Why Facebook is like the swingset in the backyard (or, "Why must things keep changing?")

When I was a new mom, I had visions of meeting other new moms at the neighborhood park. On TV and in the movies, moms were always at the park. They went to the park with their friends, like Hope and Nancy did in Thirtysomething. (Hey, I know I'm showing my age but my oldest is 17 ... my ideas of motherhood were formed in the late eighties and early nineties ....) Or like Dustin Hoffmann and Jane Alexander in Kramer vs. Kramer (though I, of course, wouldn't end up eating pablum like Hope did in that one episode, and I knew I would never let my child fall off the monkey bars like Ted Kramer did.)

So, when I had Anne-with-an-e, I dutifully dressed her in something adorable and trundled her off to the park in her stroller. The hitch in my plan was that we lived in an extraordinarily small town. I was the only one at the park.

At least I thought the tinyness of our town was the hitch. Eventually, however, I came to believe that the real hitch was that no one needed to go to parks anymore. Everyone had her own swingset in the backyard. Why haul the kids to a playground when you could go just a few steps out your own back door?

My first reaction, upon discovering this, was to vow to never get a swingset of my own. I alone would uphold the American tradition and ideal of hauling kids to the park! I alone would continue to rely on parks in order to sort out life's greatest mysteries, as did Hope and Nancy, or to witness horrific accidents, as Ted Kramer did. Yes, I alone would do this!

And alone I was.  No one was ever at the park.

Finally, I caved. "Let's get a swingset," I said to Atticus, feeling that I was letting down an entire generation of both TV moms and idealistic rebels.

"Really?" he asked.

"Yeah," I sighed. "What's the point of going to the park in hopes of meeting new moms when they're all in their backyards? I may as well have the convenience of a swingset in my backyard, too."

So, we got a swingset. And eventually I was quite grateful for that swingset, especially as my children got older and I found myself saying things like, "Go outside and play on the swingset."

Fast forward to 2005. I start a blog. Lots of other people have started blogs, too. And we all visit each other's blogs and the blogosphere is like a big ole park. We hang out together on the merry-go-round of blogging and no one has a horrific accident on the monkey bars and everyone is happy. Then Facebook-the-Swingset comes along and ruins everything. Suddenly everyone has a Facebook page and we aren't all congregating around the water cooler (I know I'm mixing metaphors here but let me go ... I'm on a roll) of the blogosphere anymore and it seems impossible to keep up with everyone because we're all in our own backyards.

So, that's why Facebook is like a swingset and sometimes annoys me. Because I can't keep up with all the backyards.

On the other hand, I used to participate in some homeschooling e-groups and when I started blogging, I had less time for the e-groups and a woman I know likens blogs to swingsets, so what are you gonna do?

The world keeps changing. Just about the time I was ready to upgrade our swingset to a really good one, I realized that my oldest child was seventeen and hadn't used a swingset for about a decade. I guess that means that by the time I really, truly, fully embrace Facebook I'll realize that everyone else is communicating via some sort of electronic brain implant.

And I'll still be living in the past, watching Thirtysomething reruns and posting status updates on this ancient thing called a Macbook.

(Caveat: I said I'd start posting again, but I never said it would be meaningful stuff.)

Atticus Thinks He's Funny

He just walked through the room and asked what I was doing. When I said I was working on a blog post, he said, "You mean you still have a blog?"

Droll, my dear.

Last week I mentioned that once I finished a big project, I would actually post again.

I will. Because I do still have a blog.

Bits and Pieces of Our Days

We spent the weekend out of town (maybe that's why the rapture missed me) celebrating my goddaughter's graduation from Holy Family Homeschool.

The homeschool association puts together a lovely evening -- Holy Mass, followed by a graduation ceremony in which the parents present their children (I mean young adults -- eek!) with their diplomas, followed by a reception.

I'm not generally very concerned with ceremonies -- outside of liturgy, that is. I guess as a Roman Catholic, it's a little ironic that I love the ritual of Catholic liturgy but spurn ritual and ceremony in so many other areas. For example, some moms apparently say things like, "Well, if we can have a real graduation ceremony, then I guess I can do this homeschooling thing," whereas I am more inclined to say things like, "Whew -- we homeschool! We don't have to sit through all that deadly dull stuff."

Not that my goddaughter's graduation was deadly dull. It wasn't. It was lovely. And if Anne-with-an-e wants such ritual and ceremony to be a lovely part of her lovely graduation next year, then we have a plan.

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Still working on my book deadline* but I've been missing my blog, and my readers. So. Hi.


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Here's a reason I love the month of May:

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* The project is actually done, but there's some end-of-the-book documentation, etc. to complete. When everything is done, Ramona and I are looking forward to making teacup cakes!

(Image and cupcake recipe at Sweet Paul.) 

Poetry Friday: Afraid So

This poem so aptly captures angst that it seems the perfect poem for one penning a piece under deadline.

I know I'll make my manuscript deadline -- as Atticus reminded me the other day, "You always feel this way and it's always okay .... " -- but until I do, I'll be asking questions like the ones in this week's poem.

And, after I meet, greet, then bid the deadline adieu, I'll be back for a snappier, happier, less fatalistic Poetry Friday post.

Does that mean I will still be neglecting my blog for the next few days?

Afraid so.


Afraid So
by Jeanne Marie Beaumont

Is it starting to rain?
Did the check bounce?
Are we out of coffee?
Is this going to hurt?
Could you lose your job?
Did the glass break?
Was the baggage misrouted?
Will this go on my record?
Are you missing much money?
Was anyone injured?
Is the traffic heavy?
Do I have to remove my clothes?
Will it leave a scar?
Must you go?
....

(Read the rest of the poem here, at The Writer's Almanac.)

Julie Larios has the round up today at The Drift Record.

Look Closely, What Do You See?

I know.

Nothing.

Here's a riddle for you: What do you get when you combine a deadline for a major writing project with allergy season?

Yes! You win! (Or lose, depending on whether or not you actually wanted to read something on this blog today.) You get Karen's blog looking like this:

And finally, what will you get when the writing deadline has passed, the allergy meds have alleviated annoying symptoms, and I have time to blog?

I'm not sure what you'll get, so stay tuned. You may get loads of posts on stuff I've been thinking about, such as "Things I've Learned In Times of Doubt" and "Why Facebook is Like a Swingset in the Back Yard."

Or, you might only get to hear about how I finally have a clean house.

Blogger Is Back, But My Last Post Is Gone

It had a darn cute picture of Sydney and Ramona, too.

Ah, well.

At least my entire blog isn't dead and gone, which is always the first conclusion I jump to in cases like this.

But, we're up and running!

(Updated to note: the post is now back, but most of the comments are gone. Okay. Let's move on, Blogger.) 

You Really Can Find Google Results For Anything, Including Rubbing Dryer Sheets On Your Dog

Sydney is the sweetest dog, though she can be slightly odd in the best of times (Atticus explains her a little less affectionately: "I think that dog has a screw loose.")

She's frightened of the chihuahua next door, she gives the cat (who is one-fourth her size) a wide berth, and she is sometimes reluctant to go potty ("Go potty"? Was I the mommy of little ones for a long time, or what?) even when I know she has to go.  The biggest rogue screw that rattles around in her little doggy brain is that she's convinced that Atticus is an axe murderer. The joke around here is that in a past adoption she witnessed something horrible in a basement, because every time Atticus runs downstairs, Sydney whimpers as if her world is about to end.

Anyway.

She doesn't like thunderstorms, either. She doesn't go all  Winn-Dixie, not quite the pathological stage, but she clearly gets upset when it's stormy, as some dogs do. So, it turns out that rubbing a dryer sheet on your dog before the storm can help.

See evidence (which must be true, because it's on the internet) here.

A dryer sheet was helpful yesterday, and Google is helpful just about every day. How did anyone survive dog ownership before Google? Huh, Sydney?

Bits and Pieces of Our Days (But Mostly Some Links)

Mary DeTurris Poust has a lovely review of four Rosary books up at Our Sunday Visitor (I believe that's a subscriber-only link, but if you subscribe to any of OSV's publications, you should be able to log in and take a look.) See the opening of the article here, at Mary's blog, Not Strictly Spiritual.

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Atticus sent me this cool link to the National Jukebox. Need to poke around there!

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Simple, but they work: 10 Short, Spontaneous Prayers That Really Work, from Fr. Robert Spitzer

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Les Miserables -- Atticus and I took the older girls to see it on April 30th in Omaha. Great production, but, oh, where's the revolving set? 'Tis gone. Overall, we all loved it. (Parents, take note: bawdy moments have become more than bawdy in this production. Unnecessarily, we thought.)

*****

Go visit Pentimento, who has an Anne Sexton poem that took her breath away, and mine, too.

How Was Your Mother's Day?

Mine began, as it always does, with breakfast in bed. The fact that I know my Mother's Day will begin with breakfast in bed in no way diminishes the pleasure of the thing.

As I munched on toast, I asked the girls if anyone would like a bite.

"You always ask us that," said Betsy.

"I do?"

"Yes. But it's your breakfast. You should eat it."

So I did. And then I wondered why it was that I always ask them if they'd like to share my meal. It's not because I'm so selfless that I unthinkingly share everything I have. No. It's because when the girls were younger, breakfast in bed was an enormous thing. They would pile onto a tray every good thing they could think of, including a big glass of milk, which I never drink in the morning. I couldn't eat and drink it all, so I shared. Over the years, under gentle guidance from Atticus, breakfast has evolved.

Yesterday, as I looked at my sweet girls gathered on my bed, and at my dainty breakfast -- a couple of perfectly scrambled eggs, a bit of toast, some coffee -- I wondered how it could be that I looked down, plowed steadily ahead through the verdant ground of motherhood, and looked up one day to find that we are in a different season, and that what has bloomed before me is sparkling and radiant.

A scrambled egg breakfast was followed by the usual scramble to get ready for Holy Mass. In the afternoon, joined by a couple of their best friends, we attended the girls' violin and piano recital, and for dinner I was treated to my favorite Chinese restaurant where I relished the bamboo-steamed shrimp and a glass of white wine. 

I washed not a single dish yesterday and I had to squash only one round of bickering (sparkling and radiant things have their occasional off moments). 

I had a perfectly lovely Mother's Day, topped off by two final notes: Billy Collins and Jeanne Birdsall are, at this moment, winging their way to my house, and, as I settled in on the couch last night in the darkened living room with Atticus, I glanced out the window to behold a perfect slice of moon in the night sky. 

I pronounce the following things to be objective goods: my husband, my daughters, morning coffee, Holy Mass, violins and pianos, friends, shrimp, that waiter at the restaurant (who's been waiting on us since before Anne-with-an-e was born), books of poetry and Penderwicks, and sparkling, radiant things. 

Photos courtesy of Stock.xchng

Poetry Friday: Billy Collins, for Mother's Day

Dear Mom,

Happy Mother's Day! In addition to that T-shirt with the names of all your grandchildren, I'm giving you Billy Collins, reading "The Lanyard."

(We're still not even.)





The Poetry Friday round up is at Family Bookshelf today.

On the radio

Thursday morning, May 5th, at 8 a.m. central time.

I'll be talking with Sean Herriott on Morning Air, at Relevant Radio, about the Blessed Mother and Mother's Day.

(Painting: Song of the Angels, Bouguereau)

He is Blessed!

I wrote this six years ago, after John Paul the Great died. I did not yet have teenagers, Ramona was not yet three years old. Life at our house has changed a great deal in the last six years, but one thing has not changed: John Paul II, we love you.



Closer Than Ever to Papa

Our beloved Holy Father (“Holy Daddy,” as my toddler calls him) is with the Lord. There’s no doubt in my mind. I’m certain that Karol Wojtyla, our dear Pope John Paul II, lived his purgatory on earth and was taken straight into the Beatific Vision.

Granted, our family said prayers for the repose of his soul. He asked for our prayers, after all, and we know that our Church never presumes to know the state of a particular soul. But almost immediately, my husband pointed out how backward it felt: We all strongly felt the urge to ask him to pray for us.

At Mass on Divine Mercy Sunday I felt closer to Papa than ever before. I’ve long loved him, of course. As a convert to Catholicism ten years ago, I was greatly influenced by his writings and I continue to be. I grew to love the Catholic Church in large part because Papa explained it to me so thoroughly, so clearly, so beautifully. His apostolic letters and encyclicals told me of the riches of God’s providence, what it means to live a life of and for the Lord, and about the unity and beauty of our faith’s doctrines. Papa showed me that God loved me.

When he was alive, the closeness I felt to him was due to his role as my earthly spiritual father. He taught, led by example, and prayed for his flock. He exemplified a life of sacrifice, of pure and true love for God. However, although I knew his prayers for “all the faithful” included me, I also knew that on a practical level, JPII didn’t know me. He didn’t know for whom or for what I prayed, he didn’t know my private struggles and many weaknesses. He didn’t know how much I personally needed him. Now he does.

As I prayed at Mass, on Divine Mercy Sunday, I felt an overwhelming need to cry out to my papa. I asked him to pray for me. I felt drenched in his love and paternal concern as I imagined his beaming face. I felt convinced, down to my bones, that he now knows. He knows every private struggle that I reveal to him in prayer and he will lay them before my Heavenly Father’s throne, in urgent and loving intercession. He is now present to me as never before.

Like so many others, I will miss Papa’s earthly presence and leadership. But, with him and St. Faustina, I can say, “Jesus, I trust in Thee.” I know that our Church will go on and we will move forward with a new shepherd. We’ll have adjustments to make, and we’ll miss seeing dear Papa’s face, but our Church will go on. I do not have fears about our next pope. I fear only what he (and we) will personally endure as he shepherds us through the mess of the modern world. I trust in the Holy Spirit and I trust in Christ’s promise that the gates of hell will not prevail against His Church. We will push on. We will overcome. Evil will not triumph.

And so, while I am sad that I will no longer read new encyclicals from JPII, hear new pronouncements, or see Papa’s face on the news, I am happy for him. His earthly suffering is over. He has entered into the eternal happiness for which we all long.

When fear creeps in, I will remind myself that Papa is closer to me than ever. I’ll ask for his prayers and know — good father that he is — that he’ll take them to the Lord. Papa told me not to be afraid. I plan to follow his advice.