Monday, August 31, 2009
Thursday, August 27, 2009
The Blog's New Address:
Ian bought me www.clan-donaldson.com for my birthday. So you can now find the blog there. I mean, if you go to the old address, it'll automatically redirect you to the new address, and so you may not even notice there's been a change. But there has. I am now cooler than ever before.
Thanks, Ian!
Thanks, Ian!
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Ten Year Anniversary
Fair Warning:
This post contains more pictures of Ken and me than you are ever likely to want to see. At some point, you will wonder why you are wasting your time looking at two bozos with obvious vanity issues. These feelings are totally natural. But, like watching some horrific wreck on the highway, you'll probably be unable to look away.
Our first big hike for our anniversary trip was up to Mt. Le Conte. The day started off sunny and mild. Ken poses in front of the first of many ridiculously beautiful vistas.
The first big stop on the hike is at Allum Cave Bluffs. Which don't have a cave, but are really, really big. As Ken (lower left) takes in. Luckily, the path leads around the bluffs.
We reached the top of Le Conte, and wandered around the lodge up there for a while. The lodge is a weird sort of hippy commune/M. Night Shamalyan's "The Village" mix. It was nice, but no scenic views. Nothing that said, "You've climbed a mountain!!" In other words, anticlimactic.
But, on our way down, I spot a tiny little sign that reads "Cliff Tops- .2 miles" We figure "what the heck", and take the trail. Good thing we did. Once we reached the end of the trail, we were rewarded with this:
Well, not that exactly. That's just me taking another stupid self-portrait.
Yeah. This one's better.
The descent took place in a deluge. Horrible. But a bad day hiking is still better than a lot of good places elsewhere, right?
The next day we hiked out to Andrew's Bald and Clingman's Dome.
Oh look. Me again.
Andrew's Bald. Very baldy.
Ken is not as impressed with the bald as I am. Jaded.
The walk up to the Dome kicked Ken's ass. I, however, remained fresh and chipper. No matter what the photographs may suggest.
The tippy tippy top. Cold and wet.
We headed back to the B&B, showered, got into our city clothes, and headed out to a seafood joint for our anniversary dinner. Damn, we're good looking (see what I meant about the vanity?)
Oh yeah, did I mention the statue of the demonic mermaid that was the centerpiece of the restaurant? Creeeeeeeepy.
And, just for fun. An annoying couple's pose montage.
This post contains more pictures of Ken and me than you are ever likely to want to see. At some point, you will wonder why you are wasting your time looking at two bozos with obvious vanity issues. These feelings are totally natural. But, like watching some horrific wreck on the highway, you'll probably be unable to look away.
Our first big hike for our anniversary trip was up to Mt. Le Conte. The day started off sunny and mild. Ken poses in front of the first of many ridiculously beautiful vistas.
The first big stop on the hike is at Allum Cave Bluffs. Which don't have a cave, but are really, really big. As Ken (lower left) takes in. Luckily, the path leads around the bluffs.
We reached the top of Le Conte, and wandered around the lodge up there for a while. The lodge is a weird sort of hippy commune/M. Night Shamalyan's "The Village" mix. It was nice, but no scenic views. Nothing that said, "You've climbed a mountain!!" In other words, anticlimactic.
But, on our way down, I spot a tiny little sign that reads "Cliff Tops- .2 miles" We figure "what the heck", and take the trail. Good thing we did. Once we reached the end of the trail, we were rewarded with this:
Well, not that exactly. That's just me taking another stupid self-portrait.
Yeah. This one's better.
The descent took place in a deluge. Horrible. But a bad day hiking is still better than a lot of good places elsewhere, right?
The next day we hiked out to Andrew's Bald and Clingman's Dome.
Oh look. Me again.
Andrew's Bald. Very baldy.
Ken is not as impressed with the bald as I am. Jaded.
The walk up to the Dome kicked Ken's ass. I, however, remained fresh and chipper. No matter what the photographs may suggest.
The tippy tippy top. Cold and wet.
We headed back to the B&B, showered, got into our city clothes, and headed out to a seafood joint for our anniversary dinner. Damn, we're good looking (see what I meant about the vanity?)
Oh yeah, did I mention the statue of the demonic mermaid that was the centerpiece of the restaurant? Creeeeeeeepy.
And, just for fun. An annoying couple's pose montage.
Glut of Pictures/What I Did On My Summer Vacation
The summer in brief review:
Jude gets his yearly bath. A few months early.
We went to the zoo with the cousins. Jude was always either strapped into the sling on the stroller, so just imagine his little face in there somewhere.
We grew watermelons. Or tried too. I'll say this- the learning curve was high at least.
We celebrated Dave's 60th birthday with a big party.
Lotus and Joaquin went to VBS, where Lotus apparently picked up a bad case of glow-eye.
Joaquin demonstrates how freshy-fresh his armpits are.
Even the toughest critic in the audience was entertained.
I can't think of a caption for this picture right now. I'm giggling too hard. He looks like an Amish pimp.
And then, there were the kids' birthdays. In reverse order:
Lotus turned seven.
Gabriel turned two.
Joaquin turned four. I want you to notice the severe downward trend of cake quality during those two weeks. I was caked out.
The boys have plots. And secrets. And no, they won't tell us what they are.
Joaquin, Lotus, and her celebrity crush, Doug Elliot.
Jude gets his yearly bath. A few months early.
We went to the zoo with the cousins. Jude was always either strapped into the sling on the stroller, so just imagine his little face in there somewhere.
We grew watermelons. Or tried too. I'll say this- the learning curve was high at least.
We celebrated Dave's 60th birthday with a big party.
Lotus and Joaquin went to VBS, where Lotus apparently picked up a bad case of glow-eye.
Joaquin demonstrates how freshy-fresh his armpits are.
Even the toughest critic in the audience was entertained.
I can't think of a caption for this picture right now. I'm giggling too hard. He looks like an Amish pimp.
And then, there were the kids' birthdays. In reverse order:
Lotus turned seven.
Gabriel turned two.
Joaquin turned four. I want you to notice the severe downward trend of cake quality during those two weeks. I was caked out.
The boys have plots. And secrets. And no, they won't tell us what they are.
Joaquin, Lotus, and her celebrity crush, Doug Elliot.
Monday, August 24, 2009
Joaquin's List for the School Year
Several times during the day, Joaquin asked me to sit down and write out a list that he wanted to dictate to me. Each time he asked, we were in the middle of something else, so it wasn't until the very end of the day that I had a moment to grab paper and pen and take dictation. The following is what he wanted written down:
Joaquin's List for the School Year
1. getting healthy
2. listening to what my teacher says to do ("Joaquin," I asked him after writing this down. "Who is your teacher?" "You, Mama!" he says. Goody. I now have in writing that listening to me is something he intends to do.)
3. always eating my food
4. loving my mommy (awwwww)
5. kissing my mommy and hugging her (awwww, again)
6. never give up- perseverance
7. control my mind and my body- self control (ok, in the interest of full disclosure, the previous two are part of the "five foundations of taekwando", so it's not like he pulled that out of the ether on his own)
8. always being happy (awww, for a third time. I swear I am not making this up. You'll see, keep reading.)
---and suddenly, the list takes a sinister turn----
9. don't cut my mama, because she loves me (uh....what?)
10. and don't cut off her head (what the hell...? cut off my head?! seriously folks, what?!)
11. don't staple her fingers together
12. don't glue her
13. never draw on her
and
14. don't cover her with paper until she does not want to see
So there you have it, the 14 goals Joaquin has set for himself this school year. If you don't hear from me for a long time, assume that the boy failed to master item no. 10, and please call the cops.
Joaquin's List for the School Year
1. getting healthy
2. listening to what my teacher says to do ("Joaquin," I asked him after writing this down. "Who is your teacher?" "You, Mama!" he says. Goody. I now have in writing that listening to me is something he intends to do.)
3. always eating my food
4. loving my mommy (awwwww)
5. kissing my mommy and hugging her (awwww, again)
6. never give up- perseverance
7. control my mind and my body- self control (ok, in the interest of full disclosure, the previous two are part of the "five foundations of taekwando", so it's not like he pulled that out of the ether on his own)
8. always being happy (awww, for a third time. I swear I am not making this up. You'll see, keep reading.)
---and suddenly, the list takes a sinister turn----
9. don't cut my mama, because she loves me (uh....what?)
10. and don't cut off her head (what the hell...? cut off my head?! seriously folks, what?!)
11. don't staple her fingers together
12. don't glue her
13. never draw on her
and
14. don't cover her with paper until she does not want to see
So there you have it, the 14 goals Joaquin has set for himself this school year. If you don't hear from me for a long time, assume that the boy failed to master item no. 10, and please call the cops.
Grocery Store/Angry Universe Update
So I wisely chose to hit Costco first. But I decided this, like, as I was backing out of my driveway, figuring that the Universe wouldn't hear about my change in plan until it was too late to be able to hatch a plot in time.
On the way, Lotus and I were talking about how the way one lives one's life is constantly being observed by others, and they may make decisions and choices based on what they saw. She kept coming up with situations she wanted to influence, and we talked about how she should conduct herself to help others see the merits of "Lotus' side" (yes, my seven year old is a flipping genius, as she politely pointed out this morning during science when she reminded me that nectonic animals were the ones with the ability to swim, while benthic ones could only walk. My bad).
We get to Costco, park, and I load up the three boys into the cart (side note: only one of the boys was wearing shoes). Our trips to Costco follow a very precise and rigid pattern. In fact, if you look carefully enough at the concrete floor, you can see the beginnings of grooves worn in by our feet.
The first stop is always the bakery. A mega package of tortillas thrown in, then off to the really important stuff- the bagels. The only decent bagels in Memphis. While I'm bagging up 2 dozen, an old white man in a motorized cart comes cruising up to us.
"I love bagels." He says. I'm not surprised by the fact that he's speaking to us. Old men like to talk, and old men like me. I turn to him and agree that bagels are, in fact, delightful.
"But I can't eat them anymore," he says mournfully. "I'm too fat. Bagels are no good for losing weight."
"Yeah. Luckily, I have four little ones that don't have to worry about that, so they can eat the bagels for both of us." He looks a little taken aback when I say that all these children belong to me.
"Let me tell you something," he says. I sneak a glance over my shoulder to see if there is an old lady behind me, hands on hips, and sighing in exasperation over her husband's stubborn insistence on embarrassing her every time they go out. I do not immediately spot her, so I turn back to the old man.
"Yes?" I say. I like talking to people, generally. The kids are all being well behaved, not spilling out of the cart, not grabbing things off shelves. I figure I have a moment or two.
"The Jews and the Catholics, see," I blink suddenly, trying to figure out how this sentence could possibly end in a way that would make sense for it to take place in a Costco between two complete strangers. I fail. "neither of them believe in birth control." He nods sagely.
"I'm Catholic!" I say, amiably, not defensively.
"You are? I'm Jewish!" He looks astounded and delighted by this unexpected alignment of the Universe.
"Well look at that." This is all I can think to say.
The man then goes on about a big Catholic family he used to know in Cinncinati, then tells me all about his opinions on how horrible kids are today, how the only way to raise them is to beat them, and how they don't listen. I look at my children while he says this, who are still, against all odds, maintaining heroic levels of good behavior. He follows my glance and looks at me questioningly. "How do you do it?"
"Well," I shrug helplessly. "I homeschool them. I'm around them all day, I guess." How does one answer something like that?
He then asks me where I'm from, what line of work my husband's in, and finally, takes out a business card for his locksmithing service. I take it, promise to remember him next time we lock ourselves out of the house, and tell him goodbye.
As we move on toward other parts of the store, Lotus looks at me very seriously and announces, "Mama, I think that man was an angel."
"You do?"
"Yes. I think he was not a man, but an angel."
I nod, and think this over as we continue shopping.
Finally finished, we head for the checkout line. The woman in front of us, a middle aged Indian woman, turns, sees us, and abandons her cart to come talk to me.
"Your children are all beautiful!" she says, in an Indian accent. I personally love Indian accents, so pretty much anything she will say to me will be met with indulgence. "Are they all yours?" I nod, still bemused by her accent. "I don't know how you do it! How do you do it?" I point out that they didn't all come at once, so I got to figure out how to manage things one child at a time. She then proceeds to ask me about the children's ages, if I find it more difficult to have them further spaced out, or closer in age, tells me about her two children (11 years apart), how difficult her pregnancies were, and how she always wanted a large family. By this time, the line has moved, the cashier has scanned and boxed up all the woman's groceries, and people are patiently waiting to move on (never underestimate the soothing power of an Indian accent).
The woman notices the gap, runs up to pay for her groceries, and continues to ask me questions as I load my groceries onto the conveyor belt. Her last question is in response to the tortillas I got at the beginning of the trip.
"Are those any good?" She asks me, with the sense that my opinion will be taken very, very seriously and will influence all her future tortilla purchases.
I shrug. "Not really," I say. "But there are a lot of them, and they're cheap, so...." She nods, takes hold of her cart, and is off.
Lotus is quiet then entire time we're being checked out. Finally, as we head our cart out of the store, she says, "Mama, I don't think that woman was an angel."
"Really?" I say, shocked, because by now I'm almost positive that angels all speak with Indian accents.
"Yeah. If she were an angel, she would have known that those tortillas were bad without ever asking."
On the way, Lotus and I were talking about how the way one lives one's life is constantly being observed by others, and they may make decisions and choices based on what they saw. She kept coming up with situations she wanted to influence, and we talked about how she should conduct herself to help others see the merits of "Lotus' side" (yes, my seven year old is a flipping genius, as she politely pointed out this morning during science when she reminded me that nectonic animals were the ones with the ability to swim, while benthic ones could only walk. My bad).
We get to Costco, park, and I load up the three boys into the cart (side note: only one of the boys was wearing shoes). Our trips to Costco follow a very precise and rigid pattern. In fact, if you look carefully enough at the concrete floor, you can see the beginnings of grooves worn in by our feet.
The first stop is always the bakery. A mega package of tortillas thrown in, then off to the really important stuff- the bagels. The only decent bagels in Memphis. While I'm bagging up 2 dozen, an old white man in a motorized cart comes cruising up to us.
"I love bagels." He says. I'm not surprised by the fact that he's speaking to us. Old men like to talk, and old men like me. I turn to him and agree that bagels are, in fact, delightful.
"But I can't eat them anymore," he says mournfully. "I'm too fat. Bagels are no good for losing weight."
"Yeah. Luckily, I have four little ones that don't have to worry about that, so they can eat the bagels for both of us." He looks a little taken aback when I say that all these children belong to me.
"Let me tell you something," he says. I sneak a glance over my shoulder to see if there is an old lady behind me, hands on hips, and sighing in exasperation over her husband's stubborn insistence on embarrassing her every time they go out. I do not immediately spot her, so I turn back to the old man.
"Yes?" I say. I like talking to people, generally. The kids are all being well behaved, not spilling out of the cart, not grabbing things off shelves. I figure I have a moment or two.
"The Jews and the Catholics, see," I blink suddenly, trying to figure out how this sentence could possibly end in a way that would make sense for it to take place in a Costco between two complete strangers. I fail. "neither of them believe in birth control." He nods sagely.
"I'm Catholic!" I say, amiably, not defensively.
"You are? I'm Jewish!" He looks astounded and delighted by this unexpected alignment of the Universe.
"Well look at that." This is all I can think to say.
The man then goes on about a big Catholic family he used to know in Cinncinati, then tells me all about his opinions on how horrible kids are today, how the only way to raise them is to beat them, and how they don't listen. I look at my children while he says this, who are still, against all odds, maintaining heroic levels of good behavior. He follows my glance and looks at me questioningly. "How do you do it?"
"Well," I shrug helplessly. "I homeschool them. I'm around them all day, I guess." How does one answer something like that?
He then asks me where I'm from, what line of work my husband's in, and finally, takes out a business card for his locksmithing service. I take it, promise to remember him next time we lock ourselves out of the house, and tell him goodbye.
As we move on toward other parts of the store, Lotus looks at me very seriously and announces, "Mama, I think that man was an angel."
"You do?"
"Yes. I think he was not a man, but an angel."
I nod, and think this over as we continue shopping.
Finally finished, we head for the checkout line. The woman in front of us, a middle aged Indian woman, turns, sees us, and abandons her cart to come talk to me.
"Your children are all beautiful!" she says, in an Indian accent. I personally love Indian accents, so pretty much anything she will say to me will be met with indulgence. "Are they all yours?" I nod, still bemused by her accent. "I don't know how you do it! How do you do it?" I point out that they didn't all come at once, so I got to figure out how to manage things one child at a time. She then proceeds to ask me about the children's ages, if I find it more difficult to have them further spaced out, or closer in age, tells me about her two children (11 years apart), how difficult her pregnancies were, and how she always wanted a large family. By this time, the line has moved, the cashier has scanned and boxed up all the woman's groceries, and people are patiently waiting to move on (never underestimate the soothing power of an Indian accent).
The woman notices the gap, runs up to pay for her groceries, and continues to ask me questions as I load my groceries onto the conveyor belt. Her last question is in response to the tortillas I got at the beginning of the trip.
"Are those any good?" She asks me, with the sense that my opinion will be taken very, very seriously and will influence all her future tortilla purchases.
I shrug. "Not really," I say. "But there are a lot of them, and they're cheap, so...." She nods, takes hold of her cart, and is off.
Lotus is quiet then entire time we're being checked out. Finally, as we head our cart out of the store, she says, "Mama, I don't think that woman was an angel."
"Really?" I say, shocked, because by now I'm almost positive that angels all speak with Indian accents.
"Yeah. If she were an angel, she would have known that those tortillas were bad without ever asking."
Grocery Shopping With Four in the Cart and an Angry Universe at My Back
Just a quick post-
I am going grocery shopping with all four in a few hours. I mention this only because earlier this morning, I recklessly posted on Facebook about how spectacular my children are. I have therefore thrown the challenge out to the Universe, and I can feel it massing its forces against me, plotting its fiendish plots to bring me and my contentment with my offspring to our knees.
I am fully expecting this to take place somewhere before aisle 5 at Wal-Mart.
I am going grocery shopping with all four in a few hours. I mention this only because earlier this morning, I recklessly posted on Facebook about how spectacular my children are. I have therefore thrown the challenge out to the Universe, and I can feel it massing its forces against me, plotting its fiendish plots to bring me and my contentment with my offspring to our knees.
I am fully expecting this to take place somewhere before aisle 5 at Wal-Mart.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Tribble Party In My Face
I'm on day two of an awful sinus infection. Every time I blow my nose, giant brownish-green Tribbles come out of my nasal cavities. 
(Cari, played here by James T. Kirk, examines her Kleenex and discovers another Tribble has escaped.)
Except my Tribbles are made of mucus, not fur, but you get the point.
And when the Tribbles are NOT exiting my nose, they appear to be, judging by the pain I'm experiencing, lighting bonfires in my sinuses and rolling around in the flames. It's a Tribble party in my face.
Add that to the all-over achy feeling and lethargy, and you've got one miserable mama.
So I'm slumped on the couch this morning, drearily watching Ken get ready for work. He keeps getting ready for work, despite my baleful glances and suggestions that he take pity on me and call in sick, so I can go back to bed. He assures me that he would LOVE to do just that very thing, but unfortunately, his hands are tied. I suspect he's lying
The children, sensing that I am vulnerable, weakened, and unlikely to fend off their attacks, all descend upon me. Lotus curls up at my left, and uses my belly for a pillow. Then, liking the bounciness of her pillow, begins to bang her head against my stomach, using it as a trampoline for her giant, bony cranium. I resist the urge to beat her, but only because I don't have the strength to.
Gabriel, who has found one of Ken's wood clamps and is wandering around the house without a diaper on, comes up to me and requests help.
"Put penis in clamp?" he says, lifting up his shirt and trying to figure out how to...well, clamp his penis. And yes, the boy has mastered the word "penis". It's one of the clearer things he says.
"No, Gabriel. The clamp isn't for your penis. Get it away." Ken, whose back is turned to me during this, starts shaking with what I recognize as silent laughter. Lotus' laughter is not silent. She turns her head and buries her face in my stomach, laughing hysterically. It feels weird.
Gabriel looks at the clamp, then at my crotch. "Clamp mommy?"
I kick his hand and the clamp away. "No, we're not going to clamp mommy's vagina, either."
The word "vagina" sends Ken and Lotus into harder fits of giggles. Joaquin, who has been crouching, cat-like, at my right, bends near my ear. And begins to speak. Loudly.
"Maaaaammmaaaaaa?" I close my eyes and beg God for a clone. Just for today. "If you pay me a dollar, I will sing you a song." Joaquin holds his hand out. I oblige, and hand him an invisible dollar. He begins to sing:
"A, E, I, O, U are the vowels
Jesus loves the vowels.
Jesus likes you
He created you.
You create cars and houses and roads."
While I'm pondering whether I should be happy that my son has learned his vowels, or disgruntled that God loves the vowels, but He only likes me, Ken slips out the door.
Bastard.
At 10:30, Gabriel begins to insist that he's hungry and wants lunch. This actually can work to my benefit, for if I give the kids an early lunch, I can put them all down for naps at the same time! I can nap too!
I am so excited by this prospect that I have enough energy to make homemade pizza rolls. All the flavor, none of the creepy chemicals. My children eye the pizza rolls suspiciously, and refuse to eat them. They like their junk food with extra chemicals, thank you very much.
I shoo them all off to bed by quarter to noon. I am going to get to nap! I settle down beside Joaquin, who takes his naps in our bed as an incentive to still take them. My eyes close, my mind slows, and then Johnny Cash begins to lament about his hangover as my phone ringer, "Sunday Morning Coming Down" goes off. While I feel Johnny's pain, I still try to ignore the phone. I sense something hovering above me, and I crack an eye open. It is Joaquin, informing me that my phone is ringing and that I need to answer it.
"I don't want to. It's nap time." I mumble, and he lays back down. Silence.
Then the phone rings again. I sigh, get up, and go check it. It's Ken. Calling from the safety of work. I talk to him, hang up, and settle back down. Again.
By this time, the Tribbles in my head have been all stirred up, and they begin their stomping and fire building and whatnot, and I am driven from bed, so as to not wake the boy with my nose-blowing.
So here I am. Miserably posting this account of my day, hoping that you will get a chuckle or two out of my pain. Bastards.
Friday, August 14, 2009
St. Maximilian Kolbe: Will and Obedience
The men of Block 14 were assembled. Ten men had been selected from among them. Ten men, sentenced to die in the camp’s starvation pit because one of their number had escaped. One of the condemned men, thinking of his wife and children, breaks down, asking for mercy from people who will give him none.
Slowly, inconceivably, a fragile form leaves his place among the remaining members of Block 14. His body is wracked with coughing, his uniform’s red triangle with the letter “P” indicates a Polish political prisoner. He makes his way to the head of the assembly, and stands in front of the prison Commandant. Looking the Commandant in the eye, he quietly says, “I want to take the place of the father of a family.”
Silence. Then, the astounded Commandant asks ,“Why?”
“Because I am old and useless. My life is not worth anything.”
The Commandant shrugs, but agrees to the request, and the frail man takes the other’s place in line. As the ten prisoners are marched off to the death house, the Commandant speaks to the man one last time.
“Who are you?”
The reply is brief. “A Catholic priest.”
************
Today is the feast day of St. Maximilian Kolbe, Polish priest, founder of the Knights of the Immaculata, tuberculosis sufferer, and victim of the death camp at Auschwitz.
I have a strong devotion to this saint. The more I read about him, the more I admire him. While thinking about writing something in honor of his feast day, I tried to pin down what it was about him that draws me in.
What I ultimately came up with was his will. This was a man of astounding will, determination, and focus. These God-given gifts could so easily have been used in service of the self; in fact, those very qualities are praised by our culture because of the gains they can secure for the individual. Those with a more global bent may praise the same qualities when put to use for the earthly advancement of humanity as a whole, but few would extol those virtues being put to use in God’s service. After all, the merging of the will of man with the Will of God is a tremendous thing- difficult for the faithful, and distasteful for the non-believer. But St. Maximilian was a man who took that unshakable will and used it to bring glory to God.
He did this paradoxically. There was not one plan he created, not one ambitious dream he had, that he didn’t present to his superiors and submit to their authority. His dreams of building Cities of the Immaculata, of using the technology of the time to reach souls, and of traveling to the far reaches of the earth in the service of Our Lady were all brought to reality through his determination, focus, and persistence, but only after securing permission from those in charge. How many of us today could, knowing that we had clear directions from the Holy Spirit, submit those instructions to our pastors, our confessors, or our spiritual directors, and then wait until permission was given before continuing? The mere concept ranges from inconceivable to troublesome, depending on the individual. Yet it is precisely the concept of the individual and its all too often misguided desires that Kolbe transcended. So firm was his faith that God spoke through His Church that Kolbe found no struggle in submitting his formidable will to the guidance of that same Church.
In the spectacular narrative of his life, it is easy to overlook the quiet, underlying theme of obedience that, I think, gave St. Maximilian Kolbe the strength to accomplish such amazing feats. This saint who has been called a “martyr of charity”, who displayed the “unlimited loving-kindness” that defines that virtue, shows us, children in a time that praises rebellion often simply for rebellion’s sake, that all virtues are made stronger when obedient to God’s, and not our, Will.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Another Fascinating Theological Discussion With Joaquin
We are driving home from the zoo this afternoon. It's about 100 degrees, the humidity is so high that it's as wet as it can get without actually raining, and I am realizing that the only thing I've eaten today, a bowl of lentil stew, has worn off hours ago. All this has conspired to leave me shaky and dazed, and I'm concentrating so hard on getting my children home safely that at first I think I have misunderstood Joaquin's question, which is posed out of the clear blue, after 20 minutes of silence.
"Maaaaamaaaaa?" (the boy must start every sentence with the name of the person he's speaking to. Very Dale Carnige, but said with an absurd drawl) "Can Jesus shoot laser beams out of his eyeballs?"
"What?" Seriously people, I am not making this up.
"Laser beams. Can Jesus shoot them out of his eyeballs?"
"Well baby, I guess so. He's God, so if he wanted to shoot laser beams out of his eyeballs, then he could. But why would he?"
"So he could be like Superman. Superman shoots laser beams out of his eyeballs. He's cool. He's stronger than Jesus."
"No, baby, I don't think that's right. Jesus is stronger. He's God."
"But Superman is EXTRA strong."
"Jesus is still stronger."
"Could he lift up three people at the same time?"
"Baby, he could lift up all the people in the world at the same time, and still have room left over in his hands."
"Oh." Joaquin ponders this. I watch him from the rearview mirror.
"Well," he finally says, "I'm extra, extra, extra, extra, extra strong. So I'm stronger than Jesus. But I can't shoot laser beams out of my eyeballs. Yet. But maybe if I ask Jesus, he will let me."
I wish I had been warned about the advanced theology knowledge required to raise children. I would have studied harder. Or at least eaten more lunch.
"Maaaaamaaaaa?" (the boy must start every sentence with the name of the person he's speaking to. Very Dale Carnige, but said with an absurd drawl) "Can Jesus shoot laser beams out of his eyeballs?"
"What?" Seriously people, I am not making this up.
"Laser beams. Can Jesus shoot them out of his eyeballs?"
"Well baby, I guess so. He's God, so if he wanted to shoot laser beams out of his eyeballs, then he could. But why would he?"
"So he could be like Superman. Superman shoots laser beams out of his eyeballs. He's cool. He's stronger than Jesus."
"No, baby, I don't think that's right. Jesus is stronger. He's God."
"But Superman is EXTRA strong."
"Jesus is still stronger."
"Could he lift up three people at the same time?"
"Baby, he could lift up all the people in the world at the same time, and still have room left over in his hands."
"Oh." Joaquin ponders this. I watch him from the rearview mirror.
"Well," he finally says, "I'm extra, extra, extra, extra, extra strong. So I'm stronger than Jesus. But I can't shoot laser beams out of my eyeballs. Yet. But maybe if I ask Jesus, he will let me."
I wish I had been warned about the advanced theology knowledge required to raise children. I would have studied harder. Or at least eaten more lunch.
Monday, August 10, 2009
This One's For All The Moms
From InsideCatholic.com. I thought all you moms would resonate with some part. Plus, I love Angelina.
Glamour Moms
by Danielle Bean
12/05/08
Her gleaming grin caught my eye in the checkout aisle. There she was -- Angelina Jolie. Newly pregnant, the headline told me, with her seventh child.
The evidence of this latest "pregnancy" was helpfully highlighted for readers with the use of a yellow arrow marked with the words "baby bump."
There, beneath a fitted dress, was Ms. Jolie's abdomen, looking . . . rather smooth and toned for someone who gave birth to twins just four months ago. Heck, it was looking rather smooth and toned by any woman's standards.
Why do media-invented Jolie "pregnancies" sell papers? Why are Americans obsessed with Angelina Jolie, Brad Pitt, and their growing brood of now six children? The obvious answer is that Americans have always been obsessed with wealthy, beautiful people.
But this particular celebrity couple is different. Not only because they have had so many children so quickly, but because they stubbornly refuse to apologize for their excesses.
"I'm really proud of my family," Pitt said in a recent interview. "I look at my sons and daughters. . . . I feel rich being around them."
And Jolie herself recently admitted, "Anything could happen, we're open to anything, we love kids and we're having a great time. . . . We'll definitely have more."
The nerve!
Of course I do not pretend that this unmarried couple is embracing a Catholic family lifestyle, but as a mom of many myself, I am intrigued by their unabashedly positive portrayal of large-family living.
Modern America doesn't know exactly what to make of such enthusiasm for many children.
"I suppose they can afford a large family," a commenter recently sneered on a celebrity "news" television show (not that I ever watch those). Children, we are left to conclude, are expensive accessories flaunted by the rich.
Or if they aren't accessories, they might be the result of mental instability. Earlier this year, ABC news ran a report where various psychiatric "experts" weighed in on whether Jolie's "compulsive mothering" might just be a sign of mental illness. Finding joy in motherhood, we learn, is psychologically suspect behavior.
Most remarkable to me was a column I once read where the author referred to the happy, large family lifestyle portrayed by Jolie as "mommy porn." She argued that Jolie's manufactured image as a contented mother of many children creates a false, unattainable ideal of parental perfection and damages real-life family relationships.
I'll admit that the Jolie-Pitt family romance might be a bit of a show, but don't we all put on a bit of a show?
I am no Angelina, but when I head out with my own large family in tow, I am very much aware that we are going to be noticed and that we are presenting an "image" of large families that will be judged. I can't afford to be the mother caught grousing at her bickering, sticky-faced children in the parking lot.
I do, however, see value in admitting that parenthood is hard, and that a life devoted to children is not always sugar-cookie kisses and maternal bliss. I clearly recall my feelings of frustration years ago, when, as a new mother of a colicky infant, I called my own mother and shouted, "You never told me it would be this hard!"
There is a big difference, though, between sharing some of the nitty-gritty and outright rejecting the notion that a woman can find contentment in nurturing her family.
If celebrity moms like Angelina Jolie revealed a little more of the reality of stretch marks and diaper rash, I would relish every word. And yet I feel only affirmed when these same celebrities give testament to the real contentment that real women can find in family life. Because that's my reality, too.
The other day, when I stopped by the drugstore for a package of diapers, my five-year-old whined for Pretty Ponies while my three-year-old fingered the bottles of cough syrup. Older children enthusiastically suggested the purchase of 167 different forms of sugar. As we drew the attention of fellow shoppers, I felt myself begin to sweat.
When finally we paid for our purchases, little Daniel wiped his nose on my coat collar. The cashier winced, but I stubbornly clung to my dignity. After a quick sideways glance to check for paparazzi, I tossed my hair and flashed my very best celebrity smile.
Perfect motherhood might be a myth, but happy motherhood is real. As real as the warm weight of a baby in your arms and the peace that comes from knowing you are doing what God made you to do -- not always perfectly, but with faith. And fervor.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Danielle Bean, a mother of eight, is senior editor of Faith & Family magazine and author of My Cup of Tea: Musings of a Catholic Mom (Pauline 2005) and Mom to Mom, Day to Day: Advice and Support for Catholic Living (Pauline 2007). Visit her blog at www.daniellebean.com.
Readers have left 33 comments
Glamour Moms
by Danielle Bean
12/05/08
Her gleaming grin caught my eye in the checkout aisle. There she was -- Angelina Jolie. Newly pregnant, the headline told me, with her seventh child.
The evidence of this latest "pregnancy" was helpfully highlighted for readers with the use of a yellow arrow marked with the words "baby bump."
There, beneath a fitted dress, was Ms. Jolie's abdomen, looking . . . rather smooth and toned for someone who gave birth to twins just four months ago. Heck, it was looking rather smooth and toned by any woman's standards.
Why do media-invented Jolie "pregnancies" sell papers? Why are Americans obsessed with Angelina Jolie, Brad Pitt, and their growing brood of now six children? The obvious answer is that Americans have always been obsessed with wealthy, beautiful people.
But this particular celebrity couple is different. Not only because they have had so many children so quickly, but because they stubbornly refuse to apologize for their excesses.
"I'm really proud of my family," Pitt said in a recent interview. "I look at my sons and daughters. . . . I feel rich being around them."
And Jolie herself recently admitted, "Anything could happen, we're open to anything, we love kids and we're having a great time. . . . We'll definitely have more."
The nerve!
Of course I do not pretend that this unmarried couple is embracing a Catholic family lifestyle, but as a mom of many myself, I am intrigued by their unabashedly positive portrayal of large-family living.
Modern America doesn't know exactly what to make of such enthusiasm for many children.
"I suppose they can afford a large family," a commenter recently sneered on a celebrity "news" television show (not that I ever watch those). Children, we are left to conclude, are expensive accessories flaunted by the rich.
Or if they aren't accessories, they might be the result of mental instability. Earlier this year, ABC news ran a report where various psychiatric "experts" weighed in on whether Jolie's "compulsive mothering" might just be a sign of mental illness. Finding joy in motherhood, we learn, is psychologically suspect behavior.
Most remarkable to me was a column I once read where the author referred to the happy, large family lifestyle portrayed by Jolie as "mommy porn." She argued that Jolie's manufactured image as a contented mother of many children creates a false, unattainable ideal of parental perfection and damages real-life family relationships.
I'll admit that the Jolie-Pitt family romance might be a bit of a show, but don't we all put on a bit of a show?
I am no Angelina, but when I head out with my own large family in tow, I am very much aware that we are going to be noticed and that we are presenting an "image" of large families that will be judged. I can't afford to be the mother caught grousing at her bickering, sticky-faced children in the parking lot.
I do, however, see value in admitting that parenthood is hard, and that a life devoted to children is not always sugar-cookie kisses and maternal bliss. I clearly recall my feelings of frustration years ago, when, as a new mother of a colicky infant, I called my own mother and shouted, "You never told me it would be this hard!"
There is a big difference, though, between sharing some of the nitty-gritty and outright rejecting the notion that a woman can find contentment in nurturing her family.
If celebrity moms like Angelina Jolie revealed a little more of the reality of stretch marks and diaper rash, I would relish every word. And yet I feel only affirmed when these same celebrities give testament to the real contentment that real women can find in family life. Because that's my reality, too.
The other day, when I stopped by the drugstore for a package of diapers, my five-year-old whined for Pretty Ponies while my three-year-old fingered the bottles of cough syrup. Older children enthusiastically suggested the purchase of 167 different forms of sugar. As we drew the attention of fellow shoppers, I felt myself begin to sweat.
When finally we paid for our purchases, little Daniel wiped his nose on my coat collar. The cashier winced, but I stubbornly clung to my dignity. After a quick sideways glance to check for paparazzi, I tossed my hair and flashed my very best celebrity smile.
Perfect motherhood might be a myth, but happy motherhood is real. As real as the warm weight of a baby in your arms and the peace that comes from knowing you are doing what God made you to do -- not always perfectly, but with faith. And fervor.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Danielle Bean, a mother of eight, is senior editor of Faith & Family magazine and author of My Cup of Tea: Musings of a Catholic Mom (Pauline 2005) and Mom to Mom, Day to Day: Advice and Support for Catholic Living (Pauline 2007). Visit her blog at www.daniellebean.com.
Readers have left 33 comments
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