A Dream Realized

#4 is a Daisy Girl Scout this year. We were looking for an activity she could do and my artistic child asked, "Isn't there one where I can just do arts and craft?" There is. It's Daisies.

I called the council and they matched us with a troop meeting just down the street from our house on the one night when nothing else happens. A perfect fit.

What I didn't know was that it was an all African-American troop. I have no problem with that, but worried about my shy child who is scared of anyone new and different looking. How silly am I?

She never even noticed that the other girls' skin was so much darker than her own. At least not enough to mention it to anyone then or later. All she saw was a table of girls her own age who welcomed her with bright, wide smiles. They allowed no shyness on her part. When she held back, the biggest girl picked up my teeny one and set her on the bench between herself and her own best friend. My girl was wearing the uniform, she was one of them.

I talked to one of the leaders later that first week, and she said none of the other girls seem to have noticed that my daughter was white. She said they've talked about her shiny, sleek hair and her big brown eyes. They've mentioned how she's so little "like a baby doll." They've pitied her because she has neither braids nor beads for her hair and because I just pulled it back with a simple clip.

My daughter noticed the same thing. She stood her ground this week when I put the pony-tail holders with bubbles on them in her hair. She wanted two different colors; I wanted them to match. She quickly told me that I had no clue because the other girls in her troop got to wear all the colors they wanted and even got beads. Life is no fair when you have a mother who gives you boring hair. She left the house with purple on one side and yellow on the other, looking "exactly like everyone else."

I remember hearing the "I Have a Dream" speech when I was in high school and doubting privately that people could ever really be color blind. Then my five year old showed me that the only color worth noticing was on the cute things in their hair. The rest of it is just the way God meant it to be, but oh....to have braids with pink shiny beads....that would be heaven.



Dr King, If you're watching...I think we might be there.

Born Alive

Heart-wrenching video about "Choice". No blood and gore.

Make video montages at www.OneTrueMedia.com

Logic

This week, my two eldest boys have been studying the Aborigines of Australia with #4 listening quietly in the corner. They are fascinated by people who live a more.....simple?.....life than we do. Being boys, the grosser the information is the better it's remembered.

They especially like stories of survival. Bring on the Australian water frog. This big guy absorbs water during the rainy periods and stores it for the dry season. Think sopping wet sponge on four legs. It seems that when Aboriginal people are in need of water in times of drought they go dig up one of these frogs and wring him out for the water inside. Gross, I know. It doesn't hurt the frog and is useful information, I guess, if you're ever stuck in Australia in a drought and need water. Getting off-topic here, sorry.

This afternoon, PBS was showing a documentary about frogs and #4 was riveted. When I walked into the room they were showing a particularly large species of toad..or frog...I'm going with toad, I think.

"Hey, #4, is that an Australian water frog?"

Rolls eyes. "No, Mom."

"Are you sure? Because he looks like he could hold a lot of water."

"I know he's not."

"How do you know for sure?"

"Because the guy holding him is speaking English and I'm pretty sure people who speak English don't drink water from frogs."

There you have it, straight from my own frog expert. English speaking people don't drink frog water.

Meet #6

This video is for my Mother-in-Law who hasn't seen #6 in person yet. I tried to email it, but it was too big of a file. I hope you enjoy this unprecedented view of #6 since I don't usually post images of my children.

It's only because I love her that I'm willing to let you share this moment in our lives. We love you, Mom!

from,
the Mom

What to Give the Catholic Homeschooling Geek

Christmas is approaching at the speed of a freight train barreling toward us. We're all beginning to think about what perfect gift to give to each of our loved ones.

On my own list are several wonderful Catholic homeschooling moms. Great ladies. Nightmares to shop for. I know you were all thinking that the Uro-Club would be the perfect gift, but most of these women don't have the chance to golf. Sad, isn't it?

Instead, why not give them an educational tool their kids will play with again and again? I present to you Vatican-The Board Game. (No, I did not make this up.) What mom wouldn't enjoy seeing her little ones make the the journey from "Cardinal to Pope"? (We all dream about it secretly anyway, don't we?)

During the course of their careers, players “Take a Stand” on weighty theological and moral issues, including contraception, clerical celibacy or the campaign to have the Virgin Mary proclaimed co-redeemer. The race begins as soon as the previous papacy ends, sometimes in bizarre circum-stances. “The Pope dies when the popemobile rolls over after hitting a truck carrying bananas. Your earlier warnings that the popemobile was unstable are now seen as evidence of your sound judgement and you gain additional support,” reads one card.

Players must seek to climb the ladder to spiritual perfection while simultaneously avoiding the “Cesspool of Sin,” by not, for example, committing the “Sin of Gluttony: at a papal banquet, you have three helpings of cannelloni.” . . . But when it comes to the conclave itself, other cardinals will be waiting for you to slip up: “Your tendency to fall asleep during meetings becomes a cause for comment”, one card reads, while another simply says: “Your poor command of Latin is noted and commented on by a number of cardinals—minus 10 votes.”

Sounds like a scream to me! Hurry and order the Papal Election Game while supplies last!!!!

Starting Your Weekend Off Right

Just when you start to feel uncool and pretty down, along comes a pick me up that has you snorting with laughter and wiping your eyes. I thought I should share with the class, so I now present the People of Wal-Mart blog.

Be warned that not all pics are child friendly. Heck they aren't all me-friendly. If you don't want to chance it, at least enjoy the cow limo. I especially like the poo on the trunk.

C'mon. Admit it. You feel a bit better about yourself, don't you? You're welcome.

The Story Behind the Name

#2 was born 10 weeks too soon. My sweet son who was due at the end of February actually arrived in the middle of December. Barely over 3 pounds and struggling for every breath, he was delivered by c-section 6 days after my water broke. Six days in a hospital bed with my feet higher than my head to keep the fluid from running out of me. Then the fluid was gone and he had to be delivered within the hour. It was the shortest hour I've ever known.

How young and naive I was that even then I just assumed everything would be alright. My life had been touched by tragedy, but it had never really touched me. Even the miscarriage I had gone through the year before was not enough to convince me that my baby could die. I was walking through life bulletproof.

Then I heard this cry in the operating room, thin, high, and shrill. This gangly bloody form was thrust into view over the top of the blue curtain and then disappeared again just as quickly. My husband brought over a blanket wrapped bundle with our son inside. All I could see was a strip of forehead between the oxygen mask and his hat. It was a nice looking forehead, and I worried about the boy it belonged to , but I never thought he could die.

For two weeks we were not allowed to hold our son. He lay in the open warmer with tubes sprouting from all over his body. We could only touch the bottom of his right foot. It was the only part of his body not covered with medical equipment. I could stroke his foot. He would scream in pain from the IV needles and I could touch his toes. This was the worst it could get, I knew it.

My heart yearned to feel his small body pressed against mine, my arms ached in their emptiness. My world swirled around my small girl at home and this impossibly small boy. I leaned on the Computer Guy for strength and he leaned back. I felt too weak to carry this burden, but this was the worst. Just keep walking and eventually you come to the end of the tunnel.

I fell into bed each night exhausted and completely terrified, terrified of the midnight phone calls I made to check on him. The "What ifs?" had just begun to enter my mind. Babies die in NICU's. I know because I've seen it happen. I saw it then. My baby was no less sweet, no less loved, no less perfect. He could die. He could die and we would be unable to stop it from happening.

My fears rose to the surface when I got the phone call, "#2 is dying. You need to come so that when he does go, he can die in his mother's arms." How bitter was this pain. Hold him at last, feel the weight of him at last, kiss him at last...tell him good-bye.

I broke. I drove to the hospital and don't remember the drive. It took 18 minutes to get there, it should have taken 40. I ran in and saw my Beloved holding the hand of our son and telling him "If it hurts too much, if the pain is too great, if you're too tired...it's okay to die. Your dad gives you permission to quit the fight. You've fought it hard and long, and you have nothing more to prove. You are already a man I am proud to call my son. If you need to die, I'll hold your hand."

The nurses had to hold me back to keep me from attacking the father of my child. The anger of the situation flooded through me and directed itself squarely at him. I felt betrayed by the only person who understood my situation.

At last I prayed.

In a jumbled torrent, I asked for help. I pleaded for my boy and for the strength he would need. I bargained my own life for his. I wept painful tears. At last I had been shoved to my knees. At last, my stubborn pride was broken. At last, I allowed myself to be a child. To be a child and ask for my Father to fix things in the magical way that only daddies can fix things. He did.

It was in the quiet of the morning as my tiny baby slept fitfully upon my chest that I remembered the prophesy of my own dear grandmother when she had pronounced me a stubborn and prideful girl and begged me to bow willingly before God or he would remove everything that held me up until I fell to my knees before him. Unfortunately for me, I've always been a "Shoved to them" kind of girl.

Patriotic and Hot..What's Not To Like?

A swoon for Miss June


I happen to prefer Matt Damon, but how about this for a compromise? What'dya say girl?

Teaching with Classic TV

Hey, you can let Andy Griffith teach your kids Shakespeare. Did you know?

I'll bet that if I spent enough time on YouTube I could make up a complete curriculum.

Doh!

Intellectual Honesty

I stumbled across this post containing the words of an abortion doctor in Austin. While I don't agree with his conclusions of right and wrong, I was surprised to find that the doctor and I actually agree on a few things. Things like:

Well, it's a philosophical question. But to us, ethically, having an early abortion and taking birth control pills are the same procedure, because certain types of birth control prevent the development of a fertilized egg and leads to miscarriage.

and

taking certain birth control pills is just as much an abortion as anything else. It's somewhat interesting that many people who would demonstrate against an abortion service think nothing of taking birth control pills. Ethically, you cannot differentiate between the two.

While I find the doctor to be involved in repugnant practices, I can respect the fact that he is intellectually honest enough to tell the truth about there being no difference between early abortion and "the Pill." How many people in the pro-life movement can say that they are as honest about it? How many women stand in front of clinics and condemn the things happening inside, and shed tears for the babies being butchered behind closed doors and all the while their own unborn children die as they stand on the sidewalk picketing?

Is it a lack of education or a willful blindness which allows this hypocrisy to flourish? Doesn't being pro-life and believing that every child truly is a gift from God mean every child? Even the one you would call inconvenient? Let's just all aspire to at least be as honest with ourselves as the abortionist. Wouldn't it be sad if he were the only honest man in the debate?

Because it's Friday

and we can all use a laugh.