Three Pictures I love

Happy Birthday to John

John is now five. Five!

We celebrated his birthday during our trip to the mountains. On the agenda: two waterfalls, a scenic gorge, gem mining, and ice cream.

To appreciate how this afternoon unfolded, I have to return to Mother’s Day 2009, our last trip to the North Carolina Mountains. I grew up in suburban Detroit. In Michigan, we have lakes – Great Lakes, you know – but we don’t have oceans, and we don’t have mountains. When I moved south twenty-five years ago, I knew I’d love being so close to the shore, but I had no idea how much I would come to love hiking, camping, exploring waterfalls, white water rafting, tubing, etc.

I want my children to love what I love and high on the list is this magnificent landscape God has given us. Mother’s Day 2009 rolled around, and I told Dave I wanted to spend it in the mountains. I was just entering my third trimester with Ainsley, so white water rafting and strenuous hiking were out.  On the agenda: two waterfalls, a scenic gorge, gem mining, and ice cream.

It was Sunday, so we headed for Mass in Highlands, North Carolina. We were halfway through the twisting, curving route when Kolbe emitted a primal groan. “I feel sick,” he said. We made it to the church parking lot before Kolbe lost his breakfast.

After Mass we headed down Highway 64. We drove behind Bridal Veil Falls. John and Tim were marginally impressed. Kolbe just groaned some more. We headed for Dry Falls, a spectacular water fall you can walk behind. We spotted the sign ahead, but it was covered with burlap or something. As we reached the boarded-up parking area, it was clear that Dry Falls was under construction, and we would not be seeing it that day. We headed for Callasaja Gorge. Kolbe threw up again. He was too sick to get out of the car to take so much as a glance. We headed for level ground and gem mining, but by the time we descended into Franklin, North Carolina, we concluded that Kolbe wasn’t recovering anytime soon and that gem mining just wasn’t happening either.

I was crushed.

Fast forward three years. We were headed for Route 64. Kolbe was pumped with Dramamine and feeling swell.  Agenda unchanged: two water falls, a scenic gorge, gem mining, and ice cream. We hit Route 64 and could hardly miss the flashing lights that said “Road Closed Ahead.”  But it was closed eight miles ahead. We’d miss the gorge, but the waterfalls and gem mining were okay.

We drove behind Bridal Veil Falls and headed for Dry Falls. And then we spotted the burlap covered sign. No way, I thought. There is No! Way! this waterfall is still under construction.

Way!

Yes, we passed the parking lot, and it was full of construction vehicles. The gem mining operation was about a hundred yards before the road closure, and the gorge was just beyond it. Gem mining was in, the gorge out.

The kids absolutely loved gem mining. The attendant was very knowledgeable and told the kids all about mining history as they scooped and sifted through sand. The skeptic in me figured the “gems” were planted, but if they were, well, at least they planted lots of them. It really was cool.

Gems sorted and bagged, we headed back up the mountain for ice cream which did not disappoint. On the way back to our condo, we decided to hike to another waterfall, this one not under construction. It was a steep, one mile trek.

(Note to self: When you spot returning hikers who are:  a) two thirds your age and  b)half your body mass index and  c) huffing and puffing and dripping sweat, you might reconsider the hike.)

But if caution had prevailed, we would have missed the real gift – better than Dry Falls or Callasaja Gorge or ice cream. And that would be the gift of John, my brown-eyed bundle of verve and humor, John of my heart, one of my two late-in-life wonders.

As we headed down the path, John spotted one sparkling rock after another. “It’s a gem,” he yelled and stopped to dig it up. He’d hand his gems to me and off he’d run.

“I’m a gem working man,” he told us with all the wide-eyed enthusiasm that is age five.

Pretty soon John lost interest in sapphires, emeralds, and rubies.

“Gold,” he yelled. “It’s piratey treasure!”

Don’t tell the gem mining folks, but there’s gold in them thar hills, and John found plenty of it. Trust me; I hauled it all back to the van. The return hike was a tad daunting. Gem working guy eventually collapsed in a heap and urged, “Just leave me here.”

Though I felt his pain, we persevered and made it back to the condo, sweaty and weary. Dinner was left-over birthday cake, whatever snack food we could scrounge, wine and beer (for those of age). We ended the day with a rousing game of Sorry. Just as I was attempting – with practiced stealth – to stack the deck in John’s favor so the birthday boy wouldn’t come in dead last, he drew a one and managed to get his last guy home.

It wasn’t the birthday I planned, but it was beautiful birthday nonetheless.

Happy birthday, John. What a gift you are.

Gifts

As I glanced across the pool this afternoon, I spotted Tim and Ainsley at the snack bar. (Yes, this would be the snack bar I swore my kids would not be frequenting. Oh well.)

There stood Tim looking tall and tan. And there stood little Ainsley perched on a stool.

The boy with the dark, shaved head. And the girl with the blonde bob.

The one conceived with all the naive over-confidence of the young and healthy who think,"Gee, it'd be nice to have a baby about now" and it happens. And the who arrived completely by surprise after years of longing and loss.

My first born. And my baby.

As I overhauled Ainsley and John's room the other day, the state of the closet gave me pause. The dresses, oh the dresses. I started to count them and then I had to stop. The total is probably hovering around thirty. Thirty. Maybe just twenty-five. But maybe more.

Whatever the number, it's excessive.

Whenever I confront our excess, I imagine standing before God and facing this element of life in middle class America, this element of my life.

And I start to imagine the excuses I'll proffer.

-- Well, you know, most of these were hand-me-downs.

-- Well, you know, of the few that I bought, most of them came from consignment shops. (I'll be sure to point out the brown velvet with the faux leopard trim that I snatched up for a mere three bucks.)

-- Well, you know, I always pass them down to other people.

And then I think, no, I'll dispense with all the silly excuses.

I'll stand in the presence of God and say: When I was forty-five years old, you handed me yet another gift -- wholly unplanned, wholly unexpected, so very much wanted.

And, you know, I enjoyed every minute of her.

And God will say you're wlecome.

Can't Touch This!

My friend Christine posted this image on her blog:

Photo credit: Christine @ Writing From Scotland.

I could write a book about this. Seriously. Let me begin by presenting a few observations about the individual who posted this sign:

1. She is a woman.
2. She is a mother.
3. She has at least one boy.


How do I know this, you ask.

1. I am a woman.

2. I am a mother.

3. I have birthed three boys

When Tim and Kolbe hit, oh, second and sixth grades, I had this vision of them trotting off to school together. Our school is not quite a mile away. I walked to school for years. Camarderie! Exercise! It's all good.

Problem is, the walk takes them through, well, not the best street and the other problem is, well, this would require them to walk and walking takes time. My friend Laurie strongly cautioned me against doing this. Let me note a few observations about Laurie:

1. She is a woman.

2. She is a mother.

3. She has birthed five boys.
4. In her professional life, she has been both a psychiatric nurse and a middle school teacher.

And she saw walking to school through the same eyes as the woman who posted that sign. She understands how boys process messages like Can't Touch This!

The shortest distance between two points may be a straight line, but, in her view, few boys would opt for the straight line. Where's the fun in that?Between here and there, there are dogs to harass, rocks to throw, sticks to brandish, in short, all manner of mischief to be found. And that's not even addressing the crime rate in this zip code.

I drive the kids to school.

Can't Touch This! plays out in any number of ways around the house. I have three decorative pillows in our front living room. The boys cannot -- Can! Not! -- pass them by without touching, moving, or tossing them. The same holds true for the decorative throw that's supposed to remain tastefully draped across a certain chair. The person who named it a throw was undoubtedbly a former boy who knew exactly what a boy thinks when he sees one of these items. I had picked this thing up and refolded it so many times one day, I thought of standing there with a timer to assess exactly how many minutes it could actually remain stationary. 

Knick knacks of any variety meet the same fate and, sadly, Ainsley is as bad as her brothers in this regard. We have a decorative bird that once had an attached stick and clip which once held a photo. Nobody could leave it be. Stick gone. Clip gone. Photo in a drawer.

Maybe kids see decorative and read useless, pointless, and purposeless and simply seek to eliminate the thing?

You want to hear the last word in Can't Touch This? I was crowded into a tiny vestibule trying to catch a glimpse of one of my kids on the final day of swimming lessons. The young nanny of one child sat cross-legged in front of me. She had on low rise jeans and sported a tatoo of a lion on her, um, well, near her jeans. And there she sat front and center with a passel of parents trying hard to deter their eyes. A nameless toddler of mine ambled up and poked her tatoo.

I very nearly expired on the spot.

Can't Touch This!

Can't Touch This! has an interesting corollary. Where any mess is involved -- a spilled drink, papers that have cascaded off the counter, little bits of crayon wrapper, ANY bodily fluid -- an equal but opposite instinct kicks in. It screams: Don't Do A Darn Thing.  As I type this, I realize that the phenomenon actually goes a step beyond even this. Where mess is concerned, my boys confront a temporary blindness. They just don't see it.  Really, they just don't see it.

I have observed my boys all but hurdle a puddle of milk on the dining room floor. These are not bad hearted boys. Truly, they do anything I ask them to do with a minimal amount of kvetching (usually). But as far as initiative goes, nah. It's just not happening.

I walked into the kitchen the other day and saw one of the boys move back and forth from the stove to the sink to the fridge . . . all the while stepping on a dish towel. I doubt he threw the dish towel on the floor, but why, Why, WHY couldn't he pick it up?

Not on his radar. The same Laurie mentioned above has convinced me that this is not a symptom of some deep seated character flaw; she tells me it isn't even a sign of laziness. They just don't see it.
Not on their radar.

(I should drop a five dollar bill on the floor and see how many times the boys step on that. Totally on their radar.)

I took one and only one calculus course in my college career. This was my first semester in college. The "professor" was not a professor at all, but a teaching assistant/grad student who looked like the quintessential math geek. All he lacked was the pocket protector and the first aid tape on his glasses.

He was one of the best teachers I've ever had.

Why? Because he taught us to think like mathematicians. He would outline a problem and tell us, "Okay, before you start this problem, I want you to think." He would walk to the board and write "Think:". And he'd tell us exactly what to think.

This was nothing short of brilliant. I am NOT a mathematician. Because of him, I learned to fake it. I got an A in calculus, and all credit goes to him.

So maybe I need to tell my boys, when you look at this kitchen stop and think. And then I should tell them what to think.

Cause they're so totally not thinking it on their own.

But maybe they can fake it?

The Fruit of Boredom

I really wanted to make it to the pool yesterday, but the sky looked gray and vaguely threatening. The previous afternoon found us packing up our gear to leave the pool post haste when a whopper of a storm moved in. It was one of those storms I would have loved to watch with the kids . . . from the safety of my living room, not from the right lane of the Bobby Jones Expressway.

We prayed an Angelus, we watched lightening hit a pole, I cried a little, Tim held my hand.

No joke.

So today, what with the fear and the hassle factor, I wasn't heading for the pool unless the coast was clear.

We did a whole lot of nothing. As a rule, I'm not a big fan of A Whole Lot of Nothing because inevitably we dissemble, and the results are usually not pretty.

(And, in the interest of full disclosure, there was some of this. John, bless his heart, is an easy target. The older boys and a friend started fake whispering behind their hands, leaving John with the impression that he was being left out of some fantastic plans or big secret.

He shrieked. Loudly. And then I dealt with the boys. Loudly. Then I apologized. Then they apologized.)

And then we got back to having the perfect lazy summer day.

The boys played Clue.

Kolbe made super hero costumes for John.

Tim and I taught Kolbe to play Euchre.

I re-organized John and Ainsley's room.

We erected a tent in the living room.

Tim played his guitar for a long time.

Kolbe worked on his script.

Tim spent an hour building Viking Lego guys with John.

This has been the best summer ever. I'm not entirely sure why. I spied the Back to School sales circulars and had a pang of wistfulness wash over me.

In early May, when sports and car pools and homework and to do lists and permission slips overwhelmed me, when I looked forward to the blissful, unhurried days of summer, it was this day I imagined.

 And now I'd better run. We have water colors to do.

Keeping Company with Jesus and Mary

Image lifted from Karen's blog.

To my summer reading list, I am adding a book I that arrived last week: The Rosary: keeping company with Jesus and Mary. This is written by Karen Edmisten who blogs over at Karen Edmisten: The Blog with the Shockingly Clever Title.


Karen introduces her book by saying, "I'm not an expert on the rosary, unless expert can be defined as 'an average Catholic who prays the rosary and has found it to be powerful, comforting  and worth talking about.'"

A few weeks ago, I mentioned the loss of our friend and community member, Patrick McKeown. Rachel Balducci, who knew him much better than I did, penned a beautiful piece about Patrick. Rachel writes:

When I was growing up, my friend Susie (Patrick's daughter) was the only person I knew who said a daily rosary. I knew lots of people who said the rosary of course, but no one else came from a family that said it every single day. Seven p.m. sharp. No matter what.

This is the main thing I always remember about Susie’s dad, Uncle Pat . . . he was constant.

Many Catholics -- like the McKeown kids -- grow up praying the rosary. My mother probably did. She attended Catholic schools in the forties and fifties, first grade through college. I attended twelve years of Catholic schools, but this was the height of those experimental, post-Vatican II years.  I prayed the rosary exactly once. I think it was in a religion class on the sacraments. And this class of mostly cradle Catholics had to be taught and tested on how to pray the rosary since few of us grew up with this traditional devotion that must have become passe along with communion rails and Latin.

It would be ten years before I would prayer the rosary again. Then I began working with the Missionaries of Charity. They love the rosary. They pray a long, meditative rosary every morning in front of the blessed sacrament. They scatter a decade here and a decade there as they do their work, ride in the car, meet with shut in folks, run their soup kitchens.

They love to introduce others to the rosary. For many years we had a volunteer -- I think his name was David (?) -- who wasn't Catholic. He'd hop in the van every morning with me and one of the sisters. As soon as the van was in drive, sister would ask which mysteries we wanted to pray. David was always keen to pray the Happy Mysteries. "You mean the Joyful Mysteries," sister would say. "No, the Happy ones," he would tell her. We would point out that there were no Happy Mysteries. David was convinced there should be.

(I should let him know that we now pray the Luminous Mysteries, but still no Happy ones.)

I prayed many a rosary with the Missionaries of Charity, but it typically (not always) felt like I was just getting through it. Hail Mary . . . gosh, it's hot in here . . . full of grace . . .  got to remember to bring the glue sticks to camp today . . . the Lord is with thee . . . wonder if Sister Miriam ever had a boyfriend before she became a nun?

It wasn't always like that, but I struggled (as most of us do).

Lately, though, I have found tremendous solace in quiet. At our parish, Mass opens with an introit, a chant sung by the choir alone. This used to bother me to no end. I have a thing against choirs that perform. One of our neighboring parishes had an accomplished choir that had a penchant for choosing tunes I promise you no one but the choir could follow. Occasionally people would clap for them.

This, too, bothered me to no end. I'm not an expert in liturgy, but it seems to me, Mass calls everyone to participate. It's not a performance.

Back to the introit . . . It no longer bothers me. I see it as a chance to quiet myself after the hurly burly of getting six people in matching shoes, more or less unwrinkled clothing, brushed teeth, etc. all looking presentable and in the pew on time. It's a two minute Whew! And then we sing the opening hymn.

I used to get restless at the pace of Mass. Now I love it. It may well be the single part of my week that doesn't scream faster, faster, faster, hurry, hurry, hurry! In fact, when I go to other churches, I sometimes feel that we're playing a record on the wrong speed. Where's the fire, I want to ask.

Once a month Alleluia Community hosts a quiet prayer meeting. Most of our prayer meetings are full of joyful, lively praise and worship, but once a month, we slow it down, we quiet it down, and we sit in silent meditation. This, too, I now love.

And along with all these shifts -- rather seismic for my personality type -- has come a desire to pray the rosary more frequently. While my mind is no steel trap and is still prone to wander, I find myself in a very different place and much more open to quiet, meditative prayer. With the inspiration of Karen's book and Pat's example, off I go.

Or, I should say, off we go. I read chapter one aloud to the older boys. I was struck by the words of Blessed Bartolo Longo whom Karen quotes:

The Rosary is a teacher of life, a teacher full of gentleness and love, where people beneath the gaze of Mary, almost without noticing, discover they are being slowly educated in preparation for the second life, that which is authentic life, for it is not destined to end in a very few years, but to go on unto eternity.

I'm already inspired.

Seven Really Quick Takes

1. Selectively Deaf:

What I said: Turn on Dora for Ainsley.

What he heard: Fire up Despicable Me.


3. Totally makes up for #1:

John: Teach me to read, Tim! Teach me to read!

His first word? T-i-m.

3.  Insatiable:

Says growing teenage boy: Taquitos, hmmm, steak and cheese. I'd better have one . . . or four . . . better make it five.

4. Missing in Action: one fish, went by the name of Tony Stark.

5. Devoured by his tank mates: another fish, went by the name of Tony Stark II. So much for the Fraternal Bonds of Tankhood.

6. Warning: If you get the allusion in #5, you've watched too many Disney movies.

7. Head over to Jen's to add your Seven Quick Takes.