One more confession of a not-so-crafty mom

Sculpey, I think, could convert anyone.

Confessions of a not-so-crafty mom

1. I only recently bought my first glue gun.

2. I didn't know what Perler beads were until a couple of years ago.

3. I used to dread trips to Hobby Lobby.

4. I've been known to count bubble-sculpting in the tub as a craft.

Ramona's against it

Lately, whenever her father and I hug, dance, snuggle up on the couch or generally make our affection for one another known, Ramona Quimby launches a blitz intended to break it up.

"No dancing! No Mommy-and-Daddy time! No more marrying!"

Clearly, she doesn't get it. It's that marrying stuff that got her here. Or, maybe she does get it, and doesn't want any competition showing up.

Add this to the list of reasons I married him

Yesterday, Atticus took all three children out for the day. The whole day. The entire day. As in, "I didn't fix lunch or dinner for anyone and I ate Chinese takeout from the box" kind of day. This is also known as Mommy's Christmas Present.

Now, before I'm accused of being one of those selfish, 21st-Century-Gotta-Take-Care-of-Me-First moms, I want to make it clear that I love being with my children. I do. If I didn't, I wouldn't, couldn't, shouldn't homeschool them. I adore them and I adore being with them. I love them to pieces, distraction, etc. (sorry -- stolen quote from Franny and Zooey, for those of you on the plagiarism watch, which I'm alert to, since Atticus just finished grading term papers ....)

But, I do enjoy -- occasionally need -- revel in, a little bit of time to myself. This was more than just "a little bit" of time to myself, though. This was a positively decadent amount of time to myself during which I:

~ enjoyed a shower without anyone flinging the shower door open to say, "Mom! I played the game she wanted, but now she won't play the game I want!" (This after having passed by their father who's available to settle a squabble but who will always be overlooked because Mom is the first squabble-settler they seek, regardless of whether or not she is standing in the shower with soap all over her face.)

~ was certain I heard footsteps upstairs while I was in the shower

~ spent a short amount of time paralyzed by my choices

~ drank coffee. Lots of coffee. Had some more coffee. And every cup was hot.

~ worked on an article I've been wanting to revise for months

~ talked to a faraway friend on the phone without anyone saying, "What? What? Why did you laugh?"

~ read. Pondered. Read. Prayed.

~ ate Christmas candy and didn't share a bite of it with anyone (which if okay, since they got ridiculous amounts of candy in their stockings)

~ decluttered a part of the family room that had been overtaken by kid stuff that was screaming to be bagged up and thrown out

~played on the computer, surfing further than I usually do, because nothing else was in need of my attention (except the decluttering, the article to revise ....)

~ drank Chocolate Chai (sent by dear, above-mentioned faraway friend) which stayed hot, too

~ worried when my family wasn't home at the expected time, and thought about how my life would come to a screeching, horrifying halt if they'd been in a fatal accident ... my whole life, in one van ....

~ rejoiced when they walked in the door, hugged them incredibly tightly, and told them that I loved them enormously, missed them, and I hoped they'd had as dandy a day as I did. And you know what? They had.

Teacher Man

I finished reading Frank McCourt's Teacher Man last night. It was really enjoyable in a sad, tough, funny sort of way. Before writing Pulitzer prize-winning Angela's Ashes, McCourt taught in New York City schools for 30 years, so he knows whereof he speaks. I'm married to an English teacher, and I could (by proxy) identify with much of what he said about the work: the grading (he actually does the math: 175 students a day x 350-500 words each = a teacher's weekend), the students, the uncertainties, the challenges, the triumphs, the heartbreaking stories and the kids he'll never forget.

As a homeschooler who tends to wander off the beaten curriculum path, his philosophy (or lack of) of education resonated with me. He writes:

"It was clear I was not cut out to be the purposeful kind of teacher who brushed aside all questions, requests, complaints, to get on with the lesson. That would have reminded me of that school in Limerick where the lesson was king and we were nothing. I was already dreaming of a school where teachers were guides and mentors, not taskmasters. I didn't have any particular philosophy of education except that I was uncomfortable with the bureaucrats, the higher-ups, who had escaped classrooms only to turn and bother the occupants of those classrooms, teachers and students. I never wanted to fill out their forms, follow their guidelines, administer their examinations, tolerate their snooping, adjust myself to their programs and courses of study."

It's a compelling book, often depressing, and brutally honest regarding his personal life, failed marriage, complaints about the Catholic Church. And, it's only partly about teaching. It's also the story of how a man spent 30 years figuring out who he was and what he had to say to the world. Then, he went off and said it.

No substitutions, please

While driving home on a foggy night after visiting some family (well, in all fairness, I wasn't actually driving -- Atticus was, and I was sleepily riding) it was confirmed that no one but Frank Sinatra should bother singing "In the Wee Small Hours of the Morning" and no one but Nat King Cole should ever, ever sing "The Christmas Song" and I'm fairly certain that no one other than Niamh Parsons should sing "The Water is Wide."

Something I love about December and something I don't

As Christmas approaches, the whole world (or, at least my whole tiny world in our little town) gets caught up in the preparations. People chatter about decorating trees, baking cookies, giving gifts. The supposed war on Christmas notwithstanding, I hear "Merry Christmas" from many people, store clerks included. Radio stations that normally shy away from Jesus and His pesky ways play songs about the Savior, and on television Linus Van Pelt announces to the whole world what Christmas is all about.

It's as if, for awhile, the world shares one faith. It stirs me to imagine what it would be like to live in a world that truly lived and acted as the Body of Christ, a world that shared one vision and had one goal: to see that Savior that Linus tells us about.

Then, of course, it all comes to an abrupt halt on December 26th (this is the part I don't love ....) While my family and I are celebrating via the liturgical calendar, which tells us that Christmas begins on December 25th, is celebrated for an octave and that the Christmas season marches officially on until the Feast of the Presentation (Feb. 2), while we're belting out Christmas carols this week, celebrating the birth of Jesus in high style, the rest of the world is saying it's over. I'm still saying "Merry Christmas" while others have switched to "Happy New Year." We're counting the Twelve Days of Christmas, looking forward to the Feast of the Epiphany on January 6th in a world that thinks the Twelve Days of Christmas means the final countdown of shopping days before the 25th.

But, we don't let any of that put a damper on our celebrations. Jesus and His birthday are worth days and days of celebration, and He's worth looking like an out-of-sync moron in the eyes of the world. And fortunately, we're raising kids who don't mind being out-of-sync morons (at least not so far) so they happily celebrate right along with us.

And we're all thankful that, at least for a little while, the world cared about what Linus Van Pelt had to say.

Feast of the Holy Innocents

On this day the Church is honoring the innocent children slaughtered at Herod's hand, the martyrs who died for Christ without knowing of Him in this life. For a beautiful commentary, see today's reading at Universalis, a sermon of St Quodvultdeus.

But we, of course, also think of the holy innocents who are killed each day through abortion. St. Quodvultdeus wrote

"You destroy those who are tiny in body because fear is destroying your heart. You imagine that if you accomplish your desire you can prolong your own life, though you are seeking to kill Life himself"

and in these few, powerful words penetrates the core of "the issue." The issue, all too often, is fear. Fear often drives women to abortion: fear of one's own failure, fear of the responsibility of parenthood, fear of financial problems, fear of the father of the baby (do you know how many abortions are coerced? See links such as this article at The Eliot Institute .)

The woman considering abortion imagines that if she "accomplishes her desire" she can "prolong her own life" -- in other words, she believes, as Herod did, that removing the child from the picture will erase the problem. But the child, like Jesus, cannot simply be removed. Jesus is Life Himself. The child in the womb, so intimately connected to his mother (even to a mother who does not want to acknowledge the connection) is a connection to Life Himself. Removing the child does violence not only to the innocent baby's body but to the mother's relationship with Life Himself. She becomes a modern-day Herod, driven by a fear that destroys her heart.

A post-abortive woman, if she doesn't reject the act and repent, will sink deeper and deeper into a defense of it, to the point of irrationality. But, if she turns back to the Lord, He will restore her heart, her life and her connection with Life Himself. There is hope. There is healing. And all the saints in heaven, including the Holy Innocents, are praying for it.

For more on the aftermath of abortion, see The Eliot Institute, Rachel's Vineyard, Hope After Abortion, The National Office of PostAbortion Reconciliation and Healing, and Operation Outcry. Also, for a beautiful shrine dedicated to children who have died unborn, see The Shrine of the Holy Innocents and for a great blog see Emily and Annie's After Abortion.

342 shopping days until St. Nicholas Eve

Though it sounds obsessively organized, it really means I'm chintzy.

I like to hit the after-Christmas sales and put a couple of things away for next December 6th, the feast of St. Nicholas. St. Nicholas gifts at our house are small, but fun. One thing the kids usually get is a Christmas ornament. They have a great collection going for when they (sniff, sniff) grow up and move out. This is also a great time to pick up those Christmas-y socks that I would never spend $3.99 on (I told you I'm chintzy) but that I gleefully purchase for ninety-nine cents.

Small Christmas crafts are on sale now, too. But, I'll have you know (she said defensively) I do not buy the Christmas candy a year in advance.

Feast of St. John, Apostle and Evangelist

I'm sure St. Augustine occasionally said something mundane ("Mother, please pass the salt,") but even the most mundane of his writings speak to me. Today's Liturgy of the Hours readings include Augustine's words on St. John:

"We proclaim to you what we have heard and seen. Make sure that you grasp the meaning of these words. The disciples saw our Lord in the flesh, face to face; they heard the words he spoke, and in turn they proclaimed the message to us. So we also have heard, although we have not seen.

Are we then less favoured than those who both saw and heard? If that were so, why should John add: so that you too may have fellowship with us? They saw, and we have not seen; yet we have fellowship with them, because we and they share the same faith."

Such a simple but profound statement: we share the same faith that the first apostles had. And, if we share the same faith, we have the same responsibility. A sobering, exhilarating thought.

Wake up!

"'Wake up, O man! For your sake God became man' (St. Augustine, 'Sermo,' 185). Wake up, O men and women of the third millennium! At Christmas, the Almighty becomes a child and asks for our help and protection. His way of showing that he is God challenges our way of being human. By knocking at our door, he challenges us and our freedom; he calls us to examine how we understand and live our lives."

The above is from Pope Benedict XVI's Christmas message. Read the full text here.

Prayers needed for this family

Two days before Christmas, Anne was gobsmacked with stomach flu. We were up all night and she was violently ill (as she always gets with such things.) Though I was sad that she couldn't go to Mass, I was grateful that we were dealing with only a passing virus, and I rejoiced on Christmas Eve with each sip of 7-Up that passed her lips.


This family is not so fortunate, nor so relieved. Please pray for their daughter and the seriousness of this situation. (Thanks to Genevieve Kineke for alerting us.)

Ending a lovely Christmas day

with a quote from 3-year-old Ramona:

"I'm all sorts of tired."

'Tis Christ the Lord

Happy Birthday, Jesus!

And a happy, holy and blessed Christmas to all!

I'm so predictable

My husband and I have a holiday tradition. Every year, close to Christmas, we get a babysitter, go out for Chinese food and buy all the last-minute

(WARNING: SANTA SPOILER AHEAD)

stocking stuffers and generally fall in love all over again -- with each other, with our children, and with the magic of Christmas. We talk about how our days went, about my parents and his and holiday travel plans, about how we'll keep the youngest child happy and calm during the long Christmas Eve Mass, and about how we can't believe how drastically our Christmases have changed over the years.

You see, when we married, we didn't want children. Children were nice enough for other people, but not for us. We didn't want the mess, the commitment, the responsibility. We were happy to be "child free" as opposed to "childless."

Then something happened. I became a Christian. Oops. Short-circuit in the selfishness department. I began to long for a child. Soon, Atticus's heart caught up with mine in the procreation department, and we set forth to create a family. After some heartbreaking miscarriages, we had Anne. But only one, Atticus said. One child is enough.

Then I became a Catholic. Oops. Short-circuit in the openness to life department. We had Betsy. Several more heartbreaking miscarriages later, God awarded us with Ramona, and here we are. Falling in love again at Christmas time, and crazy, head-over-heels in love with our children.

And all because of of a child born in Bethlehem two thousand years ago. Had Mary said, "No, thank you, I'd like to remain child-free," I would be childless. There would have been no conversion, no short-circuit, and most certainly, no joy. How does one thank God for that? I always seem to do it in the same old tired way.

I cry.

May you, too, shed some tears of ineffable gratitude this Christmas.

I would never erase her

Ramona just turned to me, a pencil mark on her cheek, and said, "Recently, I crossed myself out."

Fortunately, those myths about pencil lead poisoning aren't true.

I may be a religious fanatic, but at least I'm not woolly

This article really touched me. It's one woman's look at what she and other atheists and agnostics tell their children when the kids ask about God.

She writes:

Sometimes I feel that as far as answering a child's difficult questions about God is concerned, a religious fanatic has it easy. Dangerous, maybe, but woolly his or her answers can never be.

Ah, I'd so much rather be a dangerous Catholic than the woolly atheist I once was. It does make for more cogent answers to those pesky little questions about the meaning of one's life. (I don't mean to belittle her questioning here ... I've been there, and I know how extremely uncomfortable it is to think that there may be an answer out there that you don't want to hear.)

Before I believed in God, I, too, thought the answers to the deity question lay in the murky realm of kindness/tolerance/each-to-his-own. Not that I'm now advocating crusades and stake-burnings, mind you -- I still consider myself a tolerant person, with respect for others' beliefs. I can, with a perfectly straight face, say that one of my dearest and closest friends is not a Christian. I don't merely tolerate her -- I love her. Tolerance is for pain, for long lines, and for driving on snow and ice. People, however, deserve more than tolerance.

The whole idea that we can teach our children to tolerate all points of view and leave them to their own devices to figure out the God thing is objectively illogical and subjectively heartbreaking. I really, really feel for this woman. It's hard enough to not know what you believe about God. But, to have to pass one's unknowingness on to one's children? I was at least spared that. I was childless when I became a Christian (my faith was one of the things that made me realize, finally, marriage has a purpose other than just making me happy.) I had a toddler when I was received into the Catholic Church. So, I've had the benefit of that religious fanaticism since my oldest could talk and ask questions. No woolly answers in this house (unless you count the "What's for dinner?" issue.) I know what I believe, and I delight in passing on the seamless beauty of the Catholic Church to my children. What a feeling -- to know that there are answers to the tough questions, and that I believe those answers because I have pondered them, investigated them, prayed about them, and fallen in love with them.

I remember what it's like to lack that certainty. It's not a fun way to live. Being in a constant state of questioning is exhausting.

The final paragraph of this article

My cousin Emma tells how Gleo begged not to be disillusioned. "She once said: 'Mum, I know that Father Christmas and mermaids don't really exist but please don't tell me anything about the Tooth Fairy?' A few days later she asked me rather sadly, 'Don't you believe in anything, Mum?' and I said, 'Yes, I believe in the potential goodness of human beings.' She looked a bit doubtful.

reminds me of a line from Garrison Keillor. He said something like, "My friend Corinne doesn't believe in God, but there's evidence to show that God believes in her."

I do, too.

Christmas Christians

They're planning their descent into the churches. At Christmas time a lot of unfamiliar faces show up at Mass. They jostle for seats and are a little louder than the regular Mass-goers, and they've forgotten when to stand and when to kneel. Most of us know we'll have to arrive early for Christmas Mass if we want to get "a good seat."

There's a temptation to get annoyed with these people. They only show up at Christmas and Easter ... They probably don't contribute to the parish either financially or in the form of "time and talent" ... They fill up the parking lot, mash their coats and body heat against us in the overcrowded pews, and can be irritating enough that they leave us with the vague, uncomfortable feeling that we need to get to confession even though we just went.

That's the temptation. But we don't have to give in to it. Now that I'm in the fold of the Catholic Church, no longer a stranger and sojourner but a citizen among the saints and not-so-saintly, I give tearful thanks for the gift of my faith, and I pray that at least one of those Christmas Christians will be touched by God this year, touched so deeply that he or she will be moved to venture back to Mass in January. Maybe again in the spring. Maybe on a weekly basis by June. Into the confessional by next September? Back into full communion with our one, holy, Catholic and apostolic Church.

Which one will it be? Is it that sweet woman behind me, the one with whom I'll exchange a sign of peace? The bored teenager sitting in front of us? Will it be the man who scowls as we slide into the pew, forcing him to move down and relinquish his spot on the aisle?

Since I don't know which one it will be, I pray that I will not be a stumbling block to whomever it is. I pray that I will not be the reason they go home and gripe about churchy hypocrites who say they're Christian but don't act like it. I pray that someone, somewhere, on Christmas Eve, will be touched by the Christ Child, and that I will not get in his way.

One of the reasons I married him

My husband made fudge last night. He does the usual yummy-marshmallow-cremey type thing, but he adds his own touch. He shells and crushes a bunch of hazelnuts, and then throws in toffee bits. Then he encourages me to enjoy it and tells me no, of course I don't look fat, and I should just stop worrying about that.

If we weren't already married, I'd ask him to spend the rest of his life with me.

Just in time for Christmas ...

... permission to eat chocolate: see this article about chocolate every day keeping heart disease away. Sadly for me, it's dark chocolate that's beneficial. My craving is usually of the Hershey variety.

The Silence of St. Joseph

Beautiful words from Pope Benedict, on St. Joseph (from Zenit News:)

The Figure of St. Joseph

His Silence Shows "Fullness of Faith"

VATICAN CITY, DEC. 18, 2005 (Zenit.org).- Here is a translation of the address Benedict XVI gave today before reciting the midday Angelus from the window of this study together with thousands of people gathered in St. Peter's Square.

* * *

Dear brothers and sisters!

In these days of Advent, the liturgy invites us to contemplate in a special way the Virgin Mary and St. Joseph, who lived with a unique intensity the time of waiting and preparation for the birth of Jesus. Today I want to direct our gaze toward the figure of St. Joseph. In today's Gospel, St. Luke presents the Virgin Mary as "betrothed to a man named Joseph, of the house of David," (Luke 1:27). Yet, the one who gives the most importance to the adoptive father of Jesus is the Evangelist Matthew, emphasizing that, thanks to him, the Child was legally introduced into the lineage of David, fulfilling the Scriptures, in which the Messiah was prophesized as the "son of David."

But the role of Joseph could not be reduced to this legal aspect. He is the model of a "righteous" man (Matthew 1:19), who in perfect harmony with his spouse welcomes the Son of God made man and watches over his human growth. Hence, in these days the precede Christmas, it is particularly fitting to establish a kind of spiritual dialogue with St. Joseph so that he helps us live to the fullest this mystery of faith.

The beloved Pope John Paul II, who was very devoted to St. Joseph, left us an admirable meditation dedicated to him in the apostolic exhortation "Redemptoris Custos" (Custodian of the Redeemer). Among the many aspects that he emphasized, he dedicates a particular importance to the silence of St. Joseph. His silence is permeated with the contemplation of the mystery of God, in an attitude of total availability to the divine will.

In other words, the silence of St. Joseph does not demonstrate an empty interior, but rather the fullness of faith that he carries in his heart, and that guides each of his thoughts and actions. A silence through which Joseph, together with Mary, guard the Word of God, known through sacred Scripture, comparing it continually to the events of the life of Jesus; a silence interwoven with constant prayer, a prayer of blessing of the Lord, of adoration of his holy will and of boundless confidence in his providence. It is not exaggerated to say that Jesus will learn -- on a human level -- precisely from "father" Joseph this intense interior life, which is the condition of authentic righteousness, the "interior righteousness," which one day he will teach to his disciples (cf. Matthew 5:20).

Let's allow ourselves to be "infected" by the silence of St. Joseph! It is so lacking in this world which is often too noisy, which is not favorable to recollection and listening to the voice of God. In this time of preparation for Christmas, let us cultivate interior recollection so as to receive and keep Jesus in our lives.

[Translation of the original Italian by ZENIT]

[After praying the Angelus, the Pope greeted the pilgrims in various languages. In English he said:]

On this Fourth Sunday of Advent I welcome all the English-speaking pilgrims and visitors present for the Angelus. As the celebration of Our Lord's birth draws near let us join with Mary in prayerful trust, ready to embrace God's will as a sign of hope for our world. During these last days of the holy season of Advent, I invoke upon you and your families God's abundant blessings of joy and peace.

Christmas presents from Ramona Quimby

Ramona wants to give everyone a statue. St. Joseph for Daddy, she says, and Mary for me. St. Therese for Anne and Betsy.

"What about you?" I asked.

"I dunno," she said. "I don't want a statue. They're too breakable. I'll take Zoboomafoo."

Defining homeschoolers

I've been reading up on House Resolution 1815, specifically Section 522, which affects homeschoolers. I'll just refer you to Melissa Wiley's excellent post, which covers all the bases.

As usual, my friends say it better than I do

I've yet to get around to writing a real review of the Narnia movie. In a comment on this post , my friend Liz sums up much of what I would say, both positive and negative. Thanks, Liz.

Poetry, or something like it

Ramona, age three-and-a-half, composed this poem yesterday:

My socks are dirty, but I don't care
My friendship comes along to me
And Jesus is upon me.

If it's not quite Emily Dickinson, I still have to say (and I know I'm biased, so it needn't be pointed out) that it did give me a sort of stop-sensation on my soul. I'll take it.

Did I say only doughnuts?

I failed miserably at avoiding commerce today. It was going to be just those silly doughnuts. But then this morning, the coffee pot broke. So, it was going to be doughnuts and a new coffee pot. That's all. Then, Betsy reminded me that I had not yet gotten her the new boots that I promised her, and Anne with an E already has her boots and couldn't we please, as long as we have to look at coffeepots also just look really quickly at boots? (And yes, she did properly use the adverb there, so what could I say?) So, it was doughnuts and a coffeepot and boots. Sigh.

Seriously, we do try to keep Sunday holy. Normally, it's just those doughnuts, and I try not to buy anything else (but really, I'm already compromising by patronizing a store on a Sunday, so does it matter if I buy only doughnuts or a whole cartload? Which is why I want to cut out the doughnuts. Then there will be no temptation to slide down that slippery food shopping slope.) Then -- normally -- we head home and relax together, have family movie or game time, and my husband or I go to a holy hour. All of those things are lovely ways to keep holy the Sabbath. But coffee pots and boots? I need to work on it.

Fourth Sunday of Advent

And six shopping days until the birth of Christ. (No, I didn't miscount ... today doesn't count as a shopping day because it's Sunday ... I try to shop for nothing more than doughnuts on Sunday, and I'm trying to cut that out, too, which means planning ahead for Ramona Quimby's Mass-behavior bribe -- er, incentive.)

So. Six shopping days. Six days of prayer, penance (okay, not as tough as Lent, but we should be preparing in some way ....) and reflection on what the Incarnation means. Am I ready?

As if we all need more to read ....

But I can't resist sharing this. I've been receiving the CERC Update (from the Catholic Educators Resource Center) for several years, and I certainly don't always have time to read all of the links, but it does a nice job of bringing a wide variety of articles together on a bi-weekly basis.

And isn't it heartening to read something like this?

Here's an article about Hollywood ... one you'll actually enjoy reading, as it's about Christians resuscitating culture through the movies.

I thought Lucy was his goddaughter

Here's a fascinating little article about a woman who is said to be the inspiration for Lucy Pevensie.

Read, cry, give thanks

Thanks to Melissa Wiley for pointing me in the direction of Lauren Mills's touching and beautifully illustrated book, The Rag Coat. I read it to the kids yesterday, cried throughout, and was thankful for this and every other book recommendation I've ever found on the internet.

Rosary for busy moms

I have to admit that I haven't used the Virtual Rosary for quite awhile, but when Ramona was a baby there were times when I sat at the computer, nursing her at 3 a.m. and praying the Rosary with "screen beads" instead of real ones. With each mouse click, you're taken to the next prayer, and there are accompanying pictures and Scriptures for each mystery.

At the bottom of the screen, "PrayerCast" appears -- it's supposed to show you new, live prayer requests with each click, but it doesn't always work on my computer. That probably has more to do with my computer than with the site.

While it's true that the internet can be a cesspool, it can also be used for stuff like this, and isn't that cool?

St. Augustine didn't know he was comforting mothers

but with these words, from today's "Office of Readings" in the Liturgy of the Hours, he reminds us that to "pray without ceasing" doesn't mean that we are always in a posture of prayer or repeatedly reciting an Our Father.

Augustine says:

"If your desire is laid before him then the Father, who sees in secret, will grant it to you. For that very desire of your heart is your prayer; and if your desire continues uninterrupted, then so does your prayer. It was not in vain that the Apostle said, 'Pray without ceasing.' Can we be always bending the knee, prostrating the body, or lifting up our hands, that he says 'Pray without ceasing?' If that is what prayer means then I say that we cannot do it without ceasing.

There is another inward kind of prayer without ceasing, which is the desire of the heart. Whatever activity you happen to be engaged in doing, if you only long for that Sabbath then you do not cease to pray. If you do not want to pause in prayer then never pause in your longing."

It is the constant desire of the heart that becomes our prayer. If we are striving to love at every moment, to be the presence of love to our children, then that's the way in which we, busy moms though we may be, can pray without ceasing. Not that we shouldn't strive for formal prayer time, too, as much as motherhood allows it. I wrote about that in an old essay entitled, "A Mother's Prayer Time." But, formal prayer time isn't always possible and I never follow my own advice about it when I have children under the age of three ... I believe God understands alternatives to formal prayer when one is giving up one's body and regular sleep out of love for another. Those are the times when reminders such as Augustine's are balm for the worrying soul. Are you striving to love God at every moment through the means He's provided -- your children -- to sanctify you? Then you are praying.

Silent, Holy, Geriatric night

The Project:

Initiated by a wonderful local homeschooling mom. Each night of Advent, a different homeschooling family delivers a piece of a Nativity set to an assisted-living residence in our town, presents a short devotion of some kind, sings a Christmas carol, and shares a Scripture reading (on Christmas Eve, baby Jesus will be delivered by the whole group.)

Our Part:

Delivering a cow, presenting the story of "Silent Night" and its composers, singing the carol, eating cookies and visiting with the residents.

My Take:

What a delight! We had such fun conversations with the residents, from glowing approval of our lifestyle, to reluctant-but-sincere admission that the kids "seem to be doing well" (with this insanity called homeschooling), to a snarl that my husband, because he is a high school teacher, is "at least qualified. Some aren't, y'know!" (I later heard that the Snarler had been complaining about homeschoolers all day. Poor woman -- all of Advent will be a trial for her, as a new family shows up each night.)

The residents, of course, delighted in the children. I was proud of my kids (and those of my dear friend whose family joined us) for their part in the presentation and happy that they could give a little of themselves for these grandmas and grandpas.

One woman inspired in me a surge of such compassion and love. She spoke of losing her husband, of living in the residence for four years without him, of being 91 years old and knowing that "the Lord's been good to me." I wanted to cry. I wanted to see my own grandmothers again. I wanted to adopt her as my children's great-grandmother.

The Result:

We gave one short hour of our time. We received so much more than we gave. It was a holy night.

Fire Within

I didn't have a chance to post much yesterday, so I missed mentioning that it was the feast day of St. John of the Cross. I count him, with Teresa of Avila, among my favorite saints. Fr. Thomas Dubay brings both of these saints together in his wonderful book, Fire Within, which is published by Ignatius Press.

Years ago, a friend gave me this book, and I have cherished it since as one of my favorite spiritual reads. It's enlightening, challenging and edifying. If you're looking for something to reignite your prayer life, this is the book.

This is life, we can't replay it

Last night we decorated the tree, and afterward, Betsy exclaimed, "Oh, no! You didn't videotape anything!"

"Hmmm," I said. "I guess we were too busy living our life to record it."

I don't think that's a bad thing.

Not that I don't cherish past videos of the kids oohing and aahing over dearly beloved or until-now-forgotten ornaments, but sometimes it's nice to just go about things, without thinking of how it will end up on tape. I have a love/hate thing with that video camera, and to be perfectly honest, I was glad I forgot all about it last night.

But don't tell Betsy.

Feast of St. Lucia

I didn't sleep much last night, so this will be short and probably misspelled.

Today we will:

~ Have friends over to make Christmas ornaments and gifts

~ Eat chocolate chip cookies with chocolate drizzle on top (of the cookies, not us)

~ Read Melissa Peterson's Hanna's Christmas

~ Read various other Advent books ... I haven't decided yet which ones (this is called "flexible homeschooling")

~ Prepare the craft stuff (there may be a more technical term that escapes me) for Friday's history club meeting (we're covering Sweden so I can double up on some of our St. Lucia stuff -- this is called "smart homeschooling" or "devious homeschooling")

~ Try to nap (it probably won't come off, but homeschooling moms are entitled to a fantasy life)

Today we will not:

~ Do our usual St. Lucia celebration (the girls dress in white-whatever-they-can-find, wear their homemade Lucia crowns and deliver something sweet and delicious to Daddy and me in bed.) We're transferring St. Lucia to the weekend, so Daddy can actually be in bed in the morning to enjoy this, since I didn't want to wake the girls before he left at 6:45 a.m. (this is also part of "flexible homeschooling," which closely resembles "flexible wake-up times" and "flexible living")

~Nap (oh, there's that dratted reality creeping in ....)

The Deep Magic is deeply magical

We saw the Narnia movie today.

Oh. My.

Gosh.

We loved it. This is the movie version of The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe that I've waited a long, long time to see. About twenty years. Of course, a version this good couldn't have happened until now, when computer-generated animals and other special effects made it possible for a movie version to retain the magic, rather than looking like schlock or a 4th grade play.

I have only a few tiny quibbles, and I hesitate to even bring them up, because so much was done so well and felt so right. Maybe I won't bring them up just yet ... I'll sleep on it, and will post a more complete review when I've had time to think.

One quick point that's important to anyone wondering how intense the movie is: the battle scenes are intense, but they are not gory. That was a relief. However, on another level, there are worse things than gore.

Right now, I am chiefly remembering the scene of Aslan's willing sacrifice. It was heart-wrenching, gut-wrenching, as I knew it would be. Anne, Betsy and I clung to each other as it played out. This was the most graphic scene of cruelty and hatred that they've ever seen, and not surprisingly, they couldn't really watch it all. It was so horrible, so unthinkable, so necessary and so tremendously sad. We cried, we sniffled, we held hands and we reminded each other that He would be back.

A year and a half ago, I sat in the same theatre and watched "The Passion of the Christ." "The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe" was my children's version of witnessing the terrible beauty of God being beaten, humiliated and killed for us. It was unspeakably moving to share this with my children. It was its own kind of deep magic.

We need to stay home

You know you've been too busy when your child draws a picture and describes it to you this way:

"It's a little girl who's tired ... see all the bags under her eyes?"

Gaudete Sunday!

Rejoice! We're more than halfway through Advent, and the celebration of the birth of our Lord is fast approaching.

Here's an entry from The Catholic Encyclopedia about "Gaudete Sunday."

And while I'm at it, here's a link to a site I've used several years now for its prayers. The kids take turns saying these Advent prayers each night at dinner as we light the candles on the wreath. (This site is full of other lovely little bits of information, too.)

We're reading "Bartholemew" daily and the kids are enjoying it, just as they've enjoyed Jotham's Journey and Tabitha's Travels. What they enjoy as much or more than the story is the special time with Daddy. He's a fun, funny, wonderful reader and I rejoice in the fact that we're not just educating them on the sly with this kind of reading, but we're creating cherished father/daughter memories.

We're also doing our other Advent calendars: little bits of Dickens' A Christmas Carol daily, and Miss Piggy and Kermit are inching their way toward their ironic gifts to one another (see this link to see what I'm talking about.) We're hanging tiny wooden ornaments on a little wooden tree each day. We're reading Scripture for the Jesse Tree and hanging Jesse ornaments on that tree, too (I use a small, artificial Christmas tree as our Jesse Tree.) And, of course, Joseph and Mary, from the Nativity set, are moving slowly through the house toward the stable. It's a small delight each day to see where the children have decided their journey will take them on their way to Bethlehem ... over the sofa and through the shelves to Bethlehem we go.

Rejoice!

My kids aren't totally gross

We visited our local Children's Museum this weekend, and I'm happy to say that my children, while they enjoyed the "Grossology" exhibit, are still sensitive enough to have said, after a sufficient amount of gross-out time, "Can we go play in the farm area again? We're starting to get stomachaches."

Anne and Betsy enjoyed making the giant nose sneeze, and Ramona loved crawling through the digestive system. An extremely loud simulation of breathing and burping sounds sent Ramona running into my arms, though, and Anne felt some stomach flips at the sight of a large, drippy-nosed character. We aren't completely crude around here ... just enough to have fun. And, besides, if my kids couldn't laugh at this stuff, how would they relate to Daddy and creatures like him?

Sharing the joys of books

We've successfully introduced Ramona to this beautiful book. She asked for it before bedtime last night. The story is simple, but so imaginatively handled, and the illustrations are a lovely combination of beauty and sweetness. To read more about the author, Barbara Helen Berger, and the book, see this site.

One of the things that thrills me in introducing my children to beloved books is not just that they come to love the stories, but that they begin to recognize authors as the unique people who created the unique stories they love. Recently, at the library, three-year-old Ramona was heard to say (upon siting the cover art on a book she hadn't read), "Oh! Look! It's Jim O-nosky!" It was indeed, though not a Jim Arnosky that she'd seen before. I love that.

St. Juan Diego

Catholic Online is such a wonderful resource for learning more about saints. Here's a great entry about St. Juan Diego that includes John Paul the Great's homily during Juan Diego's canonization.

Left of the Dial scores another bullseye

Take a look at this post about Goodnight Moon and the great accompanying piece from The NY Times about altering classics.

Solemnity of the Immaculate Conception of Mary

We went to the vigil Mass last night, and as Mass experiences go, it wasn't one for the memory book.

Our day was packed with activity, but I had allowed enough time for us to sanely prepare for Mass. After all, as I told the children, "Mass is the most important thing we'll do today, so we work everything around that, not the other way around."

And yet, I somehow managed to end up with the family running late. And, because 5:30 is the bewitched hour for three-year-olds, of course Ramona Quimby cried as we left the house and she fell asleep on the way. Sigh. That meant she wouldn't be able to sleep later until about 9:30 or 10 p.m. We walked into the Church just after Mass had begun (something we never do, something I really dislike doing, and something that means we'll end up sitting in the back, which I also dislike.) We slipped into an available space in the back and I do have to at least credit Anne and Betsy with not complaining about the seating (they dislike the back rows, too.)

Ramona slept through most of Mass (meaning her bedtime was getting pushed back to 10:30 or 11....) It was crowded, and I couldn't hear the homily. Betsy kept coughing, and Anne was sniffling and Ramona would wake up only enough to protest that my tired arms were trying to transfer her to Daddy's strong ones.

But you know what? He was still there. I still received Christ -- Body, Blood, Soul and Divinity. No matter how hectic the preparation, no matter how distracted I was, no matter how far back we sat -- He was still there for me. Oh, to be so faithful.

Oh, and one more thing. On the way to Mass, as we prayed the decade of the Rosary that we always pray on the way, I had asked the Blessed Mother's intercession for Ramona (who was still crying at that point) at Mass. Could we get through this with relative peace? I asked. Well, I see now I should be more specific, but I was still grateful for the answer to prayer. Yeah, yeah, she didn't go to bed until almost 11, but she did get through Mass very well. Next time I'll try to itemize my requests.

Is this unhealthy?

I think I'm starting to think in blog entry title-ese.

My husband and kids
... don't understand it.

Just because I'm addicted
... doesn't mean this is bad for me, right?

Waiting for the opening of the wardrobe ....

The kids and I are counting down to the Narnia movie. By all accounts, this is the movie version of my beloved The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe that I've been waiting for. Ignatius Insight has "not quite a movie review" by James Como.

Jolly old St. Nicholas

brought Sculpey! If you and your kids haven't created with Sculpey together, you haven't lived a full life yet. This is my favorite clay. Today we made babies, dolls for the babies, teddy bears, a snake, a hippo (well, three-year-old Ramona Quimby's version of a hippo ....), little pieces of macaroni, a fish, two elephants and a pick-axe (don't ask.)

What a treat! Add chocolate, a St. Nicholas video, and several good books, and you have the recipe for a perfect day.

Christmas specials and bathroom breaks

Cay, at the House of Literature blog, has a fun post about happy childhood memories of watching Christmas specials on TV. I remember that same feeling so well: it was of the utmost importance to be home on the right night, to be finished eating, and to be in front of the TV at promptly 7 p.m. But, as I told Cay, there was one other skill that these TV specials instilled in us that my children, sadly, are lacking: I'm speaking, of course, of the way in which we had to time our bathroom breaks with commercial breaks. And, we had to move at breakneck speed lest we miss something. If we were in danger of that, a sibling would yell, "Hurry! It's BACK!"

My three-year-old, being raised in these video times, is still trying to figure out why the occasional "real" show can't be paused, which reminds me of an old New Yorker cartoon I saw years ago: a man is standing in the rain, changing a flat tire, and yelling at his child, "This is life! We can't change the channel!"

St. Nicholas (and more) in clipart

I've been relying on this fantastic site for free, non-copyrighted Catholic clipart. Time to send a donation, I think. Thank you, Terry!

Seeing St. Nicholas

When I first found The St. Nicholas Center website a few years ago, I printed out this picture for the kids. The main response it elicited was, "That's not fair! They get to see St. Nicholas!" It was also proposed that we should find wooden shoes (we haven't yet.)

This year, youngest daughter, Ramona, said, "St. Nicholas was a priest a long time ago?"

"Yes, he was."

Long, thoughtful pause. "But," she said, "now, in real life, he wears black boots."

Another reason some moms don't allow pets

Because pets bring stuff home. Mr. Putter, the cat, has roundworm, an ear infection and possibly fleas. And he's an indoor cat. How did that happen? He's not supposed to bring anything home ... he's always home. We're supposed to bring stuff to him, like ponytail holders (his favorite toy) and little aquatic-smelling treats.

He's a breathing mound of vet bills (has been since we adopted him) and yet we love him. Because Mr. Putter is lovable. Having animals in the house is a splendid thing. It teaches kids all the usual stuff: responsibility, blah-blah-blah. But more than that, it's just good. It's really good. It's really charming to see a child stop and gaze in wonder at this silly, beautiful creature that God made.

If you read Melissa Wiley's post the other day about glitter in which she quotes a delightful post by Billi-Jean (whom I don't know but, based on this post, like immensely) then you know what I'm talking about. Stuff that is "inherently good."

Mr. Putter is the glitter of cats. He's a mess but we don't ever want to get rid of him.

More fun with St. Nicholas

A few years ago, I stumbled across this wonderful site and have been using its resources ever since. The St. Nicholas Center is loaded with history, information on the origins of St. Nick, and ways in which he is celebrated around the world. It has beautiful illustrations and loads of St. Nick activities for children.

Using this site alone, you could construct a rich unit study about St. Nicholas. Or, you can just have a really fun couple of days with it.

St. Nicholas Eve

I love this day! Tonight we'll read The Miracle of St. Nicholas, by Gloria Whelan, and the kids will await the coming of St. Nick, who leaves small but fun goodies in shoes. (Now, if my husband is just successful in finding those little bags of chocolate coins today ... are they more scarce this year, or have I just been sloppy in my shopping? It just wouldn't be a Karen-kind-of-prep if I didn't forget something until the last minute ....)

The Doll Clothes Superstore

I'm so impressed with the kind woman running this business. If there's a child in your life who needs some doll clothes, check out the Doll Clothes Superstore. I love the beautiful, homemade clothes. I found matching outfits for my girls and their dolls. And she has some really fun stuff, too. Check out this set of hospital scrubs.

And you can not beat her prices.

(And, no, I'm not affiliated with her in any way ... I just like to pass the word when I've found a small business that I can wholeheartedly support.)

What does Miss Piggy have to do with Advent?

Unexpectedly, Miss Piggy became a part of our Advent traditions about 10 years ago. When Eldest daughter was quite young, my mother gave her one of those Advent calendars that has a little book to read each day of the season. It was a secular calendar that had Miss Piggy and Kermit the Frog reliving the O. Henry story, The Gift of the Magi. My daughter delighted in the story and looked forward each year to the daily books, which we would read, then hang on the tree from their decorative little ribbons.

One year, before my husband came into the Church, I worried that I shouldn't include anything secular in our traditions. I was alone in trying to impress upon the kids what the season was really all about, and I was trying hard to be sure that my children were focused on Jesus. Though well-intentioned, I was wrong. That year, at the beginning of Advent, my daughter immediately requested the Muppet Advent Calendar and my heart was immediately softened to the thing. It was, I finally saw clearly, a beautiful way to include my mother (who is not a Christian) in our Advent preparation. She lives far away and we see little enough of her ... wasn't this, in a strange but lovely way, making her part of our focus on Jesus? I let go of any worries about the little secular traditions that we include in Advent. The few that are part of our family history connect us to those in our family who are not yet connected to Jesus.

And, who am I to say that God can't work through a Muppet?

Second Sunday of Advent

“One mightier than I is coming after me.
I am not worthy to stoop and loosen the thongs of his sandals.
I have baptized you with water;
he will baptize you with the Holy Spirit.”

~~ from the Gospel of Mark

Christmas Every Day?

(This essay first appeared several years ago in New Covenant magazine. I so frequently think about the gift of liturgy and a liturgical calendar. I am awed by our wise mother, the Catholic Church, and the seemingly simple, seamless methods she offers to help us grow in our faith and love for God.)

We hear it all around us: “I love this time of year -- people are so generous! Why can’t every day be like Christmas ?”

I asked the same question before I became a Christian. For me, "Christmas time" began right after Thanksgiving, when I started shopping, baking and getting caught up in “the Christmas Spirit.” It held no religious meaning for me, but there was something so attractive about it ... something warm and glowing, something that whispered community and love. Whatever the something was that made people feel so good -- and in my unbelieving days I wanted to think it was nothing more than a good story by Charles Dickens -- I wanted a little piece of it.

After I was baptized, I fell in love with that “something” -- Jesus Christ. I finally knew the Source of all that community and love, and I wanted to share the good news. When people wondered why every day couldn’t be Christmas I said, “It can! Become a Christian!” Jesus was the wellspring of the generosity, the love, the desire to give. He was the very definition of Christmas that I had been missing all those years.

I started to see everything about Christmas in a new way. When the Christmas season ended and people complained of how dull and gray January can be, I thought about how we could carry Christmas into every day of the year, because Jesus is always with us. The things that make Christmas special are the things we are called to do in our daily Christian life: love, give of ourselves, share with the poor, and celebrate our Lord. However, though I tried to keep “that Christmas spirit” every day, I instinctively knew that real life wasn’t like that. “All good things must come to an end,” and so it seemed with the joys of the Christmas season.

Five years after my baptism, I was received into the Catholic Church, and I learned that we can live our Christian lives even more fully than “trying to see every day as Christmas” (which wasn’t quite working for me anyway.) Through the liturgical year, we enter deeply into every aspect of Jesus’s life. We wait with anticipation through Advent, live with joy through Christmas, fast in the days of Lent, and rejoice again in the Easter season. We experience the joy of our Savior’s birth, and we feel the desert of life without Him, the suffering of His passion and death, and the joy of His resurrection more deeply when we live our lives in rhythm with the Church’s liturgy.

The Church, our earthly mother left to us by our Lord, knows what we need. In giving us a liturgical calendar she has given us a prescription for how to live each and every day. Are we getting dry in our prayer, losing touch with God? She gives us Lent, to help us examine our lives, make a new sacrifice, renew a promise. Are we struggling through the desert? Just in time to save us, the beauty of Easter arrives, with the joy of delighting in what was “lost” during Lent. Easter is celebrated for a full week on the church calendar, an “octave”, because one day is not enough to contain this great feast. Are we caught up in the “commercialism” of Christmas? Mother Church gives us Advent, to slow us down and teach us to patiently watch and wait. She then gives us twelve days of Christmas -- again, the joy of the celebration cannot be contained in one day. Then there is the twelfth night, and the feast of the Epiphany -- we get to celebrate again, and observe the day that the Magi brought gifts to Jesus. Even in “ordinary time” there are feasts, memorials, and observances of saints’ days that help to remind us of our vocation, the state of our relationship with God, the depth of our prayer lives.

As a new Christian, I was on the right track when I discovered that every day could, in some way, be Christmas. But I was missing a big part of the puzzle. The liturgical calendar supplied the last of the missing pieces. I have delighted in the ways living the liturgical year deepens and revitalizes my spiritual life, including my prayer life.

A wise mother knows that her children can’t celebrate all the time -- every party has an end. Can every day be Christmas? No, but every day can be Christ-filled, imbued with spiritual meaning as we follow, re-enact and celebrate the events of our Lord’s earthly life. We can thank our wise mother, the church, for the wisdom of such a gift, at Christmas and always.

What a poem is

While on the subject of Ted Kooser, I want to share this succinct little definition of poetry that he shared with us that night:

"A poem is a record of a discovery."

They were listening ....

While leaving the library, loaded down with books in three separate backpacks, the kids and I forged bravely on, carrying the weight of such glory (begging pardon from C.S. Lewis for such cheesy use of that beautiful phrase) with pleasure, despite the cost to our backs. Out of the blue, one of them made reference to a poem we heard Ted Kooser read last month.

"This is just like that poem Ted Kooser read about the college students and their backpacks!" Eldest exclaimed.

"You were paying attention that night," I smiled.

"Of course I was, Mom," (spoken in the tone of a child who's teetering on the edge of growing up.)

Of course.

And speaking of "packed with great stuff...."

I also love to check in at Cay Gibson's blog ... there's always something new and delightful there, too.

I love Melissa Wiley's blog

But then, don't you love everything about Melissa Wiley? Her blog is packed with great book recommendations, delightful nuggets of information, references to heretofore undiscovered treasures in the guise of websites, some of my favorite quotes, and of course, links to her own Little House books, which my girls and I have long relished. (We particularly love reading the Martha books, as we lapse into Scottish accents for days at a time.)

Today she has a link to what looks like an interesting website/blog about the brain. Ever since my own brain started doing strange and unpredictable things (i.e., at the onset of motherhood and sleep deprivation) I've found such things fascinating.

I feel so bad for these kids

I read this sad story the other day. It's the natural result, I suppose, of situations in which moms work. I have no quarrel with moms who must work. It happens, and it's not easy to juggle work, kids, husband. But, do as many moms need to work as actually do? And how many of them will be relieved to get permission from this article to drop their sick kids off at daycare rather than stay home and care for the poor, miserable-feeling little guys?

The end of civilized society as we know it

I've heard it all. Recently, while in a public restroom, I heard chatter from a stall, the flush, then "Okay, bye-bye," and -- you guessed it -- the cell-phone talker emerged from the stall.

Yuck.

Why wasn't I surprised when she didn't stop to wash her hands?