November, 2005: Last days of fall

It was the end of a beautiful, crisp fall day — probably one of the last warmish days of fall. It was 5:00, and the sun was a pink and purple glow in the west. I should have been drinking in these last few minutes of the day, enjoying the bright reds and yellows of the maple trees in our neighborhood.

I wasn’t though. I was feeling rushed and cranky. Liam, 7, had been home sick all day. He seemed to lack the hand-nose coordination necessary to use a tissue properly, and I found his constant drippiness tiresome. Meanwhile, I had 12 guests coming for dinner the next night—friends from our old neighborhood who had never seen our new house, and I felt compelled to scrub, clean and polish my way into what I hoped was a presentable home. Jamilet, 2, did not appreciate the day’s lack of attention as I cleaned, and was responding by clinging to my leg as I feverishly mopped and dusted. The few times during the day she did play independently, she chose use her time to undo my work. Two baskets of neatly folded laundry were now strewn around the family room. The newspapers I put in a bag for recycling were dumped on the floor next to the laundry. I was also on deadline for two articles and the school committee I was in charge of was meeting that night.

So, at 5:00, low on energy, out of patience, and with no ideas for that night’s dinner, I went to the front porch to get the day’s mail. As I looked at the mix of bills and junk mail, I glanced across the street. There, our elderly neighbor, Mr. Pitt, was painstakingly raking the leaves off his driveway, inch by inch, while sitting in a chair. Mr. Pitt is the kindliest man in the world, and also has horrible knee problems. I stood frozen with my mail. I didn’t want to help him. I didn’t have time to help him. I wasn’t even a big believer in weekly raking, preferring to wait until all the leaves were down for the season, and doing one big job. Mr. Pitt moved his chair up a foot and pushed a small pile of leaves forward towards the street.

Sighing, I grabbed Jamilet, wiped Liam’s nose, and told Jacob, 10, to come help me.

“We’re going to rake your driveway,” I announced to Mr. Pitt as I crossed the street. I set Jamilet down on his grass, and handed Jacob a rake.

“Oh, you don’t need to do that,” Mr. Pitt said.

“We want to,” I lied. “It will be fun. It’s a beautiful evening to be outside.”

Jacob and I started raking the leaves toward the street, and Jamilet, using her little rake, immediately started to rake the leaves from the street back to the house.

Mr. Pitt thought this was adorable.

Jacob and I raked faster, so she couldn’t keep up.

As Jacob and I raked, Mr. Pitt kept up a running commentary about how fast and amazing we were.

“Look at you go!” Mr. Pitt called from his chair, as we raked in a very mediocre style. “Now don’t work yourself too hard. Take a break.”

When he wasn’t congratulating our zealous raking, Mr. Pitt was busy being enchanted with Jamilet, who was simply wandering about the yard, moving leaves randomly.

“She’s beautiful. And so smart. Look how she moves those leaves just like her mommy and her brother,” he said.

After 45 minutes of raking (“That’s wonderful; look at the size of that pile,”) a break for Oreos and photos (Jamilet in the leaves; Jamilet with the rake; Jacob and Jamilet; Jamilet and I; Jacob and I holding Jamilet) my crankiness started to wear off a bit, and I saw our family through Mr. Pitt’s eyes.

We were all (even me) incredibly young and vital. We were strong and fast and talented with our rakes. Jacob’s smooth skin and quick smile seemed perfect to me as I looked at him as Mr. Pitt did. Looking at myself from the outside (without hearing my grouchy thoughts or worries about dinner or my meeting later), I looked like a helpful and friendly mother of young children. And Jamilet was indeed a wonder. Freely jumping in the leaves, romping across the grass and smiling in the autumn sunset, I saw her as Mr. Pitt did — an amazing tiny person alive with curiosity. I understood why he needed to take 7 pictures of her in less than an hour.

For a fleeting instant, I became 75 or 80 or whatever Mr. Pitt is, and I looked at my 30-something self and my children, and I saw what he saw. I appreciated our energy and our health. For a moment, I appreciated my over-busy life. It seemed charged with excitement and drama. The solitude and quiet I so often longed for didn’t seem quite as appealing, when it became the norm for the day, as it was for Mr. Pitt. 

As I said goodbye to our neighbor that evening, and as he thanked me for the seventeenth time, I mentally thanked him back—for reminding me that I had nothing to be cranky about after all.

November, 2005

For me, the hardest time to be a parent is Sunday mornings. Before kids, I used to love Sunday mornings. Sleeping late, then hot coffee, a thick newspaper, and nowhere to go until 11:00 Mass. After an hour of newspaper reading, maybe some cinnamon toast if I felt really motivated.

            Now Sunday mornings start early—no later than 7—and rather than easing into my day, the day is thrust upon me with toddler Jamie yelling my name from her crib. Lifting her out, I am immediately alerted to her most pressing needs.

            “Mom! Hungry! Eat! Chips?”

             Often, the demands are quickly followed by a debate.

            “No chips for breakfast. You can have cereal.”

            “Chips! Want chips!”

            And so the day begins. A friend of mine, with four children ranging in age from 2 to 10, agrees with me about Sunday morning, but contends every morning is difficult.

            “I hate it that I have to be ‘on’ from the moment I open my eyes,” she told me at a toddlers playgroup one day.

            We could both solve our problem by setting our alarms for an hour before the kids get up, but relentless optimism won’t quite let us do that. Maybe, just maybe, this will be the day that the toddler sleeps til 9 and we can sleep in a bit, too. It’s happened to me exactly twice in the ten years and five children I’ve parented so far, but still, each Saturday night, I go to bed thinking that maybe tomorrow will be the day it happens again.

            In some ways, the Sunday morning epitomizes the sacrificial nature of parenting. While careers can often be juggled to accommodate both the needs of the child and the parent, and parents can get a babysitter for an evening alone, the fact remains that parents are always ‘on.’ Children—especially young ones—have no understanding that this may not be the best time to ask for a snack, to get in a fight with a sibling, to need immediate help getting dressed. Mature parents understand that children cannot yet look outside of themselves and see the impact they are having on others. So we pour the cereal, still half asleep; we tie the shoes while in the middle of an important phone call; we break up the fight while stirring the white sauce that cannot be left alone.

            It is perhaps because of how difficult I find Sunday mornings to be that I am not quick to judge the abusive or neglectful parents that I’ve come in contact with as part of the foster care system. Parenting is challenging enough within a stable marriage blessed with an income and a half, good insurance and savings for college. It’s challenging enough in our medium-sized suburban house. With the support of excellent grandparents, some energetic teenage babysitters, and good friends who will watch the kids in a pinch—it’s still a challenge. Take away one of these factors, take away all of them, and Sunday morning would be the least of my worries. And for many parents, who became parents while still children themselves, the added reality is their own parents could never give to them fully. Never having seen a parent who was always on for them, always there for them, they don’t know how to be that for their own children.

            I don’t always think of these other parents when the baby wakes me at the crack of dawn on a Sunday. Usually, I am thinking of myself, trying to think of some way I could manage to drink a whole cup of coffee, while it is still hot, without having to warm it in the microwave because of a diaper that needs changing, a crayon that needs finding, or a game that needs supervising.  I’m not thinking of these other parents because I am busy remembering the luxurious Sunday mornings of my early adulthood— seven years of Sundays where the only person I was responsible for was myself — seven years that most people living in poverty have never had. It’s not until I start complaining out loud —or in writing — about how much I dislike Sunday mornings, that I really start to think about these other parents. The ones who have twice as many kids as me and half as much money and space. The ones that can’t afford the morning paper or coffee-shop coffee. It’s not until I start listing my Sunday morning frustrations that I realize how little I have to be frustrated about.

           

November, 2005 Peace

I’ve always liked the Sign of Peace. As a child, it was my favorite part of our all-school liturgies. The Sign of Peace provided an excuse to move around a little — to stretch across pews and vigorously shake hands with as many classmates as I could before the teacher reined us in for the Lamb of God. In college, when I attended daily Mass at Marquette University’s tiny Joan of Arc Chapel, the Sign of Peace was a chance to hug a friend who had an exam the next day or a roommate whose mom was ill.

It wasn’t until I was married, however, and my husband, Bill, and I had the Big Camping Fight, that I started integrating the Sign of Peace into my daily life.

I don’t remember exactly how the Big Camping Fight started. It was late on a Friday night, and we were scheduled to leave for a camping trip early the next morning. Bill couldn’t find the poles for the tent, I had forgotten to buy batteries for the flashlights, and Jacob, our toddler, had ripped into our food bag like a hungry baby raccoon. There were marshmallows everywhere. As it got later, more and more things went wrong and Bill and I each thought the other was at fault. We both yelled. I cried. And by the time we put Jacob to bed and started tying our duffle bags onto the roof of the car, we weren’t speaking at all.

            We packed in silence for at least an hour. I was so upset I couldn’t think of anything to say. While I knew that I should say I was sorry, I felt that Bill should apologize first, because while I hadn’t behaved perfectly, he was more in the wrong. The longer we went without talking, though, the bigger the gulf between us seemed. By the time my anger had cooled enough for me to begin thinking of apologizing first, the words didn’t seem large enough to cover an entire evening ruined.

            “Peace be with you,” is what I finally said, extending my hand to Bill. He looked surprised, but returned my handshake with an embrace.

            “Peace,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

             In the years since that night, we’ve used the Sign of Peace in a similar way a handful of times. Sometimes Bill has initiated it, sometimes I have, but regardless of who has been the first to extend the hand, our Signs of Peace in the kitchen, the family room and the garage have brought more meaning to our Signs of Peace in church.

What I’ve discovered about the Sign of Peace is that it offers more to the other person than does a simple apology. Peace, as given by Christ, is a gift. An offer of Peace does not so much seek to retract angry words as it seeks to establish something new and better. A Sign of Peace, genuinely given, brings Christ into a situation. While smaller disagreements warrant a quick apology and equally quick forgiveness, larger or more hurtful arguments should remind us that we have, at least momentarily, moved away from God’s love. And as we realize that we have separated ourselves from God, we understand that we must rebuild. Jesus’ first words to his disciples after his crucifixion and resurrection were “Peace be with you.” Jesus’ starting point can be our own.

In the liturgy, the prayer that directly precedes the Sign of Peace asks Jesus to "look not on our sins, but on the faith of your church and grant us the peace and unity of your kingdom where you live for ever and ever.”

Essentially, in this prayer, we’re asking Jesus to look past our sins, to focus on our good parts — our faith — and to give us a slice of heaven on Earth.  It’s a gutsy request. But it’s a request that also requires action on the part of the congregation. After the prayer, the presider says, “Let us offer each other the Sign of Peace.”

With that sentence, our bold prayer for the peace and unity of Christ’s kingdom is tied inextricably with our own offering of peace to one another.

And so we turn to our neighbors and offer peace, believing that somehow, Christ is present in these handshakes and hugs. We offer each other peace believing that the kingdom has already begun. A kingdom not just of stained glass and songbooks and statues, but also of tents and poles and spilled marshmallows.

Peace.

October, 2005 They keep saying "no"

My children are all telling me “no.” Each one of them is doing it somewhat differently, but the effect is the same. Jamilet, who just turned two, often yells the word in mid-air, squirming feverishly as I try to redirect her from some imminent catastrophe — an outlet, a stove knob, a pair of scissors — to a toy — any toy.

Liam, 7, uses a bit more sophistication with his no’s. Liam already understands that he shouldn’t say no to a parent and has decided to substitute “but” instead.

            “Liam, time for bed.”

            “But I’m not finished with my book.”

            “Liam, put your socks in their drawer.”

            “But Jacob didn’t put his away.”

            Jacob, 10, occasionally falls back on Liam’s technique, but is moving towards something even more ingenious — the “yes” that means “no.”

            “Jacob, pick up your school uniform from your bedroom floor.”

            “Okay.”  Fifteen minutes later, the uniform is still there.

            When I first became a parent, I felt like I had a new understanding of God. I stared in wonder at newborn Jacob, overwhelmed by my love for him, and marveled that this love I felt for my son was just a sliver of God’s love for me.

            Now, with the newborn years a cozy memory, my children continue to help me understand God as parent.

            God the parent has requests and demands of us, just as I have demands and requests of my children. Sometimes we feel what God is asking of us in the deepness of our being — we hear God’s call in our souls. Other times, God speaks to us through scripture — a reading at church, a Bible verse at home. And still other times the Holy Spirit moves through a conversation and we sense what God is asking of us.

            And while sometimes we say, “yes,” right away to what God asks of us, more often we respond like Jamilet, Liam and Jacob. Like toddler Jamilet, we don’t always see when we’re headed for self-destruction — we think if we can just get to that stove knob, everything will be great. Intent on our own pleasure, we ignore God’s warnings and pleas for our safety.  Like Liam, we tell God “but.” We point out to God that He isn’t asking our neighbors to do the same thing. We make excuses for not doing God’s will. We try to put God on hold. And finally, perhaps we’re most often like 10-year-old Jacob. We hear a reading or homily in church — we know what God is asking of us and at that moment, we say “yes.” But then, too quickly, we forget what we agreed to do.

            While I understand that my children’s “no’s” are all developmentally appropriate, I also know that for our family to function effectively and for my children to learn responsibility, I need to teach them to say “yes.”

            I have to make Jamilet realize that when I say “no” and she doesn’t stop, she will be physically lifted away from the danger. Liam needs to know that no matter how many “buts” he comes up with, the end result will be the same — he’ll need to do as I asked. And Jacob needs to understand that if he doesn’t put the clothes away the first time, he will still need to do so 15 minutes later, and by then I probably will have added another job.

            My experience is that God operates similarly. When we ignore God or tell God “no,” God the parent doesn’t back off. Instead, God continues to call us to what would be best for us or for the greater world. Just as my children don’t always understand why they need to go to bed, stop playing with the scissors or help keep the house neat, we, as adults don’t always fully appreciate where God is leading us. Too often, because we can’t see the bigger picture of where our life fits into God’s plan, we choose not to summon the courage to trust God’s vision over our own.

But when we do summon that courage to trust; when we do say “yes” to God’s call; it is then that we begin to glimpse the bigger picture. We start to see where it is we fit. And we begin to understand that everything God asks of us is within our capabilities.

My plan is that someday, I won’t even need to ask Jacob to pick up his uniform from the floor. He’ll do it on his own. On that day (and I hope it’s coming soon), Jacob and I will have a shared vision of a bedroom without crumpled clothes on the floor. Someday, Liam will notice on his own that he’s tired and should go to bed. And someday, Jamilet will realize that I really do have her best interest in mind when I don’t let her play with the knives.

I don’t know when that day is that my children will see the bigger picture — when their “yes” to me will come before I even make the request. Right now, it’s enough for me that I see progress. Liam, after all, no longer lunges for the stove knobs like his little sister. And despite Jacob’s struggles with the clothes on the floor, he has become very good at going to bed with just one reminder. Everyone’s moving forward, and as a parent, that’s all I’m asking for. Hopefully, God sees the same progress in us.

           

             

October, 2005 We have too much stuff

There is a Bernstein Bears children’s book called Too Much Stuff. In the book,  Mama Bear looks around the house and decides the family needs to give away many of their things to the needy.  Papa bear has fishing supplies he hasn’t used in years. Brother Bear and Sister Bear have more games than they could ever play with. And Mama Bear herself admits there is no need to save stacks of magazines and scraps of material from her sewing projects.

We recently moved, and I’ve been feeling a lot like Mama Bear. Our family has too much stuff. It took six adults nearly five hours to move boxes and boxes of our things to our new house. Then, the following weekend, four young, strong professional movers spent another couple of hours moving our furniture. After that, Bill and I still needed to return to the old house for about four or five carloads of “just what’s left in the garage.”

I’m not completely sure what all this stuff is or where we got it. I doubt that we need more than half of it.

“Live simply so that others may simply live,” said St. Elizabeth Ann Seton. Mama Bear would have very much agreed with this. All over the world, there are families who struggle just to put together enough rice and beans for one meal. Our family has so much food that packing the pantry of dry goods to move from house to house took several large boxes. In our own city, there are families who would look at the dressers filled with clothes and boxes of shoes we were moving and assume we must have eight or nine kids, not three. We have enough toys to open our own daycare center, enough paper, pens, markers and art supplies to operate a small school, and enough books to keep every kid in the neighborhood busy reading for the rest of the summer.

In my early twenties, Elizabeth Ann Seton’s  “Live simply,” philosophy was mine as well. I lived in community for a year. Fifteen young adults, we worked in the Chicago’s central city, serving the poor and came home each night to a converted convent where we each had our own tiny room. We shared all other living quarters. I remember in-depth discussions of whether buying a package of cookies was in keeping with the simple life. When I left my year of service work, I fit all my belongings in my parents’ car, with both of my parents and my sister also in the car. What has happened to me?

Family life happened. It used to be all I needed to go running was a pair of running shoes. Now, I need a running stroller for the baby and bikes for each of the boys so that everyone can join in. Every age of childhood seems to come with its own equipment, and since there’s an eight-year gap between two-year-old Jamie and ten-year-old Jacob, it means we have both baby-toting equipment and big-kid sports equipment in the garage and basement.

Birthdays, Christmas, Easter, Baptisms and First Communions bring a rush of presents from well-meaning relatives buying more stuff for us. And I can’t blame it all on the kids. As Bill and I have moved from the “Early Marriage” style of decorating (think futons and framed posters) to having specific tastes, we have accumulated quite a bit on our own. And living as a family, rather than in community necessitates a certain amount of material things — from having enough plates so as to be able to invite people over, to owning power tools so that we can fix the house on our own.

So what is the answer? In the Bernstein Bears, the Bear family, under Mama’s direction, gives away much of their excess stuff to the needy. Everyone grumbles a bit, but they feel good in the end. In our family, the move has taught me to question our possessions.  We had the St. Vincent De Paul Society make one pick-up at our old house and two at our new, so far. I’m now less likely to hold onto something thinking we might find a use for it. If we haven’t used it or worn it in six months, it’s better to go to someone who has a more pressing need. Picturing myself packing, moving and unpacking the item gives me an immediate sense of if the item is all that important.

Almost three weeks into our life in our new house, we still aren’t completely unpacked. Yet, the kids play with toys, we eat three meals a day, wear clothes, and use a pretty operable office. The unopened boxes speak directly to the question of too much stuff, as we certainly aren’t missing what’s in those boxes.  I want to simplify, but don’t have all the answers yet. I’m praying to St. Elizabeth Ann Seton for guidance. And maybe I’ll read that Bernstein Bears book one more time.