From Fearful to Wistful

Good news: My husband has been snuggling with our sweet baby the past several nights, and I've actually gotten more than four hours of sleep in a row! Woo-hoo! Mary Elizabeth has finally hit the "slept through the night" milestone. (I refuse to consider how our upcoming move will likely lead to sleep regression.)

Some lucky readers may be thinking this is insane given that she's nearly 15 months old. However, my first didn't hit this milestone until about 2 and didn't start really sleeping well until the past year (she's 5 1/2). She's a great sleeper now. She slept in to almost 9 a.m. the other day. One definite perk of homeschooling is not having to race out the door in the morning or to force groggy children out of their beds before they're ready.

When I read or hear about moms of newborns who are celebrating their little ones sleeping for five hours in a row, I'm always in shock. After the shock wears off, I start to get just an eensy-weensy bit envious of these moms. Then I start thinking really wholesome, Christian thoughts like, "Well, their kids must not be nearly as inquisitive as mine." Then I curse myself for being so catty and start to question my parenting tactics. Maybe I'm just doing everything wrong. Then I remember my second child slept well all on her own and remind myself that nature sometimes wins over nurture. Or maybe it's how much I nurture that makes my kids less of sleepers.

Whatever the case, rest assured (hopefully, you rest better than I do) I'm not looking for sleep advice here. I've read all the "how to get your kids to peacefully drift off to Slumberland and stay there all night long" books. When the baby's in bed with me, I nurse in the side-lying position, which is supposed to mean I scarcely wake up for nighttime feedings (ha!). I physically cannot bear hearing my babies "cry it out," so maybe it is my fault my children do not sleep long stretches at wee ages. (Yet, again, my second slept through the night and slept very well until just recently when nighttime fears have been causing her to wake frequently, and I used the same sleep strategy with her. So there.) :-)

Really, what my recent stretch of sleep has done for me (besides given me more time to yak about sleep or lack thereof) is given me hope. My recent bout of postpartum depression left me questioning my ability to care for another baby (and myself). For the first time in my life, I was really, really fearful about the prospect of my fertility returning.

But that's all changing, thanks to God's grace.

This morning I actually was able to wake up just before 6 a.m. because I wasn't up all night. I prayed. I went on an early morning walk. I had a cup of coffee in silence before my preschooler shuffled down the stairs and cuddled with me on my lap. I burrowed my nose in her hair, and I swear I smelled sunshine. I felt so stinkin' happy just having a decent night's rest and wondered if I've been a sleep martyr for too long.

Then a part of me (the insane part) started to feel wistful that my baby is already starting to need me less at night.

It's good to feel wistful instead of fearful. This is where God Family Planning is such a beautiful thing. My own fertility is connected to how frequently I nurse - especially at night. So just as my baby (or I guess I should say toddler) and I are beginning the slow process of night weaning, I'm beginning to see my fertility as the gift that it is. Just as I'm blessed with more sleep, my heart is starting to long again for the hope of new life.

God is so wise. If only I trusted His plan for my family and me more fully.

Maternal Pacing

This post is a part of the inaugural Catholic Parenting Blog Carnival hosted by the lovely Maman A Droit. I was invited to submit a post tied loosely to the following Scripture: "Therefore, since we are surrounded with such a great cloud of witnesses, let us rid ourselves of every burden and sin that clings to us and persevere in running the race that lies before us." -Hebrews 12:1-2 (NAB Version)

Running used to be my favorite form of exercise. A chronic injury has sidelined me for several years, but I do hope to hit the pavement again one of these days. Although I never was a good sprinter despite my noble efforts on the high school track team, long distance running was something my body understood. While training to run a marathon, I was forced to master the power of pacing. I learned to not compare myself to others cruising ahead of me or those lagging behind. The only pace I was concerned with was my own and as my runs grew longer, I stopped paying much attention to the watch strapped upon my sweaty wrist. In fact, on the day of my first marathon, I decided to not wear a watch at all.


As I was running mile upon mile, I didn’t look too far ahead. I didn’t concern myself if my legs would still be moving by mile 20 or if I’d ever make it to that mirage of a finish line. My legs did start to feel like putty, but somehow I pushed forward. My mind and my spirit took over when my body was faltering.

And eventually I finished the race.

Imagine my utter dismay when I saw that I crossed the finish line in under four hours.  After I gulped down some water, I celebrated my victory. But my triumph transcended a physical feat. I’d not only finished my first marathon, but I had rid myself of the sin of comparison or pride and persevered in running the race.

Crossing that finish line was a reminder that sprinting too far ahead only leads to burnout, injury, and disappointment.

People have a cliche way of saying something like how life is a marathon, not a sprint. Marathon running - where your mind takes over even when your body starts to sputter - made sense to me. Yet when I attempt to apply this principle to life, I frequently come out lacking.  I may have once been a long distance runner on the trails, but I’m a sprinter in life. Not only am I fast-paced, but I like to be in control, too.

And I sometimes pay far too much attention to what everybody else around me is doing.

Thankfully, parenthood has forced me to slow down, to let go of the illusion of control, and to focus more on what I can do than what I can’t do or what others can or can’t do.

It all started with labor.

When my husband and I were timing my contractions with our first child, it wasn’t making any sense. Despite having been a diligent student in my Bradley class who learned there was no such thing as a textbook labor, I began to doubt my body and my sporadic contractions, especially when my midwife reported I was having dysfunctional labor. Whatever that means. I briefly considered an epidural or Pitocin - anything to allow me to sprint ahead and to just hold my baby. Thankfully, my husband squeezed my hand - hard! harder! - and asked me if this is what I really wanted. It wasn’t, of course, so I persevered and was blessed to be able to have the natural childbirth I dreamed of.

My next two birth experiences were much better, partly because I now had an amazing midwife who empowered women to trust themselves and their bodies but also because I didn’t fight the process so much. I didn’t obsess over the timing of my contractions. I listened to my body and when it felt like I could not endure another moment of labor, I relied on the strength that lies in my soul, made that final big push, and then welcomed more babies into my arms.

If only everything in parenting was as simple as labor.

I’m sure some moms are in severe eye-rolling mode at this point but for me, labor was the more straightforward, empowering part of parenthood. So are the early weeks of motherhood when your baby’s needs and wants are one in the same, and everyone you know is bringing you meals and letting you nap and soak up the sweetness of your babe.  Things start to get more complicated when you’re on your own and they really get tough as your babies - all gooey grins and sweet coos - grow into willful people, sometimes mini versions of yourself, and you begin to see those parts of you that probably drive others crazy. Yet, your husband, your mom, your best pal, they somehow still love you.

And you still love your child - quirks, maddening defiance, and all.

Maybe I wanted parenting to be a straightforward sprint. If I did certain things - breastfed, implemented positive discipline, filled my little voids of wretched, endless penury with all the love I could - then poof! somehow we’d arrive from point A (a little, malleable human being) to point B (an upstanding, caring, faithful adult who would always remember to call her wonderful mom at least once a week).

But nothing is so black and white. Certainly not parenthood.

Mothering, nurturing these tiny souls God has entrusted with me, is most definitely a marathon, not a sprint. (Cliche, I know. Bear with me here. Remember I had a theme to stick to.) My children demand more than short bursts of love; they need a fountain of love, an endless supply that rains down on them even when they don’t deserve a drop of it. This means I have to keep on giving and giving, and a lot of times I don’t want to give, mostly because I’m just physically or emotionally exhausted. Sadly, sometimes I don’t give as much as I should. (Like this morning when I snuck out of bed early and within minutes of being downstairs I heard my 3-year-old take it upon herself to wake her baby sister. And then she proceeded to come down and want me, all of me, at right that moment. So much for a quiet morning. But I swear I heard a whisper in my heart: This is your chance to show love when you want to be selfish. This is a test. Well, I got a big fat "F.") Most of the time I do give, but I don’t always do it joyfully. At. All. But the good news is my children are givers, too. They certainly love me when I’m unlovable and  am guilty of rearing that ugly mommy monster head.

With three children under my belt, I like to (foolishly) think of myself as a more veteran mom who is slowing down a little more every day. In the trenches of motherhood, speed is highly overrated. If we’re always looking to the next milestone ahead, if we’re sprinting from one activity to the next, if we’re telling ourselves things will get easier, better when our child reaches this age or that age, we’re losing what is good and right with the moment.

As a marathon runner, I learned that too much speed was dangerous. If I pushed myself too hard for too long in the beginning of a practice run, I depleted my energy stores and had to slow way down to compensate. My body ended up paying for it, too. The same is true with parenting. Moving too fast isn’t good for you or your kids.  

Speed kills. It kills joy. It kills a child’s sense of wonder. It kills your sense of calm. And it will drive you mad.

So will comparing yourself to that “perfect” mom down the street or at your parish or the one with the blog you salivate over during your weak moments. As a runner, I learned to focus on my own pace not that of those around me. I’m learning to do the same as a mom and not pay nearly as much attention to the wrong “cloud of witnesses” - all those well-meaning, over-diagnosing “experts” who have the surefire solution to all of my and my children’s sleep woes or any other parental problem I might be grappling with.

Instead, I’m looking to the only cloud of witnesses that really matter - God, the saints, and of course, Our Blessed Mother who knows what it’s like to love until it hurts and to lose the one you love so much.

With God on my side, I’ll continue to find my pace, to plod, day by day, along this parenting path with perseverance and a whole lot of prayer, and it's my hope and my goal to always remember to slow down just a little bit so my kids and I have a chance to enjoy the scenery.

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Don't forget to check out these other great Carnival of Catholic Parenting posts:

• Julie @ Journey to the Simple Life talks about her struggles to be a positive witness through her speech in her post, Finding a New Way.
• Heidi @ Extraordinary Moms Network reflects on why she turns to the cloud of witnesses in Sweet Mysteries of Life & Faith.
• Cassie @ There's A Pickle in My Life talks about the temptation to let others' choices distract us from our own families in her post, Running the Race.
• Maman A Droit compares the people who help her be a better parent to the people who helped her be a better cross-country runner years ago, in her post, Run Faster!

Four Reasons It's Tough for Moms to Find Balance When It Comes to Technology

After I fessed up about my tortured relationship with technology, several emails landed in my inbox from other moms out there who find it difficult, at times, to put email, Internet, texting, blogging, etc. in their proper place.

Why, I began to wonder, do we struggle with temperance and prudence when applied to technology?

I've come up with a few theories as I've sorted through my own feelings.

Technology allows moms to multitask like never before.

Moms are multitasking mavens, so it's no wonder we turn to technology to make our life easier and to allow us to do more at once. The problem is, a lot of us assume we can do more than we're really capable of without becoming overwhelmed or stressed.

An email from a reader explained it this way: "You have observed in yourself and other moms what many of the cognitive psychology people are observing and trying to inform people of - that multi-tasking is incredibly inefficient and no one realizes it because people have a natural tendency to overestimate their cognitive capacities (think texting and driving) and think that they can handle it all. It's hard not to do and we have to do it as moms, but there's only so much attention to go around, so something's gotta give."

She's on to something here. Somehow I have it my head that I can cook dinner and sweep the floor and talk on the phone and check my email on my Smartphone and keep my kids happy and maintain serenity in my own heart. When I write that, I realize just how ridiculous that is. And even if you can juggle a million things at once, that doesn't mean you should. This is a prescription for burnout.

You'd think I'd have learned this lesson by now. My first major burnout episode occurred during my senior year of high school when I was training and preparing to join the cross country team, taking a load of AP classes, student council secretary, in a play, dating my first real boyfriend, and trying to keep my weight below a certain number.

One evening I came home feeling awful. I ended up being diagnosed with a serious case of mono that led to severe swelling of my spleen and liver. To tell you how warped I am, my parents actually caught me trying to exercise - even though I was at risk of rupturing my spleen - when I was supposed to be resting in my bedroom. Some teens sneak pot into their rooms. My contraband? Dumbbells. (Weirdo!) I was out of school for three months, and my doctor said I was lucky that it wasn't longer. Good news is I'm not nearly as psycho as I was then. Really. I promise. :-) But, clearly, I struggle with trying to do too much, and technology can be a danger to Type Aers like me and can contribute to a major multitasking meltdown.

Technology, with its promises of speed and efficiency, leads us believe we can be everywhere and do virtually everything at once. But what it really does is turns our brains to mush, makes us feel overwhelmed, and keeps us from living a present. Whenever I've caught myself moving at a frantic clip and attempting to accomplish too much, everything becomes a blur, including good times.

Technology is necessary, ubiquitous, and offers limitless information.

In this day and age, it's difficult to live without the Internet, email, etc. Even my mom who suffers from complete computerphobia recognizes the need to have email and has just recently entered the texting world. (For the past week, she's actually been sending me an encouraging text each morning like: "You are doing the most important and most difficult job in God's eyes. Give yourself a break.") In fact, many of the volunteer committees my mom belongs to at her parish rely on email as the main form of communication. She accepts that she has to log on from time to time to be an effective volunteer, but you'd never find her reading anyone's blog (other than mine, of course. Thanks, Mom!).

The same holds true for moms who are household organizers and in control of their kids' schedules; we rely on technology to stay informed and keep organized (I love my iCal and I actually need to return to really using my daily schedule, which allots certain blocks for screen time.) Last fall Madeline played soccer, and I never received a phone call from any of her coaches. Instead, they communicated everything via email.

As a homeschooling mom, I'm extremely grateful for the vast resources available to me on the Web. However, the fact that technology is necessary, everywhere, and provides access to infinite information makes it more challenging to strike the right balance.

The same reader who shared her thoughts on the problem with multitasking said she and her husband have discussed buying Smartphones and have decided against getting them, partly because it would only increase the temptation to constantly be connected and to miss out on the realness of life.

So many of us carry our Smartphones with us. We have a computer (or even computers!) in our homes. We log on to the Internet just to research the Palaeozaic Era for our budding paleontologist, but then we fall down the rabbit hole of information. Our curiosity gets the best of us just because there's so much tantalizing information sucking us in. What could have taken 15 minutes ends up being 45 minutes and you've somehow ended up on a site with the inside scoop on the latest summer fashion trends, which obviously has nothing to do with Dimetrodons roaming the land.

One of the reasons food addictions are so difficult to master is because food is essential to living and also an integral part of gathering and celebrating together with our family and community. Technology is becoming like food. We need it to be successful and to raise our children in this digital age, but we should be the ones controlling it, not the other way around. This becomes tough - especially when we carry around a Smartphone at all times. Consider a glutton recovering from a food addiction carrying around a chocolate bar in her pocket everywhere she went. This would demand more self-denial than if she could close her fridge or toss out the chocolate bar after she left the restaurant.

Technology makes us feel less isolated.

Motherhood is often a solitary job, especially when you're in the season of motherhood I'm in and are often at home alone with little ones. In times past, moms sought a sense of community beyond the walls of their homes. I remember talking to an older woman in her seventies who remembers having afternoon tea time with ladies in her neighborhood while their children played together. This was an opportunity for moms to connect. The speed of life, suburbia, the death of a true sense of community make it more difficult for these informal, in-the-flesh gatherings.

Nowadays we're just a click away from meeting new "friends." The computer - from online discussion boards to emailing friends - can provide a wide social outlet. I know one veteran mom who's very involved in online communities who says she wishes she had this when she was the mom of young children because she often felt lonely. I agree that technology and the Internet in particular can facilitate friendships and offer encouragement for moms, but there's a temptation to peg ourselves as social butterflies just because we're "chatting" with lots of e-friends - even if we don't make one single real human connection on a given day (or worse, week!).

As I prepare to leave my current community and the real life friends I've grown to love over the past several years, there's a part of me that is anxious about moving to a new town and having to start all over to build new friendships. Thankfully, I quickly discovered a homeschooling message board and then a conscious parenting Yahoo group all with local ties to our new home. It's been very helpful and has made me aware of resources in the area and also made me feel like I already have some new friends. And, yet, I've never met any of these women. I'm sure I will once we move, but I'll have to make the effort and not get lazy or think I'm connected just because I have a few new email buddies. We can't fool ourselves into thinking we have a sense of community just because we have 233 friends on Facebook or "talk" to people on Twitter or message boards.

Technology makes us feel productive even when, in reality, we're wrestling with sloth.

Sally Thomas had an excellent post related to this. She wrote, "I wonder about time spent staring at a screen for any reason. Obviously I do it, and I'm really not gearing myself to stop (relax, O faithful remnant). But it seems to me that it becomes a kind of pseudo-routine which supplants real routines, which of course are the bane of the acedic. I get up in the morning and check my email, for example -- before and often instead of saying the Morning Office. A problem? I think so. I spend half an hour writing away at my novel, and then half an hour glancing for a second at Facebook. A problem? Well, it's not like I have half-hours to throw away."

I've never thought of myself as someone who had to worry about sloth. I'm a worker bee. I get things done. But a few months ago as I was dredging myself from the mires of depression, I remember thinking, "Oh, this is all too much. I just can't do it all, so why even try?" So there were days when I didn't bother to take a shower. Now I'm not judging any mom of little ones who doesn't bathe regularly. There are days when it really is tough to find time to groom. However, there were some days when I avoided showering or some other task that seemed pointless or boring and, yet, somehow I still managed to find time to read a favorite blog.

As I've been praying about the future of my online presence, I've realized that idleness is not found only in doing nothing but also in doing things other than what is demanded of us in the office of our life. The trouble is if we've posted several witty entries on our blog or sent messages to our favorite Facebook friends or launched an engaging conversation in our favorite social network, we might convince ourselves that we're being productive. Look at all these words I've put out there, all these people I've connected with today. But if I'm putting other necessary, albeit boring duties on the backburner, then I'm still guilty of sloth. We often can't measure what we do as wives and mothers; there's no software to gauge your success as a parent. But our work - even the most tedious tasks like removing crud from the high chair - is so very important.

Consider the good wife of Proverbs 31. She's one industrious lady. "She obtains wool and flax and makes cloth with skillful hands. Like merchant ships, she secures her provisions from afar. She rises while it is still night, and distributes food to her household." Those are just few of the duties she embraces without complaint. Never does she bemoan the frustrations and the inconveniences of working so hard. Never does she say, "Well, I'll make those coverlets just as soon as I throw away 30 minutes on Twitter."

Technology can have a healthy, helpful role in our lives. I really believe that, but we can't use technology like blogging, social networking, emailing, etc. or for that matter, any pastime we pursue - no matter how busy it makes us feel - to merely be an escape from the ennui of motherhood.

What about you? Why do you think a lot of people and moms in particular struggle with putting technology in its place?

*And for those of you who don't blog, don't care about technology but just happen to occasionally like to see only the most flattering photos of my kids, I promise to return to my regularly scheduled content soon. :-)

Yet Another "Technology is the Source of Angst" Post

I had a lot of free time today, thanks to playtime with Pop. My husband's father is retired and had been coming weekly to play with the girls while I crept upstairs to write. Then he got sick and landed himself in the hospital for a few days. He's getting better, but his recovery has left him feeling weak and tired. Since running after three kiddos five and under makes anyone feel weak and tired, I recommend starting out strong and full vigor. But he wanted to come; he missed spending time with the girls. So today he arrived with a khaki knapsack brimming with books and a few tasty treats.

I hadn't realized how much his visits meant to me until I no longer had them. Neither had the girls. My oldest begged for Pop to stay. And even though the baby needed mama every now and then and Rae sneaked up to my room a few times and sat beside me while I typed, they all had so much fun having an indoor picnic, a pretend tea party, and hearing stories about giants in magical lands.

While they enjoyed each other's company, I was able to catch up on some book writing. I'm working on the toughest two chapters. The rest of the book has come out fairly easily, but these chapters have been more difficult. There have been many starts and stops as well as blog and Facebook breaks, I'm afraid.

Actually, today I found myself squandering time by engaging in a conversation after my most recent feature at Faith & Family LIVE! I responded to someone who had commented, closed the screen, pulled up my book again, and went back to the work I'd set out to accomplish while I had helping hands around. But then I had another idea pop into my head about the comment, so I went back to the combox and noticed I'd accidentally made a gross grammatical error - the kind that makes me cringe when I read it. So I left another comment correcting it, and I forgot about why I'd revisited the site in the first place. (Yes, my 14-month-old is still nursing throughout the night leading to brain sludge.) Then I went back to my book, wrote a few more sentences, read what I'd written, thought it was about as interesting as watching NASCAR (my apologies to any NASCAR fans out there), and decided to check out my Google Reader. There I discovered post after post questioning whether technology is a blessing or a burden. I read Does My Blackberry Make Me a Bad Parent? (HT: Elizabeth Foss) and this passage screamed out at me:

It was a Saturday, and he and I were walking down the street, ostensibly together. I was answering a text.

My son sighed loudly with an “Uch." I looked up, innocently.

“What?” I said.

He just shook his head. “You look at that thing more than you look at my face," he said sadly.

I wondered how many of us technology-tethered moms have made our children feel this way even if they haven't said so much. My kids haven't ever said anything like that, but my daughter did recently declare, "You and Daddy sure do love your iPhones."

At the time, I chuckled and told her we appreciated them because they made our life easier, but I didn't love my iPhone like I loved her or her Daddy or even a good piece of dark chocolate. But after I read the blackberry article as well as another thought-provoking post from Betty Duffy, I wondered what kind of messages we send our kids by constantly being connected.

I also began to sift through my memory to determine if my daughter had ever out of the blue said anything remotely close to, "You sure do love God."

I'm not sure she has.

That makes me sad. It also forces me to take a look at what I'm doing to show my kids what my priorities in life are. I can give my family and my faith all the lip-service I want, but if I'm glued to my iPhone when my child is grasping for my attention or if I'm reading "religious" blogs instead of spending more time in prayer, something isn't right. Actually, nothing is right.

I'm sorry if this post is redundant. I keep coming back to the topic of being a present mom and how technology might interfere with that. And, yes, my love-hate relationship with technology is a recurring theme.

Aside from the ability to be connected all day, thanks to my iPhone, I now write almost strictly for online media. This didn't used to be the case. I can't give up writing. I have a compulsion to write, to piece together words and phrases; yet, sometimes I wonder if the Internet is the best medium for me to do this. After writing a few more sentences for my book today, I started perusing my old fiction folder and discovered short stories I'd written that had never made it to the Internet. My writing was honest. I wasn't writing for an interactive audience that could instantly reject or celebrate my words. I was writing fiction. I miss fiction. I'd probably have time to write more fiction if I didn't spend so much time interacting with readers in the combox or correcting my stupid typos.

One particular piece of old fiction my eyes stumbled upon was never read by anyone else. Yet, even if I did decide to submit it to some literary journal, I wouldn't have to worry about multiple rejections as I do when I write for the Web. In my print journalism days, I'd write a query and then either it would be accepted or rejected. If my idea was accepted, I'd write the piece, it would be published, and that was it. I might receive some feedback, but it was nothing like it is now that I write for the Internet. It took more of an effort for someone to write me a letter or even find my email address, and shoot me an email. It wasn't interactive. I also couldn't self-edit what I'd written. There were a few columns that ended up in print that made me wince. I'd see ways I could have tightened up the piece. New images or words might surface that perhaps would have been more powerful. But what was written was written. There was no point in second guessing myself.

The interactivity of online writing sets you up for second guessing yourself. It sets others up for second guessing you, too. An editor can accept your work, but others might not, and it's terribly easy for them to let you know just what they think. Click on the hyperlinked email address, and you can point out all of the author's erroneous beliefs. Type in that cryptic security code, and you can praise the writing or critique it. It's all very impulsive. There's often no filter. It's open-ended. There's always more to say, edits you can make, clarifications. You can write sloppy because you know in the back of your mind you can go back and correct yourself. You can put solipsistic, whiny posts out there and then delete them once you've recovered from your state of ridiculous introspection. (Perhaps this post will - poof! - disappear.) The instant feedback, the instant gratification as well as the instant degradation, all those free flowing ideas - it can just be too much.

Maybe it's just me. Maybe other moms are able to strike the perfect balance, but I find it interesting that I discovered so many posts about the downside of technology. We're spending time using technology to ponder whether technology is helpful or hurtful.

Meanwhile, our kids are growing up.

Like so much in life, the Internet, blogging, discussion boards, participation in a combox are not inherently bad. Technology is not a blessing or a burden. It just is. Many technological moms have mastered the the virtue of temperance. I'm not sure I have. And, honestly, I'm not sure if I should keep trying or put the kibosh on this whole blog.

There. I said it. It's been weighing on my heart for months now. To blog or not to blog? Should I just limit myself to one post a week? But what if one of my kids says something really funny? I want to document these precious years. But I also want to live them. Should I just promise not to respond in any combox after any article I write even if I could provide additional information to a reader or even if I'm burning to defend my worldview? How do I find that balance? If you're a blogging and/or iPhone/Blackberry equipped and/or journalist with an online presence and/or Facebooking and/or Twitter mom, how do you find that balance? (Look at me: Making a demand for your sacred time.)

The last time I was seriously considering ditching the blog, I randomly received the most gracious note from a reader asking me to never stop blogging because my words offered her encouragement as a wife and mother. And the kudos wasn't from my mom either, but a stranger who had taken the time to thank me for using my time to encourage her. That was enough to keep me (and my ego) writing on this online forum. Maybe I can make a difference and use technology and blogging to give God the glory.

But today I read this passage over at Betty Duffy:

...one of our camping companions, a liberal arts professor, who spends his summers attempting publication in academic journals, expressed a serious amount of distaste for all the women spinning their wheels trying to keep up a blog—something so transient, so inconsequential, so self-oriented. “What are your fans doing while you’re gone this weekend?” he asked, “Did you leave a note so no one would freak out?”

And I wondered if I was putting too much stock in my handful of fans rather than considering God's call for my family or even what my husband wants. He doesn't get the whole blog thing. He enjoys my features and columns, but blogging is different. It is all too voyeuristic to him. He also sees me trying to juggle a million things at once and points out that blogging is an easy ball to drop. But I enjoy it (most of the time). Many times it's reading others' blogs that's the source of my consternation. My husband also was the one who pointed out once that all these uber blogging moms who write about being full-time moms aren't really full-time moms. They're working moms. Maybe part-time working moms, but they're devoting a big chunk of their time to doing something other than raising their kids. He wasn't suggesting this was bad. Nor was he intending to make me feel guilty for blogging. My writing (not my blogging, mind you, but my freelance work) made it possible for me to stay home during his medical training. My husband understands my need to write and is happy I'm able to have Pop come over and play with our girls on occasion. He knows I'm not depriving my kids and am an attentive mom who takes her job of nurturing her children very seriously. He just doesn't want me to put unnecessary pressure on myself or to wonder why I can't be more like so-and-so mom who always has pithy Tweets on Twitter, writes witty posts that never have typos, and engages in thoughtful combox discussions. I'm not an uber blogger, and I probably never will be. Partly because I'm obviously not very good at finding balance. So many women have to struggle to find a balance between motherhood and work. But blogging - whether I'm reading a blog or writing on my own blog - is not mandatory work. I don't have trouble putting a novel down when I'm sleepy. I shouldn't have trouble walking away from the glowing screen of my computer or iPhone either. Once a week I do fast from technology and I don't miss it. Sometimes I want more time away from it all. If I don't write for a few days, I miss writing. But I don't miss the computer. I miss the act of writing.

Awhile back, my spiritual director had encouraged me to keep writing/blogging when pockets of time became available. If it was God's will for me to write, I would be gifted with time.

Sometimes, though, I make my own time at the expense of my family. I might stay up too late leaving me more sluggish in the morning. I might forgo a sweat session that would leave me feeling healthy and refreshed just because something "bloggable" happened to me today. I might squander time that was given to me.

I recently had a mom I was interviewing for a future article drop me a quick line about something she needed to provide me with before I could wrap up the assignment. The mom mentioned her kids' ages and expressed concern about finding the time to write something up. Her three kids were around my kids' ages. She mentioned how she could not synchronize nap times and that quiet time was hit or miss. (The same holds true for me.) Then she said she was always very, very tired in the evenings. (The same holds true for me.) She stated all of this as fact. There were no apologies. She seemed to have accepted the phase of life she was in as well as her own limitations. She said she didn't have all that much time for email or online things. She obviously used technology since we were emailing, but she put it in its place, and she recognized that no amount of technology was going to change her into a Super Woman. Sometimes that's what I want from my email inbox, my online writing, and my iPhone. I want to be able to do more, and at times, be more.

God wants me to be happy with less. I want to be happy with less. Just how I make that happen, I'm not sure.

---

UPDATE: There's an interesting discussion following Betty Duffy's Disembodied by Technology post that has me thinking. Betty poses the question: "Is blogging self-care?" For me, I'm not sure. Writing is self-care, but publishing my words and ramblings online? The jury's still out.

She also writes in the combox: "Other internet dependence factors: the onslaught of a low-grade depression over the past few months, whereby other labors like gardening and house-cleaning seem futile and pointless, and the internet, though also futile and pointless to some extant, provides just the tiniest bit of a buzz."

My regular readers know I've been grappling with postpartum depression. Ironically, it started last summer - the same time some of my posts and thoughts questioning the worth of blogging started to surface. Coincidence? I'm thinking not. The instant feedback and gratification I mentioned above offered me, at times, the "tiniest bit of buzz" when I was submerged in my postpartum darkness. But that buzz was fleeting (like any buzz), so I sought more buzzes. Then I felt guilty for seeking the wrong kind of buzz.

I'm wondering if detachment - not complete obliteration - is the solution. When we learn to detach ourselves from food, we can't give up eating completely. We have to learn to eat to live instead of living to eat. As an e-friend suggested, it might be easier to just quit blogging altogether rather than cultivate the virtue of temperance and find balance. But maybe I need to take the more challenging route and learn to use technology wisely, prudently. Or maybe I'm just rationalizing because I selfishly don't want to stop blogging.

A Humble Offering

Last month (yes, it's June already!) we weren't able to attend a May Crowning for Mary. Last year's event left quite an impression on the girls, and they were terribly disappointed to not pay a visit to Our Blessed Mother and crown her with flowers. So we decided to have our own ceremony. We ventured outdoors, and the girls picked wildflowers, weeds really. Then we came home, and Madeline spent half an hour arranging clusters of white clover and dandelions around Mary

I can't be sure, but I don't think the Mystical Rose minded shining in the midst of the scraggly dandelions one bit. Like most good mothers, she recognized the love behind the gift. I would be wise to discern it, too, behind all those small gifts my children offer me every day. From the handpicked flowers to the crayon scribbles, pieces of my children's hearts are found in these humble offerings.

Moms In Training

I got to hold this tiny treasure today. He was absolutely scrumptious. Those tiny toes. The grunts and coos. Even the present he made in his diaper while nestled in my arms left me pining for a wee one, a small taste of heaven (I'm insane, I know). Madeline was pining, too. On the way home, she couldn't stop talking about him. "Doesn't he make you want to have another baby? I can't stop thinking about him. You know what I liked about holding him the most? His warm body on mine and the way he 'sticked' out his little tongue. He was so cute."

My friend's big sister wanted Madeline to come play dress up with her, but she was very reluctant to let go of that baby.

While my younger girls weren't quite as hands-on with the newborn today, earlier they began fighting  over a book I ought to be reading until big sister Rachel remembered that empathy and sharing are some of the best ways to deal with ones smaller than you. I suppose it's never too early to start taking those small steps toward faithful motherhood. :-)

 

The Picture

The Picture

The painter has with his brush transferred the landscape to the canvas with such fidelity that the trees and grasses seem almost real; he has made even the face of a maiden seem instinct with life, but there is one picture so beautiful that no painter has ever been able to perfectly reproduce it, and that is the picture of the mother holding in her arms her babe. 

-William Jennings Bryan 

That's my mama and me on my very first birthday. Mom, you've given me the best possible gifts - first my own life and then yours. Thanks for always being there for our family. You're wonderful! (And so are you, Nana!  You're really like a second mom to me. Much love...)

To all the mothers in my life and to all of the mothers who somehow found their way to this little corner of Cyberspace, happy, happy Mother's Day!

I (Almost) Heart My Mom Bod

Someone recently referred to my five-year-old as a "skinny, little thing."

A lot of women would love to have someone use those adjectives to describe them, but not my girl. Madeline was aghast. "I am not skinny," she said with great indignation placing her hand on her jutted out (skinny) hip.

"Y..." I stopped myself. I was about to say, "Yes, you are," but why? She didn't want to be labeled as skinny. She saw it as a defect not an elusive prize like so many of us do.

So instead I agreed with her. "You're right. You're healthy and strong."

She beamed. Then she flexed her big biceps before skipping off to play.

Later that same day I'm undressing when I catch a glimpse of my reflection in that nervy, big-mouthed full-length mirror of mine. It doesn't matter how many crunches I do, my mirror affronts me with the cold, hard truth that my third baby has left my stomach a bit mushy. Clothes hide it well, but the naked truth is much more revealing. 

Everything has shifted, including, thank goodness, the way I'm starting to think of my softer form. I'd like to think my daughter's positive self-image is rubbing off on me. I love how she sees herself as not being a "skinny, little thing" but a healthy girl with quick legs and strong arms. When do girls start idolizing thinness instead of strength, anyway?

I'm not sure, but I know it is motherhood that has helped me to be more aware of the beauty of my body - and certainly, its stamina. Running a marathon before I had kids was nothing compared to the endless physical work of being a mom to three little ones!

Three babies later, I see my body as changed but not flawed. I don't disparage myself so much. I don't pick apart my body (too often). I still have bad days when I'm tempted to allow my weight or my clothing size to evaluate my worth, but I have many, many more good days. Days when I remind myself that anything worth creating bids a price from its creator. (I'd like to remind Jillian Michaels of this, too, after she rejected pregnancy out of fear of what it might do to her body.) God has chosen me to co-create babies. And so my body has paid a price. It probably will never be the same as it once was in my pre-mom days. And I'm starting to be okay with that. Not always head-over-heels in love with the idea of my "mom bod" - but I've accepted the physical changes as a part of my calling, and there are plenty of days when I find I'm content with my body. And I'm always thankful for it and its power to bring forth and nourish new life.

"Let's go play!" my children shout as they barge into the room. I say good-bye to my reflection, and I step into life. And I think I look pretty good doing just that.

----

What would you say to Jillian Michaels after she was quoted as saying, "I'm going to adopt. I can't handle doing that to my body. Also, when you rescue something, it's like rescuing a part of yourself"?

As I recently wrote over at Kind Conversation, I would tell her something like this: Becoming a mom doesn't mean you transform into an unattractive lump. But you do change and so does your body. Truth is, I don't need sculpted shoulders or six-pack abs. I'd rather have strong enough arms that can hold a toddler. A lightly-padded lap for a small child to rest upon. Fit legs to chase an older child in a game of tag. Pregnancy is a physical sign we are living out our vocations. The physical marks of carrying a baby and motherhood may not be easy to grapple with, but they are sacrificial signs of our love for our family.

I'd also tell Michaels that while it's true that motherhood may leave you with a slightly softer form and it may even hijack your sleek abs, there's nothing like bringing a child into the world to make you feel strong. 

I've obviously been thinking a lot about this topic and honestly, I feel badly for Michaels. Perhaps in her heart of hearts she'd love to carry a child, but she's afraid of losing her career - a career that has been built around having a killer body. Her self-image is so wrapped around the way she looks like so many women in Hollywood (and sadly, so many of us, too). In Hollywood, the pressure to be thin, flawless, forever young, and perfectly lovely is tremendous. I feel sad for these beautiful women who have been given so much but are not as content as I am even though I walk around in a mist of Eau du Breastmilk, don't wear designer clothes, and boast a cushy tummy.

I was reading about St. Therese the Little Flower tonight and came across these words of her: "For one pain endured with joy, we shall love the Good God more forever." I thought about how it is our sufferings - whether they come in the form of morning sickness or mourning the body we once had - that will help us to love God more, to be like God more who gave up his only Son as a sign of his great love for us. 

So there's certain dying to self, as a someone eloquently wrote over at Kind Conversation, a dying to our youthful bodies that comes with motherhood, age, or disease. But in that dying, there is joy. There is new life. There is goodness. And there's inner peace that can't be found by looking in the mirror. 

What I've also been thinking about is how  thankful I am that I'm out of the limelight. I once considered pursuing a career in acting and spent a summer in Los Angeles where my looks were picked apart - not easy at all. Horrible for a young girl with a fragile self-image, actually. Perhaps if I'd stayed along that route, I, too, would have said something like what Michaels said more out of fear than anything else, especially given my own struggles with disordered eating and body image. (Michaels was supposedly an overweight kid and suffered horribly for it, so I'm sure this is coming into play as well. I don't care if she says she's over that part of her past. I know from experience body image problems have a way of rearing their ugly heads even after you thought you'd slayed them for good.)

I'm thankful the only paparazzi I have checking me out are three little girls - one of which was watching me clean up after dinner with my hair all askew and said out of the blue, "You are 'bootiful,' Mommy." 

The funny thing is despite not looking my best, I felt really, really beautiful at that moment. I want all women to feel that way without having to conform to a certain physical ideal. That's tough for women like Michaels whose body is what has helped her earn fame and recognition. So let's pray for those women like Michaels who have put so much emphasis on their bodies or faces or the size of their clothing almost as a matter of survival. The media is being tough on Michaels now because of her comment, but imagine if she packed on a few pounds. Then they'd be attacking her for letting herself go. 

Let's also pray that we and our children don't fall into the trap of believing we should be made in the unrealistic image of media when we are fearfully, wonderfully made in the image of the Divine Author.

Some Further Thoughts on Feminism, Motherhood, and Having It All

I recently wrote a column for Inside Catholic that pointed a finger at certain schools of feminist thought for making women feel like less instead of more. The article sparked an interesting dialogue (some of the comments took issue with the column) and has prompted further thoughts from me.

One of the many challenges of being a writer who occasionally broaches controversial topics (other than the fact that I’m oh-so-vain and want everyone to like me and pump their fists as a sign of solidarity when they read my opinion pieces) is that you’re confined by a word count and there never seems to be a way to address all the points of your argument or to defend against potential naysayers. I can’t completely blame the word count though. At times, comments help to unveil my failings as a writer. Perhaps I could have done a better job at making my point. Perhaps I could have been more concise. In the case of this article, perhaps I could have explained what I meant when I threw the word “feminist” out there.

Thankfully, the interactive nature of the Internet affords writers the opportunity to clarify points, and that’s exactly what I attempted to do in the comments section. The article and subsequent discussion spurred these additional thoughts as well:

The purpose of my article was not to ignite another Mommy War.  I hate the Mommy Wars. It bothers me to no end that we’re so quick to criticize one another instead of lifting our fellow mothers up and encouraging them. While most women don’t reduce themselves to openly criticizing other mothers, I believe many of us would agree there is implicit tension between working and nonworking moms.

A man pointed out when he wrote after the original article, "With men a woman is much less likely to be judged negatively for making the choice of hearth over career." Sadly, I believe this is often the case. Men are frequently more supportive of at-home moms than women themselves.  It goes both ways, of course. Stay-at-home mothers may secretly label successful, working moms as being too absorbed by their careers to care about their children while working moms pity their nonworking counterparts who have nothing better to do than bake cookies and watch Blue’s Clues every day.

Why are women so quick to attack their own kind? Partly because, I think, we're trying to find validation for our own choices, and one way to do this (we assume) is to point out what we think might be missteps of others. (If you're a long-time reader of this blog, you've seen me bring this up before.) Still, I stand by my original argument that part of the reason otherwise amiable women find themselves being so judgmental about others’ choices is because of the feminist movement. It's pitted us against each other because of its promises of equality, liberation, super careers, happy motherhood, etc.

Which brings me to another point:

I was not attacking people - feminists or otherwise - who believe women deserve respect and equality. But I was blaming certain ideologies propagated by modern feminists who often seem to view "equality" as men and women being the same. In truth, the term "feminist" has gotten a bad rap, partly because it's been muddied up by extremist organizations like NOW. (I mentioned in my original article how early feminists fought for women to to be seen as being equal in dignity and worked to be champions virtue of virtue.) But in my personal experience - and perhaps I'm too quick to make global generalizations - many women today who claim to be feminists are extolling (inadvertently perhaps) two traits:

#1 the ability to juggle many balls at once or encouraging women to buy into the secular gospel that it’s not enough to be a mother (you’re much better if you’re a writer/humanitarian/mom or a doctor/researcher searching for a cure for cancer/mom). On this note, someone sent me a link to an NPR article called Can Working Moms "Have It All"? Ha! that made an excellent point about how we might be able to "have it all" but just not at the same time. I've often reminded myself of a similar point when I'm pining to start volunteering as I did in college or to write a novel or to pursue something else that's just not feasible (or sensible) at this juncture in my life. There's a season for everything. Right now the age of my children (as well as the nature of my husband's profession) require me to be fully present in their lives. It's cliche, but I always value when moms who have gone before me remind me to savor these times and that they really are just a small bleep on the radar screen of life.

And #2: You're better and stronger if you act more like a man and leave those empathetic tears at home.

I certainly shouldn't dub all feminists as angry women with Y chromosome envy. I'm hopeful of  New Feminism, which will hopefully take back the term "feminist" and that women everywhere will devote their resources to raising awareness about real injustices against women like "gendercide."

Presently, I'm blessed to know some self-proclaimed feminists who truly are about choices - and American women are blessed to have these choices. But perhaps a column for another day would be  take ask the question: At what cost are we willing to make some of these choices? When is the price too much to pay?

And while some at-home moms may be lucky to never have had to face any condescending remarks, I have. One example: I was once asked by another woman in a social setting what I did for a living. I proudly said I was an at-home (no twinges of inadequacy in this particular exchange). Her follow-up question, I kid you not, was: "Did you go to college?" Not, "Where did you go to school?" but did I even go. I don't blame her. I don't think she even realized how condescending she was being. And what if I hadn't gone to college? What then? My mom didn't finish college, and she's never felt insecure about it. (Go Mom!) She always wanted to be a wife and mom and believes her dropping out of college and focusing on the domestic front made it all the more possible for my dad to scale the ladders of corporate success. My mom is also one of the brightest women I know. Intelligence is not a commodity only granted to those who have professional titles or a college diploma.

Nor should we pursue a career as a way of exerting our independence or providing a backup plan in case we end up having to support ourselves. Smart, resourceful women can find their way back into the workforce. We won't "lose" ourselves, our potential to perform in the business world, or our identities if we give up a career for the mom track.

When I worked in secular media, we gave motherhood plenty of lip service, but there were definitely these subterranean messages (terms like "hybrid women" were subtle but clear: Doing more is better) to be careful to not "lose" myself in motherhood and to be sure to pursue all my heart's desires. The irony is I'm just beginning to find my true self in the trenches of motherhood.

Now to give readers some more background, I initially started jotting down ideas for the column after a feminist in my area began making a big deal about the "men at work" signs along our roadways. While I don't think she ever referred to herself as a radical feminist, to me this is a radical, if not absurd, agenda. While I imagine her intentions were good, why would an obviously passionate and intelligent woman devote so much time to something like this instead of doing something that would really benefit women and society at large (say local job fairs or helping to support breastfeeding women in the workplace)?

Her crusade was wrong on so many fronts. I could address the absurdity of pandering to an illogical minority all for the sake of political correctness. Even if the merits the argument that the “biased” signs are wounding women held some merit, should tax dollars be diverted so that a handful of women won’t have hurt feelings? Unquestionably, the advancement of women – not in the form of ridiculous road signs – but in education and social standing and in dignity, is venerable, but we need to advance women without changing them into something that's contrary to their design and the gifts they have. It's just been my experience (and perhaps as a commenter alluded to, it's a limiting one) that radical feminists often create a crisis where there isn't one.

All this said, we can't dump all the blame on radical feminists. The big push for Super Women is found in society at large. Everyone is telling us we can have it all. There's also this idea that all it takes is self-determination and you can make you into what you want to be, and God, our nature, and other circumstances that are out of our control are left out of the equation. Then when we don't get what we want, we feel like failures. But it's not all up to us. It never has been.

One commenter made an excellent point about all people - men and women - being called to give of themselves. This is the mark of a Christian. But men's "way of the cross" often takes on a different form than a woman's. When women start adopting male roles and traits, we rob men of the ability to be protectors and providers. We have to be careful to not undermine their worth by changing our own.

Of course, men can be great nurturers (I've said before my husband is a natural one). Likewise, women make great workers in fields other than motherhood, too. I actually prefer going to female health care providers because I feel like they listen to me better (you know, that special sensitivity I referred to in my article) and can just relate to the workings of a female body better than a man might be able to (but I have had great male doctors, too, and I happen to be married to one!). My midwife listens to her intuition. She's very, very good at looking at a laboring woman and knowing exactly what she needs at that moment. I'm so thankful she's using her innate gifts to help women bring life into the world.

Lest I'm not being completely clear: I am not against working women. Moms are working women. I'm not tsking, tsking working women who have to work outside of the home either. In fact, I've had to freelance write to help support my husband through his long medical training, so it would be very unfair of me to judge moms who work outside of the home simply because the nature of my trade allows me to do it at home. I understand economics often demand women work outside of the home and further believe that women can add a lot to the workforce.  I'm passionate about encouraging mothers (or fathers!) who have made the decision to stay at home with their children.  I do not believe anyone has the right to judge or condemn mothers who chose to work outside their homes. I know an amazing mom of many children who had to put her children in school go back to work for the good of her family. She is making tremendous sacrifices doing this and deserves admiration, not condemnation.

However, I do believe we should not work simply to be more like men, to feel better about ourselves, or to escape the "ennui" of motherhood. Unfortunately, I do see some potential bigger picture problems emerging with more and more women entering the workforce, but that would make for yet another column. The Economist recently had an article examining some of the real and potential effects of the economic empowerment of women.

Personally, I don't think I could have a demanding career and be a good mom. I know my own limitations. I have a tendency to be a perfectionist. Trying to be a perfect employer and mom would surely lead to burnout.  Motherhood alone sometimes leaves me feeling overwhelmed. Maybe it's partly because of the age of my kids (three five and under), the parenting style I adopt (practicing extended breastfeeding, not separating myself from my little ones much, etc.) and because of my husband's work (I'm almost always the one on night duty, and it gets exhausting). Sometimes it's hard enough for me to "just" be a mom. I just can't imagine nurturing three little ones AND working full-time. This doesn't mean it can't be done. As wives, mother, and women, we have to do what is right for our family at the time. I believe my family would have suffered had I remained in law school (I mentioned in the article that I dropped out of law school to support my husband through medical school). Yet if our circumstances demanded I take a leap of faith and re-enter the workforce, I would trust that I would manage somehow or another. Even now, knowing I'm blessed to be able to be the primary caregiver for my children, there are times when I find myself longing for the time management skills of another mother who appears to accomplish so much more than I ever could imagine doing. That's when I have to stop myself and remind myself to focus on what I am doing and what I'm doing right.

This brings me full circle back to the heart of my original message in the Inside Catholic article: Women, be whom you were created and called to be. Don't let anyone - feminist or not - convince you that you're less of a woman or a person for embracing your femininity and/or motherhood.

Now go cuddle with your kids (you're making a good use of your time even if you can't add that particular skill to your curriculum vitae - as a friend reminded me) and know that your children are most definitely concrete achievements in this world and the next. :-)

*UPDATED: I thought this was wise counsel from another comment and something I need to keep close: "If instead, we just begin to radiate our own personal comfort in 'being' who we are - not so much needing to 'justify ourselves' as one thing vs. something else - I think we would not only have more personal peace, but in some cases, others could find even better inspiration from our peace, than from many of our words - especially if the words have to become defensive and/or contentious."

Comments closed for Lent.

I Am Woman

You can read my latest Inside Catholic column: I Am Woman.  Comments are open over there.

Noise

"Oh, the noise! Oh, the noise! Noise! Noise! Noise! That's one thing he hated! The NOISE! NOISE! NOISE! NOISE!"

From Dr. Seuss’s The Grinch Who Stole Christmas

Mr. Grinch, you and me both.

This may very well be the most wonderful time of the year, but it's also the nosiest. All is not calm, as much as I had hoped it would be. All is most definitely not quiet. There's so much busyness even though I’m militant about keeping organized and say no to multiple holiday events. Nor do I have unrealistic expectations. My house does not look like a Winter Wonderland. My family is not usually very Norman Rockwell-ish. Don't let the photos fool you: Thanks to the magic of digital cameras, parents everywhere are able to catch the nanosecond moment when their children are cherubic pictures of perfection cloaked in hand-pressed red velvet.

Despite my efforts, I sometimes have trouble finding peace during Advent. In some ways, since my entry into motherhood, Lent is an easier liturgical season for me. There's something comforting about its starkness. There are temptations to be sure during the 40 days of Lent, but there aren't nearly as many distractions.

The weeks leading up to Christmas, on the other hand, are noisy, flashy.

I'm not a Scrooge. Really. I love my children’s effusion of joy, the magic of the season, and the sparkling lights. In fact, ever since we were newlyweds my husband and I enjoy scouting out the local neighborhoods to find and admire the house with the most over-the-top decorations.

There’s nothing wrong with the festooning. All the Christmas extravagance is a good reminder that when Jesus was born, angels sang, trumpets blared. Sometimes I just wish my kids wouldn't take the words "repeat the sounding joy" so literally.

I savor the joy, but there are times when I'd like to turn down the clamorous Christmas soundtrack my children provide - just a little anyway. Maybe I'm being more of a grump this year because I'm more tired. Or maybe it's because my house is louder this year with two very excited little ones and a babbling baby. Then again, perhaps we've just baked too many cookies. Enough sugar already! (Please postal worker, Salvation Army bell ringer, grocery store clerk, and every other stranger we encounter while running holiday errands, do not offer my children another piece of candy.)

Everywhere I turn there are children smacking lips while licking fingers sticky with frosting. There are children ringing bells and children singing and giggling and squabbling, too. There are theatrical meltdowns. There are so many questions: "How many more days until Christmas?" "Can I have one more cookie? Please? PLEASE!" "When are we going to Nana and Pop's" "When are we going to see Gaba and Papa?" "Why can't we go today?" "Why?" "Why?" and "Why?" again.

Sometimes I welcome the queries and the tender requests. It's easy to pause for a child who wants to curl onto your lap for another story. It's not so easy to silence the din of whining or screaming over who gets to open the window of the Advent calendar for that day.

As a matter of survival, I look for small pockets of quiet to fold myself into every day. I creep away when I think my girls are engrossed with their playthings, but their Momdar is sensitive, their Mom Positioning System units are very accurate. And it's not long before they find me.

So I make a goal to wake up early. But often they wake up earlier.

The next morning comes. I nurse the baby and savor the darkness and the stillness of my cathedraled calm. I'm tired, but I decide to wake up once the baby falls limp against me while the rest of the world is asleep. I'm tired, but I know waking up before the sky is filled with the pink glow of dawn will fill me more than an hour or two of fragmented sleep will. I sneak downstairs. Only minutes later, they arise, too, and it isn't a pitter patter of soft feet that find me, but thunderous stomps down the stairs.

I greet them, the little, chirping, morning larks, and serve them breakfast. Then I hand them a rainbow of crayons and a stack of coloring books, and I plan my escape.

While their hands are occupied, I steal away to my secret hiding place: The bathroom. I cannot count the number of times I have locked the door and sat on the toilet lid to pray or to write or to read books with titles like When Your Child Drives You Crazy (this is actually a really good book my dear mom-in-law gave to me) all under the guise of going potty (and I do go to the bathroom first, but then I just linger a little bit longer).

On this day, when I leave my cloistered peace after a 5-year-old pounds on the door and says, "Mommy, are you finished yet? Baby Rae did something bad," I find the (toddler's) writing (scribbling) is on the wall.

It won't come off. She already tried to color over the black slashes with a white crayon (pretty clever, I must say). She's contrite. "I sowry," she says. Then, "It won't happen again."

My child is forgiven and whatever I had been doing in the bathroom forgotten. I'm back in the trenches, and my children are asking if they can make another Christmas card for their grandparents.

Later when it’s our daily quiet time and my toddler is crying because she can’t find her lovey and my 5-year-old asks me if I’m going to the bathroom again (I think she’s on to me) I’m reminded that just as the apostles would run to find Jesus when He sought solitude, my children will find me. They will wake me, as the apostles awoke Jesus, when a storm begins to brew.

As I recently mentioned, I'll keep trying to search for the quiet, especially during Advent when we're supposed to see past the holiday hoopla, the mass commercialism, the singsongy, overly synchronized Simply-Having-A-Wonderful-Christmastime-kind-of-vapid-lyrics (Paul McCartney, why, oh, why?), the chronic case of the gimmes that begin to plague children before the Thanksgiving leftovers are consumed, and find Christ, hidden and quiet, lying in a dusty manger and tucked away in the dusty corners of my heart.

Christ is calm. He is quiet. But I have to find Him in all the commotion. The angel's proclamation, "Glory to God in the highest and on earth peace" wasn't referring to peace among men - or peace in your household and with your children - but peace with God.

Silence is golden - perhaps because it is so scarce when you’re a mom. But God is in not short supply. He is everywhere, and He is sufficient. His peace is with me, and I don't have to escape to the bathroom to find it.

*Speaking of quiet, things are going to be quiet around here for the next week or so as I celebrate Christmas with my family. Peace be with you - if not in your homes than in your hearts. Merry Christmas!

Becoming More Christ-y

This morning the girls were working on an impromptu Christmas play to perform for my husband and me. The rehearsals began with a manic (and obnoxiously loud) rendition of "Jingle Bells."

"Mommy, we want you to be surprised, so don't listen," Madeline instructed.

Don't listen. Ah, wouldn't that be nice if I could tune out the ear-splitting singing, bell-ringing, and constant merrymaking?

Of course, then I would have missed this little exchange.

"This isn't Christ-y enough," Madeline said.

"Christ is born, what a beautiful sight!" she sang, making up her own little ditty about how the birth of Jesus is what Christmas is all about. (Her song was a whole lot nicer to the ears than "Jingle Bells," I might add.)

"'Cwyist' is booooorrrrrrn, what a beautiful sight!" her little sister echoed.

Their performance left me wondering if my Advent has been Christ-y enough. I made it to my church's penance service last night. We've been making Jesse Tree ornaments each day and praying the rosary more often. Our manger for Jesus is filled with soft yarn as a sign of the sacrifices we've been making. But, still, I don't feel like I've been all that Christ-y.

Just the other day Madeline startled me when I had slipped away in silence to have some time to just be alone (oh, how I've been craving solitude lately - more on that hopefully in a future post, which I long ago started a draft of but can't find the time -or quiet - to finish).

"Mommy?" It was a sweet, polite interruption, but I didn't take it as such.

"What do you want?" I snapped.

"I...I..." She stammered, blinking back the tears.

I can't even remember what she wanted. The moment was lost first in my frustration of being interrupted (again) and then in the pangs of regret that immediately followed.

The moment I lashed out, I felt pricks of remorse. In truth, I was trying to find God in the quiet. That's what Advent is all about, right? Finding Christ in the midst of the holiday chaos and commercialism. I'm relentless in my searching. I'd hoped to find Him tucked away in the manger, softly sleeping. I wanted to find Him in the stillness of deep prayer.

Christmas Day is a little more than one week away, and I still haven't found Him. Maybe that's because I've been looking in all the wrong places. God isn't only found in one human child born in Bethlehem long ago - He is found in all children, my children. God is in each child with whom I give the gifts of time, patience, gentleness.

While my searching for God will never end, neither will my finding. He's in the tears of a tired child. He's in the countless interruptions. He's in the joyous, albeit deafening at times, singing of my kids. When I start to see Him in everyone I encounter, that is when Christ's birth happens within me. That is when I become what my daughter would call more Christ-y.

Rockabye Baby

Tonight I was a rebel. I broke the parenting rule that says you should never rock your baby to sleep if you ever want her to learn to fall asleep on her own.

Actually, this wasn't my first offense, and it won't be the last time either. But whatever.

After I nursed M.E., she was fading but still awake and so I drew her close and rocked my sweet baby girl. I pressed my lips onto the soft skin of her cheek. As she snuggled close, I felt her chest gently rise and fall. She sighed contentedly, and I breathed in the smell of her milky breath. And I began to pray.

Even after I knew she'd melted into a deep sleep, I held her and continued to be content in the kernel of the moment. Even when a nagging voice in my head threatened to disrupt my cloistered peace as it told me I ought to be doing laundry, packing for an upcoming trip, or exercising instead of holding a sleeping baby, I just kept rocking. And praying.

This is my work. This is my worship. My prayers are silent, my work often unnoticed. Quietly, I make my children's worlds turn. There is no hard evidence of my labor, especially now when I am alone in the darkness with my baby producing nothing other than a shared moment. Yet with God's grace, it is my hope that the sum of these shared moments might help to positively shape my children's lives. It is my hope, Lord, that I might love my children into loving.

Now it is time for me to sleep. It is late, and I did not accomplish all I'd hoped. My neglected "to do" list taunts me, but one final peek at my dozing baby reminds me that as a mother, my life's most satisfying moments do not come to me when I'm involved in great matters. Instead, they often occur when I am hidden, my soul is stilled, and my child rests in my arms as I rest in God.

As the Twig Bends

So the baby's first feeding went well. M.E. eagerly opened her mouth like a little bird and smacked her lips when she got her first taste of solids a week ago. She giggled and grinned. Her body language and lively expressions suggested the experience was fun, yummy, and something she'd enjoy repeating.

But the next day when I attempted to feed her, she recoiled and glared at me with absolute repugnance. Since then I've unsuccessfully tried to feed her mushed up avocados and bananas, placing them in front of her so she could eat and explore their textures on her own.

Both dishes inspired disgust. When I used my finger as a spoon and placed a taste on her tongue, she looked at me with wide, pleading eyes that seemed to be saying, "Please stop poisoning me."

Then she started to gag. Oh dear. We have another drama queen on our hands.

I'm following her lead. I'm content to nurse her as often as she likes. I'm not worried about her reluctance to start solids even when all the parenting books say she shows all the signs of being ready.

Fortunately, both Rae and Madeline gulped down solids as soon as they hit the six-month mark. I never had to worry, but I admit I probably would have - especially with my firstborn. As a new mom, I paid far too much attention to all those milestone charts. Was she on schedule to do this or to do that? My Type A personality definitely trickled down into my parenting. I was overly eager for each new phase. When she was rolling, I was ready for crawling. When she was crawling, I couldn't wait to see her toddle along on her two feet. I anticipated the day when her conversations with her toes would become exchanges with me. I was well prepared for her pediatrician checkups and could recount exactly when she first sat up unsupported, when her babbling turned into real words, when those tiny fingers mastered the pincher grasp. Her achievements were documented to the hour, minute, and second.

Now I do well to remember exactly how old M.E. is. Getting close to 7 months, right?

Oh, it's still exciting to watch my baby change (seemingly by the hour these days), but I'm not in a hurry for the next stage. Maybe it's because I know that when a baby meets a milestone like eating solids, she's that much closer to no longer needing my body to feed her or to being comforted simply by nestling close to me and hearing the familiar rhythms of my heart.

Babies don't keep. Neither do toddlers. Or preschoolers. Milestones now seem to be nothing more than evidence of this.

When I was asked, "How many times a day does she nurse, and for how long?" at M.E.'s recent well-child visit, I wanted to say, "Enough." But I knew the nurse wanted numbers, so I made some up.

"Have you started solids?"

"Yes, but she's not interested yet."

"Well, she's obviously growing," the nurse remarked giving props to her chunky thighs and Michelin Man rolls.

Perhaps M.E. will be ready for solids next month. Or not. As the nurse observed, she's obviously thriving. That's the important thing. No need to fret over the whens or hows of her development.

Baby by baby, I'm learning that it's usually best to allow young saplings to grow according to their nature. You can bend the twig all you want, and you can be sure that the tree will grow - but maybe not by your own or that competitive mom you meet at the playground's timetable. She may not grow how you expected her to grow either. The ballerina you dreamed of may prefer digging in the dirt for earthworms to practicing pirouettes. While you can prune your children to encourage new growth and to help them lean into the Light, they will take their own unique shape. Just as I tend to kill houseplants by watering them too much, I have to resist the temptation to micromanage my children. It's my job to give them strong roots and to invest time in nurturing them. But then I have to take a step back and give my children the space and the freedom to bloom all on their own.

*I really wanted to post a photo of our little one and her delicious rolls, but something is wrong with our computer that stores our ridiculous amount of digital photographs. We have approximately 2,372 (give or take) of our firstborn and about 20 of M.E. (Well, probably a few more than that, but we're past the stage of taking pictures of every single milestone like when your precious offspring picks her nose for the first time). We're not sure when we're going to be able to fix the problem. My husband built the computer himself, but he's been too busy with work and studying to perform surgery on the ailing beast and computer nerd I am not. (Though my nerdiness manifests itself in other ways such as in my love for charts and lists, an occasional snort-laugh, and in this completely unrelated addendum to an otherwise un-nerdy post.)