My Granddaughter

Last summer seems a lifetime ago!

In September, on the feast of St. Pio, my granddaughter, Vivian Marie, was born. When we realized that she was alive and was going to live, at least for a time, there was such joy in the crowded birthing suite! Two sets of grandparents, two aunts, an uncle, cousins, and dear friends celebrated her birth with her parents and brother. Prayers had been answered and the glory of God was visible.

You see, Vivian Marie had a condition called anencephaly, in which part of her brain and skull did not form. Her chances of surviving birth were a little less than 50:50. But survive she did, and we were graced with 15 hours of miraculous life. I don't think it's hyperbole to say that her 15 hours with us changed our lives. Her parents gave their fiat to God, and agreed to accept whatever time God would give them with little Vivian. What's more, they did so with love and a desire to honor her life, however short it might be. I could not help but think of our Blessed Mother as I watched my daughter-in-law labor for hours, knowing all too well that she would be giving the life of her daughter to God, much as Mary gave Jesus to the Father.

Vivian Marie is our little lamb, my son and daughter-in-law's, my husband's and mine, all of us who loved and love her still. Certainly we, and hundreds of people on prayer chains far and wide, were praying for a miracle, were praying for Vivian Marie to be born intact, whole, and healthy. God had other plans. We who love her suffer, and yet we are called to unite our sorrow with that of our Lord in His Passion. "Not my will, but Thine," said Jesus to His Father.

I pray that God will do wondrous things with our suffering, with my daughter-in-law's and son's acceptance of theirs and Vivian's cross. My mother used to tell me that God loves more those to whom He gives greater sufferings. (She probably learned that from St. Terese of the Child Jesus.) Experiencing Vivian Marie's birth, brief life, and death has shown me a reason why. It is because He is thereby allowing us a fuller participation in His Passion, and therefore in His Life. That is indeed a great gift.

I give thanks for Kyle and Genece and Jonathan. I marvel at their love that was incarnate in Vivian Marie and shown to all through their actions, as they carefully honored her life and cherish her memory. God gave the Virgin Mary (and all of us) the joy of the Resurrection. I cannot but hope that He will--even in this valley of tears--give Kyle, Genece, and Jonathan a resurrected joy, a healing of their brokenness, and a peace which surpasses all understanding.

A Manual Man

That's who I'm married to-- a guy who knows how to troubleshoot, reads the manuals that make my eyes glaze over, and, solves problems! Woo-hoo!

The latest, or should I say "la test" began with my asking if the old (and I mean really old) surge protector that I found in the basement and used for my computer in our bedroom was still good, and how would we know. Krazyglue said he'd check it out. His first discovery: that the surge protector has a red and a green light, but only the red one was lit. So he looks for a brand name in order to research it online. I call out that it's probably by a company that no longer exists. Don't know why I was so pessimistic. He found the site and quickly found the explanation for the lights. If the green one doesn't light up, then that outlet has no functional ground and the surge protector is rendered useless.

Next, Krazyglue checks on the other outlets in the bedroom, and guess what? None of them seems to have a working ground. Yikes! A nearby lightning strike about 6 or 7 years ago fried the phone and answering machine that was in our bedroom. Was the damage from that strike? So being the systematic guy he is, Krazyglue begins checking out most of the rest of the outlets in the house. Green light comes on for all. All except those in our room.

Now we have a most peculiar design in our bedrooms. All the rooms come with a light switch by the door, but there are no overhead lights. Instead, the light switch operates the upper plug of the outlet nearest to the wall switch. Not the outlet across the room, so that you could plug a light in across the way and not have to stumble at night to turn it on. Noooo. No, the clods who did the electrical on our house put those little wall switches in I guess to save us from reaching 6 inches further to turn on a lamp plugged in adjacent to the wall switch.

Krazyglue decides to look first at the outlet where we had plugged in our zapped answering machine. It looked normal. Next he took out the wall switch that operates the upper half of that outlet. It did not have any neutral or ground, but he later determined that that was normal. He consulted a handyman friend who gave him some other things to check, as well as with his dad, an electrical engineer, who told him to look for an outlet that was wired in reverse. He pulled out more outlets in the bedroom. They were all fine. It was then that he noticed that the small dorm room fridge we have to keep insulin in was running. Wait a minute! All the outlets were supposedly on the same circuit! So he finds the breaker for that outlet, turns it off, and pulls that outlet out. Bingo! It was wired wrong. He corrected the problem, but really, would that fix the lack of grounding in the other outlets?

It did! Which is truly strange, seeing as it was on another circuit. Not only that, but our bedroom outlets were on the same circuit as outlets in other rooms, and all of those had functional grounds. Now our bedroom ones do, too. The computer is once again plugged into the old, old surge protector, and now the green light comes on. We're so glad that this problem was discovered--the lack of grounding in our bedroom outlets! And the credit for that goes to Krazyglue who immediately went to look for an online manual to learn about the surge protector.

Now we wonder, did we lose our phone and answering machine those many years ago because the ground in the outlet wasn't working? And why is that lone outlet in our room not on the same circuit as our other outlets, but instead shares a GFI (ground fault interrupter) with the bathroom, kitchen, and basement outlets? Very strange indeed! And how is it that the GFI has been working with that outlet being wired incorrectly? It's almost enough to make me want to study electrical wiring. Almost. Maybe I'll get Krazyglue another manual for Christmas.

Merry Christmas!

Wow, I didn't realize that I hadn't wished you all a merry and blessed Christmas! Well, it is still Christmas, for which I'm very grateful. I love that our Church gives us not just a day, but a season for our celebration. It will come to a close with the feast of the Baptism of Our Lord, which this year falls on January 11th. Our parish will keep its decorations up until the 12th, as will we. It truly is a gift to be able to feast -- both spiritually and temporally -- for all these days!

What You Won't Read in the Average Newspaper

I was perusing Elizabeth Foss's blog, In the Heart of My Home, and came across two links here, and here, to information that needs wider dissemination. The first deals with the predicted effects of Obama's economic proposals, and the second is a pro-life speech given by Governor Palin in Johnstown, PA.

We need a new motto...

They say "Cleanliness is next to Godliness," but right now, I wish the saying so well known was something like, "Modesty is next to sanctity"! A good friend -- a mother of a houseful of boys like myself who doesn't have time to read blogs, let alone write one -- laments that even the homeschool girls wear tight jeans and shorts, and it is driving her teen sons to distraction. "What are the mothers and fathers of those daughters thinking?!"

Indeed! Even though there are books about dressing with dignity, it seems that many a family is oblivious to what their daughters are to the young men they're around: near occasions of sin! Yep, you read that right! Her son was miserable the day after a teen picnic because he'd fallen. His raging hormones and virile body got the better of him. His dad was sympathetic, but had no answers, since one would just about have to give up socializing to avoid girls whose clothing is skin-tight, revealing, and/or provocative.

Now, maybe it's that the moms of teen girls don't realize that boys, too, have raging hormones. Maybe the dads don't want to admit that their daughters look sexy. Or maybe it's that families are getting so much exposure to our culture, that their sensitivity to the issue has been dulled. Perhaps the lack of suitable clothing has them stymied for a solution.

sigh But we can't give up! We can't just tell young men who want to be chaste, "Oh well." Yes, when they are grown men, they likely will have to learn to deal with immodest dress, even if they become priests! But we're talking about guys at a time in their lives when their bodies are in hyper-drive. If you've read any Theology of the Body, you know that patterns are being set in these years, too.

My eldest son has been very blessed: he decided while in college that it'd be neat to be able to say when he was married that he'd only kissed his wife. God gave him that grace! His brothers know this story, and I suspect some of them are hoping for the same grace. So it's not like I have sons who are running with the popular culture. Yet I have heard them, too, mention wishing that girls would not be dressed so immodestly. It is hard enough to keep one's ideals and live virtuously, without having the girls whose company you so enjoy torment you. Even unintentionally.

Read that again: Torment. In a previous life I spent time as a nurse on an adolecent unit. Teen boys are going to respond physically to your daughters if those girls' clothing hugs their new curves and draws the eye below the hipline. Oh, of course, most well-bred Catholic homeschooled boys will hide those responses. Most probably won't even reveal how they feel to their dads as did my friend's son. But don't kid yourself; young men are being stimulated by immodest dress, no matter how much they wish they weren't! No matter how much denial there is on the part of moms and dads, daughters and sons.

Do you really want your daughter to be a near occasion of sin?

The Monastic, Domestic Life, Part 2

What brought my attention to the article by Rev. Rolheiser was the following which was posted to my local homeschool group's email list:

What is a monastery? A monastery is not so much a place set apart for monks and nuns as it is a place set apart (period). It is also a place to learn the value of powerlessness and a place to learn that time is not ours, but God's.

Our home and our duties can, just like a monastery, teach us those things. For example, the mother who stays home with small children experiences a very real withdrawal from the world. Her existence is definitely monastic. Her tasks and preoccupations remove her from the centers of power and social importance. And she feels it.

Moreover, the demands of young children also provide her with what St. Bernard, one of the great architects of monasticism, called the "monastic bell". All monasteries have a bell. Bernard, in writing his rules for monasticism told his monks that whenever the monastic bell rang they were to drop whatever they were doing and go
immediately to the particular activity (prayer, meals, work, study, sleep) to which the bell was summoning them. He was adamant that they respond immediately, stating that if they were writing a letter they were to stop in mid-sentence when the bell rang. The idea in his mind was that when the bell called, it called you to the next task and you were to respond immediately, not because you want to, but because it's time, it's God's time. For him, the monastic bell was intended as a discipline to stretch the heart by always taking you beyond your own agenda to God's agenda.

Hence, a mother rearing children, perhaps in a more privileged way even than a professional contemplative is forced, almost against her will, to constantly stretch her heart. For years, while rearing children, her time is never her own, her own needs have to be kept in second place and every time she turns around a hand is reaching out and demanding something. She hears the monastic bell many times during the day and she has to drop things in mid-sentence and respond, not because she wants to, but because it's time for that activity and time isn't her time, but God's time.

This was apparently taken from an article in the Seattle archdiocese's newspaper, The Catholic Northwest Progress. Not wanting to post the material secondhand so-to-speak, I went to their website, but its search function wasn't operational. So I Googled and found the link I gave in my previous post to another article of Rev. Rolheiser's on the same theme. However, upon more reflection, I decided to post this quote, because I think it more directly addresses our lives as homeschooling mothers.

A second reason I decided to post this quote was reading Flying Stars this evening. Nancy C. Brown talks about accepting life's interruptions cheerfully! Note to self: I'm to live a monastic life, not a moanstic one!

The Monastic Domestic Life

About 12 years ago Kimberly Hahn spoke in Des Moines, Iowa. She related a story about holding the baby while trying to cook dinner with a toddler clinging to her legs and how she thought of the cloistered nuns going into prayer about this hour and said to God, "Wrong vocation, Lord! Wrong vocation!" She was kidding, of course. But we moms do have our moments!

So it was with great interest that I read this about how our lives as mothers at home can be truly monastic.

Happy Lent!

Rudy's Daughter, Too

March 1st. I still remember the snow on the ground, lawns buried in icy whiteness, and sidewalks that were navigated with peril. I remember awakening at 6 that Thursday morning to sounds in the living room: my mom sitting on the davenport in her nightgown and robe sobbing, two police officers standing there--strangers let in on an intimate moment, witness to the pain. My 17 year old brother was there, too, and as he saw me amble in he grimaced as if to say, "You don't want to come in here! Go back to bed!"

I saw my brother's look and ran right past him to my mom. Ignoring the policemen I asked her what was wrong. "I'll tell you later," she said through her tears. But I was persistent, and she too weak to fight me. "Your father's dead," she said at last.

What does that mean to a 7 year old? "Your father's dead." It would not be until later that evening that it would sink in, that my mind would finally try to grasp the meaning of the words. And then it felt as if I would die, too. "Never coming home" was too big a reality to take in, and as I contemplated exactly what that meant, that I would never see my daddy again, I became hysterical with grief, feeling that my very heart was being pierced and I could not survive.

Over the next few years I would have moments again of that unbearable grief. I was a latch-key kid of a single mom and my brother had moved away, so alone at home I would pray to God to please let it all be a mistake and please let my daddy come walking through the door. I would remember his last words to me, and remember how he sounded, and what it was like to climb into his lap. I had been his princess.

Then the memories of his person faded and one day I realized that I could no longer recollect in my mind what his voice sounded like. A new loss, to not be able to recall that sense of him alive, but with it I gave up wishing for his return. Eventually the overwhelming sorrow subsided.

I determined to be strong in life and did not grieve again for many years. I've often been told that I think like a guy, that is, I'm analytical, methodical, a problem-solver. It took me many years to ever let myself be vulnerable, especially to love. Still, I was extremely rational and fought off feelings of sadness, dismissing the loss as being "a long time ago."

A freedom of middle age has been to learn to honor my memories. No longer do they threaten anguish against which I must defend myself. No longer do I listen to my internalized elders--or others--telling me not to weep, not to feel the sadness. No, today I allow my tears. No little girl should have to lose her father, although many of us do. No little girl should have to grow up so fast, although I did. In many ways, I became the father I didn't have. But on this day, on March 1st, I let myself be the daughter again, the daughter mourning the loss of her daddy.

What Kind of Bright Idea is This, Anyway?

In December Congress passed an energy bill which bans the incandescent light bulb as an energy savings measure beginning in 2012. Right off the bat, maybe this doesn't sound like a bad idea. But then you learn that the new compact fluorescent bulbs (CFL's) contain mercury. Say what?! And there are special procedures to follow in case of breakage!

I don't know about your household, but in ours, light bulb breaks happen several times a year. Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that I have 4 boys still living at home. Just a couple of weeks ago Stand-Up was doing just that, I mean, standing up, when he somehow managed to knock the lamp on the end table to the floor. He turned on the light to see if it still worked and there was a mini-explosion. A closer examination of the bulb revealed a small hole at its base. And he was just standing up! Not horsing around, or anything. (Can you say rapid growth spurt--as in, doesn't know what size he is anymore?!)

So I'm reading about these new bulbs we're all going to be forced to buy, and several things give me great pause. First, when there is breakage, guess what they recommend? Open your windows to ventilate the house! You know, statistically at least of quarter of the breaks in our home are likely to occur when the outside temperature is below freezing. Exactly how are we going to conserve energy opening our windows in sub-freezing temps? To prevent problems they say to use a drop cloth when changing light bulbs! Excuse me, but we don't break light bulbs while changing them. We break them from dropping them while putting them away, from scrutinizing them in curiosity, not to mention the number one way, by knocking down lamps!! So now I'll not just have the broken glass to worry about, but mercury contamination as well!

Then there's this little gem: CFL's burn out sooner if they are turned on and off a lot, so the Energy Star people recommend leaving them on at least 15 minutes at a time! I have worked very hard to train my kids to turn off lights when they leave a room. Now I'm supposed to tell them leave them on? And are we really going to save energy if we leave all our lights on all the time? Because there's no way we're going to be able to keep track of how long a given light has been on so as to turn it off after 15 minutes.

I think this law must have been written without regard for homeschooling families who are home all day. And without regard to families that have kids! I'll be contacting my congressional representatives soon to demand that they revisit this part of the energy bill, because replacing the incandescent light bulb with mercury-containing fluorescents is just plain stupid!

Who Needs a Curriculum?

So today Pretzel asks me, "Why does the apostle Philip have a Macedonian name? Did Alexander the Great conquer the Holy Land or something? He was Jewish, not Greek, right?"

Which left me saying, "Ummm, let's read up on that!" And we started pulling books off the shelves to see what we could learn about Alexander the Great, when he lived and what lands he conquered. But we never found more info on Philip other than what we already knew from Scripture. It made me wish I was on a first name basis with Anne and Warren Carroll and could just pick up the phone, call them, and ask, "What can you tell me about the apostle Philip?"

Oh, we did learn that Alexander the Great's father was named Philip!

Feast of St. Apollonia, Patron Saint of Teeth

Quite a number of years ago, I overheard our 3rd son talking to his sibs after he found 50 cents under his pillow. "There can't be a tooth fairy," he told them. "This must have been left by the patron saint of teeth. I don't know who that is, but there must be one!" Ahhh, the faith of children!

That led Krazyglue to search out a patron saint of teeth.
He settled upon St. Apollonia, a third century saint whose teeth were knocked out in an attempt to dissuade her of her Christian Faith. She was already invoked by those suffering from toothaches and dental diseases. Thus she became the one for whom the kids would leave their teeth, always reflecting on her sacrifice: "She gave her teeth for Christ."

Today is her feast day. You can read about her here or in this book.

The Homeschool Mom Vocation

I often look at how God the Father treats me for guidance in parenting my kids. For example, when I need to refresh my resolve not to nag them, or I'm tempted to belabor some recent failing on their part, I try to recall the story of the Prodigal Son. The father in that story did not harangue his son over blowing his inheritance; the son felt remorse enough without dad heaping on the guilt.

Today after Mass I was reflecting on the Church as the bride of Christ. Christ and His Church are a model for husband and wife. And the Church teaches. Then it hit me: The bride teaches! She is responsible for forming her children, the body. And I, my husband's bride, am responsible for teaching our children. But just as the Church is under the lordship of Jesus Christ, I, too, must teach under my husband's authority, in union with him. He is as important to our homeschool as Christ is to the Church!

I think this is fodder for further reflection.

To Share, or Not to Share, and Here is a Question

How often have those of you who homeschool had someone say, "Oh I could never do that!"? And you mutter some polite reply, down-playing that you have any innate talent at work. Maybe you wanted to shout, "Yes you could!" but kept the words inside lest you make the other person uncomfortable. For you know, when people make such disclaimers, they aren't saying homeschooling is bad; often they see it as a truly wonderful thing, but they justify not looking into it further with the belief that they could never manage. I confess, on more than one occasion I wanted to reply, "No, you probably couldn't homeschool if you still expect to keep your house just so, and if you aren't prepared to give up life as you know it." I'd go on, "Homeschooling is very worth it, of course!"

Similarly, I have lost count of how often someone has said to me, "I'd love to have a big family, but I just know that I couldn't manage more than my one [or two]." "It's grace," I usually reply. But I think that one reason people ooh and ahh over meeting someone homeschooling a large family is that they think I'm doing it and still managing to keep a beautiful house, or that I'm so well-organized that keeping track of everything is a piece of cake. Far from it, on both counts!

When my children were younger and I was new to homeschooling, I thought that it was important to be aware of the impression we gave to others because it reflected on homeschoolers and/or large families in general. And so when we'd dine out from time to time, we were careful to leave good tips, lest we leave a bad impression. Having the kids be nicely dressed and groomed we thought reflected well on our vocation. Speaking positively about my kids, besides being good for them, was also thought wise lest people be put off by the difficulties involved in our choice.

Now I can see another side to the question. I can see that sometimes being picture perfect (not that we ever ever were!) could reinforce for someone that they aren't suited to lots of kids or homeschooling, because they know they'd have a hard time keeping up. It can be a disservice to our fellow homeschool moms by putting pressure on them to be high achievers. If CD can keep house and home and educate her children all the while sewing all her family's clothes and being a gourmet cook, why can't I? I know moms who think something is wrong with them because they can't do it all, and they feel that they should be able to.

Some friends popped by my house one day to take the kids and me to the park for a surprise party. When one of the moms, a mother of 8 boys, saw my house, she exclaimed, "Oh your house makes me feel so good! It's like mine!" Which was to say a bit of a mess. But these moms had planned around that, and rather than risk embarrassing me by having everyone show up at my house to surprise me, they had the party at a park. I was loved for me, messy house and all, and not because I performed all of my duties well all of the time.

So I want to throw out this question: Is it more important to create a good impression and protect the image of the large, homeschooling family, or to give another permission to be human by sharing our own human imperfections with them? What do you think?

A Close Call

I was editing my profile last night when I heard a terrible tumble from the stairs. Mr. Encyclopedia had fallen down a dozen oak steps! I found him laying on the tile floor perpendicular to the stairs screaming he needed ice. Where to put the cold pack? There were too many places hurting! When asked what happened and how did he fall, he said his feet had slipped forward out into the air and he bumped his way down the stairs hitting every step with with the back of his head. Thank God he was conscious and could move his hands and wiggle his toes! After the initial yell for ice, he was remarkably calm. But he was in tremendous pain from his head down his back. Krazyglue and I debated about taking him to Children's Hospital ourselves vs. calling for an ambulance. Mr. E started shivering and clutched at his stomach; we feared shock. Krazyglue carefully elevated his feet and covered him with a blanket. I dialed 911.

As I held his hand while we waited for the rescue squad, Mr. E remarked, "First Aid Class was right: when someone gets hurt, it does help to have your loved ones nearby," and smiled at me with his eyes. Pretzel and his sister, LM, knelt in the family room praying for their brother.

Mr. E was was blocking the front door but trying to move his torso in the slightest brought shooting pains. So Krazyglue had to open the garage for the paramedics to enter through our laundry room. We both sent a quick internal plea to the Heavens that they'd be able to make it through the narrow path to the door with their equipment. The back board they brought was surpisingly narrow (thank You, Jesus!) and they managed just fine. Once they'd secured Mr. E to the board, they were able to move him out of the way of the door and the gurney was waiting for him on the front porch. Thankfully, too, Children's Hospital was one of the choices we were given for where to take him, even though it is much farther from our house than at least 3 other hospitals. They let me ride with him to the hospital, albeit in the cab. Krazyglue followed in the family car.

Mr. Encyclopedia went straight to the Trauma Room and the hospital staff was very good with him. In response to the question "What happened to you?" Mr. E replied, "I fell down the stairs in an ugly manner." (Hmm, have I mentioned that this 10 year old is well-read?) The registration process was simple and was carried out in the room. (Why can't it be that simple when we go for blood work or for other less complicated reasons?!) After a neuro assessment, a new neck brace was applied and they gave Mr. E something for pain after which they took him to x-ray for neck and spine films.

Then we waited. My last time in the ER was with D Kid who had broken his wrist. We waited a long time after his x-rays, too, and I found out later it was because the chief resident was discussing with the other docs whether to take him right to surgery to set the fracture. So as the time wore on, I couldn't help but wonder what lay in store for Mr. E. "He doesn't have any fractures," came the good news at last! They had deliberately waited to observe him, so as to decide whether he ought to go home in the neck brace. He'd responded well to the pain medicine, so they said he didn't need to wear the collar. During our wait time, I'd found a big bump to the left of midline on the back of his head. They checked that out, and decided not to treat, but to send us home with the protocol for head injury. It seemed answered prayer that Mr. E had little pain except for that head bump.

Today he looks pale and has a headache. We figured out after we got home last night that because he'd been holding the railing with his right hand when he first slipped, the initial impact had been to the left side of his head and back. So today he's got some swelling on his upper left back and he's hurting a bit. I've called our pediatrician to see if the spine x-rays showed his rib cage just to be sure he hasn't cracked a rib. All in all, we are very grateful that Mr. E wasn't hurt worse. In our six and a half years in this house, no one has ever fallen on those oak stairs. Now we just have to hope (and pray!) that his head bump heals with no complications.

God certainly has a way of slowing us down (and making us pray!) at Advent! We've skipped today's swim lessons, and I think ice skating tomorrow will be put on hold, too. Just going to hang out at ye olde homestead and enjoy each other's company.