Domestic Ginger Is...Well, Lazy

And slovenly as well. I feel a tad guilty as laziness is one of the SEVEN DEADLY SINS.

See the chick wallowing on some kind of animal in a state of ennui? That's me. Except I'd have a laptop propped on the animal with Facebook before me. Yeah, I spent entirely too much time doing not much but Facebook games. Not really productive. Nor very conducive to having a clean  house.

I've gotten better but I can feel that after an initial two weeks of gung ho scheduling, I'm already starting to loose steam and my house may be a huge mess soon. I'm trying to muster up the energy each day to clean and honestly it's hard. It's a lot more fun to watch things grow on Facebook. Cleaning house is not fun. At all. It's even less fun when you have four beasties who mess it up as fast you clean.

Of course that's just another excuse because with a little bit of effort I could actually fight with said beasties and try to raise them into humans who do not live slovenly. But I'm lazy remember? Sometimes that fight seems like too much effort. These are all just excuses. I have plenty of excuses: I'm tired (which is true when your baby beasties wakes up on the hour to nurse). I'm busy (sort of true, I do teach). Once I run out of excuses, I get defiant and rebellious. Well who cares about a clean house anyway? Cleaning is just a Victorian creation designed to keep idle women busy so they don't have nervous breakdowns. Who really needs their house to be as clean as the modern demands anyway?

But what it really boils down is that of all the deadly sins, laziness is my curse. What a hard thing to admit. I suspect much of the laziness comes from having a very undisciplined self. I am not good at making myself do things. I put stuff off to the last minute. I'm eh about editing my papers because it takes effort and time. I slap off half-assed writing things all the time (including here but hey it is MY blog). I have many, many things I'd like to do but I'm too lazy to really focus on perfecting even one of these things.

My laziness does not make me a better person. It makes a mediocre person. I feel rather disappointed in myself. There is so much MORE I could be doing with my time. More that I could be doing for those I love. It's hard to look in the mirror and face these major character flaws but it's time. I have four beasties who look to me as a guide and I can already them falling to into my lazy habits. I want better for them. And I do think that it's better to follow through with things. To put as much effort as you have into projects that mean something to you.

So...off to clean the house because this small step is the beginning I hope of a more disciplined year.

Honestly...

My mom asked me last night if I wouldn't be slightly relieved if I didn't get accepted into a Ph.D program.

I've been thinking a lot about that question.

Last night I answered that not really. I didn't think I'd be horribly upset but I didn't think I'd be relieved either. But that answer changes, it seems, minute by minute. It's the "On the other hand.." situation. I have invested a number of years (complete with pain, etc, etc) into the academic aspect of my life. I have imagined myself as an academic for at least 15 years. On the other hand, I never envisioned a world where I was pretty happy having a huge family and most of the chores that come from having this huge family (not housework. I HATE housework and I always will). There are also other things I would do well. But then it does feel a bit like a painful inside the body leap when I think about not doing a Ph.D, and an even bigger leap of fear when I imagine starting something new.

Today a friend posted this article. And Cary Tennis' response to this person's crisis was one of those "Wow I get what he's saying" moments. The basic gist is that the writer to Cary needs help because she screwed up her chances at a Ph.D and now feels like she can't live without it. She wanted to be an actress originally but her parents talked her out of it. Cary's response however is what hit on a couple of levels.

First he tells her: "Can we just stop right there? What's wrong is that you are not acting. The longer you pretend that you're not supposed to be acting, the longer you are going to suffer. It doesn't matter what else you do. You're not doing the thing that you were meant to do."


Now I am not sure how I feel about this. I do not have an actress under my dress (hehe). But I do have a writer. I have wanted to be a writer since I was six and realized that PEOPLE. REAL PEOPLE! WROTE BOOKS! I still remember that exciting moment when I realized I was a person and that I too could write books. I dedicated most of my young life to writing stories. And then I hit UMF, got rejected from their creative writing program. I took that rejection to mean that even though I was a real person, I was not a real writer. So I stopped writing. Well I stopped writing stories and I started to write academic papers. People seemed to like those boring things so I kept at it. And I do think I am very good at what I do. But it's not the writing I dreamed, and still dream, of doing. Deep inside I still want to be a "writer." I want to tell stories.  But realistically I am not quite sure how I am going to pursue this. I have four beasties, not a lot of time, and even less money. And I'll admit that I fantasize a bit that if I don't get the Ph.D maybe I can try to sell something I've been working on...or that my blog will take off, and I'll be like Pioneer Woman or SouleMama or something.....


Okay enough of that fantasy...


The second part of his answer resounded even more on a more realistic level: "Today I write. It works out OK for me. But I do not live in fear that one day the writing will stop and I will fall apart. I know I could do other things. I could play music. I could run boats on the Chesapeake. I could wash pots. I'll be OK. That is the most valuable thing of all, to know that we can be OK. That is priceless."


And this is where I am. I will not die if I don't become an academic and if I don't write. It is maybe enough to acknowledge that I want to be a writer and that I am a bit more ambiguous about the academic aspect of my life. I suspect that writing will be my great passion but not writing not publishing is not going to destroy me because it is okay. Having a family, being a mother, wearing that label is okay. Hell, it's great. The greatest joy of my life frankly. Maybe I'm not June Cleaver...well maybe a punk rock June Cleaver....but I am someone who freakin' loves being with her kids, loves having the days spent cuddling beasties while we read. It's a surprise but it works. This is okay. It is okay if I don't get a Ph.D. I will do something else. I will catch some babies because that would be okay too. 


I'll be okay....joyfully so. 

More Waiting

We are still waiting. Waiting for answers. Checking our email and various website a hundred times a day. This might be more nerve wracking than the actual application process. At least during that torture something was being done. Now we just have to wait and do...nothing. It is a lesson in stillness of spirit. It is a lesson in not rushing time. The impulse to hurry through the days is strong.

But there is a new member to our family, and each day is a miracle when you have a baby. Watching her become a person, aware and more here than there does not need to be rushed. At nine months, she has been outside as long as inside. And she is know opening up to the great world. I love watching her become aware that she is a person on her own. She is half frightened and clings to me but in the next moment she opens up. She crawls away only to cry out for me to come and hold her close. Soon she will crawl away, towards another, and not look so back so quickly. And in this moment, I have to be still and relish each second of Rowena's beautiful first months.  They are gone so quickly, and they are not to be squandered with worry and anticipation.

Labeling

Camille has been having a pretty rough couple of weeks. I've started to wonder if maybe she has seasonal depression (I do and have been struggling these last couple of weeks). She broke down right before we left for the birthday party, before we got out of the van at the birthday party, and then a bit on the way home from the birthday party. I thought we'd see improvement after the party but she's the same. She cries four or five times a day because she's afraid she's tired. She asks us over and over "Do I look tired?"Sometimes she cries even when we say "No you look fine." Before bed she starts to cry because she's worried she won't sleep. Basically she is obsessed with her issues surrounding sleep. It's like she can't think of anything else.

I hate labeling. And I know the danger that can come with labeling but at this point I feel like we have to get an official diagnosis with Camille. I feel at a lost to help her and it's heartbreaking watching her struggle with things. I don't know what is going on with her. Sometimes I feel fairly confident that it's Asperger's but other times I wonder if we're dealing with anxiety and maybe some OCD. I just don't know anymore nor do I know how to help her. I think we need a label to just figure out what's wrong. And I keep telling myself that she does not have to be defined by that label. The label can just be a stepping stone to help her with life.

H and I have decided to bring her to therapy. I'm thinking possibly a developmental psychologist first. Once we know what we're dealing with, we can get her help. I don't want to do medication so I'm hoping some other therapeutic resources. Wish us luck.

{This Moment}

Taken from Soulemama: {this moment} - A Friday ritual. A single photo - no words - capturing a moment from the week. A simple, special, extraordinary moment. A moment I want to pause, savor and remember. 

Year of Pleasures 3

Not really knitting although knitting is for sure one of my pleasures but rather this week's pleasure is "getting" a new technique. I've been terrified of the double-pointed needles since beginning my knitting journey. It always looked so awkward, even in the hands of a pro. I've messed around trying to use them hats but it was always so difficult. Mostly I used round needles and only reverted to the doubles when I was near the end. But I found a pattern I really wanted to make, yoga socks. These socks have holes for the toes and heels so you can grip a yoga map but still keep your feet warm. I thought they'd be a great gift for my in-laws who are both yoga enthusiasts. And they'd be fab for me since I HATE having my toes covered. Plus once I practiced on some okay yarn, I have that yummy wool yarn that H bought me for Christmas.

It was rough going. I started and frogged the pattern about five times. Usually I only got a few rows in before I screwed up. At one point, I had my first inch down and realized it was screwed up. It was horribly slow going, and I felt more frustrated than relaxed. Damn it a hobby is supposed to make you feel relaxed! And then last night, it just all came together. I no longer felt uncomfortable with the needles and I was working faster than before. Not that it's perfect and I can see the errors but it's coming along and I'm confident I'll finish this sock. Amazing!

Anxiety

Camille had heartburn Monday night. At seven. We were at a loss as to what would make her feel stressed enough to get heartburn. She hadn't eaten anything odd. It had to be stress. H and I were both a little sad that she had this kind of anxiety at seven.

Then this morning she woke up early and started crying because she couldn't go to sleep. And she had a melt down when I started to get things ready for the park. The park wasn't unexpected. I had told her last night we were going to a park day. She did what she normally does and freaked out right before we left. I am not the best parent when this occurs. I'm already stressed out trying to get four kids dressed and ready to go. R is usually whining because I am not nursing her or she's tired. I'm trying to get food and water ready so we don't spend money out. And when Camille decides she doesn't want to go out, add her sobbing hysterically to the mixture. She follows me around sobbing about either being in pain or just not wanting to go. Today it was a combination of pain and being tired. I had to send her to her room so I wouldn't yell. I felt awful. I felt like I should be able to take the time to sit and work through whatever is going on but my patience is an all time low. I'm depressed. I needed to be out. I didn't  have it in me to spend an hour working through whatever was going on with Camille.

When we left, she was calm, and even seemed happy. Once at the park, she became anxious. She was clinging to me and while it drove me nuts, I let her do it. Our friend who had arrived before we did asked her how she was doing it and she sobbed out "Tomorrow is _____'s birthday party." See Camille has been invited to her first all girl birthday party. She's extremely excited but she's obviously nervous too. She's afraid if she doesn't sleep she won't be able to go. She's scared about what to do once she gets there. She's freaked out about what we're going to get for a gift. This moment she's been looking forward to for a week, this fun event, has become a source of anxiety for her.

I feel awful. I feel bad that I wasn't more patience. More prepared for her to react this way. I never know what's going to be a source of anxiety for Camille. And then what do I do when it happens? I know park days cause anxiety and stress. She freaks out before almost everyone we go to. Once there she's usually okay but getting there is stressful for both of us. But what do I do? I can't stay at home all the time. The other kids, and me need outside time. Hell, Camille needs outside time. With the party, I wondered if I should have not told her. But then I suspect we'd have a meltdown because it was unexpected. Camille likes to plan. She even has a calendar where she writes down weekly events. She likes to be prepared.

I feel like a mothering fail with Camille of late. Sometimes I just get her and we work it out. This last week though has just felt like a lot of mama yelling and Camille crying.

Domestic Ginger Vs. Ennui

And ennui won. I'm so far behind my schedule and it's only Tuesday. I'm trying hard to not just give up and let it slide for a week. I'm not sure what happened. Things started to go off track on Saturday and in my defense, I did go and work for a couple of hours at my office. Sunday hit and we were busy as we always are on Sundays. Yesterday we went shopping, and instead of cleaning the kitchen I baked. A lot. Like 4 dozen cookies and a thing of baked oatmeal. But I didn't clean the kitchen which isn't gross but could easily turn out that way with a bit of neglect. I could catch up today but I have to teach later.

In my defense, I am exhausted. R has been sleeping crap. Last night I was hit with insomina (so grossly unfair) and didn't get to bed until 2. At that point, R woke up and I had to nurse her before going to sleep. And then she woke up every hour. I finally got up at 8:45 because I couldn't breath and there was no point in dozing off for 10 minutes to only have her wake up again. Couple this with feeling rather depressed and anxious (my Toronto application is "under review") and you get someone who is not really into cleaning. More like sitting around and feeling sorry for her and umm...baking cause that's what I do when I'm depressed.

But I can't let the ennui get me down.

Alone...

There are these silent nights when I feel as if I have lost touched with the world. As if I have let things out that have built up a wall around me. Sometimes, when I sit here, everyone else asleep, I wonder if there is nothing beyond the door. Out of touch with friends, conversations, events. All lost into the night outside.

Surrender

As a type A personality, I have a bit of a hard time letting go of the A (being anal). I've calmed down some since having a million children because well anal + lots of children=fail most of the time. But it's still there and it manifests itself in lots of anxiety over things I can't control. There have been sleepless nights of late as I worry about those damn graduate school applications. I have done the best I can, and now I have to wait. I'm not good at waiting, and I'm not good about waltzing into an unknown future. At this point, even not getting accepted would allow me some breathing space to figure out what I need to do next. And no matter how much I tell myself that there is NOTHING I can do, I can't help but lay awake trying to figure out what to do.

Yesterday's mass wasn't a really good one. The homily was preachy which I found annoying but was expecting at some point. Unlike last Sunday's homily it didn't really give me much to reflect on (well it did but not in the way the priest intended, I'm sure). But the prayer before the Eucharist was beautiful. Perhaps because R fell asleep this time, I felt like I had a moment to pray and to reflect. I prayed about surrender this time. The image of Christ on the cross was very present to me in this moment. No matter what you believe about the nature of Christ, the symbolic nature of his sacrifice is all about surrender. The ultimate surrender in many ways. Surrendering to pain and death.

As I knelt in prayer, I wrestled with this idea. I have always seen the act of surrendering as weak. And honestly I felt like Christ's "lessons" in dying was weak. There was something repugnant to me about submission. I suspect the whole concept was colored by my own negative experience as a woman in a Conservative Evangelical church. When I left, I vowed I would not ever submit or surrender myself to anything or anybody. But as I knelt, an act of submission, I thought about how much submitting and surrendering I have undergone in my life since having started my family. There is no way numerous people are going to be able to live together without some kind of this activity happening. And it's not just been me doing the submitting and surrendering. It's all of us including H. It's been a two way street and there's nothing weak in this action. In fact, it's been an act of courage and strength and trust.

What I was doing yesterday as I prayed was the same thing I had been doing with my family. I was surrendering what I could not control. It is an act I will have to perform again and again throughout my life. I wish I could say it has brought me a lot of peace. There is a sense of peace for sure but there is also fear. I do not fully trust religion or God. My past constantly trickles into my present. I remember that the lesson of submission and surrender I learned before was in many way selfish. There was an assumption that as a women I was expected to submit more. And while there was lip service given to surrendering to Christ, it was just lip service. Really I was surrendering to the men in the church. There was no give and take like I see in my family. When I am at these quiet moments of prayer, however, I do see that there is a give and take. With Christ as the example, a surrendering for all humans, there is a relationship. I can see that my surrender is a mirror reflecting that single act.

Washing Dishes

Each morning, I take a few minutes to do the dishes left over from midnight snacking. The baby is usually content to sit in her chair and eat some puffs. I do not like doing dishes but I like the satisfaction of watching them disappear from the counter, neatly aligned in the dishwasher. In the morning, I do not feel the hectic rush to load up the dishes as fast as possible. There are not other little mouths to feed, band-aids to apply, paints to set up. It is just me, the cat and the baby. And St. Jude.

On the counter by the coffee maker, a five day candle flickers, casting a watery reflection on the white surface upon which it rests. Behind the candle, tucked up on a tiny ridge is a St. Jude card. We inherited this tradition from my mother-in-law. Each time I see the card, there amongst the clutter of our life, I am reminded to offer up a prayer. A prayer about our future. An offering of hope that one of us or both of us will be accepted into graduate school. It is an act of letting go when I utter those little prayers. I have no control of my application at this point in the process. Yet I spend much of my day fretting with worry. But now this moment, quiet and simple, no drama, allows me to put that worry away. To offer up to something higher than myself. It is no longer my worry. For a moment, I can breath and recenter myself holding onto a bride between heaven and earth.

Star Light

Year of Pleasures 2

Surprise gifts in the mail from friends! We got a notice of a package in the office on THURSDAY! But we kept missing the office open hours and then it snowed and snowed. Finally H got the package yesterday and it was this lovely toy from a DDC friend. We were all touched and Rowena loved her new present. 

I know that people sort of brush aside Internet friendships but I value mine. This DDC was wonderful when I was pregnant with R. I had no pregnant friends and I'm sure that I was driving my non-pregnant friends mad with my pregnancy talk. Going online and finding not just a space to discuss my pregnancy but also a bunch of new friends was one of the highlights of this pregnancy. It moves me that Aimee thought of Rowena and sent this out. These women are just as much a part of my women community as the women I know in real life.

What Kind of Kids Do You Want?

This article has burnt a swath through the online world, and normally this means I wouldn't even touch it. I find myself shying away from commenting what has been commented a hundred times before and usually in smarter more well though out ways. But this article has made me think, and my reaction to it is a bit different than many of the commentaries I've been reading.

Entitled "Why Chinese Mothers are Superior," Amy Chua outlines her parenting methods which she claims create perfect children. These children are much better than "Western" children. They excel at academics and music. Well, piano and cello. She won't let them play anything else. She goes on to outline her extreme methods of achieving such children including calling her daughter garbage for being disrespectful. She details hours of lessons forced through denial of food and bathroom rights. The children are not allowed to voice their own thoughts and desires. They are made to feel shame if they fail because it is a reflection on the family and not them.

Of course I cringed over some of the things said and done. These are not things I would ever do to my children UNLESS I wanted to produce the kind of children she has created. Her methods produce the result she desired in children. Parenting is about shaping our children with our values. I know that many of us think we can raise children who choose their own values but I'd argue that the best we can do is raise children who think that choosing one's own values is a good thing....and, well, that mindset is a value. So if I wanted to raise kids who value only success, competition, perfection and ultimately being followers then I can why Chua's method would be appealing.

But I don't want to raise those kind of children. When I finished the article, I found myself asking myself "What kind of children do I want?" And I remembered the best thing a teacher ever said to me about Umberto (before we began homeschooling). We were sitting there, in these little tiny chairs, our knees drawn up to chest, nervous. Umberto wasn't doing so hot academically, and I think we both felt a little guilt. We didn't really push it although we read him to a lot. The teacher began with "Umberto is the most compassionate kid in this class. If someone needs a friend, or is having a bad day, they can count on Umberto." I was so proud. This was better then "Your son is so brilliant." Or "Your son plays the piano like a genius."

You see I would rather have kids who are compassionate. Kids who care about those around them. I don't give a shit if my ten year old is reading Hemingway and writing really brilliant essays about that experience. It doesn't matter that my  kid doesn't play the piano like Glenn Gould. Rather my kid is NICE. Because really at the end of they day, doing the genius thing is not going to make him a better person. Having compassion for those around him makes him a better person. Recognizing when people are in pain and helping them makes him a better person.

And what happens when you deny your child play dates? When you force them to practice the viola for hours every day followed by hours of homework? They miss out on being with other humans. The most important lesson we have as humans is to take care of each other, but if we're too busy trying to be perfect, we're going to miss that opportunity.

I want my children to be compassionate, moral human beings who recognized that their ultimate responsibility is not to their own abilities nor towards me nor towards themselves. Rather their ultimate responsibility is towards humanity.

Happy Fat

"The funny thing is, that fat girl hiding in my mother's photo albums, the one in the ugly clothes with the slumped shoulders, she had a pretty good life. Given the choose between that life and the life of a skinny starlet in rehab, I'd put the fat suit back on fast enough to jam the zipper." From Half-Assed

The first time I reached goal in WW, the leader asked me "How does your husband feel?" I didn't understand the question. What did my husband have to do with my weight loss? And then I realized that the question was really "How does your husband feel about getting a thin wife back?" I kind of laughed because H wants me to be healthy but he's never been invested in me being thin. I explained to the group that my husband was happy for me but considering that he had meet me when I was 170 he didn't really expect a "thin" wife. In fact, H's concern has always been that I wold get too thin. I don't think anyone believed me because the assumption of course is that your partner should love you no matter what you look like but they'd obviously prefer a thinner person to love.

Reading the above quote and thinking about that story reminded me that much of the happiness I have found in my life didn't come from being thin. In fact being thin has often brought a lot of unhappiness into my life. 

Here's what happened when I was fat:
I meet and married H.
I was pregnant and bore four healthy amazingly wonderful babies.
I completed a BA and a MA.
I moved to a whole new city.
I started homeschooling.
I meet great friends.
I had many wonderful apartments and friends to share those apartments with.

Life was good as a fat grrl. And I realized today that I don't need to be thin to be happy.Happiness doesn't come because of a number on the scale. I think I thought that life would just be better if I could lose weight. Each time I've got to goal, I've been confronted with the reality that being thin didn't solve any problems. It took until last night to realize that I can be happy fat. It seems so obvious doesn't it? But it wasn't me. For so long I associated being thin with being the most amazing thing eva. But really being thin opened up a whole Pandora's box of troubles for me.

This time around I'm losing weight not for the joy  it will bring  but because I owe it to my family and my body to be healthy. I want to eat foods that make me feel good as opposed to foods that make me feel sluggish and sick. I want to be able to push my body in exercise and feel the pride that comes from being strong. I don't have to go seeking happiness anymore. It's already here not bundled up in the package of a black pair of scales.

Domestic Ginger Vs. Snow Day

When I first thought up today's blog plot, I figured I could safely say that the Snow Day won hands down. After all the first big bit of my day involved mostly lounging. Last night, we moved our mattress into the living room to make the potential snow day more fun. I woke up surrounded by beasties who were sleeping and H who was messing around on his computer. I managed to get up for coffee and breakfast and then I just lounged around more. R was thrilled. There's nothing she loves more than having me down at her level. I messed around on my computer until it died (stupid Mac). Then I laid around trying to fix it. I laid around playing on H's computer, playing with R, until I decided that I should bring R outside. The next hour was spent eating a hurried lunch and getting beasties ready to go outside.

When we were ready, I looked at them and burst out laughing. H nodded and said "We look like hobos." And did we ever. We had on mismatched gloves, assorted layers of clothes, raggedy scarves. Piper had plastic shopping bags over her sneakers to keep water out. Totally bad parenting moment. I'm just so cheap and still such a Mainer (which some same is synonymous)...I can't see spending a fortune in winter clothes that the kids will only wear once or twice. We paraded our ragged arses around for about fifteen minutes before we were all freezing. Even R who likes the cold was getting pretty pissy about the wind blowing snow in her face (she actually looked cute and not homeless like the rest of us). I decided it was our "The Glass Palace" moment.

When we got upstairs, I felt like I should motivate myself to actually get on my schedule but I didn't. I laid around some more because I was tired. I sort of worked on my classes. Mostly I played games on Facebook. I did cook supper and dessert. And I watched "Percy Jackson" with Umberto. I was just about to post about what a lazy bitch I was and how I had only managed to do one week on my schedule when H realized he needed to send some stuff out.

He saved me from losing. Domestic Ginger got off her fat ass and started to clean. Mondays are designated kitchen days. I cleaned the kitchen. Did the dishes, wiped down the counters and washed the floors. It looks great. I also started some laundry. And while we didn't do school today, the kids had spent about an hour with H last night looking up Greek monsters and the myths about those monsters. After watching Percy Jackson, Umberto wanted to do more reading about Greek myths. It wasn't much but it was something.

I'm finding that if I can just push myself to get up and do it, it goes fairly quickly. But it's the initial getting up that is so hard. However, last week I did it. I mostly followed our schedule and the house got done. I didn't beat myself up about when it got done as long as it was done by the time I went to bed. And by keeping up with the bits of picking up, the house always looks decent. It's not spotless but that's okay. I don't mind if our house looks like people live in it. I just don't want it to look like people don't care about it.

I was going to change the schedule around to better reflect how slowly things get done but I decided to leave it as is. It's okay if I can't do it all but it's nice to see what needs to be done. I'm feeling more productive too and feeling more pushed to organize other things. I have plans to get all my class stuff organized and photocopied weeks in advance. I can already tell that this is going to save me a lot of stress and time once the semester starts. And so far I don't feel like we're sacrificing our spontaneous natures in the process of being more with it. So week one, I think goes to Domestic Ginger. Ding. Ding.

Ginger Goes To Mass Take 2

Today's mass was the "Mass That Almost Didn't Happen." I've been having a hard time trying to figure out when to go to Mass. Sundays are kind of busy around here. In addition to my WW meeting, I have all the preparation stuff for the week ahead: shopping, cooking prep, classes prep, homeschooling prep. I pondered giving up WW which would save us money plus free up time on Sunday. BUT I came to my senses. WW is the only thing that seems to keep me eating healthy and losing weight. After my return to sanity, I considered trying another meeting but I really LOVE my new WW leader. Anyone who has ever done WW knows how hard it is to find a good leader. I nixed that idea. I checked out the other mass times hoping for some that weren't on Sundays. There are vigils on Saturday evening but I have no idea what is the difference between a vigil and a normal mass. A vigil seems like it might be more...solemn? Not the kind of thing to which one wants to bring four heathen children. There was a five o'clock mass though, and while I thought it might not have many families, I decided to try it and see how it panned out.

Everything went according to plan. I went to WW. I came home and ate. Then it started to fall apart. R refused to take a nap. H took Piper out for some one on one time and was late. I was kind of frazzled when he showed up. I hate being late. I was exhausted and R was being difficult. I said "Forget it. We'll never make it in time." H insisted that we try to make it. I kind of grumpily agreed as we needed to go shopping in that area anyway. As we were driving downtown, I felt so irritated and angry. It didn't seem like the best attitude to start my experience. I figured we weren't going to make it anyway so there was no point in trying to jolly myself out of it.

But we got there in time, and there were people coming in after us. R who had been sleeping woke right up. She seemed content though to check the church out and flirt with the African couple behind us. I was checking things out as well. Okay I was checking out the people. If this was the church we were going to be attending, I wanted to make sure it was a good fit. There were a few families there with children (some even louder than mine). We were again the biggest family. There were a lot of youngish people....single, in their twenties. People were dressed modestly but there were several people in jeans. There was also a fair amount of diversity. I felt comfortable (except I'm dumb and didn't know how to cross myself when I entered or dip my fingers in the holy water, or curtsy at the altar).

And then the mass started and it wasn't long before I knew this was it. I can't explain what happened but there was an experience. Again it wasn't the hand from heaven but it was more dramatic than I anticipated. The singing, the incense, the procession to the altar were beautiful. The ritualistic gestures over the communion spoke of a continuity that set the mass a bit out of time. The homily was smart, timely, and poignant. I found myself near tears a couple of times. Staring at the reliefs of Christ on the cross moved me deeply. It stirred something in me. Something that I didn't think could ever be stirred again. It was a quiet experience however and I never felt like I was being knocked flat. It was just again that feeling of coming home.

There was something genuine in the experience that I have found lacking in other religious things I have tried of late. When I tried to do Neopaganism again, I felt like I was playing at something. I know for many that experience is valid and I have no issues with this but for me it didn't feel real. This felt real and comfortable. I don't feel like there was some great change in me but rather that I was satisfying something that had long been neglected. It was a feeling that I was just augmenting myself.

After writing so much on an academic level about conversion I am finding myself feeling sort of odd about my own conversion. I recognize the elements that are common across conversion stories in my own story. But there is still this part of me that cries out "This is mine! It is real. It is true." And it resists an over analysis so I feel like right now my posts about this are fuzzy and incoherent and mundane. I hope that as the days pass I can process this a bit more and explain more clearly what happened.
.

Fear

I had a nice reprieve from worrying about graduate school once all the applications were finally sent out. At that point, I was just so tired of them, it was a relief to just not think about them. There were so many other things to focus on...Christmas, potential conversion, grading for my class, etc. And now all that is over. The tree is gone (FINALLY). My syllabi are pretty much done. I am ready for a new semester. This also leaves me with a bit more time to think about...cue Jaws theme...the future! Of course we are also getting closer and closer to the time when we'll be hearing from schools.

Once again, I am finding it hard to sleep. I don't know what I fear most though....getting in or not getting in. I already decided that we go where H is accepted. He's the most likely to get the job in the end. I can imagine a life as a midwife which is my back up plan. On some nights, this is an image that brings me a great deal of contentment. But on other nights, the idea of starting on a totally new career fills me with terror. I know the academic life and while it is not easy it is known. 

However there is also a part of me that fears going for my Ph.D. I worry about doing the Ph.d and raising my children as I want to raise them. Wonder if everyone is right and the academic life is incompatible with my life as a mother? Wonder if I am not smart enough? Or tough enough? Wonder if I hate it? Wonder if it totally changes me in an unpleasant way? 

And then I start to worry about the practical aspects of this next step. Money. Moving. It's all so much to deal with and I can't even appease myself with my normal antidote of planning. I don't even know WHERE we're going. We're in a strange place because we know we are going we just don't know where.

H has been rather rock like through my anxiety but even he has a bit of an attack a few nights ago. We both have a lot riding on this plan, and there is the other option: Neither of us get accepted! Gasp. I hadn't even thought of that one until he brought it up. I figured one of us would get accepted. We spent one evening kind of freaking out but then we realized that if neither of us got in we were free to go anywhere. That was kind of exciting. And scary. 

Wordless Friday

A Year of Pleasures 1

I finally had to jump on this one. I first began to read about the year of pleasures from The Trivial Pursuit of Happiness, and then another friend began to do the same on her blog, Croenblog. I loved the idea but am always a little afraid I'll upset someone if I pick up their ideas. But I kept thinking about things in terms of "Oh this is totally a pleasure!" I hope that my friends see this as the compliment it is...to effect someone so that they begin to think about their daily in the terms is a special thing.

So each Thursday, I'll do a Year of Pleasures Entry. As a way to remind myself of those lovely moments where life is so unbearably precious.

Without further ado...

Year of Pleasures #1

Being with a great group of mama friends, old and new, after a few days of being coped up in the apartment.

For some reason, we didn't get out much this week. Usually I try to get us out a couple of times per week. But yesterday I couldn't do our usual library trip because H had my debit card (needed gas). Plus I was wrapped up in clean (domestic goddess blah blah). And I had too work on my syllabi for my classes. So basically the kids were cooped up, driving me mad. Today was so very needed.

We packed up and headed out to Amelie's, a tasty French Bakery in Charlotte. The kids brought board games and art supplies. I loaded up on French Press Coffee while talking and laughing with some great women. There were some new ones (a woman is a Fabric Artist...I have knitter's envy already! She owns her own sheep! And she SPINS their wool!), and some known ones. We talked about religion, what we want our kids to know, the joys and horrors of homeschooling, and Johnny Depp (he has to smoke right?)

Being around women is such a pleasure for me now. I wonder why I spent so long hanging with the guys. Upon becoming a mother, I more and more value these moments spent with other women. The quiet moments sustain me through those moments where we trapped inside for various reasons.

And as an extra bonus, the kids had a wonderful time meeting some new friends. Even Camille:) 

And then there is cuteness under the table....

I felt really happy for Umberto has his best bud seems to have moved from our community. I know he's been pretty lonely, and us not going out has been conducive to him finding some new ones or reconnecting with old ones. But today he meet a boy he really likes and shares his interests. Yay! And look what a big boy, Umberto's becoming....it hit me when I saw him in his new trendy skinny leg jeans...and then this seeing this photo..

Ginger Goes To Mass

After tentatively deciding that it was possible to be a progressive Catholic,  I began to look for a church in between my web browsing of progressive Catholic blogs. While it was interesting to read like-minded people, I also had to deal with the practical side of finding some place to attend mass. There are more Catholic churches in Charlotte than one might expect. It is a Southern City. BUT it is a Southern city filled with people from New York.  It was over-whelming and for the most part I wasn't finding out much about the various Churches leanings through their websites. I narrowed it down two. One was fairly close to us and the other was a Spanish speaking church in a not so hot area. Feeling not really great about either choose, I stopped looking and even thinking about it. Instead, I got swept up on preparing for Christmas.

We were rapidly approaching Christmas Eve which is the date I had set for us going to mass. H kindly agreed to go with me even though I think he'd had rather skip that whole experience (a whole other blog post). I was excited about going as a family but still hadn't decided on a church to attend....an important detail. The night before Christmas Eve, I was doing another search for a good church when I ended up on a site that listed "Gay Friendly Churches in Charlotte." I have no idea how I ended up on this site. But there listed was St. Peter's Catholic Church in Charlotte, NC. I looked it up and discovered it was this lovely little church downtown. We had always admired it and often talked about going to a mass to just see what it was like. And it was St. Peter's. Peter was always my favorite apostle. He was fiery, bad tempered and cowardly....a lot like me. It was run by Jesuits and I'm a bit obsessed with Jesuits. Even I couldn't ignore the signs (or the signs as I read them). Plus it listed several socially progressive programs as well as socially consciously outreach programs. 

Getting ready was hilarious. First, I had no idea what one wore to mass. Here in Charlotte, people tended to dress fairly casually for church. But those were people who attend Willow Creekesque churches. I finally settled on work clothes after a friend pointed out that either nothing I wore would be good enough or whatever I wore would be fine. Second, preparing the beasties who really are little heathens who hate church (they've been a few times with my mom). They all whined piteously of course. Third, we didn't think through the date. Umm...Christmas Eve....duh. One of two times that ALL Catholic make an effort (Easter being the second date).

Thus we show up and IT IS SLAMMED FULL. Seriously. It's like going to see that indie band that everyone has finally decided is it. We managed to get a pew which was a pretty amazing feat because within five minutes people are filling up the back and crowding down the side asiles. My children, meanwhile are acting like heathens. They ask, loudly, what the "HECK is that book?" And "Who is that man on the cross?" I don't think anyone heard them because, I did mention, how "HOLY crowded" it was right? Piper is also bored within five seconds because Piper is always bored in five seconds. Umberto kept falling asleep. I was busy looking around. People were dressed up and dressed down. There were tons of children but we were will still one of the larger families. However no one looked at us askance. When the mass began, I didn't look as foolish as I thought. I wasn't the only one late getting to my feet, and I had a 20lb. baby to use as an excuse. I didn't know all the memorized bits but I caught on quick to some of them. I did know all the words to "Hark! The Herald Angel's Sing." The priest was charming and funny. His final words were "Remember our children because this season is after all the celebration of a baby."

After we left, H was a bit bummed. He asked me if I had experienced what I planned on and I thought about it before saying "Yes." He was surprised I think. I went onto explain that I think one has the experience that one plans for themselves. I didn't expect a lightening bolt to hit me from above. I have studied religion to long to think those moments are going to happen for me. In fact, I almost think I would find such a thing quite suspect. Instead what I felt was a simple moment of belonging. Not necessarily with the people, but with the whole thing. With the mass, the words spoken in unison. The songs. The simple message of the mass. The way the setting sun reflected through the stained glass windows. It felt like home. And I expect that like any home I will find it filled with both joy and unhappiness. Anger and pleasure. There is no way out of not getting the bad with the good. One has to weigh them in proportion and decided how much they can tolerate. H got it, I think, but that's his thing to write about not mine.

I'm curious to return on a more "normal" Sunday. Sundays are pretty busy for me so I was hoping to find another day they did mass in a big way but the church is pretty small so Sundays was it. I thought about looking around some more and then realized I had no interest in another church. I plan to go this Sunday. Not sure who will be attending with me. R of course has to come and Camille has expressed an interest. It may just be the three of us. I'll update more as my journey progresses.

Facebook Hates the Purposeful Boob?

Yesterday, I started to get more notices that yet another Facebook breastfeeding page had been deleted due to obscenity. This was more than an attack on art. It was an attack on a place where mothers gathered to get and give advice on breastfeeding--an important thing as women are seemingly more and more isolated from breastfeeding support communities. There were pictures. Of women nursing. I guess that was the obscene part. I have already blogged on this issue here but I felt like I needed to say something again because it's not happenstance that this is happening only to breastfeeding pages and pictures. Someone out there (Mark is it you?) hates seeing breastfeeding.

I personally, it was hard but I did it for the sake of my blog, searched for the word "boob" on Facebook. There was NOT ONE breastfeeding page in about three pages of results. Instead of finding "offensive" pictures of women nursing their babies and toddlers, I found pictures of women with HUGE breasts and kittens peeking out (no joke). I found sites with names like "Big Boobs On Fat Girls Don't Count." Nah that's not offensive. Not at all. There were not even art pictures of breasts. Instead it was just porn. Again. And Again. 

Now I am not a prude. I have no issue with breasts being displayed. I am not a big fan of female oppression and do think that some porn participates in and contributes to this oppression. But for the most part what I found was just R rated pictures for teen age boys. Still this stays up but a page that offers support to women breastfeeding gets pulled down? Wha? It's okay to support teen boy hormonal issues but not okay to support a woman nourishing her child? 

What is about our society that gets people's panties wadded up over some breast feeding? Is it because we are unable to separate women from their sexual image? Do boobs always equal sex for the general public? Is it because we are women? I find myself puzzling over these questions almost daily. I am unable to comprehend why boobs have become this battlefield. And it's more than just the issue of seeing a woman nurse. It has become a war about the woman who does breastfeed--an attack on her pictures, her personality, her attitude. I hear about how those of us who nurse are shrill, banshees who forces our boobs on every passer-by. We also shun and attack women who do not breast feed. We are out of control. Unreasonable. Sound familiar?

ETA: When I woke up this morning, I discovered that Facebook deleted a page called "The Leaky Boob." They had already deleted the page once in what they claimed was an error and reinstated it (yay!). But now they've deleted again. Very bogus and very sad. If you're on Facebook please "Like" this page http://www.facebook.com/pages/Bring-Back-the-Leaky-Boob-again/140902059300453?v=info. The Leaky Boob is a place where women can post questions and get support while breastfeeding. It is an example of the best that Facebook has to offer.

One Too Many...

Or maybe two too many children or maybe clean house+any child=chaos. Things didn't seem too hard when it was just Umberto. Of course the tiny apartment we lived in was never really clean cause well...I'm a slob. But it was never out of control, nasty. When you triple the number of kids who are creating the mess and it gets nasty really fast. I kept doing what worked back when I was a single college student: Let things get super messy and then have a marathon cleaning session. But when you have four kids, there is no time to do marathon cleaning. In between mopping and dusting, you have to pause to put band aids on microscopic cuts and make lunches for starving beasties. When you homeschool, you're interrupted about twenty times more than normal. I remember thinking that I could clean the house while the kids worked. I have a lovely image in mind (I have domestic fantasies). That doesn't happen in my world. In fact, I'm lucky if I'm even able to nurse the wee one while the older kids do their work.

All this is the lead up to my conclusion that I can not run a big family the way I ran a small family. And we're totally a big family now. Four kids just tipped us over the line for sure.  I decided it was time to woman up and organize our craziness into some kind of order. With that in mind, I totally ripped off a schedule from my friend (Hi Ivory and Thanks!). And then R decided she needs to eat all.night.long. I think that the longest she went without nursing was two hours. It makes it hard to motivate myself when I am so tired I feel slightly sick to my stomach.

But I pushed through it. I did everything on my list EXCEPT do work for my classes. Not good so I'll need to tweak. Plus if I had had to work today, I would not have gotten my kitchen clean. Now granted my kitchen was super nasty so if I can keep on top of it, I suspect it won't take as long. I also had to wear  R on my back for most of the cleaning which made it quite difficult physically. And of course it sucked and was dreadfully boring. I wish cleaning was enjoyable to me but it's so...not. I would much rather be reclined on the couch eating bonbons and reading. However, it rocked to have a clean kitchen. And it rocked to be able to spend some quality times with the beasties as they did their work.

Not sure yet how much of a domestic goddess I'm going to be but I feel like if we can keep the house at the least not skanky, we're doing good. I'm not looking for a model clean house. I just want to reduce our clutter and not have nasty food messes all over the place. I also want the beasties to be a part of the clean up. They're old enough now to help out a lot more. It's a pain to make them do it but I think it's important for them to be responsible for our home. Day 1 is down. I'm exhausted but still need to put in at least an hour on my courses.

Couldn't resist a parting shot...Piper has the best fashion sense ever.

A Year To Blog

I love making resolutions. I go through the spells where I try to be cool and all anti like and pretend to hate resolutions. BUT I really like making them. Likely I can lay the blame for this one on my family...again. My grandmother and her daughters (including my mom) would always get together around New Year's Day with coffee and notebooks. They would lay out a list of resolutions and share/argue about them with each other. It seems to wrong to not begin the New Year without making resolutions. I'll do the sharing part here. Feel free to argue.

1. I will blog. A lot. I'm tentatively making a goal to post 365 times before the year ends. This would be pictures, links, comments from the beasties. Maybe some guest spots.

2. I will start once again to get back to eating healthy and exercising. I had losing weight as my goal but I want to work on 2011 being a year where I don't focus so much on my weight. We'll see how that goes.

3. I'm going to become a Domestic Organizational Goddess. Complete with charts. (Thanks Ivory). I continue to live like I have a small family. We sort of ended small when we had Piper and totally crossed the line with Rowena. We get the "look" now when we go out in public. It's time to get my lazy ass in gear and organize us a bit. I don't want to curb the spontaneous nature of our family but I also think we need to not live in a sty. We time to do crafts and go out.

4. Limit the time suck known as Facebook. Cause really. Farmville? I want to read more. I might keep a running sidebar of what I'm reading.

5. Work on my anger. I need to chill before I have a heart attack.

There are many things that are so up in the air. I don't have enough knowledge of the future to make specific goals. I can't say I'll work on my midwifery degree because I may get accepted into grad. school and will be working on my Ph.D. I do know that I hope to meet a tribe of women to homeschool/raise children with once we move but I have no idea where we are moving to! Once I know I'll add to that my goals.

Keep reading and seeing how I do. Blogging is a great way to be held accountable.

Don't Let the Door Hit You on the Way Out..

2010 was one of those years where I have to actually think if I'd label it good or bad.

Good: Rowena. Hands down the best thing of 2010. From a great pregnancy to a magical birth to a super awesome baby, she was the highlight.

Graduate School Applications. No they were not fun. Yes they were hideously expensive. But they are out and that was a big step for us. Now we have to sit back and hope that the highlight of 2011 is acceptance to a graduate school.

Umberto's Epilepsy: Not a good thing BUT we got it under control and the meds helped make big leaps in reading. Knowing what was wrong was huge.

Love: Loving with abandon pays off.  I don't think I have ever been so happy and while I do have moments of outright panic, I am learning to embrace those moments as lessons in learning to live presently.

Bad: HOME INVASION. That sort of sucked. It totally killed my baby moon. Having to move with a five week old baby is so not fun. And then it took us so long to get sorted out. Sigh.

RIPPED: This was the lovely term that CMS gave to those teachers laid off. It all panned out with H but it didn't help baby moon. I'm a bit of a worrier so I worried a lot.

Epilepsy: While  it was nice to finally know what was wrong, watching your kid have a seizure is pretty rough. I live in a constant state of paranoia. Every shake, every tremor, is noted. I suspect we drive Umberto a little insane with our worrying.

Graduate School Applications: Cause they SUCKED. Wow what a time suck. And then they are hugely expensive and there's no guarantee they'll even pay off. And major anxiety while I wait for answers. Sigh.

And then there was all this while dealing with new baby adjustment. With a five year gap between babies, it was a tad bit like starting over. And of course she's worth it but it's still hard to go from having your nights fairly full of sleep to not sleeping at all. Going from quite a bit of personal autonomy to once again having a baby attached to you 24/7,  it is a bit shocking.

I look over this and think: Okay so it wasn't that bad! There were so many truly wonderful things and memories of the past year. And there was bad but there is always bad. Maybe it's true that the bad makes the good so much sweeter. My wish is that 2011 brings us good, and strength to ride out the bad. Here's to another year filled with love, beasties and a big move into the unknown!

Wonderfully Made

I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; 
your works are wonderful,
I know that full well. Psalm 139:14


Lying here with your velvet skin pressed against my belly, your sleep mouth still suckling, I try to reach through the fog of time to that moment of birth. The orgasmic feel of your head thrusting me open. The midwife saying "Go ahead and touch the head. The baby is right there." And I reached down to the miracle of your slick hair. I looked in wonderment at your father. It did not matter that we had performed this bit of magic three other times. The moment you left my womb for the cold air of the outside is always a moment suspended from the reality of everyday life. That moment when you are still half me and half you is an eternal second. 


With the second push, your shoulders slip out, and then another to push out your round belly, and you are pulled out and up onto my naked belly. I pull you to my body as I am holding you now. You are miraculous. Covered in birth, you are fearful. The moment of birth is fearful in the sense of awe fear. It is a tentative moment, tenuous so close to both death and life. And then there is the quiet perfection of a nose, an ear, the tiniest of fingers. Even now I am in awe that somehow you grew inside me....wonderful made in the darkness of my own body. And as I hold you, I believe in God. I praise my own body made in the image of God. Fearful and wonderful.

Slowing Down to a Halt

Even with a more chilled attitude towards the holidays, I still find myself getting a tad stressed. This year has been a bit more nuts as due to some bad planning, I am nowhere done my shopping. And I really wanted to host a little something at my place (very little as I have NO space).  End result is that I spent most of today crazed. I was trying to pick up at least a couple of rooms and catch up on laundry so that we wouldn't spend H's first day of vacation cleaning. R was extra whiny (she's trying to crawl so lots of frustration) and Piper just kept numerous tantrums. I kept trying to put R down for her nap but every time I got her to sleep, Piper would have a tantrum. At one point, I could feel my temper just boiling under the surface. I could barely control my urge to just start screaming back at Piper who was throwing a fit in her room. A friend reminded me to center myself and I kept wanting to do this but it seemed like even finding a second to do this simple act of breathing was just not going to happen.

As I was lying down with R for the tenth time to try and nurse her to sleep, I just gave up. I resolved myself to just lying there while she napped. I pulled her close to me, and began to breath with her sleep inhalations. The sweet feel of body snuggled against mine, the smile of contentment on her face. She was so totally relaxed into me. Safe. And  I just stopped. I stopped worrying. I stopped fretting about the house getting clean. About the shopping getting done. It didn't matter. All that mattered was this moment. A moment of stopping. Just being still.

It's Beginning to Look Like Christmas

For the last few years, I've managed to keep the Christmas bitch at bay. For the first few years of Umberto's life, I was super anal about Christmas. Everything HAD to be perfect. When anything went wrong, I went a little nuts complete with yelling and tears. I was way manic usually rushing around, buying, wrapping, decorating. I spent hours obsessively trying to figure out what present would make the biggest impact. I remember on Camille's first Christmas, H and I up until three a. m. building a train table for Umberto. I was so frustrated because I had to keep nursing Camille which interrupted my ability to help on the table. As the early morning crept up on us, H and I were snapping at each other more and more. Camille kept waking up and finally I was sobbing. We went to bed with the table half built. Umberto had no clue what we were working on and I felt like the whole moment was ruined. 

Of course looking back, it was silly to get caught up in the moment. The bigger picture shows a train table that was well loved through three children. It finally fall apart (literally) when Piper was about three. That's a lot of moments. 

Each year I got a bit better about letting go of the crazed woman who possessed me at the beginning of December. She was so bent on creating perfect Christmases that she kept missing out on the bigger pictures. On the years of memories being built out of decorating the tree, making cookies, laying around in pjs surrounded by wrapping paper and laughter. She was too busy trying to repair the past by fixing the present. And then one day, after another moment in tears because something didn't go perfect, I realized that I was ruining Christmas by trying so hard to make it right. And I let it go. 

Not that we don't do Christmas. We do. We all love Christmas. We love Santa (and yes I do believe). We love telling the Christmas story as well as other Yule stories about the season. We love the tree looking all crooked and gaudy from the love of the beasties. We love wrapping gifts and making cookies. We love our silly stories that are turning into tradition. And it's okay that it's not always pretty because in the end it is always perfect.

Surprise Socks

Today was rough. I went to bed too late in a desperate attempt to just have a few moments alone. I knitted until my eyes were blurry with exhaustion. At eight, Camille started to cry and moan because her stomach hurt. She woke up everyone. After she threw up, we all managed to go back to sleep. That should have been a sign of a wonderful day to come but it was not. R is in some kind of stage where she hates everything. She doesn't want to sleep, nurse, play, be in my lap, or carried in the Mei Tai. She whined all day long until I wanted to sob in utter frustration. Poor Piper is utterly neglected and sat around looking dejected which breaks my heart. The older two kids needed to do school. The house was trashed. And I just didn't have the energy to deal with any of it. I wanted to lay in my bed with the covers over my head and just sleep or cry or be still.

As I was getting ready to go shopping, I came across a lovely sock buried in the mound of clean laundry that dominates my bedroom. It's a blue/gray wool sock. A deliciously warm sock that I love wearing on these rare cold nights in the South. This sock came in unexpectedly in the mail on day with a little note from a friend announcing that it was a surprise pair of socks. I smiled then too because it came at a time when I was feeling a bit like how I felt today. The thought that my friend knit these socks and then thought of me made more than my feet feel warm. Today as I held that sock I remember that I am not alone.

Crisis of...Religion?

As many of my long time readers know, I have what I call "religion issues." I grew up in an Evangelical Christian setting (and yes I will write more about it someday). I joined a Neopagan group when I was 19 and practiced Wicca for a few years. I left. Went through an atheist thing, and then fell into the academic study of religion. I feel sometimes as I just can't escape and that maybe surrender is a better option.

At the end of my undergrad years, I was considering converting to Catholicism. There was a big gap though between my politics and those of the Catholic church. I struggled with reconciling these differences.  A friend accused me of being a hypocrite and that basically killed my desire to convert. When I meet H, the interest was awakened again as H's brand of Catholicism seemed up my alley. But it became clear as we dated that he was in his own crisis of religion and thus me converting because of him wasn't going to fly. Plus I felt that if I converted it should be because of my own desire.

Years have gone by and I still have no religion. Sometimes I feel comfortable in this place. The children have not been raised with any religion in particular. They know about religion because, well, that's what mama does for work. But we do not attend church. We don't pray as a family. No grace, no bed time prayers. We don't meditate. We don't cast spells. We do nothing. And sometimes that is really okay with me. But most of the time I feel like there is something missing. I don't know what it is, and i don't assume that all people feel this lack. But for me it is there.

For a while I played around with being a Neopagan again but that didn't cut it. I've thought about the UU but I just don't feel comfortable in the practice. Both things felt sort of disingenuous to me.  What I loved was the Catholic stuff that filtered through to us from H's mom. I loved that she lit candles for us and prayed to St. Jude to help us through our troubles. I love my images of the Virgin of Guadalupe that I have throughout the house. I love the idea of Mass, and using the Rosary to pray.

On the other side of all this, is a feeling that I there is something deficient about me for even wanting religion. Can't I just live without it? I feel silly when I talk to people about what I feel missing. The response among many of my friends is that religion is bull shit and unnecessary. And if I did do a religion it should be a nice liberal politically correct one like the UUs or Buddhism. I certainly shouldn't be trying to reconcile my radical liberal self with something like Catholicism.

Thus as Christmas approaches I find myself at an impasse in terms of religion. Do I move forward towards Catholicism which I feel drawn to and reconciled that my practice will be different from my politics? Do I just live with the lack and hope it goes away?

Perfection

We didn't do Christmas cards last year. I was tired (pregnant) and we were still reeling from Beastie Boy's first seizure. It was hard to just get normal Christmas stuff going. Plus I struggle with the environmental impact of cards. But at heart I just love Christmas cards. I love receiving them and getting them. There is something so....seasonal....about going to the mailbox and having those red and green envelopes tucked into the mailbox. And then having them shown all over the house so that you can feel the love!

This year I really want the kids to be a part of the whole season. As they get older this is such a pleasure, and I felt that it was time to introduce them to the joy of sending out holiday cards. What better way than having them MAKE the cards? Initially I had visions in my head of these beautifully crafted cards made with stamps and fancy scissors. We would be sitting around the table with our supplies neatly laid out. The children would be quiet but excited! Christmas carols would be on the radio as we worked together to create lovely visions of the season on paper. Never mind that we NEVER make cards or scrapbook or do anything remotely close to making Christmas cards. Never mind that my children never do a craft without creating a hurricane of bits of paper, pens, paint, glitter, etc. Never mind that the girls usually end up smacking each other midway through ANY project attempted together. No I had a firm image of how this was going to be done.

And then we hit the craft store. The first fight immediately broke out over stamps. There was no way I could afford a ton of stamps but there was no agreement on the horizon. Each Beastie wanted their own stamp. Then I almost has a spasm over the price of red card stock. Yes, reality was slowly sinking in...there was no way we could afford the vision. Plus the Girl Beasties had pretty different visions from each other and from me. Boy Beastie was just incredulous over the whole idea, and trailed behind us in slight mortification at even being in a craft store.

When we left, I was still trying to figure out a way to get this ball going. I had promised beastie made cards and damn it we were going to have beastie made cards. Right? I decided to check out if Target had anything. Nope. At this point, I have been to four stores, and the beastie girls are ripping into each other. I am feeling really frazzled, and my vision is starting to look a little different. The girls are at the table, and I am trying to get supplies out for cards. Baby Beastie is screaming because I am not nursing her. Boy Beastie is in his Lego haven safe from crafting and Girl Beasties. Girl Beasties are beating the crap out of each other because one said that cats suck and the other said that dogs suck. I can't find anything because the girl beasties have been slowly smuggling craft supplies into their bedroom while I am trapped on bed with Baby Beastie. When I finally find enough stuff to lay out, the beastie girls fight over materials. They create messy cards. Not perfectly crafted ones (see above). I start to think that the boxed cards with some pictures might be the answer.

We get home, and I get out the new paints for the girls.  I am tired by I promised. I lay out the newspaper, and the paper along with egg cartons filled with different colors. I am all the while trying to figure out how we're going to do the cards or if I should give in and buy photo cards from the internet. And then Camille starts painting. She's covered in paint when she's done with her flurry of creativity. She beckons me over to show her splatter painting with her hand print in the corner. She has also made a "Christmas Pegasus" in red with green wings.

No my beastie girls may not make the perfectly crafted things I see in those Waldorf craft books (damn you Waldorf and your expectations!). No they don't dive into their crafting with the quiet discipline of angelic children. No my girls craft with the same fierceness and energy that drives them through life. With abandonment, and determination, they create these things that are beautiful and unique. Really what more could I ask from a Christmas card created by the Beasties?

I've deprived the girls of crafting because of my drive for perfection. If it's not going to perfect then why bother doing it seems to be my attitude. It hampers me from so many things, and it's starting to hamper how I school my children. I've decided that we will be dong more messy artsy things. We will create with wild abandon and see what happens! We'll have smacking and frustration! We'll have paint on noses and on paper!

This year my friends will get a Beastie created card which may not be perfect but will for sure be unique.

Mothering Camille

When I throw open the back of the van to let you out, you are already sobbing. You are curved over yourself in the back seat, partially hidden by a red picnic blanket. The arch of your back curves the material into a tent which shakes as chocked, wet sounds emerge from behind the shield of your hair.

I am impatient. Angry. This is not the first time you have sobbed and howled. First there was the fit over room cleaning. With some patience, your father and I figured out you needed to be directed. You needed to be given a list of what had to be done rather than just having it. Next came the ordeal of combing through your gorgeous hair which tangles so easily. I tried to hold you close, to gently work through the felted mass that lay at the base of your next, but you screamed and bucked against me, until I was in tears with the effort of being soft with your kicking body. Before we left, we had one more meltdown over your short sleeved shirt, and jacket. Now we are again at this moment when something is too much.

But now I am tired. My patient is short. I want to scream myself. Cry. Beat my fists against the car. I want to just shut the van door and walk away. Walk away from your hot temper. Your low frustration level.

But I don't because you are not the child I do not understand. You are the familiar to my own internal landscape. You are the child I was inside. The child I did not dare to let out. And you amaze me with your freedom and your fierceness. I hope that there things explode upon us because you feel safe with being this wild creature within the circle of our love. Perhaps your ability to not hide the person you are comes from our ability to let you be. And even though I am not always the patient parent, the good parent, the parent who does not yell, I am the parent who is here. Knowing you. Understanding you. And still letting you be that wolf girl who howls moon or no moon.

Pierce Me With Your Words

According to my cup of coffee, stories are gifts.  Ti's the Season after all.
The Christmas song radio station features heartwarming tales as a gift to its listeners.

But what about the evil stepsister to those stories. The stories that are weapons.
The stories that trap with their tar baby consistency? Where are those stories?
Where are the stories that slice you open and riddle you with bullets like cartoon characters under fire?

Some stories are intentional weapons. The stories that tell you how you are and how you will be. The stories that people use to trap you into roles and lives that you do not want. Those stories wielded by clever hands weave whole worlds with no escape hatches. They are often pretty but always deadly.

And then there are the accidental weapons. The kitchen knifes of stories. They are not mean to wound but they are role switchers. Going from harmless choppers of vegetables to stabbing tools extraordinaire. Yes funny stories from the past that make the whole family laugh and nod with familiarity even as they tear you up inside. They bring dormant feelings of insecurity and pain bubbling up with each carefully crafted sentenced.

Yes, stories are gifts but they are also weapons. They pierce us. They slay us. They slice us. If we think of them as only gifts we forget the deadly power that lies behind them.

Houses

Last night, I dreamt that I was in this big house. It was a lovely house. A farm house. The kind of house that a part of me longs for. In my dream, there were people in the house who were menacing. I don't know if they human. But at some point, one of them lifted up a gun and shot me in the face. I woke up, my heart beating, scared to go back to sleep. I worried that the door was unlocked and that someone was going to break in. It took me a long time to calm down.

As I lay there waiting for sleep to come again, I realized that all of my dreams about houses end badly. I don't even pleasant dreams set in houses. I feel sad that I am unable to have a happy dream set in a place many of associate with home and family. I wonder what is about me that can only produce nightmares in this setting.