Everything AND the Kitchen Sink ~ Jen

It started with Annie screaming us awake at 12:45 am. When I got to her room, she was standing in vomit and looked like the phantom of the opera from where the pasta had congealed on the side of her face.

We spent the next three hours on the floor while she puked up everything she has ever eaten in her short life. We ran out of clean linen, so at the end, I just folded the towel over the puke and we fell asleep.

No surprise that 36 hours later, I was laid out with the worst case of stomach flu I have ever had.

I felt it coming and isolated myself in our room to protect the innocent. Shea slept downstairs. No matter. Thirty six hours later I woke up to the sound of him puking in the kitchen sink.

My OCD reared its ugly head and escaped the Zoloft prison. I sent Shea upstairs to the sick room, reached deep into the cupboard past the safe and natural cleaners, and pulled out the big guns: bleach and Lysol.

Dana laughed at me in a text: “This is no time for green cleaning, huh?”

Hell no. There’s a woman with an entire blog devoted to stopping the stomach flu. I got on board her crazy train without a thought and covered my downstairs in bleach followed by Lysol. Every stinking surface. I was possessed. One time won’t hurt us, I told myself. One time.

When the kids woke up an hour later, my hands were raw and my downstairs was sanitized. I handed out the marching orders: Wash your hands! Don’t touch me! Don’t touch the baby! And for the love of God, don’t breathe too deeply!!!

Thirty six hours later, Gabe was puking.

I knew there would be a post in all this.

First, I thought it might be about husbands who puke in kitchen sinks.

Then I thought it would be about how when you are elbow deep in vomit and out of clean towels, you are not interested in hugging any God-blessed trees.

Then the kids got sick anyway.

So this is it: I had a crazy, hysterical fear of the stomach flu tearing through my home and in an attempt to stop it, I sprayed poison everywhere. For naught. Norovirus triumphed.

And we lived. A week later, the laundry is done and put away, our appetites have returned and Shea and I both lost 7 lbs. What is so stinkin’ scary about that?

Kids get sick. Thank God they don’t get sick the way they used to a hundred years ago, but that’s not because of Lysol. It’s because we know more about handwashing and treating illness. I can’t stop them from getting stomach flu. Silly mama. Stomach flu happens.

Next time, we change our protocol. Hand washing is the most effective way to stop the spread of stomach flu. We will continue to “hanitize”. But I will use vinegar and hydrogen peroxide to sanitize surfaces. And—in what might be the best ever use of cheap liquor—vodka to disinfect upholstery. I know, right? Freakin’ brilliant.

We will be revisiting appropriate places to puke: toilet, check. Trashcan, check. Bathroom sink, check-ish, emergencies only.

The kitchen sink is way off limits.

Husband of mine, are you listening?

God Made the Giants ~ Jen

Last weekend, on a family trip to the Kern River in Central California, we went to the Trail of a Hundred Giants in Sequoia National park.

Giant Sequoia trees are some of the largest and longest living creatures on earth, and can only be found on the western slopes of the Sierra Nevada range in California. They are massive glorious beautiful trees, so tall that you can’t see the tops of them when you stand beneath them. You have to back way, way up to get one whole tree in a picture.

The air was cool. The chickarees called from the tall branches. My dad and I were standing together on the path and he looked at the nearest Sequoia and said “That tree was here when Christ walked the earth.”

And before. The oldest known Giant Sequoia is 3,500 years old.

When I go to places of natural beauty, I always feel small, young and insignificant. I comprehend the enormity of time that has been and will be. I know my footsteps join countless others over thousands of years. And that we have all looked at the same thing. That blows my mind. It reminds me of my space. Just a small space in the Grand Scheme.

It never makes me feel sad or futile, though.

It makes me feel loved. God is always there to meet me at the foot of El Capitan or on the edge of the ocean or in a grove of ancient sequoias. He is there in the massive rock formations and the crashing waves, in the breezes blowing through the tree tops hundreds of feet off the ground. He says “Look at this world, this thing of beauty and grace. I made it for you, for this very moment. So you could know that I love you and I am your God.”

It was Divine Inspiration that we preserved these places in a nation where we are usually so quick to claim and conquer. That was the hand of God staying the ambition of man.

I always come back from the beach, or a trip to a national park, with a better sense of my priorities and a renewed commitment to simplicity. I feel more connected to God and what’s important. I feel good as a mom, bringing my kids to places where God can be found.

(Even if Kate hasn’t quite caught on and thanked God for s’mores in her evening prayers)

I want them to feel what I feel in these places: small, young and insignificant. I want them to be humbled in the face of something so much bigger and stronger and wiser than they are. Then they’ll know what I know, what anyone with an open heart can know in these places.

God made the waves. God made the rocks.

And God made the Giants.

Celebrate the Wins ~ Jen

There’s a trend on the mommy blogs right now—full of mea culpas, some of them tongue in cheek, and some not so much. People are holding up examples of their own poor parenting and laughing about it.

Being a mom is hard, and every mom makes tons of mistakes, but starting a blog by saying “I’m pretty open about the fact that I’m not a good parent”? Sad. Maybe the bar was too high before, when every mom was held to some insane June Cleaver standard. But I’m not sure that wearing our bad mommy moments like badges of honor is the way to go either.

Dana said “But look at those blogs. They have thousands of followers. And there are hundreds of comments after the self-deprecating posts. It must resonate with women on some level.”

It’s true. It must resonate.

Here’s my question: What part of them is it resonating with and are we sure we want to cultivate that part?

Glennon, at Momastery wrote this type of post recently. Hers was tongue in cheek. But the comment section was disturbing and telling. From the woman who mopped her floor for the first time in a year—and only because she spilled coffee on it—to the woman who dressed up like she was going to work, dropped her kids off at school, went home, changed, slept for two more hours, went to the movies, put her work clothes back on and picked her kids up five minutes before daycare closed. The comments were full of story after story—not tongue in cheek—that made me cringe. Not necessarily what the women were saying, but how they were saying it: proudly, and cyber high fiving each other.

Then this comment: “I think mommy guilt should be a thing of the past”.

Ahhh. So that’s what’s going on here.

I agree with this statement. Not the way she meant it, that we should not ever feel guilty for the things we do. Guilt is a useful emotion. It reminds us when we have let ourselves and our own values down. If we feel guilt over something that we did, it’s probably for good reason.

But we need a way to reconcile that guilt. In my Catholic faith, we have Reconciliation—we confess our short comings and ask God for forgiveness. I don’t have a ton of mommy guilt in my life. Not because I don’t make mistakes. Of course I make mistakes. And not because I don’t feel guilt—I do. But I reconcile that guilt and then ask God and myself for forgiveness.

The thing that helps the most is this: since I was very young, I have heard my parents describe life like a baseball game. A long game, with extra innings. Lots of at bats. Sometimes we bunt, sometimes we hit a grand slam. And sometimes we drop the ball or strike out. It’s all part of the game.

Parenting is just like that.

The voice inside my head tells me this: “I get it right and sometimes make mistakes”. I had a friend with tremendous mommy guilt who told me that she just couldn’t think like this. She believed that she made mistakes and sometimes got it right. She needed to give herself permission to make mistakes, to not be perfect.

I don’t get it.

First, who’s asking for perfect? No one. But of all the jobs we do, isn’t parenting the one that deserves our very best effort?

And why, why, why would you ever tell yourself you are a screw-up most of the time? Doesn’t that self script just devolve from “I am not capable today” to “I am not capable this week” to “I am not capable”?

We aren’t playing that game here. Our whole lives, Dana and I have reached for excellence—in school, in sports, in marriage, at work and as moms. We take pride in the fact that we mostly got it going on. We will always assume that you mostly got it going on, too. We’re not saying that we’re perfect moms, or that we don’t feel guilt. We’re not and we do.

We’re just saying this: Let’s stop holding up examples of bad motherhood for entertainment. This job we do is important and we need to treat it that way.

Let’s focus on the mostly. Let’s talk about what’s right and good and loving and strong. Let’s celebrate the wins.

As for the rest, reconcile and forgive, baby.

Because it’s almost time for the next inning.

A Good Mammoth ~ Jen

The other night Gabriel was reading to me. It was a “free read” night and he had picked a Step up to Reading version of Ice Age 3.

We’re on the bed, and I’m trying to nurse Annie, who is treating me like a free refill bar at a fast food restaurant. I’m listening-ish. He reads that Manny, the Mammoth dad, and his teenage daughter Peaches, don’t really get along. Peaches yells at her dad “You can’t control my life!” Manny yells back “I’m your dad! It’s my job to control your life!”

Yikes. This needs a clarification, I think as I wrestle Annie to the floor and send her off to Dada.

But before I can say a word, Gabriel says “I think they are both wrong.”

“What do you mean?”

“Peaches is wrong” he tells me. “If she’s going to live with her dad, she has to follow his rules.”

“Yes.”

“And Manny is wrong. It’s not his job to control her life.”

“It’s not?”

“No. It’s his job to raise her to be a good mammoth.”

Oh man.

We don’t have teenagers yet. The closest thing we have is my friend’s nine year old. But they are coming, a giant clump of kids who will go through puberty within five years of each other, God help us.

I was not an easy teenager. I was smart and mouthy. Some would call me deceptive, but I would say that I ran excellent public relations campaigns. My parents were on a need to know basis. They needed to know about my excellent grades, outstanding athletic accomplishments, stellar babysitting reviews. What I did on Saturday night was my affair.

My father says if there is any justice in the world (when he says it you can hear the italics, I promise), I will get what I gave times three.

I survived with a clean record and all my limbs intact for one good reason: my parents did a good job. They laid a solid foundation of values and fear—you need both to parent effectively, in my opinion. When good sense didn’t stop me from being a dumbass, fear of the consequences usually did. Or at least prompted me to have a back up plan.

Because my parents were not playing around. I once got put on restriction an entire semester for being the designated driver. I argued this was unfair based on the fact that I was being the responsible one. They argued that we were all 16 and if they had their way we’d be locked up in a convent, so I should shut my mouth while I was ahead.

I understand a bit now how hard it is to raise good kids. Sometimes, every fiber of my being wants to raise safe kids in pretty cages. I’ve seen parents try to control their children into safe adulthood by anticipating every pitfall and negotiating every hardship.

But I know what that looks like at age 16—kids who are champion whiners, have no initiative and no ability to solve their own problems. If I had a dime for every time my dad told one of us to “use your head”, I’d be a rich woman, but that was much better than “I’ll do it for you”.

One of the most famous stories in our family goes like this: when my brother was in high school, he got a flat tire on the 405 freeway during rush hour traffic. He managed to get the truck off the freeway, but it was so old the spare tire was long gone. He called my dad to get some help. My dad listened to him and said “Call AAA and have it towed. I’m busy.” Click.

How many parents would have the guts to do this today? Strand your 17 year old? Not really stranded, because he had a AAA card in his wallet. But he had to handle the whole thing himself, which he did. To this day, when one of us hits a place where we don’t know what to do next, someone will yell “Call AAA and have it towed!”

As much as we give my dad a hard time, he was right about making us figure it out. And now, here we all are, successful adults.

So I’m going to try to remember: At some point it won’t be my job to control, negotiate and anticipate anymore. As they get older, it’s my job to teach them to do these things for themselves. I want them to go out in the world and be happy, contributing, moral adults.

I want them to be good mammoths.

Christians and Gun Control ~ Jen

“My job is not to tell you for whom you should vote. But I do have a duty to speak out on moral issues. I would be abdicating this duty if I remained silent out of fear of sounding ‘political’ and didn’t say anything about the morality of these issues… a vote for a candidate who promotes actions or behaviors that are intrinsically evil and gravely sinful makes you morally complicit and places the eternal salvation of your soul in jeopardy.” Bishop Thomas John Paprocki, Catholic Diocese of Springfield, Illinois.

Amen, Bishop. Amen.

So you’ll have something to say soon about the lawmakers who vote against common sense gun control measures? The lawmakers who voted against background checks the other day?

Because in 2008 and again in 2012, I sat in church and listened to my priests and deacons preach against pro-choice and pro-gay rights candidates. I listened to them condemn by name elected Catholic Democrats, such as Nancy Pelosi, because of their beliefs.

One priest, echoing Bishops across the country, told us that if we voted for any candidate who supported abortion rights, we were sinners who “cannot call ourselves Catholics”.

As a Catholic Democrat, who acknowledges the spiritual leadership of the Church, I was concerned. Shea and I searched our souls and beliefs to make sure our reasons for voting Democrat were supportable by church teachings.

And you know what? They are supported, by the words of our very own bishops, who have said “Catholic teaching about the dignity of life calls us to oppose torture, unjust war, and the use of the death penalty; to prevent genocide and attacks against noncombatants; to oppose racism; and to overcome poverty and suffering. Nations are called to protect the right to life by seeking effective ways to combat evil and terror without resorting to armed conflicts except as a last resort, always seeking first to resolve disputes by peaceful means. We revere the lives of children in the womb, the lives of persons dying in war and from starvation, and indeed the lives of all human beings as children of God.” (A Call to Political Responsibility from the Catholic Bishops of the United States)

Take this statement and apply it to the Republican platform, which would deny assistance to mothers who opt to have their babies, instead of abort; build a wall between the US and Mexico and arm it to keep desperate immigrants out of this great nation of immigrants; raise taxes on the poor and hardworking to protect the wealth of the rich; support big business and free trade, despite the damage it does to our economy and workers abroad, and despite Pope Benedict’s call to hold corporations accountable for their business decisions; and support the death penalty, which is murder.

Voting Republican might also put a soul in danger.

My point is that it’s not easy to be a Christian voter. It just isn’t. This nation has an imperfect political system, and neither platform really meets the standards of a Christian voter.

But sometimes, issues are easy. And gun control is a moral slam dunk.

Look back at what the Bishops said. If we are pro-life from birth to death, then gun control is a Christian moral value. If we seek first to resolves disputes peacefully, and if we revere all human beings as children of God, then gun control is a Christian moral value.

If we believe in the New Covenant made by Jesus on that cross and that God calls us to love and that we demonstrate that love by treating others the way we want to be treated, then gun control is a Christian moral value.

There is no moral high ground to support assault weapons in the hands of ordinary citizens. The entire purpose of assault weapons is to kill as many people in as short a time as possible. In the hands of non-military folk, this purpose is “intrinsically evil” and therefore morally nonsupportable.

There is no moral high ground to stand against a simple thing like back ground checks. To argue that background checks infringe on personal rights and privacy is disingenuous in a society where so much of our personal lives are online by our own choice. And anyone who has something to hide from a gun-related background check is probably a threat to society. Protecting them is morally nonsupportable.

As our spiritual leaders remind us so often, this is a nation founded on Christian beliefs. If we are one nation under God, and call ourselves servants of God, then we must do as the Bishops require and “protect the right to life by seeking effective ways to combat evil and terror without resorting to armed conflicts except as a last resort”.

So where’s the pulpit outrage and thunder on this issue?

My priests and deacons have been silent. My bishop has been silent. This despite public support for President Obama’s proposal from the Vatican. And the fact that so many of those sweet babies in Newton were buried out of their local Catholic church.

In fact, the entire American Christian church has been largely silent.

How can this be?

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this: