Everything's Coming Up Ros...aries

I did something to my back more than two weeks ago and hadn't been able to do much except complain a *lot*. Since all of you who read this blog know me, I would like to thank you in advance for not saying to my face: "Yeah, um... that was a lot of complaining". I have officially beat you to the proverbial punch.

It seemed like I wasn't able to accomplish anything. So many of the things that need to be done for my job require using my back -- unloading the dishwasher, picking up laundry, washing the floor, hauling recalcitrant preschoolers out of naughtiness, driving for extended periods of time, maneuvering grocery/ supercenter carts through oceans of self-absorbed fellow consumers -- hell, even just propelling my substantial self forward. My instinct was to just push through it: shoot back a handful of Advil (TM: thank you!) and do the things that need to be done anyway.

I would conquer! Pain be damned! And then my body said "NOoooooo!". And I lay on the floor while Little J treated me like a moonbounce and occasionally asked "Mommy, why are you letting me jump on your belly?".

When I return from a walk, I highlight the day on the calendar in bright yellow. I had such a nice little pile of glowing golden squares of accomplishment! But when I was in too much pain to walk, the calendar became a long, barren stretch of blank boxes. I started to feel restless and deeply pissed at the same time. I wanted to be out! I wanted to be doing! Accomplishment NOW, dammit! My nightly strolls were no longer about walking out to meet God and the truth about reality. I had started off just saying the rosary as I went; then with the acquirement of my iPod Shuffle (TM: awesomeness!) I began listening to pious audiobooks. Well, one night that wasn't doing it for me and I switched over to "Bossypants" by Tina Fey (hey. she's funny). I began to fantasize (and "fantasy" is exactly what it was) about eventually walking marathons and starting to jog and maybe doing a half marathon after the pilgrimage and eeeverrything's commminngg up ROses!

I think it would have ended about as well as it did for Natalie Wood (in real life, not "Gypsy"...ew...).

It seems I was given the time and the space to think about what I was doing. I was forced to remember why I am doing this in the first place. And I'm grateful for that. (Of course, it's a lot easier to be grateful when you can move around on your own steam instead of being victim to people "helping" you with their Ikea vet kit).

The pain I felt was in my back, but what was really hurt was my pride. The walking had become something I checked off each day to say "I am doing something good". It was an activity done for its own sake instead of being a place where I go to meet Another.

I'm mostly healed now and have begun again. But I leave the fantasies at the door and walk only with the beads.

Light Over the Neighborhood

Today is September 12, 2011, ten years and one day after the attacks on our country.

I lived here in the DC area then. I was on my way to class in the city when the first plane hit the towers. As it became clear that it was not an accident, I made a u-turn and sped home. I would have been passing the Pentagon about the time the plane struck there had I continued on.

One of the articles I read online yesterday exhorted the reader to remember not September 11, but September 12 -- the day we were all kinder to one another, the day we remembered who we are as a nation. But I remember the days immediately following the attacks as days of sheer terror. The sky had been ripped open and we did not know what else was going to happen. Everything came to a complete stop; all we could do was wait and see what, if anything, would happen next. I, for my part, seriously doubted that life could ever be the same again -- and I don't mean pat-downs at the airport or the War in Afghanistan -- but whether I would have the time and freedom to marry my boyfriend, to have children, to have a life.

The article made me realize: I don't want to be the person I was on September 12, 2001. I am a better person not the day after, but a decade and a day after, because of all that I have been able to receive in the last ten years.

When I went out for my walk tonight, the moon was full and bright and only slightly obscured by wisps of cloud -- just enough to add some contrast and texture to the scene. Growing up, I was told that the sun is the "Light of Our Lord" and the moon, the "Lamp of Our Lady". The idea behind this symbolism, of course, is that the moon, like Mary, does not generate its own light, but gets its light from the sun (Son) and shares this light with the world.

That moon was like a companion along the way, especially because the neighborhood was unusually silent tonight. I did not meet a single person as I walked along, did not hear any voices, did not encounter one car. Yet, it was not unnerving but peaceful. It was like everyone was snuggled down in their houses remembering that this day could have not been. The moonlight bathing this little flock of homes made me think of gratitude, and of allowing ourselves to be led out of darkness.

A pilgrimage toward The Pilgrimage

I am embarking on a journey and would like to enlist your support.

Every year The Avalon School and its sister school, Brookewood, hold a pilgrimage to ask Our Lady's intercession for the continued growth and development of the schools. My husband is one of the founding teachers of Avalon, and my daughter is in her second year at Brookewood. For my family, these schools aren't just a job and an education -- they are a very specific call, a designated path in our lives.

The walk is more than twenty (20) miles. In the past, I have been able to complete one leg, about three (3) miles.

(You mathmagicians out there will be able calculate the disparity).

Last year, as I watched the boys and girls and teachers and parents and friends trudge through all 25 miles, I was so proud of them and the schools, yet so disappointed with myself. I physically did not have the stamina to even attempt more than one part of the journey. But underneath my sadness, I heard a small voice. "Next year", it said to me. I looked up and saw the back of the statue of Our Lady being carried in procession and promised that next year I would be right behind her.

Preparations have begun. For the last few weeks I have been walking most days for increasing periods of time. My treadmill committed suicide the first day, so I have been walking through my somewhat hilly neighborhood in various kinds of weather. It is a slow beginning, but at least it has begun.

Will you come with me on these little walks? There's a poll question in the top right hand corner of the main page. Tomorrow is my birthday, and the day the Catholic Church celebrates the birth of Mary. Make us a gift and say a prayer --that The Pilgrimage may be a success, and that I may accomplish my part in it.

Sickness in The Family Bed

To Family Bed or Not to Family Bed: I'd like to meet a person who thinks she actually has a choice in the matter. Whether or not you call it A Family Bed, if there are more than 2 people in that slumbering paradise, it's clearly not just for the couple who started the family in the first place.
Oh, sure, it starts out with your first baby when you fall asleep nursing her in the middle of the night. As she gets older, it's just too much of a struggle to get her into the crib. Finally you succeed in getting her all excited about the Big Girl Bed, and then you have another child. He too becomes addicted to the midnight boobie crack, and takes over the space his sister no longer occupies.
But then she starts to have "nightmares" (aka, terrors of being usurped by the baby) and suddenly there are four little monkeys sleeping in the bed. And it's Mommy who falls out and bumps her head.

Yet last week I was glad for the family bed.

And the revelation came to me through the grace of vomit.

The 3 and 11/12ths girl had nuzzled her way inbetween daddy and baby (Mommy mostly quite literally hangs out the far side). Around 3 am we heard the unmistakeable groan in the dark: "Mommy, I don't fee..." Well, you can imagine the sound as she got sick in our cozy little nest.

Amazing how quickly you can move when you have to. Husband, who could normally sleep through anything (especially attempts to awaken him) lept from the bed like Mikhail Baryshnikov, tossed me the baby ("keep him safe!"), threw the lights on, and bounded down the hall to retrieve the Bounty.

Let me be the first to admit it: I am useless when it comes to bodily fluids. Especially stinky ones. So while one year old son squirmed and writhed in my arms, trying to get himself free to wallow with his sister in the sodden mess that had been my bed, all I could do was mumble helpful things like "you'll feel better soon, honey" and hope that my gag reflex didn't give way.

And really, it was the most pitiful thing. As her little body spasmed she kept blinking at me with incomprehension, wondering why I didn't make it stop. And ironically, the worst part was when it did stop.

For it was then that she beheld Teddy.

Again: no need to go into detail. Most of us have had a beloved stuffed friend who has endured The Worst. Daughter was distraught not only because she was ill and had temporarily lost the comfort of her friend, but, worse still, she had been the one who had brought him to such a sorry state. It brought back memories of when I was small and sick and had subjected my own teddy bear to the ravages of childhood devotion. The more creatively named Bobby Brown Bear is still around; in fact, I tripped on him as I was trying to strip the bed (without being sick or dropping the thrashing boy).

I scooped up the well loved and somewhat crusty beloved one of my childhood and took him to the bathroom where cleanup operations had begun. And that was when I was struck by the aforementioned gratitude. Husband was sitting on the bathroom floor holding daughter in his lap, pieta style, cleaning her off with baby wipes, reassuring her that Teddy's fate was not her fault and that all would be well. It was a snapshot of a loving father comforting his daughter in a way that only a father can do for his child. It's what the Father wants to do for each one of us. And He needed to awaken me in the middle of the night with a dousing of vomit to get my attention and tell me: "Look at your husband and daughter. That is how I want to love you."

When she was resting in a freshly made Family Bed, I offered Daughter my little bear, hoping he would do for the night, explaining that he was battle-worn and still with me. Her little mouth twitched as she held him close and whispered, "Thank you Mommy, thank you for sharing your own favorite Teddy with me." She looked up at me with gratitude and adoration, tears thick on her eyelashes. And I got my second grace that night: God let me know the pure unadulterated joy of giving my beloved child security and peace in the face of her sadness and despair. He allowed me to feel what He feels when I let him comfort me.

Teddy has been made new and has returned to his rightful place in the crook of Daughter's arm. And when I'm clinging to the edge of The Family Bed, I look over and see Teddy and say a little prayer of thanksgiving for small discomforts and the great graces revealed therein.

My Nana

Colet Coughlin
September 30 1928-November 13 1998
Requiescat in Pace, Nana

My Nana.
I was named after her.

She taught me how to recite my prayers and how to recite poetry.
She loved intensely but didn't know how to be loved, until the end.
The end that we believe is just the beginning.
My Nana.
I can't sum her up on a blog; maybe someday I can try in the novel she always wanted me to write.

I remember with gratitude my friends who came from all over the country -- even those who had never met her -- to pay their respects. Thank you, Emily and Jenny and Colleen and Toby and John. It was nine years ago, but I am still so grateful.

Rest in Peace, Nana.

Excuse Thee!

Peace to thee in the name of Our Lord Jesus Christ, fellow pew occupant.

With great sarcasm do I fling this greeting in thy general direction. Well: not thy general direction. Truly, in a very specific direction, namely, the very end of the pew, indeed, the very last inch and crevice of our shared Christian space. An area which, thou hast made quite clear, thou are quite loathe to share.

Dost this pew have upon it thy name? A moment, please, to investigate...: NO.
No, indeed, we belong not to a small country parish in Devonshire, Britannia, in the year of Our Lord 1660; rather, we exist in these United States of America in the 21st century and attend this Catholic Church, in which one is not blessed with one's own private space in exchange for monies.

Clearly my humble smile and groveling "do you mind if we share with you?" left thou unmoved. Literally. With a great, heaving huff, but no heaving of thy rump, thou didst cock thy head back, embrace thy hymnal, and lift thine eyes to the heavens.
And in what way didst thou think this action would aid me? Thy feet remained firmly planted upon the holy ground, without so much as a shift of thy pricey boots.
Great was the space into which thou couldst slide. Time aplenty wast there for thou to stand and allow us passage, for Mass had not yet commenced.

Thusly did I with two young ones and a hefty diaper bag in tow stumble into our designated area of sacred space, one with no access to the exit rows.

And woe betide unto thee, firmly ensconced middle aged hag, for my female child of three and three quarters years is a Big Girl Now and hast eschewed the pull-up for the potty. And thou, in thine own greatly overestimated wisdom, hast planted thyself in a row in closest proximity to the water closet. (I did not select this seating to gaze upon thy good looks and soak up thy charity). And the aforementioned child bores easily during the holy time and seeks to displace her ennui by making several, nay, innumerable "emergency" pilgrimages to the potty.

And each and every time the wee one must do just that, we shall arise -- yea, thou too wilt arise, lest thou desire to lose thy toes or have thy knees severely knocked.

And thy sighs shall not escape my ears, and the daggers from thine eyes which you aim towards me will not be unseen. Yea: I will revel in them. And at the sign of peace I shall turn firstly to thee and with broad shining grin greet thee suchly:

Peace unto thee, fellow pew occupant.

What is a Theological Mother?

A Theological Mother is:

1. a woman who has small children and a mostly forgotten masters in theology
   
2. convinced a soul can be sassy and still make it to heaven!
3. well.....Mary. (As in mother of God). She was pretty theological. (Not sure how sassy, though.)
4. Me, finding myself in the first position, holding on to the second, and trying to imitate the third.