what inspired you. And if you have your own story of rosary graces, please share those too. You will be entered to win the rosary bracelet.

Remember, as always, Proceeds from every sale will be donated to Mary's Shelter. Mary’s Shelter provides housing and support to women facing a crisis pregnancy. For more information, please go to http://www.marysshelterva.org/

 

What Will You Give God?

This is so worth watching. It's only 4 minutes.

Every day.

Until it really sinks in and animates our every moment.

Tip of the bonnet to Danielle Bean.

The Winter from the Top of a Swing

I'm kind of tired of writing about Disney details for this week. I still have three more posts queued up and waiting for pictures and edits, but I think they can wait until next week.  Yesterday afternoon yielded an impromptu visit to the park and Mary Beth took some fun pictures with her iPod and I thought I'd just hang out here with you for awhile and think aloud about my friend Susan's last ever post and about all the wisdom there and about living a slow life. 

I've been praying hard lately about slow. Quiet. Whisper. I've been praying about creativity and asking God what He would have me do. And I don't have a crystal clear answer. Colleen called this afternoon to tell me all about how she walks at least three miles a day just to get anywhere. She told me about her kitchen with the lattice walls and the simplicity of it all. She was asking me to think for myself about how to bring mindfulness, slowness, simplicity to life in the suburbs of the the most powerful city on earth. Seems daunting. But then again, swimming against the tide is always slow isn't it? There's nothing slow about this place; I'd be swimming against the tide if I were even trying to move slowly.

The internet is fast. I feel my pulse quicken when I open the laptop. Text messaging and cell phones are fast. I watched a dear girl's furrowed brow grow smoothe when she let her battery die and took days to get around to recharging it. It is clear to me that we must be ever-vigilant lest we let technology fast forward our lives and infringe on the margins of clear, quiet space where we can just be still and know God.

Susan writes, "We live in a time when slowing down does not simply mean that we casually choose not to get caught in the speedy flow of our culture, but, increasingly, we must absolutely do battle against speed in order not to get caught up in the flow. And nowadays we have the added pressure placed on us by modern technology to be ever-available and always-distracted. But battling against this is very much worth the fight, in my opinion."

It's not just technology though. Interactions with our fully present community seem to demand expediency and efficiency. To be intentionally slow and soft requires a decided change in thought process. I find myself countering the activity of real life. This quiet is encapsulated in all the intentional choices to just be when the world asks us to hurry towards productivity. It's the wide open spaces in a day that allow us to look at the gift of a warm winter afternoon from the top of a swing.

Why create margins? Why slow down? What if we miss an opportunity? What if we don't network hard enough or fast enough or often enough? To that, I have to wonder, what if we're really missing a network that is much, much more important? Much, much more rewarding?

Susan goes on to remind us of some very poignant quotes: 

" 'All in order, sweet and lovely.'(Blake)  And I’ll quote the Bible, too: 'For God is not a God of disorder but of peace.' And why not thrown in Anne Morrow Lindbergh who said that it is only framed in space that beauty blooms? And all of this goes for our whole life; order is not just about the arrangement of our stuff! A beautiful life of margin saves space—uncluttered and unhurried—for the unexpected, for surprise, for serendipity, for spontaneity, for compassion, for instant hospitality, for relationships, and for lots of good things to happen."

The internet has blessed me in so many ways. Daily, my life is touched for the better by the people I have met online.  I am grateful forever for blogging--the medium suits me well. But I think I am a slow blogger. I cannot--will not, perhaps--keep up with the frantic pace of being everywhere online. Networking zaps me. The internet allows us to be pulled into the extroverted world without every leaving home or saying a word. I think it could be an unnatural exposure for an invtrovert.

Sometimes I am sure I would love a house like this, not to live in, just to retreat to when the noise and activity become too much. My children remind me that we have a playhouse at the edge of the backyard. And almost automatically, I think, "Hmm, I could probalby still get wi-fi there." I am a paradox.

But frantic pace and constant availability zaps me even more in real life. I asked a friend yesterday for the phone number of a mutual friend. She sent it and asked if I'd ever heard their musical answering machine message. I replied that I'd never called her. She's a very close friend. We correspond nearly daily. I love the sound of her voice and could sit for hours in real life and just listen to her talk. I love when she has time to share a converation with me. She's called me a couple times. But I've never called. Still haven't. Because in real life, it takes a huge effort for me to dial the phone. The older I get, the less I like to shatter silence with my own voice, the less I want to intrude on someone else's silence.

When I was little, people thought I was pouting or moody. I will never forget the day--I must have been around nine--when someone asked why I was so grumpy within earshot of my grandfather. He took one look at me and said, "She's not grumpy; she's pensive." It is forever inked in my memory. Understanding. He understood that I was not moody or aloof or even shy. I was just thinking. I need quiet. I need deep, face-to-face connections.If I have a conversation, I'd prefer for it to be a slow, thoughtful one. I need fresh air and sunshine. I need space to think. I don't think quickly.

And then, I also need space to do. To work with my hands. To ink out a thought. to capture an image. Wide open space to make connections to my Creator within my own soul and spirit with before I can make sense of anything else.

I put up two prayer requests this week for boys not unlike my own. Indeed, one of them played soccer with my eldest. I can't pray for them and for their families without feeling an overwhelming tug of empathy. And an overwhelming urge to hold my children. (At the same time, though, I'm compelled to bring their intentions to as many people as possible and I'm grateful this medium allows me to do that.) Life is full and rich and joyous and sad. And we need margins to make sense of it all, don't we? And life is short. I'd prefer not to waste a single moment of it.

When I was on vacation (ah, see? there's Disney again), my time online was naturally limited. I spent a few minutes a day (fewer than fifteen) uploading pictures so that our families could follow our fun on Facebook. It was just the right amount of time for that kind of connecting. And then, I spent hours and hours out of doors, holding my little one, listening carefully to the others, giving full time and undivided attention to the here and now. Despite the noise and color and crowds of where I was, it was a peaceful way to live. Certainly all of life isn't a vacation and I can't expect to come home and act as if I'm living in a resort villa, but I think I can impose upon myself some of the same expectations for limits here and wide open spaces there.

God is in the margins. 

I'm not logging off  forever. I'll likely be back tomorrow. Because I need to write. I need to take  pictures. I need to put it all together and make sense of it for myself. And for some reason, I'm am compelled to share it with you. Gosh, I'm grateful you pause with me. And I do hope that this little corner of my world can be a quiet respite for you. Because really, I'm all about the quiet. 

 

 

 

An Old Favorite in a Brand New Place

I'm pleased to be visiting at Suscipio today. Suscipio is  new website founded for the encouragement of Catholic women. The contributors write:

 

We are single, married, mothers, grandmothers… We strive to make God the Father the habitual guide and help of our lives because we know, with Him we can do all things.  We offer a place of comfort and rest for those whom we love. We also need the support and encouragement of our sisters in Christ. Our souls are tender, our hearts thoughtful and some days we just need a place to go and know we are accepted “as is”…Suscipio, Latin for: to raise up, maintain, support, accept, receive.

You are in the right place…stay awhile.

It surely is a beautiful place and the invitation to stay is gracious and welcome. They've chosen an old favorite from my archives today. Do come by and visit us there. And stay awhile:-).

 

Beautiful Joy: for you

 

Today's post is the gift of Hallie Lord, also known as the beloved Betty Beguiles, and author of the soon-to-be-released Style, Sex, and Substance. I'm so pleased to have Hallie grace this space and I'm glad you'll get to consider what she's got to say this morning. As Disney Magic would have it, today's my birthday. After I have lunch with princesses (four of whom share a home with me), I think I'll find a little something pretty in Downtown Disney...

~~~~~

Over the past couple of years I’ve spent a lot of time reflecting upon and writing about the importance of self-care. Far too often I see good, faithful women neglecting themselves for fear of vanity or self-indulgence--a fear that is understandable given the state of our culture. It seemed to me that what had been lost was an appreciation for the value of putting our best foot forward for the sake of effective Christian witness, for nurturing the sexual-love aspect of our marriages, and for showing our children how much we value our vocation.

For a long time something nagged at me, though. It’s not that I disagreed with what I was advocating for, but a quiet voice suggested that maybe I’d missed something. Maybe the list was not complete.

And, indeed, I had. And it wasn’t.

I’d considered husbands and children and the world at large but I’d forgotten about you. And I’d forgotten about me.

Somewhere amid my list of reasons to polish, primp, and pamper should have been an encouragement to do these things simply for pleasure’s sake.

I don’t mind admitting that I’m a girlie girl through and through. During the more chaotic phases of life, though, even I start to view self-care (of the physical variety) as just one more item to cross of the to-do list as quickly as possible. Gone is the pleasure I usually find in painting my nails, doing my hair, and picking out the perfect shade of lipstick. Who has the time or energy for such indulgences?

I was reminded of just how much joy there is to be found in these things as I watched my three sweet small girls celebrate Christmas. I was struck by the glee with which they sought out their most beautiful dresses for Mass on Christmas Eve, the quiet delight they found in brushing one another’s hair with the new hairbrushes that they found tucked into their stockings, and the long hot bubble baths they insisted upon on Christmas afternoon.

My daughters aren’t yet old enough to recognize that there might be value in doing any of these things for the benefit of others; they do them simply because they realize that which is easy for us busy Moms to forget: God created them (and us) for joy and the enjoyment of simple pleasures is their (and our) right.

Pain and suffering are our constant companions in this fallen world. They are companions that are rich in value and should never be considered worthless. But so, too, is joy. I forget that sometimes amid the seemingly endless responsibilities that come with young motherhood.

As I watched my girls innocently savor their loveliness and delight in their baubles and baths, I was reminded once again that I must “change and become like the little children.” In spite of all suffering--and sometimes because of all suffering--there is joy. It comes in a million varieties and will manifest itself differently for everyone but, always, there is joy. We need only accept it.

If never occurs to young children that they should reject simple pleasures in favor of toil. Though hard work and discipline have their place, we adults can learn something from the young who never agonize over whether it’s prudent for them to rest and play. They play because God calls them to play. It’s as simple and as perfect as that.

It was an innocent mistake, but as I watched my daughter’s frolic on Christmas Day it dawned on me that my recent lack of appreciation for these simple pleasures was ultimately a rejection of God’s love for me. The only reason I have ever found any joy whatsoever in the things I do with is because He desired that I should and offered them to me as a gift of love. With the new year dawning, I am resolving to surrender more fully. When God calls me to work, I will work. And when he calls me to play, I will play--without any of the guilt or distraction that has inhibited me in the past from fully savoring His many gifts.

 

 

Love Languages of Advent

This year, things are a little different.

For many years, since the advent of the epic Advent unit, about 15 years or so ago, Advent has been pretty much the same--lots of traditions, done year after year. We have added a few new ones, winnowed some ones that don't work, but mostly, things have stayed the same. This year, life has called for shaking things up a bit.

Last year, during Advent, I did the usual thing: I baked and I made candy and every feast, it seemed, had some sort of food attached. This is  (was?) for me, as old as life itself. I come from a long line of Italian cooks who will tell you that food is a love language. I love to cook and bake; I'm good at improv and creativity in the kitchen.

But last year, words from another place came ringing into my head.  I remembered an old friend telling me how hard it was for her to even plan meals for her family because she saw food as an enemy. It wasn't her imagination: food--certain (many) types of food--was making her sick. I remembered those words, because Advent made me sick last year. 

Sugar, dairy, wheat--they make me sick and even though I try to deny it and I try to offer those long-loved food experiences for my children, I have to admit, they're really better off with fewer cookies and candy and pasta and cannolis if that means  a healthy mom by Christmas Eve. I can't have even a little bit and lots of little bits over the course of a month are downright dangerous.So, this year things are a little different. The old familiar box of books has come up from the basement just as it always does. I think about the things we've done with these books and resolve that we're going to put most of the food-related ones aside this year. Instead, we'll just love the stories. Creating with food isn't happening here.

This year, my older children are needing my attention in ways I didn't anticipate. I am torn between creating a brand new set of poinsettia fairies with my littllest girls, because I want them to have everything the others had, and acknowledging that what I really want and need is to create anew. 

This year, I have come to face to face with the fact that the best Christmas gift I ever received is  feeling acutely the pangs of being the youngest boy, as his brothers move up and away, and everything that was dear and familiar seems to be threatened. I see in that still-round face that moments of little boy in this home are very few indeed. I see that he misses his dad, who is traveling both for work and with the big boy. I see that he needs me to figure a way to make these moments, right now in this crushingly busy season, matter for him.

I don't even want to bake this year, so tired am I of fighting with food. I'm not very inspired with old, familiar crafts. But I am compelled to create with my hands. And I am seeking peace and order in a world that seems suddenly chaotic to me. So is Nicholas.

I promised Nicholas in September that we would take a quilting class together. I knew that it was an act of craziness for me to assent to making two quilts--our first two ever--during November and December. But when Deborah made me an offer I couldn't refuse, I told Nick he'd have a handmade quilt, sewn by him, by the first day of winter, which just happens to be his birthday. I planned for him to make a simple patchwork quilt and for me to make the sampler quilt for the class. From the first moment of the first word of the first page of her book, Deborah has almost magically inspired self-confidence in me. Crazy as it was, I made that promise to my boy. My last little boy.

I tried to tell myself that there would be mellow, firelit afternoons of sewing with my children while someone read picture books nearby. Truth be told, there has been some of that. There have also been hours of Sarah and Karoline taking full advantage of the nativity sets in the room that became The Quilt Room to reenact The Nativity for us again and again and again. There has been a full teaching of a "Twelve Days of Christmas" dance (cousins beware; it's coming your way on Christmas Day). There have been lots of chatter and not a few math and design lessons as we watched tutorials and learned together.

In the interest of full disclosure, there have been a broken seam ripper and far too many coins added to the cuss jar (by me).  There has been a perpetual mess while I neglected routine household things and instead cut fabric and thread into tiny bits to be scattered throughout the house. Several times, I'd cut or sew and Mary Beth would sit there with me, taking dictation while I made lists of all the other things I have to do. And quite a bit of online shopping has been accomplished while I wait for the iron to heat.There have been a few tears. And once, I literally reached up and pulled my hair out. We've worked through this process together. I kept my promise. Because promises are important.

My quilt is nearly pieced--all it needs is a border. The fabric arrived yesterday. I've learned enough in that process to dedicate another post to my quilt. Maybe I'll write about it after Christmas. Maybe I'll finish it after Christmas. It's the children's quilt I'm thinking of today.

The children's quilt is finished. And I'm very glad I put theirs first. It was a happy scene to see them all kneeling on that quilt, pin-basting it together. It was amazing to see even Karoline take a turn quilting it, and to see Nicholas allow his sisters a part in the making of his quilt. It was very good to do this project together, even though I was beginning to feel like it was consuming our days and keeping us from the peaceful pursuit of calm. In the end, that quilt has stitched us a together a little bit.

There are some big things happening in our house this month, things that change lives and things that cause happy stress, but stress nonetheless. I have been drawn out of this house way more than I've liked--to three-times-a-week therapy sessions for my elbows, to office parties, to college visits, to all sorts of big kid tasks. And I've missed my little ones, worried about my baby (who isn't a baby at all) and fretted over the little boy who seems to have been left behind as his heroes conquer the world. We haven't been baking and we haven't made candy and really, it hasn't been feeling quite like Advent for me. When I'm home, I'm sewing and I'm sewing in their midst and often with them. But I've been gone. A lot. 

Yesterday, I was on my way home from doctor and grocery store, dropping kids off before leaving again. I was talking with Colleen in the van, sitting in my driveway. I cannot talk on the phone in the house because I can't hold the phone. My elbows won't allow me that motion. The new van has a hands-free option, so the only time I talk on the phone is when I'm in the van without children. Not very often;-). Mary Beth came running out to the van and told me to come inside right away. She was insistent.

Sarah had spent the morning cranky and miserable, up way too late the previous night because I'd been with Mike at an office party. Everyone paid for her fatigue the next day.  Nicholas, trying to comfort her, had gathered Katie and Sarah and a book under his quilt. He read and read and read. And then, Sarah fell asleep, wrapped in the quilt. That was what Mary Beth wanted me to see: Sarah asleep on a handmade quilt while Nicky read The Christmas Miracle of Jonathon Toomey. I don't have a picture of her asleep. Mary Beth thought to take one earlier, but at the book's end, she and I just stood and watched them until the story sighed happily ever after. These sweet little girls at the end of the line; I worry sometimes that they are not getting the energy and enthusiasm and undivided attention that a young mom would bring. But there they were, with one of the most beloved of our family books, listening to my littlest boy--their big brother--read a version my eldest received for his First Communion, an Advent 17 years ago...

...all snuggled beneath our newest Advent tradition--a quilt they made together.