All My Life, Preparing For This

July 22, 2014October 7, 2014 / Julie / 13 Comments

(Alternately titled: Ms. Smarty-Pants Becomes A Mother And Finally Realizes She Doesn’t Know Everything)

~~~

A little over four years ago I lay on a hospital delivery bed, reeling not only from the intensity of having birthed my first child, but also from the other-worldly experience of having prayed a continuous loop of Hail Mary’s, pleading for the child’s life.

He had been born with the umbilical cord wrapped around his neck.

As soon as the baby emerged, the feeling of the room had changed. It became cool, focused, urgent. First my nurses tended to him, then the NICU staff rushed in. I felt as if I were in a tunnel, the sounds and activity muted, only the Hail Mary’s ringing loudly in my mind.

Soon enough, though, the activity abated and there at the end of the tunnel was a screaming baby boy. He was fine – completely, totally fine. Thank you, Lord.

I looked up to my left and saw him lying in a sterile plastic basinet in the corner of the room, screaming, panicking. He seemed so scared, so alone. I couldn’t reach him because I was being tugged and pressed and stitched up by my doctor. But my heart went out to him and I did what I could: “It’s okay, Baby. It’s okay, Baby.” I cooed to him, over and over, five feet from his side.

He stopped crying. He became still and he listened and my mother said, “He knows your voice.”

An incredible feeling washed over me: gratitude and joy, fear and wonder, all mixed together. An incredible realization, too: This is my baby. He knows my voice. I am his mother and I can calm him like no one else can.

I had spent years holding and loving and caring for other women’s babies. Now I finally had one of my own.

~~~

I come from a big extended family (including twenty-five first cousins younger than myself) and my parents had always surrounded our little, immediate-family unit with a large network of good friends, most of whom had children. So I knew my way around a baby. And a toddler. And a little kid.

I had been baby-crazy since I was a little girl, preferring to spend most barbecues and holiday parties “mothering” the little ones, rather than hanging out with kids my own age. I babysat – boy, did I babysit – more than any other teenager I knew. When I was a single young professional, I’d swing by my aunt’s house to take her kids on outings. One time I even cared for them for several days running while their parents were out of town. I told everyone I was “playing working mom.”

So I went into parenthood feeling pretty well prepared in the childcare department. I was an old-hand at diapering and bottle-feeding and bathing. I had kissed boo-boo’s and paced with screaming babies. I had a pretty good sense of which kinds of discipline worked and which didn’t.

I had also heard enough of my aunts’ and my mom’s friends’ chatter to know that parenting was hard. I had no illusions of serene domesticity.

Which all made me a pretty smug, smarty-pants kind of first-time mother. I felt like I had spent most of my 31 years watching, practicing, preparing for this opportunity. Why should I read parenting books? Why should I seek advice? I already had enough knowledge to get it right. On my own. (Or rather, with only my husband.) Pity the mother who tried to give me tips.

It probably sounds like I’m setting you up for a tale of complete and utter failure, doesn’t it? But that’s not quite what happened. In fact, if you’d asked me, a year or two into motherhood, whether it was what I expected, I would have told you (as I did, in fact, tell many people) that the only thing that surprised me about motherhood was how physical it was. (i.e. Having to wrestle toddlers into submission so that I could change their diapers.) Just call me Ms. Smarty-Pants.

But now, four years and three children into motherhood, I have more perspective. I now realize that those first couple of years were really hard on me. I realize that while I may have been prepared for the nuts and bolts of the work that goes into caring for children, I was woefully unprepared for dealing with the emotional strain of motherhood.

Just because I knew what I was doing, doesn’t mean I knew how to deal with the intensity of doing it all the time, without a break, for little people who relied almost entirely on me. It doesn’t mean I knew how to get through the baby blues or withstand the sound of my baby crying for hours on end or handle the heart-wrenching truth that I couldn’t produce enough milk to feed my own child.

Motherhood was so much harder than the “making dinner while trying to calm a screeching baby” kind of hard I expected. It was “feeling useless because my mother was making us pancakes” hard. And “crying on the kitchen floor because my toddler won’t leave me alone” hard. And “sobbing in the front passenger seat because my husband wasn’t being the right kind of supportive” hard.

It is less hard today.

It’s not less hard because it’s less work. (With three boys now, parenting necessarily involves much more work today than it did at first.) Motherhood is less hard simply because I’m more used to it. The idea of being constantly on-call has by now been absorbed so completely that I wouldn’t know what to do if I weren’t responsible for my boys. And now when I find myself emotional and despairing of whatever it is that seems so hard at the moment, I know enough to recognize that whatever it is is simply the next in a long line of real but passing hardships.

I know that I have more hardships ahead of me and I know that some of them will make their season of motherhood feel more difficult than the one I’m in now. But at least then I’ll have the benefit of even more perspective – that which I will have gained from my own experience and that which I will have gained from parents whom I’m not too much of a smarty-pants to listen to.

When I was Little Ms. Smug, Smarty-Pants, First-Time Mother, I offered lots of advice to newer moms than myself. I may have personally eschewed parenting books and advice from other mothers, but I wasn’t about to pass up the opportunity to tell somebody else what she should be doing. These days, I try to bite my tongue. I don’t always succeed, but I try to remind myself of how much I wanted to find my own way when I was in those shoes.

These days, I try to offer words of comfort rather than advice. Because I think the best thing you can say to a first-time mother is, “It gets easier. It gets better.”

~~~

This post is part of a “blog hop” hosted by Amy of Go Forth And Mother. Amy has just kicked off a year-long life betterment project called “The Happy Wife Project.” To get things going, she’s asked ten bloggers to post about their expectations of motherhood… and how reality stacked up. In the coming days, please be sure to “hop” on over to the other participants too:

July 21 – Amy @ Go Forth and Mother
July 22 – Julie @ These Walls
July 23 – Kelly @ This Ain’t the Lyceum
July 24 – Sarah @ Fumbling Toward Grace
July 25 – Nichole @ Yackity Shmackity
July 26 – Colleen @ Martin Family Moments
July 27 – Lindsay @ Lindsay Sews
July 28 – Olivia @ To the Heights
July 29 – Ana @ Time Flies When You’re Having Babies
July 30 – Jamie Jo @ Make Me a Saint
July 31 – Michele @ My Domestic Monastery

The World, My World, And Edel: 7 Quick Takes (Vol. 30)

July 19, 2014 / Julie / 8 Comments

This has most definitely been one of those weeks when the world seems to be just thick with things to think on – immigrant children pouring over our southern border, religious freedom under attack in the Senate, Iraqi Christians fleeing the terror of ISIS, another round of murders and attacks in Israel and Gaza, more killings by Boko Haram, Thursday’s downing of the Malaysia Airlines passenger jet…

And here I find myself, pacing through my home, cooking and feeding and nursing and picking up toys, those events and those people heavy on my mind. I would so love to lose myself at the computer, attempting to make sense of it all by piecing together words in just the right way.

But this week – perhaps because of my anniversary, now that I think of it – I’ve felt the pull of my own little world more strongly. I’ve felt the weight of my responsibilities to my home and my husband and my boys. So in lieu of a few involved (and perhaps self-indulgent) posts on The Worries Of The World, allow me to share with you a collection of things I’ve been thinking about this week:

—1—

Immigration

Oh so much has already been said about those kids trying so hard to get into our country. I hope to flesh out my thoughts on this particular situation sometime soon, but for now I’d just like to point you to a post I wrote last year on immigration reform, generally.

Here are the bullet points from my post: People have always moved. People deserve a chance to protect and provide for themselves and their families. Things change. Laws change. Families matter. Skills matter. The labor market doesn’t lie. Long borders will never be 100% secure. We should encourage immigrants to invest themselves in this country.

I hope you’ll take a few minutes to click over and read what I mean by those points.

—2—

Religious Freedom

There was a great discussion in the comments section of my post from a couple of weeks ago on religious freedom. I love that people were willing to ask honest, challenging questions and dialog in such a smart, respectful way. I know that comboxes have a horrible reputation, but, idealist that I am, the fantasy of discussions like that one drew me into blogging. Keep it up, people! You made me very happy.

—3—

Betterment and Expectations

Speaking of blogging, I’m honored to have been invited to participate in a little “blog hop” hosted by Amy of Go Forth And Mother. Amy has just kicked off a year-long life betterment project called “The Happy Wife Project.” To get things going, she’s asked ten bloggers to post about their expectations of motherhood… and how reality stacked up.

I’m excited to be one of the participants, because really, how fun is it to get to do something alongside these great ladies? But also because I’m intrigued by Amy’s project. Since becoming a stay-at-home mother, and especially since moving into this, our “forever” house, I’ve thought a lot on how I go about my daily work and how it – and the state of my household, and interactions with my family members, and any number of other things – impacts my sense of happiness and well-being. I know that being more purposeful about such things would bring more peace into my life. So I look forward to seeing what Amy shares and I hope the project will inspire me to make the right changes in my own life.

‘Till then, here are the participants and the schedule for The Happy Wife Project’s Expectations vs. Reality Blog Hop:

July 21 – Amy @ Go Forth and Mother
July 22 – Julie @ These Walls
July 23 – Kelly @ This Ain’t the Lyceum
July 24 – Sarah @ Fumbling Toward Grace
July 25 – Nichole @ Yackity Shmackity
July 26 – Colleen @ Martin Family Moments
July 27 – Lindsay @ Lindsay Sews
July 28 – Olivia @ To the Heights
July 29 – Ana @ Time Flies When You’re Having Babies
July 30 – Jamie Jo @ Make Me a Saint
July 31 – Michele @ My Domestic Monastery

I hope you’ll stop by here next week for my contribution and then “hop” on over to the others for theirs.

—4—

This One and Love

You know how women describe an incredible rush of all-consuming love when they have a baby? How they say things like, “I feel like I’ve known you forever” to their newborns? Well, I’ve started much smaller than that with each of mine. There has, of course, been love from the outset. But it’s been meek, awed, a little hesitant. I tend to ask, “Who are you?” to my new babies.

But my love grows. Each day, I love each of my boys more than I did the day before. And in some seasons, my love for them grows by leaps and bounds in just short stretches of time. So it is right now with this one. His smiles, his little fist grabbing onto my shirt, my growing comfort with how his shape fits in my arms… I am really feeling the love for this one this week.

—5—

This One and Mercy

This beautiful little guy here – he’s got something of the stinker in him. He has that wicked little gleam in his eye, you know? To a point, he’s impervious to our corrections: he grimaces or grunts or laughs when we tell him not to do something. But past that point (and it can be hard to tell where it is – all I can guess is that there’s something about the tone of our voice) – he loses it. He is suddenly and deeply hurt/embarrassed/remorseful. He starts wailing and flings himself at us, clinging and gasping and looking so terribly pathetic.

After he’d done this a few times, it struck me: the boy is looking for mercy. His eyes become super wide as they search yours, pleading for it. So I give mercy: I hold him tight and assure him that I love him. I wait for him to calm down and I talk through his correction. Then I hug him again and send him on his way.

The situation has really gotten me to think on mercy. I think about it terms of my boys, but also about other people in my life, about times I’ve needed it myself, and about conflicts throughout the world in which people would surely benefit from it.

—6—

This One and Time

This one in orange, that is.

The other day I had a big grocery trip to undertake and I dreaded the logistics: how was I to fit two preschoolers, an infant, and loads of food and household goods into one cart? So I took a little gamble: I let my four-year-old push the baby in the stroller while I pushed his two-year-old brother in the grocery cart.

And you know what? It was wonderful. Everybody was happy and (mostly) well-behaved and all of our purchases had somewhere to go. When we got home, my big boy even helped me unload the car. (Happily! Without being asked!) My sometimes dramatic, frequently challenging four-year-old made my day easier. And a shopping trip I had dreaded became one that I enjoyed.

It was yet another reminder of just how big and grown-up my little boy is becoming and what a neat kid he really is.

With three very small children to care for and a household to manage, I don’t spend much time trying to get to know my kids. But I should. I should remember, in the midst of the cooking and the diapering and the correcting and the stepping over toys, to appreciate my boys for the individuals they are. I should take the time to get to know their little-kid personalities and preferences and talents and to become excited for the big-kid ones that are coming next. Thanks for reminding me, Big Man.

—7—

The Edel Gathering

One week from today, I’ll be in Austin for The Edel Gathering! I’m super excited to get the opportunity to meet so many great women, including most of my favorite bloggers. And I’m really super excited to just get away. Nevermind that I’ll have the baby and the stroller and the luggage to deal with – I’ll get to revisit my old, glimmering, plane-hopping, fancy-hotel-staying past. And I’ll only have one-third of my usual workload to handle!

That said, I’m a little nervous too – about flying with the baby, about leaving my boys behind, about spending a weekend with dozens of people I don’t know. And, I’ll admit it, I’m a little intimidated at the prospect of plunging myself into the midst of all those Texans. (No offense intended, Texas. It’s just that you can be a bit daunting with all that “TEXAS IS THE BEST PLACE EVER!!!” stuff. A bit.)

I decided I needed a little something to arm myself against the jitters so…

I chopped off my hair. I’m not sure about it yet. We’ll see how it looks after a wash and an air-dry return my curls to me. (Update: It’s not great. You win some, you lose some…)

—Bonus—

I have revived my Twitter account! My primary motivation in doing so was to be able to tweet while I’m at Edel, but I have to admit, I’m enjoying reading my Twitter feed much more than I expected to. If you’d like to follow me on Twitter, click here!

Well, that’s that. Be sure to stop over to Jen’s (whom I’ll see next week in Texas) for more Quick Takes!

All Because We Said Yes

July 11, 2014 / Julie / 13 Comments

This morning a little blonde-headed boy appeared at the foot of our bed, asking for his daddy. “Downstairs,” I mumbled, half-asleep. A while later – no idea how much – a little brown-headed boy woke me with a “Jude’s hurt. He’s pwobabwy bweeding.” “Is he actually bleeding?” I asked. “Nope. He’s just pwobabwy bweeding.” Silence. No screams. It can’t be that bad.

The boy climbed onto the bed and crawled over to his baby brother, who was jerking his arms around, chirping at the ceiling fan. He cooed over the baby, smiled sweetly, and said good morning.

All because, five years ago today, we said yes.

I brushed my hair and tried to look less morning-ish, but didn’t get far before the blonde one was back (unhurt), needing a diaper change and a nice, long hug. The diaper was taken care of, clothes were unearthed from the pile of clean laundry, and the boys were dressed.

I wandered back into our bathroom and looked around blearily. I should get myself ready. But the baby was hungry for his bottle, so I turned toward him. I saw you, instead. You looked happy and alert, fresh from your morning work-out. You picked up the fussy baby and we kissed good morning.

Breakfast and more diaper changes and teeth brushing and make-up were gotten through. We gave you hugs and kisses and then some more, and we told you to have a good day.

We dropped off a meal to a friend, picked up her little boy, visited my family’s animals. The boys held chickens and petted goats and cats and turkeys and cows and they pointed at the pigs. We went to another friend’s house for lunch and I nursed the baby while we chatted. The boys rode scooters and ate popsicles and shouted “Watch this!” as they jumped off the sofa.

All because, five years ago today, we said yes.

~~~

Five years ago this morning, my stomach was in my throat. My mind raced over all the details I no longer had control over. My good sense fought my mind, telling it to relax and to absorb as much as I could.

Then I saw you down that aisle and you looked so handsome and you smiled. And everything changed. I was still nervous; I was in the middle of the biggest day of my life, transitioning from one phase of life to another. But I was doing so with you.

We were made one that day. We became partners; we undertook the same path.

~~~

Today we rush from one task to the next. We wipe mouths and we pick up forks that have been dropped on the floor. We step over dinosaurs and airplanes. Sometimes we admonish a “ROAR!!!” and sometimes we join in. We work hard. We sleep little. We go through phases when we don’t fit in more “us” time than the moments it takes to kiss good morning or goodbye or goodnight.

But we’re better partners now than we were on the day we married. Each year, each struggle, each big decision has taught us how to better work together, how to be more patient, how to be more respectful, how to better support each other.

And look at what we’ve done: three gorgeous boys, a beautiful old home, friends who are becoming our community. We have much to be proud of and more to be thankful for.

Especially when it comes to each other. Today I want you to know how thankful I am to have you in my life. I want you to know that I appreciate you even when I don’t say so. I want you to know that my favorite time of day is when you walk in that door. And I intend to be more deliberate about showing you that.

I intend to smile your “hello” and hug you more warmly and sit next to you on the sofa. I intend to act like I love you as much as I do, even when the baby’s screaming and the boys are fighting.

All because, five years ago today, we said yes.

And because that “yes” is the best thing I’ve ever done.

P.S. Remember all those things I told you I loved about you last year? I love them even more today.

Life, Even At The End

July 8, 2014October 7, 2014 / Julie / 2 Comments

Yesterday morning as I cleaned up the breakfast dishes and prepared dinner to go into the crock pot, I listened to NPR, just as I do most mornings. The Diane Rehm Show, with which I frequently disagree but which I nonetheless enjoy, was devoting its 11:00 hour to a discussion on assisted suicide.

Now, I earnestly believe that life is precious and worthy of protection from conception to natural death. And I believe that it is so regardless of an individual’s age or health or wealth or mental capacity. So I knew I would find the conversation disturbing. But I figured it would be good to take in anyway: I think there is an inherent good in hearing an argument fleshed out, whether or not I agree with it.

But about half-way through the program, the conversation got to be too much for me. It was indeed disturbing to hear a cancer patient ponder when her life would no longer be worth living, to hear the story of a 90-year-old-man who so wanted to die that he first tried overdosing on pain medication, then slitting his wrists, and then he shot himself.

Horrible, horrible.

Yes, yes, it’s good to hear an argument fleshed out. But it’s not good to go through the day with a lurking feeling of gloom, when I have little boys to feed and care for and love. So I turned off the radio. I chose peace over enlightenment.

A moment later, during a quick perusal of my Facebook feed, I came across the following video*. (I can’t embed it, so do be sure to click on the link and watch the first three-and-a-half minutes or so. I promise it’s worth it.) The video provides a brief glimpse into the work of the Little Sisters of the Poor. Or maybe I should say the joy of the Little Sisters of the Poor, because that’s really more like it. The video follows the Sisters, whose mission it is to care for the elderly poor, as they throw a small birthday celebration for an older priest. It includes a joy-filled Sister offering wine and happily telling how they were gifted with extra cases of beer. It shows another talking about why they do what they do:

“We celebrate the gift of life, the joy of living. When we care for the elderly poor, we try to make them happy in whatever way we can and sometimes that’s through parties, it’s through good care, good food. It’s love, attention.”

I was struck with the stark difference between the two pieces of media I had just consumed. In one, there was an over-arching sense of death and hopelessness. In the other, there was life and joy.

Yes, of course, the Little Sisters of the Poor video captured a birthday celebration; it didn’t show the Sisters caring for a desperately ill, horribly uncomfortable person. It didn’t show them holding vigil at a deathbed. But the Sisters do those things too. They do them day in and day out; they see more of age, of illness, of poverty, of death than most of us ever will. Yet they are filled with joy.

I have a friend who is a Sister in another order, who worked for a time in a nursing home. She often posted on Facebook about waiting with residents who were nearing death. Sister would sit at their bedside, talking to them and praying for them. She made sure they didn’t have to die alone.

That type of ministry touches me deeply. I think about my life, about all the people I have interacted with and known and loved and I wonder, who will be with me at my last moment? Will anyone be there at all? Lots of people state the vague, “I want to go in my sleep,” but I don’t know that that matters much. I just hope I have someone with me to hold my hand and pray for my soul.

As a Catholic, I recognize that suffering is part of life. I don’t mean that it’s not significant or difficult. I certainly don’t mean that God wills it. And I don’t mean that it’s wrong for a person to want their suffering to end. I only mean that we do ourselves a disservice when we think suffering makes life “not worth living.”

Our society pounds into us, again and again, this idea that life is for the healthy and the happy. And I’m not just talking about bright, shiny magazine spreads. I’m talking about the things we do in our homes and say to each other: We put our animals “to sleep” when they decline in health or ability; we recite a litany of “I don’t care if it’s a boy or a girl, so long as it’s healthy;” we jokingly ask others to put us out of our “misery;” we tut-tut others’ pain when they mourn a miscarriage or the loss of someone very old or very ill. (Seriously, would you ever say “Well, I suppose it was just his time” to the parent mourning the unexpected death of an 8-year-old boy or the widow reeling from the loss of her 32-year-old husband?)

Given all of this – this idea that a life’s value is measured by its vigor – it can be easy to act like very old or very ill people’s lives have ended before they’re actually dead. It can be easy, even, to want them to be actually dead. I won’t claim to be immune from such thoughts.

But I don’t think the Little Sisters of the Poor fall into that trap. Where others see nothing but pain and suffering, the Sisters see lives with as much dignity as those of the healthy and vigorous. They remember that our value does not depend on what we can do or how we feel.

Our lives are always worth living. When I near the end of my own, I hope I’m surrounded by people who remember that.

LITTLE SISTERS OF THE POOR MISSION, VISION and VALUES 2012

The Little Sisters of the Poor are an international congregation of Roman Catholic women religious founded in 1839 by Saint Jeanne Jugan. Together with a diverse network of collaborators, we serve the elderly poor in over 30 countries around the world.

Continuing the work of Saint Jeanne Jugan, our MISSION is to offer the neediest elderly of every race and religion a home where they will be welcomed as Christ, cared for as family and accompanied with dignity until God calls them to himself.

Our VISION is to contribute to the Culture of Life by nurturing communities where each person is valued, the solidarity of the human family and the wisdom of age are celebrated, and the compassionate love of Christ is shared with all.

Our VALUES

REVERENCE for the sacredness of human life and for the uniqueness of  each person, especially those who are poorest and/or weakest. This is  reflected in care that is holistic and person-centered.

FAMILY SPIRIT: a spirit of joyful hospitality embracing all with open arms,  hearts and minds; fostering participation in the life of the home and rejecting  all forms of discrimination.

HUMBLE SERVICE: the desire to raise others up and to put their needs before  our own; an appreciation of simple, everyday tasks and experiences and humble  means in accomplishing our work.

COMPASSION: empathy for sharing the weaknesses and sufferings of others;  eagerness to relieve pain in all its forms and to make the elderly happy.

STEWARDSHIP: the recognition that life and all other goods are gifts from God  and should therefore be used responsibly for the good of all; trust in God’s Providence  and the generosity of others to provide for our needs; just compensation for our  collaborators; a spirit of gratitude and sharing.

* I came across the video because the Little Sisters of the Poor were recently named to NOW’s “Dirty 100” (oh, the irony) list of organizations that have filed suit against HHS regarding the contraception mandate. See my last post for a few of my thoughts on that subject.

Yes, I Worry About Religious Freedom

July 3, 2014October 7, 2014 / Julie / 14 Comments

This past Sunday at mass, our priest told the story of a conversation he once had with a taxi driver. The man had noticed Father’s clothing and collar. “You’re a priest. I am a believer too.” Father expressed his approval and the man went on, “My faith is very dear to me, for it was handed down by blood.”

The man continued, “When my child tells me he doesn’t want to go to church, I tell him he will go, for his faith was won for him through the blood of his grandparents and great-grandparents. They paid with their lives, and here is my child in a place where he is free to worship. So he will go.”

Father went on to recount recent stories of Christians attacked, murdered – hacked to death, even – on account of their faith. Iraq, Pakistan, India, Nigeria – the examples go on and on. Yet, as Father noted, our eyes are dry. We look away. We do not mourn.

We should be feeling such atrocities acutely. Both for the sake of the people involved and because such crimes strike at the heart of what it means to be a free, thinking, feeling human. Our right to live in accord with our faith is as, if not more, fundamental to our freedom as our right to free speech. When I am able to speak freely, my mind is free. When I am able to worship freely, my heart and soul are free too.

When you look at the totality of the world’s population, true religious freedom is almost an anomaly. Billions of people live in countries where one is legally required to adhere to a certain faith, or permitted to belong only to select, approved sects, or, though legally free to worship as one chooses, restricted in practice by violence or intimidation.

Millions more live in Western societies that are increasingly, insidiously, hostile to religious practice. They look down on religious speech in public forums or prohibit religious garb in public spaces or compel religious people to act in conflict with their faith-informed ethical principles. They give notice that faith is only appropriate within the four walls of a church. And they maintain that a particular set of public values is somehow more valid and important than the individual’s right to determine his own way, in accord with his own mind, heart, and soul.

I’m no Chicken Little. I don’t think the United States is a modern-day Roman Empire teetering on the brink of collapse. I don’t think our government is two steps away from nailing “CONDEMNED” signs to all the church doors and requiring citizens to profess adherence to modern, secular liberalism.

But I do think we should be honest enough with ourselves to acknowledge that this thing can be messed up. This accident, this anomaly in human history – this brief period and narrow place in which we have been free to think and speak and pray and do as we like, without fear of legal or violent reprisal – this can, and probably will, pass away.

If our society can entertain the notion that climate change will eventually cause oceans to rise and landscapes to be altered, it should also consider the possibility that creeping infringements on our rights will eventually cause us to lose them altogether.

Because yes, that’s what we’re experiencing: creeping infringements on our rights. (Our real, most fundamental rights, that is – not our popularly-claimed, pseudo-rights to free contraception and abortion.) And yes, that’s what HHS did when it told Hobby Lobby’s owners that, despite their deeply-held and religiously-founded belief that human life is precious and worthy of protection, even from the moment of conception, they must pay for their employees to receive forms of “contraception” that can end real, precious, human lives – in the humble form of embryos – almost (not before) they have begun.

(Please note that Hobby Lobby already provides coverage for most types of contraceptives. Its owners have objected to four particular “contraceptive” methods because they can act not as true contraceptives – that is, by preventing conception – but rather as abortifacients, preventing an embryo from implanting in its mother’s uterus and thereby killing it.)

Many Americans seem to think that religious freedom is an issue for the history books. You’re given a blank stare if you express your concern for religious freedom abroad and you’re viewed as an alarmist or a zealot if you’re concerned that it’s under threat at home.

Nobody’s bombing churches here, right? The government doesn’t support a Church of America with our tax dollars and require all citizens to be its adherents, does it? So what is there to worry about?

I worry that we take too much for granted. That we vaguely recall a story about pilgrims… something, something… Church of England… something, something… and we think that concerns about religious freedom belong to another time.

I worry when so many of my friends and fellow Americans hear that the government aims to force people to do things that violate their deeply held religious beliefs and they… don’t care. Or worse, they fly to the defense of the government and demonize those targeted by it because the things that are to be done involve those most sacred of secular cows, contraception and abortion.

The fact is, there are slippery slopes all over the place. It’s quite fashionable to be concerned about government overreach insofar as it applies to email and phone records. But what about government overreach concerning what we believe and how our everyday lives reflect those beliefs?

I worry that we might not realize we’re on a slope until we’ve already slipped.

~~~

“Reason recognizes that religious freedom is a fundamental right of man, reflecting his highest dignity, that of seeking the truth and adhering to it, and recognizing it as an indispensable condition for realizing all his potential. Religious freedom is not simply freedom of thought or private worship. It is the freedom to live according to ethical principles, both privately and publicly, consequent to the truth one has found.” (Pope Francis, June 20, 2014)

Smiles and Summer: {pretty, happy, funny, real} (Vol. 14)

July 3, 2014July 3, 2014 / Julie / 3 Comments

It’s been quite a while since I’ve participated in {p,h,f,r}. We’ve just been through a series of preparing for parties and recovering from parties and dealing with emergencies and illnesses and injuries and… it’s been a little hard for me to see the forest for the trees.

But now I’m breathing a little more slowly and *thinking a little more clearly, and beginning to once again take note of my contentment with our everyday little lives. So I did a quick perusal of my camera’s memory card and I present to you the following:

{pretty}

We’re now getting lots of {pretty} smiles from this little guy, who will be a full three months old on Friday!

And even when he’s not smiling, he sure is pretty.

{happy}

When our oldest son turned four last month, we gave him a sandbox. The boys were so {happy} to be finally helping Daddy put the thing together this past weekend, and then even happier to get to play in it for the first time on Tuesday. They even had friends here to help them break it in.

He’s such a good little worker.

We’ve also been happy to see the bees do well settling into their new home. Brennan brought in some burr comb the other day. (Comb that was built where it shouldn’t have been.) The boys sure did enjoy checking it out!

{funny}

The other day while the boys were playing outside, I suddenly stopped when I remembered it: the sprinkler! In my mother-in-law’s garden! Sure enough, when I got out there, the following scene greeted me:

“We’re aw wet!” Oh, yes they were – clothes and all. I’m so glad I was in the right mood to see how {funny} it all was.

Though I’m not sure the sprinkler thing was quite as funny as the dinosaurs that were – in ever such an orderly manner – exploring our front staircase.

{real}

No. explanation. necessary.

For more images of contentment, don’t miss {pretty, happy, funny, real} at Like Mother, Like Daughter.

*Please note: I hope you’ll stop back here this afternoon, when I’ll be posting on religious freedom and why I think it’s worth worrying about. (Yes, this involves Hobby Lobby. Fun stuff!)

Few Things Are Better Than A Cross-Stitching Biker: Answer Me This (Vol. 2)

June 30, 2014 / Julie / Leave a comment

I made a few stabs at posting last week, but pretty much all I could think about was the fallout from our oh-so-lovely stomach bug. And by fallout I mean I pulled my neck muscles so badly that the pain migrated to my head and my ear and it felt like somebody was stabbing me with an ice pick. And I couldn’t stop crying – in the car, at the urgent care clinic, and (most dramatically) at the pharmacist’s counter, waiting for my muscle relaxer.

I wrote up a whole post on the matter, and then thought better of burdening you fine people with that tedium. Aren’t you relieved?

So to get myself over the obsessed-with-debilitating-pain-in-my-ear hump, here I am with another round of Answer Me This, a link-up with Kendra at Catholic All Year. She asks the questions, we answer them. Be sure to head over to Kendra’s to see who else did the answering.

1. How often do you take public transportation?

These days, just about never. Once in a great while I’ll get on the Washington Metro to do touristy things with out-of-town visitors, but that’s pretty much it.

When I lived and worked in the immediate DC area, however, I took the Metro almost every day. I mostly loved it. I didn’t like the hot, crowded, stressful days when you couldn’t get a seat and you barely made it onto a train, but I liked the boring, slower-paced days.

Not only did Metro give me great access to parts of the city I would never have attempted driving to (or parking in), it made commuting easy and (at times) even refreshing. Both my apartment and my office were within walking distances of stations, so once I grew accustomed to my route, Metro allowed me to not think much about the process of commuting. I had the freedom to daydream and read (I read far more in that period of my life than I’d done before or I’ve done since) and engage in some fabulous people watching.

When you commute on public transportation, you tend to see the same people over and over again. There was one gentleman who dressed all in white and had a head full of the craziest gray hair. He looked just like Mark Twain. Another man, immaculately dressed, would stand stock-still, so close to the doors that you swore his nose must be touching them. Once they opened, off he would go with maximum efficiency. And then there was a great, big man – a burly, biker-looking guy – who did the most beautiful cross-stitch on his commute.

Hands-down, the happiest day of my DC-commuting life was the day that Mark Twain sat next to Cross-Stitch Guy! I just about skipped into my office and squealed the news to my colleagues, I was so excited.

On my evening commute, I loved watching one young family with a small daughter. Sometimes her mom picked her up from daycare, sometimes her dad did. Regardless of which it was, they would pull out some beautiful picture book and read to her the whole way home. It was entrancing. I loved watching the parents’ tenderness, hearing their gentle voices, seeing that little girl so well cared for. And it was nice, just for a moment, to feel the warmth of being read to, even if the stories weren’t meant for me.

I also, unfortunately, can’t help but associate my metro-commuting days with September 11. I saw smoke rising from the Pentagon from one of those trains. I spent weeks being rushed past the Pentagon station, smelling the acrid smoke. And I spent years wondering what happened to the people I saw get off at that station on that awful morning.

2. How many cousins do you have?

More than you can imagine.

To begin with, I have 32 first cousins: 21 on my mom’s side, 11 on my dad’s. Though I’m one of the oldest grandchildren in both families (my youngest first cousins are only seven years old!), we already have quite a few cousins in the next generation: between the eight of us grandkids who are married so far, there are 22 great-grandchildren. Imagine how many there will be when the rest of my generation marries! (My boys, by the way, have twelve first cousins.)

Then there are my mom’s cousins. She’s got a boatload (I don’t know, 60 or so?), quite a few of whom I know, and some of whom I know well. And then they have kids, so I have those cousins too. (Again, some of whom I’m close to – one was even one of my bridesmaids.) And of course, some of them also have kids.

Then there are my grandparents’ cousins (again, scores of them), some of whom I know. This summer, I’m on a family reunion planning committee with several of my grandfather’s cousins. (It’s mind-boggling to me that the patriarch and matriarch of the family who will gather for the reunion are my great-great-grandparents.)

Crazy stuff! My college friends used to say, “Can’t we go anywhere without running into one of your relatives?” Umm… nope. Not in this region. That’s what you get when (1) your family is good at – ahem – propagating and (2) your family has been in the same place for hundreds of years.

My mom’s side of the family at our wedding five years ago. Something like ten more family members have been added since then!

3. Have you ever fired a gun?

Yes, but I did not enjoy it. My family are very into hunting and shooting, and each year on Thanksgiving morning, my uncle and aunt host a “Turkey Shoot” – that is, a trap shoot for the adults and a turkey-shaped target shoot for the kids. My husband and brother and most of the menfolk (as well as some of the women) love it. I just love that they love it.

One year, the guys insisted that I give it a go. So I – begrudgingly – hoisted up a big ol’ shotgun and pulled the trigger. I liked absolutely nothing about the experience: the gun was too heavy, it was too loud, it kicked too hard, and I didn’t come anywhere close to hitting my clay pigeon.

Never again. (With a shotgun, at least. I do have a modest desire to learn how to shoot a handgun, just because I think it’s one of those skills that would be good to have.)

My preferred way of spending Thanksgiving morning.

4. Do you ride roller coasters?

Absolutely not. I rode a few, many years ago, but they were not happy occasions. And as my motion sickness has gotten progressively worse over the years, I’d better not try them again.

5. What’s your favorite flower?

Lily of the Valley: they’re so dainty and refreshing and they smell so sweet. I tend to prefer other flowers that are clusters of small blooms too, like hydrangea and lupine and lilac. Oh, and I just love peonies and roses – what’s not to like about them?

6. Are you allergic to anything?

I’m allergic to three or four antibiotics and what feels like almost every skincare product I encounter. I have one soap, one lotion, one perfume, one brand of make-up, and one brand of hair products that I’ve been using for years. I dare not try new ones because it seems like every time I do, I have an allergic reaction.

That said, I am very grateful that neither my boys nor I have food allergies. Boy, does that make life easier!

And with that… we’re done! Stop over to Kendra’s for more!

Of Bugs And Crabs: One Hot Mess (Vol. 5)

June 21, 2014 / Julie / 3 Comments

After hosting two big parties and undergoing lots of drama – including snakes and jumping toilets – in the previous two weeks, this week I let out a big sigh of relief: onwards and upwards, turning a new page, and all that.

I had been cooking real meals and going on playdates and helping out friends, when allofasudden we were laid low by those two words that strike fear into the heart of every mother: Stomach. Bug.

Now, as I’ve mentioned before (and much more frequently to my unfortunate friends), vomit is my parenting cross. I am blessed with good sleepers and good teethers and not-so-bad eaters (even if I do hate feeding my children). But vomiting – boy oh boy, are my boys good at that. We went through at least two years of regular gagging-and-vomiting sequences, often multiple times per day.

But my boys had never had a stomach bug. And I knew it was only a matter of time.

Sure enough, on Thursday our time came due. It struck me first: I called Brennan to come home from work (like, now) and I handed off the screaming baby to my mother-in-law. A short while later, I called my newly-returned husband on my cell from upstairs (oh, don’t you love technology) and asked him to go buy some Gatorade.

That’s never a promising request.

(A cute aside: Brennan brought home Powerade instead, which my two-year-old insists on calling “Poweradorade.”)

Several hours later, I was exhausted and depleted and had pulled my neck muscles from the force of it all. Brennan headed downstairs to sleep on the sofa. Just in time for – you guessed it! – the two-year-old to wake up screaming and sick. Then just as we finished cleaning him up, it was the four-year-old’s turn.

It’s a good thing that vomit no longer holds any power over me.

So I spent the rest of the night “enjoying” a little sleepover with my boys, armed with bowls and wet washcloths and “Poweradorade” and Windex.

The next day, thank goodness, the boys were back to their usual wrestling lion cub antics, with a couple of extra naps thrown in to make up for the night before.

But I was a hot mess: weak and exhausted and dizzy, with an awful headache and a terrible pain in my neck. By the time Brennan got home from work, I could barely muster a “Hi. Good night.” before I dragged myself upstairs and into bed, not even bothering to change my clothes.

Oh, well. I knew it was bound to happen at some point. We’re all on the mend and (though I know I shouldn’t dare mention it!) we’re very lucky that the baby didn’t catch the bug.

Beautiful, healthy little thing.

But you know what really stinks? We missed out on crabs!

Brennan and I had lined up a sitter for Friday night. Because we were to go out. Without children. With family. For crabs!

Boo hoo.

Please let next week be kind of “normal.” Please?

Check out more, probably less pathetic Hot Messes over at Blythe’s!

Single Lady Gets A Family

June 10, 2014 / Julie / 5 Comments

A few nights before the baby was born, as I placed a stack of clean, folded laundry outside my boys’ room, I decided to peek in on them while they slept. I crept in and saw each sprawled out on his new big-boy bed, looking so small surrounded by all that space and all those covers. I listened to their quiet breathing and watched them rustle and twitch, snuggling ever deeper into sleep.

I stood there in the quiet and I felt it wash over me: a profound sense of gratitude. The feeling was nearly physical: gratitude washed over my head like a wave, down my body, dropping my arms to their sides and stilling every movement save my head, looking from one boy to the other.

I have children. I have a husband. I have a family of my own.

Seven years ago this month, I could hardly have thought that possible. Seven years ago, I was well entrenched in my life as a single (single) young professional. I lived alone, I worked a lot, I hung out with friends sometimes, and I dated not at all. So it had been for years.

It was a good life, overall. I loved my work. It was interesting and fulfilling and on precious rare occasions, got me into a swanky black-tie dinner or two. I lived in a beautiful town full of brick-paved sidewalks and comfortably brooding cafes, where I could set out in any direction from my cute basement apartment and end up at the water. Many evenings, I’d close a stroll through town with a few quiet minutes sitting on a pier, listening to the dull knock, knock, knocking of sailboats bumping against their docks.

My life could be busy, invigorating, peaceful… but it was always lonely.

I had long wanted to be married with children, so as much as I loved that interesting job and those beautiful environs, it all felt glaringly insufficient. Night after night, sitting home by myself (enjoying a great book and a nice glass of wine, so don’t pity me too much) I’d hear the sounds of couples and families walk past my apartment. And it was clear to me: what matters more than anything else in this life is relationship.

Relationship with God, relationship with people… growing one’s relationship with God by building up loving, life-giving relationships with people. Relationship.

And I was lacking in that department.

Yes, I was blessed with a wonderful family of origin, whom I loved and whom I tried to see as much as I could. Yes, I had lovely friends, some of whom I saw regularly, others I kept up with from afar. But deep down, I felt called to marriage and motherhood. And feeling called to that vocation, all other human relationships paled in comparison.

I longed to move through life alongside people. You don’t do that with friends or with your extended family. You cross paths with them, you touch base, you might walk along with them for a while at arm’s length. But your future is not intimately tied to theirs. Your paths don’t depend on each other.

I’d had enough of independence. I wanted to be in dependence with someone.

So at the beginning of that summer seven years ago, I decided to make a big, conspicuous effort at changing my circumstances. I ditched a bit of my pride, signed up for eHarmony, and waited. It didn’t take long. Glory Be and Halleluiah – before the summer was half over, I’d met my husband.

Hiking at Antietam, September 2007

Everything changed so quickly. In June, I was beginning to come to terms with the idea that I might always be single. (Indeed, I was working hard to embrace the idea.) By August, Brennan knew that I was “the one” for him. And I knew that Brennan made me feel happier, more hopeful, and more at ease than anyone I’d ever met.

A year later, we were engaged. The next year, we were married. We welcomed sons in each of the two following years. Two months ago, we greeted another.

It all happened so quickly that sometimes I’m tempted to ask myself whether it really happened at all. At my core, I suppose I still feel like that single lady, moving through life alone. Not to be overly dramatic, but I’ve come to realize that the experience scarred me.

Which is strange to think about while sitting at the center of a writhing heap of boy. These days I’m so smothered by touch and noise and activity that I crave the very solitude I once found depressing. I find myself daydreaming about that cute little basement apartment, those boats knock, knock, knocking against their docks.

For a moment.

Then I recall the realization, one long-ago weekend, that left me feeling hollow: I had not made physical contact with another person in over a week. The last time had been an impersonal handshake at a work meeting. I had no one in my daily life to hug, to nudge, to lay a hand on my shoulder. (See “Our Starved For Touch Culture” for an interesting read that jives with my experience.)

These days, my skin crawls with the over-stimulation of nursing, of small hands grabbing, of boys climbing, of baby holding. Yesterday my two-month-old was having a rough day. I don’t know what was bothering him, but I know he was unhappy or uncomfortable and he just wanted to be held. All day. In certain moments, I found it maddening. I was responsible for so much more than just that cranky baby: I had meals to make and a house to clean and two older boys to care for. My back ached and my arm went numb from nursing him so long. I was hot and sweaty and very ready to move around independent of that heavy, wailing bundle.

But I didn’t resent the situation – not really. I’ll take it. I’ll do it again a hundred times over, because independence is overrated. Because no amount of peaceful solitude can compare to the beautiful weight of walking through life alongside other souls.

A week after standing in my boys’ room while they slept, I sat on the sofa during a rare quiet moment in our home. I stretched my newborn son out before me and examined him closely. I looked at his round cheeks and his long fingers and the way his chest caught while he breathed his little newborn breaths. And I thought of it again: Children, husband, family – at once the most simple and the most amazing of things.

I have been so blessed.

Seven years into the most important relationship of my life, five years into marriage, and four years into motherhood, I suppose I should move past feeling like that single lady. She is no longer who I am. I’m grateful for the experience of my single years – so much more grateful than I could have imagined at the time. But the tugging and calling and clamoring I experience these days has gradually helped me to realize: It’s time to own my vocation. It’s time to feel like the wife and mother I now am.

Epilogue (Please) To The Day Of The Snake And The Water: One Hot Mess (Vol. 4)

June 5, 2014 / Julie / 6 Comments

I sit here, stunned, numb, in disbelief at all the unpleasantly wacky things that have happened in our home this week.

Tuesday, there was this critter, or one very like him:

Amongst the toys. In our parlor. Discovered by our three-year-old. If you haven’t already read the happy tale, here it is. (Anybody visiting here from Blythe’s, do check out that post. If you like hot messes, you’ll love Tuesday’s.)

Quickly – before I get to the meat of this post – let me tell you that it has come to my attention that loved ones who read the snake story now no longer want to come to my house. So let me assure you, dear friends and family, that (I think) you have nothing to fear. Ours is a very large, very old house with lots of hiding spaces for critters.

Don’t let that freak you out. Rather, let it give you comfort, because the creepy-crawlies have better places to go than in your path. They have cool, dark, dirt crawl spaces. They have toasty-warm attics. They have cozy spaces in between plaster walls and wooden floors. This dramatic sighting was surely an anomaly. Surely. Or that’s what I’m telling myself. Over and over and over…

Now back to today.

You may hardly have noticed it at the time, but the snake story included a mention of a leak in the pipe that provides water to our house. It was way boring in comparison to the snake, I know.

But this afternoon. Oh, this afternoon…

We’d received a notice that they’d be turning off our water again for an hour or so while they undertook more repairs to the water pipe. Just an hour; no big deal – we wouldn’t even be home at the time.

Yay for play-dates with good friends!

A while after we returned home, I used the powder room. And when I flushed the toilet afterward, the thing jumped. The whole flippin’ toilet jumped. With a BANG!

I jumped too. Then I froze and stared as the toilet continued to hiss and sputter a bit.

Hissing and sputtering I get: air in the line. No big deal. But jumping? What in the world makes a toilet do that? (Hmm… could a certain snake have something to do with it? Shudder…) I was shaken, so I called the hubby. He’ll take a look at it when he gets home.

A few hours later, I went upstairs to use the bathroom again. When I flushed the toilet that time, I stood back a bit, wondering if it would jump too. It didn’t. Whew – just a bit of that hissing and sputtering.

Until…

Water started pouring out of the tank! Disgusting brown water! (Please let that be brown from the pipes and not brown from – ahem – something else.) I started and stopped. What should I do? Would it stop on its own? No? How much of this disgusting brown water would pour out of the tank and all over my bathroom floor? I’d better do something.

So I took off the lid to grab the chain/bar/whatever-it’s-called thing and WATER STARTED SQUIRTING INTO THE AIR. Out of some straw-looking-thing at the top of the tank, into the air, at the window and its brand-new blinds, and all over my arm.

I was in shock. Water squirting. Out of the toilet. At the window. New blinds. All over my arm. Some spraying up onto my face and clothing. I dropped the bar/chain thingy and held my breath.

It stopped.

It stopped, but there was still disgusting brown toilet water all over my bathroom. And on me.

What to do now? Nothing to do, I suppose, but wash off my arm, walk back downstairs, call the hubby to complain (again), and sit down at the computer to tell you fine folks alllll about it. You’re welcome.

Be sure to head on over to Blythe’s to indulge in more of this week’s hot messes!

These Walls

Sharing stories from within the walls of my home; encouraging discourse on the wider world outside them.

Author: Julie

All My Life, Preparing For This

The World, My World, And Edel: 7 Quick Takes (Vol. 30)

All Because We Said Yes

Life, Even At The End

Yes, I Worry About Religious Freedom

Smiles and Summer: {pretty, happy, funny, real} (Vol. 14)

Few Things Are Better Than A Cross-Stitching Biker: Answer Me This (Vol. 2)

Of Bugs And Crabs: One Hot Mess (Vol. 5)

Single Lady Gets A Family

Epilogue (Please) To The Day Of The Snake And The Water: One Hot Mess (Vol. 4)