Separate But Equal

In the comment section of my last post, Loretta wrote

Just last night I was driving home alone from the grocery store feeling guilty because I feel differently about each of my children, not that I love each one any less but it is just different. I was thinking 'I need to ask The Mom about this'.

Well, Loretta, I'm so glad you asked.  This question is one I have struggled with over the years.  I agonized over whether or not I was playing favorites and if that were somehow damaging my children.  Here's the conclusion I finally came to:

I love all of my children an equal amount.  There is not one of them I would not throw myself in harm's way to protect.  There is not one of them whose life is not my life's work.  There is not one of them whose dreams are not my dreams for them.  I love and adore every single child with the whole of my heart.  I'm not sure how it is possible to love six different people each with all of my being, but it is.

While I love them all, some are easier to love than others.  Which, in all honesty, means that they are more likable than their siblings.  For instance, I have one child who bounds out of bed nearly every morning with a smile and a joy at merely being alive.  This particular child is funny, smart, and I would hang out with even if he/she were not mine.  One word: delightful.  Another of my children is a whiner.  This child is always sure that he/she is somehow being cheated out of whatever good thing is going on in our house.  He/She has been known to get up early on Christmas morning to count the presents under the tree and then pout if someone else got more.  This is my "not fair" child.  One word: difficult.  Now, don't get me wrong, the delightful child can be stubborn and willful, and the difficult child can be fun and playful, but in general they hang onto who they are.

It is my job as their mom to love them both, pray for them both, help them both to become better people (although one seems to have a bit further to go).  I see the good and the bad in both of them.  That's my job.  I'm their mom. 

It's hard to remember, as moms, that our children are unique individuals.  They are not identical clones of each other.  As individuals, it is natural that some should be easier to like than others.  It's normal that we, as parents, have one whose company we prefer.  Not because we love them more, but because they are just easier to get along with.  I've also found that preferences change as the children grow.  Today's easy baby may be tomorrow's nightmare teenager.  Parents just have to keep calm and keep it all in perspective.  Difficult personalities can be trained out of or grown out of, and difficult children can become delightful adults.

I'm not sure where we get the idea that moms aren't human beings who have normal preferences.  We are and we do.  There is nothing wrong with being an imperfect being, it's what you do with it that counts.

While one child may be more likable, the trick is to keep a poker face and never let on.  Feeling a preference is fine, acting on it is not.  I spend more time with my difficult child because he/she needs me more. This natural personality must be an awesome burden to have to carry around.  This child needs all the help the Computer Guy and I can give.  When our children were born, we accepted the responsibility of raising them.  We didn't accept it on the condition that the children make it easy on us.  We looked at those tiny babies and promised to love them, and care for them, and be the parents they needed us to be to the best of our abilities.  If they don't all need the same parenting, how can we think that they all need the same love?  We love them all the same amount, but each in their own special way.

Living Boldly

I love all of my children.  They are endlessly wonderful, endlessly fascinating, endlessly fun. Every day that I get to be their mother teaches me something new.  I love them all evenly, but I confess, there is a special place in my heart for the bold ones.  The fearless ones make me smile and bring their own special joy.

This is not to say that the others are somehow "less than," but the bold ones find a joy in life which their siblings still haven't discovered.  I watch them as they venture forth from our quiet house.  Where the others are cautious, these few see only adventure in the great wideness of the world.

It isn't something I can teach them, they are born with this wild spirit.  From their first steps, their personalities shine through.  Most of my children take hesitant steps, clinging to the safety of the furniture or a steadying hand.  But the bold....the bold two stood early, tested the steadiness of their legs and then took off in determination across the room.  They scaled the living room bookcases, and then learned to climb the backyard trees.  When the rest of us walk together, they burst on ahead expending their energy in a burst of joy and life.

I adore the brazen boldness of these children.  Their bravery forces me to smile and laugh out loud.  How much more must their Creator delight in their chutzpah, their certainty?  God seems, like me, to take a special delight in the bold.  Look at the saints: daring, bold, unconcerned with what others thought, certain, and unafraid.  We should try to be more like them, to place our faith in our Father, to set aside our fears and our smallness and step out into the world clothed in Christ.  How it would make our Father smile to see us take our first shaky steps, growing braver with each moment, living our Faith at full volume and in public, to race forward in life overflowing with all of the Joy our Creator can give.

What's Cookin', Mama? (Recipe Swap)

If it's Monday, it must be time for "What's Cookin', Mama?"   This week's theme is
Summertime Crockpot Meals.  This kitchen gadget is great for more than cold-weather stews.  It's perfect for the summer because it doesn't heat the kitchen up.

I'll go first.

I'm making Crockpot Chicken Tacos  tonight.

Ingredients:

2 lbs frozen boneless skinless chicken breasts
1 pkg taco seasoning
tortillas and fixings

Directions:
Put Chicken and seasoning in the crockpot around lunchtime because you forgot to do this earlier. (Unless you're way better at this than I happen to be.)Crank that baby up to high.  (Low if you start in the morning.) Put on the lid and walk away.

At dinner time, shred chicken with a fork.  Put in tortilla. Add lettuce, tomatoes, salsa, etc. Enjoy!

For a fun variation, use barbecue sauce instead of taco seasoning and enjoy BBQ pulled chicken sandwiches.

It's your turn!  What's slow cooking at your house?

Next week:  Company's Coming!  What do you cook to impress guests?  Bonus points if it looks hard but cooks easy.

Wayne recommends that I add a link to Chicken Taco Stew, so here it is.  Stew may be a bit warm this time of year, so may I recommend eating it as a dip with tortilla chips?


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Complete and Total Brilliance

I love a brilliant invention.  I really like new stuff that makes me smack myself on the head and say "why didn't I think of that?"  Things like the Spin-Pop.  You know that motorized thing for suckers so that you don't have to turn them?  You just put it on your tongue and push the button.  It practically licks itself.

I found one of those smack-myself-in-the-head brilliant things today at Wal-Mart.  I know, I hate Wal-Mart, too, but I had to go there for something else and then I wandered down the baby shoe aisle.  Did you know they have shoes with see-through bottoms?  How cool is that?  Right up at the toe is a little window with two lines on it.  One says "Room to Grow", and the other reads "Perfect Fit."  You put your baby's foot in there and you never have to mash down the toe to guess whether or not it fits again.  You can just look through the window and see if he's outgrowing his shoes.  Isn't that smart?  How many shoes have I put on how many feet?  A toe window.  Why didn't I think of that?

Can you see those little toes?  Aren't they cute?  I usually make the kids all wear socks, but the naked baby toes were just too irresistible.

A Letter to Stacy

Dear Stacy,
I hope that you had a good time last night out drinking and dancing with your friends, and almost every night for the last couple weeks.   It seems like you must have met a lot of guys.  I know this, even though I don't know you, because they keep calling my phone number to reach you.

According to Jake (who really is a nice guy so it's kind of sad he can't really reach you), you would give your phone number out to any guy who bought you a drink.  Bully for you!  I admire that kind of entrepreneurial spirit.  It's nice to know that Capitalism is alive and well with the younger generation.  Although, technically I suppose that selling the wrong phone number to people could be called fraud...I'm sure your heart was in the right place.  You're just a nice girl who didn't want to hurt anyone's feelings.  I get it.  After all, cute is deserving of a few drinks.  Isn't it?

Here's the thing you may not have known.  Your gentlemen friends started calling you, by which I mean they were calling me, still drunk or hung over, two weeks ago.  After the first couple argued with me that I was, in fact, you, and became quite irate...well, I decided to take a different stance on the whole thing.

I know, from what you told them and they shared with me, that you are a student at the local college, and that you are picking up Summer hours.  You must be a smart girl.  I hope you were smart enough to give out a fake name with your fake number.  If not, you may have some explaining to do around campus.

By the time this had gone on a week, I started to explain to people why you weren't answering your phone yourself.  You see, you've been arrested.  I know, it's shocking isn't it?  You seemed like such a nice, honest girl.  Arrested!  for being part of an elaborate plot with your friends.  You flirt with guys, get them to buy you drinks, wait until their guard is down, rob them blind (they still had their money?  Well, they're the lucky ones) and then y'all go on a shopping sprees for shoes and chinchillas.  You know those little fuzzy rat things?  You just love them.  Didn't you know that you were secretly addicted to owning the nasty things?  The cops found dozens and dozens of them at your apartment.  The stench was amazing.  Really, people were sickened by the smell.  Who new a cute girl could be so gross?

I've advised all those boys to never buy you a drink again, and to warn their friends to stay as far away from you and your friends as they can get.  They've assured me that they will let everyone know that you should be avoided like the plague.  That should make clubbing super fun for you in the future.

Good luck with your life, Stacy.  I'll bet that it gets a lot more boring for the next little while.  Instead of the clubs?  How about going to church?  You might just learn something while you're there.  As an extra bonus, the church boys will be the only ones who don't know about the chinchilla thing.

Toodles,
the Mom

If Your Name is Leslie....

and you have a blog called Preferring the Folly....You need to send me your email address, because you've won $80!

All I ask is that you come back and tell us what you bought.  Not because you really have to, but because I'm nosy.

Congratulations to you!  


To everyone else: I wish I had gift cards for everyone.  The good news is that I've been named one of their preferred bloggers, so I'll get to do this again.  Woo-Hoo!

Lessons In Love

I spent the morning cleaning out the box which held my wedding stuff, my children's First Communion regalia, and other family mementos and transferring them to the inherited trunk.  After a short while, the children began to congregate in my room and watch as I sorted through our family's history.  It wasn't long before they began to look through our treasures on their own.

My 6 year old (girl) found my parents' wedding album.  It had passed on to me when they were divorced 14 years ago and neither one wanted it.  I was a new bride then, and wrapped it up in tissue paper and put it away next to my own wedding gown.  I had forgotten that it was in the box until it was unwrapped by my own romantic daughter.

#4 grabbed up her discovery and clambered up onto my bed where #3 (age 9) joined her.  They looked with curiosity at the pictures of relatives long dead, and young faces which have grown old.  I listened to them only peripherally until they suddenly grew silent.

"Is that the man who's supposed to be our grandpa?" my sweet daughter asked.

"I think so," her brother answered her, "only he doesn't want to be."

"Doesn't he love us?" Puzzled the child who is loved by everyone who has ever met her.

  "No.  He doesn't"

"He doesn't?  How do you know?"

My son thought for a moment, now with my full attention. "Have you ever met him?" He asked her softly.   "Have you ever seen him?   Love means being there.  It's being there, and where is he?  That's how I know."


He's right.  Love means being there.  It means you never stop trying, never stop reaching out, never stop hoping.


Dad, they miss you, even if it is only the idea of you.  I pray someday there will come a time when you miss them, too.  We love you.   How do you know?  We're still here.  Waiting....

Ding Dong The Witch Is Dead

My Dear Internets,
It is with great glee this morning that I must report to you of the demise of "the other woman", my husband's mistress.  At 10:00 last night, she passed from this world exactly as she had lived in it, cradled in my husband's hand.  He used his considerable skills to restore her to life, but was helpless to do anything but watch her shining face fade forever.  This afternoon, he will take her dead shell somewhere I do not know, and see that she is disposed of properly, to return to my home no more.

O happy day!

I do not delude myself.  My rival for his affections will be replaced before the day is out by a younger, sexier, more alluring model, but she will be new and awkward.  Fear not for me, I am poised and ready for the battle.  I have tricks which she can not hope to match.  

But for now? This moment?  For this moment, he is mine and always will be.  When the time for mistresses has passed away, he will find me still here, the wife of his youth.  How I long for that day to come.


****Updated to add:  The Computer Guy laughed this morning and told me that his mistress will not be replaced by a new model, but by her predecessor.  "It won't be a cute young thing, but the MILF model."  Hahahahhaha  Is it any wonder that I adore him?

Giving Away $80

CSNstores.com has again contacted me and asked that I give an $80 gift card to one of my readers.  I can be very generous with other people's money, so of course I said 'Yes.'  Don't remember who they are?  They're the online shopping mall which sells anything your heart desires.  Bedroom vanity?  They've got it.  King sized bed sheets?  Check.  "Cold Beer" neon sign for my friend Nod?  You betcha.  Hot shoes for your favorite mama blogger?  Ooh la la, just take a look at these:

What else do they have? Go see for yourself?

How do you enter to win?

RULES:

This giveaway is open to U.S. and Canadian residents ONLY.  Please be aware that there may be shipping charges or in the case of Canadian residents, international fees, for certain products.

HOW TO ENTER: 

Comment.  Go to csnstores.com and see what they've got. Come back here and leave me a comment about what you'd spend $80 on if you won.

Want a Few Extra Chances?

Blog about this contest. Post about this on your blog, link back to me and get an extra entry in the drawing!

Follow me.  All public followers get an automatic entry. See those happy looking people on the sidebar?  You could be one of them. What are you waiting for?

There you go, Easy-Peasy-Lemon Squeezy! 

You have until Thursday, July 22nd by Midnight central time to enter. 
I throw all the names in the pot (actually an electronic random selection thingy) and pick a winner!

The winner will be announced the following day, July 23rd.

Good Luck!!!!!!!!!!!!

What's Cookin', Mama? (Recipe Swap)

I was trying to come up with a topic to blog about this morning when I suddenly realized..It's Monday!  It's time for What's Cookin', Mama?  I love a routine.

I forgot to give you a topic to think about last week.  Let's go with that theme, shall we?  Dinner's in less than an hour, nothing's defrosted, it's 2 days to payday so you're not ordering pizza...what are you making for dinner?  That's right, today's theme is Last Minute Meals.

What is your go-to meal?  Which brings me to:

Lemon-Garlic Chicken Nuggets

(I'm going to write this for a "normal" family of 4-5 people. We double or triple this regularly.)

4 large frozen chicken breasts
1-2 lemons (I keep these on hand for just such an occasion)

Seasoned flour
1 1/2 cups of flour
1 tbsp salt
1tbsp garlic powder
1/2 tbsp black pepper (adjust to taste)

Olive oil for frying in (use what you like, I convince myself that olive oil makes it healthier)

Toss your chicken breasts into the microwave on "defrost" setting.  If you're like me and don't like defrosting in the microwave, crank up your oven to 150* and put the chicken in there while you get everything else ready.  You don't want them to defrost all the way, as slightly frozen chicken is easier to cut into cubes.

Mix up seasoned flour.  Don't be afraid of adding more spices to your own liking.

Juice the lemons.

Put oil in the pan and begin heating to 350*  (Kristen Horner, the nutritionist, says cooking in butter is healthier, so fry it in butter if you like!  Yay butter!)

Cube chicken, and then place in lemon juice to soak.  Give it a few minutes.  Make your salad, set the table, yell at the kids to untie their brother.  The longer you leave it, the better the taste, but we're on a time crunch, so a few minutes is plenty.

Drop chicken into flour and toss it around to coat.  Place it into hot oil until golden brown.  Drain briefly on paper towels.

Serve to starving children with ketchup.  Serve to yourself and spouse with a glass of wine.  I'm not sure wine goes with chicken nuggets, but if you're in this much of a hurry, then you probably need the wine.

Bon Appetite!

Now it's your turn, post your recipe on your blog and then add you link in the linky below.  (I'm trying a new linky thing.  Please be patient with me as I try to get this right.)

Next week, we'll do the opposite and pretend that we've actually planned ahead.  You guessed it Summertime Crock-Pot Dinners they're not just for stews anymore.

I can do it.....I just don't want to

#6 took his first steps last week.  Three steps from the coffee table to his dad, and the next morning, two steps from the couch to me.  (Why is it that the last three children have all taken their first steps when I'm not here?)

Since then...he just can't be bothered.  We wait until he's standing, holding on to some piece of furniture, then we sit down and call to him to walk to us.  He smiles.  He laughs.  He drops down on all fours and crawls on over to us.  He's just not interested in walking.  He can do it, now why should he? 

He is utterly without motivation to walk.  He gets carried around everywhere, and because he's not too heavy nobody minds.  He's not a fast crawler, but he has nowhere to go in a hurry.  He's more interested in climbing to the top of our furniture and bookshelves than in strolling across the room.

He'll be one in two weeks, and while I'll miss his babyhood, I'm ready to move onto toddlerhood.   I'm ready for his hand in mine as we walk down the path by the creek and to watch his chubby legs churn as he runs to his dad.  He doesn't want to.  Who ever decided that these children could make such decisions or themselves? 

For the next few days, I'll be following him around like a loon, trying to catch his baby steps on camera..immortalized to amuse me in my old age.  I'll keep you posted on his progress.  His Oma says "No birthday cake for boys who don't walk" is a German tradition.  She's threatened him already, twice.  He just laughs at her.  Don't tell #6, but she threatens them all, and even the non-walkers get cake. 

The Most Wonderful Time of the Year

The boxes have begun arriving at our house, all the wonderful boxes filled with new school books.  Every few days, the UPS man knocks on my door with another package of treasures.  My children eagerly dig through the contents and exclaim with delight over the wonders that the new school year will bring.  It is a mini-Christmas in the middle of the Summer.  I'm a book nerd.  My children are book nerds.  We love books in the mail.

#3 has looked in every box with a hint of bewilderment.  Yesterday he started to cry because there was nothing in the mail for him.  His books are waiting inside another classroom.  He turned his tearful gaze toward me and asked why there was nothing for him.  "Don't you want me to be smart, too?"

Oh, my darling boy, I don't know how to explain it to you any more ways.  How do I make you understand that I am not sending you away?  How do I make a new backpack and pencils seem as exciting as science books and history texts?  What words can I say which will make the newness not scary but become exciting possibilities?  How many more ways can I explain to you what school is?  What words will explain it all?

I watched a little girl in Target last week jumping up and down in excitement about starting school.  I want that excitement for him.  I want him to feel loved, cherished and protected... when that has always meant keeping him home and at my side....How do we change the definition?

I am having all the heart pain which most mothers have over kindergartners or babies in day care.  It took me 14 years of motherhood to get to a "First Day of School".  It is a place I never wanted to see.  A pain I had hoped never to feel.

I'm getting to the place of getting tired of my own tears and my own agonizing.  It is time to simply grab the camera, drive him to class, take pictures in front of the school, meet his teacher, walk away, cry all the way home, and then trust God to sort it all out.  I just wish I knew it was going to be all right, that we had made the right decision.  Is a little note too much to ask?  I have the email now, God could shoot me a short one.   I have a cell phone, He could call. It would help to put the joy back in learning and make it once again my favorite time of the year.




***P.S. To my prayer buddies--To the one praying for me-I trust your assignment is clear? :)  To the one I'm praying for-I'm offering it all up for you, you lucky girl.***

It Could Be Worse

Head on over to Peace and Quiet for an honest and candid look at life as the mother of a child with a sensory processing disorder.  As the mother of one of these special children myself, I wanted to stand and say "me, too!"  Here's an excerpt: 

 Bath time was horrific.  Screaming and thrashing.  Often we would end up getting a bath as well, having to step into the shower with him to get him bathed.  Then there was the eating of all things not food.  I can’t tell you how many times I’ve called poison control.  For the record, Desitin won’t kill you.

Go on over there and show her some love.  She's a nice lady and could use a word of encouragement and a little love.

Sweetheart

My neighbor never calls his wife "my wife" he always refers to her as "my sweetheart."  It's always struck me as funny and a little old-fashioned, as well as sweet and awfully endearing.  "My Sweetheart." 

They were married almost 50 years ago when women were not equal to men, and wives were seen as necessary nags, or so he tells me.  He returned from their honeymoon, flush with new love, to the derisive and smutty comments of his co-workers.  This was his wife, his everything.  To them she was the ball and chain, the old bag.  The very word "wife" seemed to call up such negative connotations in the minds of the men around him.  He stopped using it.

To strangers, he refers to her only as Mrs. (their last name).  He commands the respect for her that he knows she deserves but society so often denies her.  His address of her speaks of his great admiration for the woman he married so long ago.  Those who know them well are gifted with the right to call her by name, to the rest of the world, she is his sweetheart.  With one word, he announces his love and affection and places her beyond the ever changing stereotypes.  She is above it all, the woman of his dreams, the smile on his face, the hand he holds, the partner of his lifetime.  She is his only love, his sweetheart.

Perks of the Job

"Mooooooommmmmmmmyyyyyyyy!!!!!!!!!!!" came the voice from upstairs, a bloodcurdling yell that had me running up two steps at a time.

I dashed around the corner into the bathroom to see a child standing in the middle of the room smiling.

"What?  What's wrong?"

"Nothing.  I just had the biggest poop ever and wanted you to see it."

Thanks.

A Journey of Faith

A few weeks ago, Leila at Little Catholic Bubble asked about people's personal faith stories.  Cradle or convert?  What got you to where you are?  I've written about my moment of reversion before, but it's only one moment on a long time line.

Here you go Leila, just because you asked.

********************************************************

I was born and raised in a "Catholic" household.  My father was a Naval officer whose faith was more obligatory than personal, and my mother was a girl who had been raised in poverty, but now had acquired a bit of social standing and always seemed slightly embarrassed to not be Protestant.

We prayed at dinner because it was just what we did, but the words themselves were empty ritual.  We went to Mass on Sunday mornings more for the social aspects than for anything to do with God.  My mother sang in the choir because they were her friends, my father and I read at Mass every week because no one else was willing to do it, my brothers served every week for the same reason.  Nobody sat in a pew in our family except my mother's purse.  It was not Mass, it was us on parade.  We must have been the very picture of the involved Catholic family.  It was a facade.  There was no substance to our faith.  The Catholicism in which we were raised was more like good hygiene, an inoculation against becoming a fanatic "Born Again."

Which is not to say that there was no evidence of our Catholicity in our lives.  We went to Catholic schools at the end of the era which still saw nuns teaching .  These kind women introduced me to the idea of the Sacraments, saints, and personal sacrifice as a privilege and reflection of God.  They took us to Mass twice a week, Confession every other week, and taught us our prayers, and our Catechism.   It was under their quiet guidance that I decided I wanted to be a Saint with a capital "S."

When we lost my mother to a traumatic brain injury when I was 14, no priest came to offer Last Rites (that I am aware of), no Masses were said, no prayers were offered.  I can't even remember praying at all.  The spark of faith I had had as a child had long since died out.  The stranger who now lived in her body had a better relationship with God than anyone else in our house, and she would scream at Him in a string of expletives.

My Father fell away completely at this time.  He began to question everything he had ever heard or professed to believe.  He brought home cassette tapes of dissident priests and made my older brother and I listen.  Chief among his new beliefs was the heresy that although Hell may exist no one ever went there.  These tapes of "theology" became a regular part of our lives as did the New Age counseling meant to help us deal with the reality of life with a severely brain-damaged parent.

It was during this time that I stopped going to Church altogether.  If there was no Hell, no Truth, and a dispassionate God who abandoned us in our pain, then what was the point of worshiping Him?  There was a half-hearted token protest from my father, but I got the impression that he was more impressed by my independent thought and spirit than worried about my immortal soul.

I did not go to Church again until I became engaged to the Computer Guy.   He was a Lutheran boy, and wanted to be married in his family's church.  I enjoyed going on Sunday mornings more for the approval I got from his family than from any spiritual benefit.  My own family had completely disappeared, and though I wasn't an orphan I certainly felt like one.  Where once was a large family of grandparents, aunt and uncles, cousins, parents and siblings, I now had 4 people who lived far away and one of those was still a child.  I loved being a part of the Computer Guy's large loving family.  Every Sunday at breakfast, I would fight back tears of gratitude for what I had found.  I was ready to convert.

One Sunday, when I was pregnant with #1 and horribly ill with morning sickness, my husband slept in (exhausted from 2 jobs and being a full time student) and I went to the local Catholic Church.   I sat in the pew and sobbed as the familiar rituals washed over me.  This was home.  The longings of my childhood peeked out from the dark recesses of my brain.  I was certain that I could never become a Lutheran.

I continued on upon the confusing path I was walking and #1 was Baptized in the Lutheran Church despite my longing to be Catholic.  I thought it would be better for her to be raised in the faith of her family.  The Baptism itself was a bitter disappointment to me. Lutheran baptisms are so short.  I was unprepared for the lack of ceremony.  Where was the blessing of the parents?  Where was the candle representing the Light of Faith?  Where was the chrism?  The Tradition?  She was a Christian person, but it just didn't seem to be enough.

I told the Computer Guy that I couldn't raise a Lutheran.  I didn't know how, and I didn't want to learn.  He was as lukewarm in his faith as I was in mine, and he shrugged and told me it wasn't that important.  We started going to the Catholic Church.  I returned to the facade faith of my youth, completely comfortable and completely unchallenged.

Then #2 was born prematurely and I was awakened to my longing for God.  The importance of our Creator was plain before me in the tiny, sick boy in the hospital.  God had come looking for me.  I was the lost sheep. I became a Catholic Christian in more than name and practice, but in reality.  I was in love with my God and His Church.

It took the conversion of my younger brother away from the Church to open my eyes to how much I still didn't know.  He was in the army and stationed in Iraq when he started calling me with questions.  He had been talking to a Protestant minister who was making him look at what he believed.  His poor catechesis and weak faith foundation were no match for the pastor's knowledge.  He called me on the weekends disturbed by all he was learning and its contradictions to what he knew.  Could I defend it?  Did I have the explanations?  He was desperate for answers from me.  I had none to give him.  The watered down CCD of my childhood had left me ignorant.

I began studying furiously in an effort to give him the help he needed.  I could not.  By the time I had the knowledge, he no longer wanted the answers.  He had left the Church.  I had found it.  There was a beauty and a truth in the writings of long dead theologians which was wholly unexpected by me.  There was certainty, beauty, and tradition.  There was an entire family for me in the Communion of Saints.  There was God here, in the faith and in the Eucharist.  I was home again at last, and here I shall remain.

What's Cookin', Mama? (Recipe Swap)

 I'm tired of cooking and eating the same old stuff.  I'm sure you are, too.  Every Monday, let's get together and share our best cooking ideas.

Today's theme is LUNCH!  Post your recipe on your blog, link back here, and then add the link to your post on the Mr Linky below and link.  Happy Eating!

Fried Broccoli Baked Potatoes
One baked potato for each person. ( I throw mine in the oven at 350* 45 minutes before lunch.  If you forget, you can put them in the microwave.)
 Shredded cheddar cheese
Butter
olive oil
broccoli (fresh is best but frozen works, too)
garlic salt
onion powder

Rough chop broccoli into bite sized pieces.
 Heat olive oil in skillet.
Add broccoli, with garlic salt, and onion powder to taste.  Stir every few minutes until broccoli is browned and crispy on the ends.
Put butter and shredded cheese on potatoes, then add the broccoli.

Bon appetite!

What's Cookin', Mama?

I'm bored with cooking the same stuff every week.  I'll bet you are, too.  So let's swap recipes on Mondays.  Come back tomorrow with your best recipe and be ready to share.  Tomorrow's theme is:

LUNCH!

See you tomorrow.  I can't wait.

Purple Hair and Birthday Cake

I finally found the camera cord.  It was being used to tie Barbie to the train tracks so that Thomas the Tank Engine could make her talk.  It's that kind of household around here.

Here at last are pictures of the only birthday cake I've ever made that wasn't a disaster:

#4 begged for the pet name her siblings call her (Mei-Mei) instead of her real name to go on her cake.  It confirms my theory that you can call children anything you like, but they will ultimately name themselves.

Isn't the inside pretty?  It tasted good, too.  And just for fun, here's a picture of me with the purple hair.  The neighborhood kids have started begging their parents for the same look.  "But Mrs Frech has it...."  Hee-hee

Heroes and The Not-Really-So Evil After All

A funny thing happens when you sit down to write the story of your life up 'til now, you actually have to think about your life up 'til now.  You have to examine your own bad behavior, stare it square in the eye ball, and that of the people who impacted your life for the good and the bad.  It's amazing what happens when you add in the perspective of 20-something years, you gain a bit of insight.

The villains don't look so villain-y (is that a word?) any longer.  They look like women whose lives I never knew or understood.  My mean and bossy aunt who swooped into my life in a time of turmoil, reproached me for being emotional, and demanded maturity and work from a spoiled 14 year old (I hated her), I now realize was just the no-nonsense mother of a passel of boys.  Her life of farming, rodeo and football didn't prepare her for the emotional neediness of a frightened teenage girl.  Her life philosophy of "suck it up and move on" is one I now can relate to so well.  It makes me a little sorry that I spent all that time being offended and not even a little bit learning her tenacity.

The grandmother I thought had abandoned me, who advised me to drop out of school and "just take care of my men" was not evil, she was speaking from her own life.  She had stopped school halfway through the 3rd grade to work in the cotton fields because her family needed the additional income, it did not seem unreasonable to her for a girl-child to stop school in the 9th to keep house.  What did a diploma mean to someone who was just going to get married and have babies?  (No way!  I was going to be an Egyptologist.)

Then there was the hero.  I'll admit to taking her actions for granted at the time, of course there would be someone to save me;  I just never expected that she would be the one to do it.  Glamorous and fun, never married and with no children of her own, I was a bit in awe of my father's sister.  When we saw her on holidays and birthdays, she would swoop into our house of sensible brown as a splash of vibrant color accented with sparkling laughter.  Her presents were easy to spot on Christmas morning, covered in bows and glitter and done up with fantastic papers, they were a child's fantasy of how presents should always be.

When my life was at its bleakest, its scariest and most desperate, she took me in.  At the time, I never thought of the sacrifice it must have been.  She cleaned out her guest room and made space in her life for an angry, nasty 15 year old me.  Her friends must have advised her against it, and it must have been terribly hard, but she never showed it to me.  Instead, she taught me all she knew about life.  Important lessons about jewelry (big), hair (it's Texas, baby, tease it a bit higher there), stopping the mad rush of life for a mental health day, cheese dip makes a decent breakfast, walls should be a color, houses should be decorated deliberately not just happenstance, life should be fun, family should be fun, friends should be loyal and fun, and people should laugh.  I had forgotten how to laugh.  She reminded what it was to be a girl.

It's funny what 20 years perspective will do for you.  It smooths out the ruffled feathers which were a might bit too ruffled in the first place, and shines light on the quiet heroics that I wasn't mature enough to fully comprehend.  My only regret is that I didn't have 20 years worth of hindsight 20 years ago.

Vocal Chameleon

I have a hidden talent I haven't yet shared with you.  I don't quite know why.  I pick up accents.  That is, I assume them effortlessly in conversations to the never-ending amusement of my children.

The naughty kids who live in my house have invented a game called "Guess Who Mom's Talking To."  They listen as I talk on the phone and can usually tell, in less than one sentence, which of my friends is on the other end.  My natural Texas drawl with a little extra twang and it's Scottie in Virginia.  A little extra dose of Southern charm?  Savannah in Kentucky.  Is my Jersey girl showing?  I must be talking to Joanne. 

All parts of the country, all parts of the world.  Five minutes and I'm picking it up, and in 15 I'm sounding like a native.  It started as a survival technique which was necessary when I was a Navy brat on the move.  I soon discovered that sounding like the kids around me helped me to quickly become one of them.  I started consciously mimicking my classmates in the second grade and was doing it on instinct by high school.

If you ever meet me in person, give me bit of time and then see for yourself if I don't begin to sound like a little slice of down-home goodness.  If you don't think so?...At least my children will think it's funny.

Painiversary

A dancing girl who never danced
The laughing child who never laughed
Little girl loved, but never kissed
Flashing eyes which never sparkled
Tiny hands which never held mine
Perfect lips which didn't smile

Aching parents you did not see
Mourning siblings you never knew
A birthday of tragedy
Annual remembrance of pain

Pray for us, our daughter
Our sister
Our saint
Our Bernadette


Bernadette Marie Frech
died July 1, 2006  born July 6, 2006

I Always Wanted a Sister

My sister-in-law, nephew and niece are visiting us for the next week while my brother is away for work.  I'm thrilled to have them here. The kids are great and well-behaved, a joy to have in our
home...but my sister-in-law...I don't know how to explain how much I like having her here.

I still remember the first time I spoke with her on the phone.  My brother called from Germany to tell me that he had fallen in love, did I want to "meet" her?  Before I could say yes, I heard this deep laugh and then a definite Wisconsin accent.  I'll admit to being surprised that my sweet Texan brother had fallen for a Yankee gal.  Didn't he know that Yankees are for making fun of, not for marrying?  :)

The more she talked, the more I smiled.  I completely understood his attraction.  My brother is a lot like me, and his bride is the girl version of my own beloved Computer Guy.  Where we are loud and gregarious, our spouses are more quiet and reserved.  They are the cool to our hotness.  I knew she was a keeper even before he proposed.

Here we are a few years later and our familiarity has brought us to a place of easy give and take.  We have become family.  She knows where the skeletons are buried and how to tiptoe around them; when she speaks of her family's politics, I know all the players.

Sandwiched in between two brothers growing up, I dreamed of the day my parents would have another daughter so that I wouldn't be alone.  I prayed nightly for God to send me a sister, but He never did. Then, one day, I got a call from Germany, and somehow I knew, when I first heard that funny accent on the phone that here was a woman who was destined to be more to me than just the love of my brother's life, she was the sister I had been praying for so many years ago.

Thanks LarryD!

Thank you to the intrepid LarryD for helping me with the book I am forever working on writing.  His honesty and good advice have finally gotten me to a place where I can begin.  It's "not the beginning of the end, but the end of the beginning" maybe..I hope.  If you don't yet read Acts of the Apostasy, you should.  He's a great writer.  He's also a nice guy who has been roped into reading the frightening story of my life and how I came to be the purple haired Catholic mom of 6 that I am today. (What could be more boring than proofreading someone else's memoirs?)

Do me a favor and head on over there.  He probably won't notice the small bump in his numbers, but it's the thought that counts....right?

St Michael Warrior Award

Thank you to Joe from Defend Us In Battle  for awarding me the St Michael Warrior Award for Defense of the Faith "FOR EXCEPTIONALLY VALOROUS ACTION IN THE FACE OF OVERWHELMING ODDS AND DIRECT HOSTILE AGGRESSIONS."  Head on over there and read his entire proclamation, it's pretty cool.

 I am so truly humbled by this recognition from a blogger for whom I have such great respect.  Too often, we feel as if we are fighting our battles alone.  It is nice for someone else to speak up and say "good job" and "I'm on the same side."  Thanks, Joe.  Last week was immeasurably difficult, and you made it a bit easier.

Our Lives, Our Fortunes, and Our Sacred Honor

Happy Independence Day to all my American readers!  How long has it been since you read the Declaration of Independence?  High school?  College?  Have you ever read the whole thing all the way through?  Take a moment now and read it all, this statement which changed the world.  

I am forever in awe over the words of Jefferson fueled by the energy and tenacity of Adams.

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness. — That to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed, — That whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new Government, laying its foundation on such principles and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their Safety and Happiness.

Go read the rest.  May God continue to bless America.

Peace Through Pork

This afternoon was dedicated to potato salad, hot German potato salad.  I love it, and could easily eat the entire bowlful myself.  For this reason, I only make it when I'm taking it somewhere else. It's one of those delightful recipes  which begin "brown a pound of bacon."  How can anything be bad which begins with a whole pound of bacon?

When the bacon perfume wafted from the kitchen to the rest of the house, #2 came wandering in looking for food and an audience.  He eyed the plate of meat, swiped a strip and then sat down to discuss politics and religion.

"#1 told me that Jewish people can't eat bacon," he began.

"That's right."

"She said that Muslims don't eat it either."

"Yup."

"Is that why they fight all the time?"

I stopped for a moment and looked at him.  "Is bacon the reason they fight?"

"Yeah, you know.  They don't like each other anyway, so neither one wants to go first, but you know that bacon smells good.  They've got to want to try it, but they don't want to look weak.  Maybe they're just angry that the other guy is holding out so long."

I laughed at his 10 year old logic. "I think it's more complicated than that.  It has to do with ethnicity and religion as well as deep-seated hatred."

"So we should just pray for them?  We should pray for their conversion.  If they were all Catholic then they wouldn't have to fight each other and they would get to go to Heaven."

I assured him that he was correct, only God could fix the mess in the Middle East.

"I think we should still try the bacon, though.  Just think how happy they'd be to have something to go with their eggs and toast.  They could lay down their guns and pick up their forks.  Peace Through Pork.  Imagine that."

 

Hot Potato Salad
      Ingredients:
    * 6 Potatoes;Med,Boiled In Skins
    * 1/2 lb Bacon; Slices
    * 1/2 c Onion; Chopped
    *  2 TBSP  Unbleached Flour
    * 2 t Sugar
    * 1 1/2 t Salt
    * 1/2 t Celery Seeds
    * 1/2 t Pepper
    * 3/4 c ;Water
    * 5 TBSP Vinegar

      Instructions:
 Peel potatoes and cut into small chunks.

  Brown bacon slowly in a frypan, then drain on paper towels.

Saute onion in bacon fat until golden brown. Blend in flour,sugar, salt, celery seeds, and pepper.

Cook over low heat, stirring until smooth and bubbly. Remove from
heat.

Stir in water and vinegar.

Heat to boiling, stirring constantly. Boil for 1 minute.

Carefully stir in the potatoes and crumbled bacon bits. Remove from
heat, cover and let stand until ready to serve.  Better after a night in the refrigerator.

Amputation

Politics seem to be appropriate for 4th of July weekend.

From New Zeal:

"You know what my biggest fear is?" our host asked. "It's not really Obama, for what he's done is to accelerate what the liberals have been slowly doing for decades - so quickly that their socialism is obvious to everyone. Which means the solution is obvious to everyone. My biggest fear is that voters will give Republicans the power to repair America on November 2nd - and the Republicans won't have the courage to do it."

All I could respond with was "Ouch," to shake my head and sigh. I mentioned an email I just got from a friend of many years in Las Vegas. He's a very successful banker and businessman who knows everyone in Republican politics in Nevada - and I had asked his opinion of how Sharron Angle might possibly beat Harry Reid. The reply I got back shocked me. He will do nothing to help her, he said, as she is too "extreme."

Why is she considered extreme? our host asked, not on intimate terms with Nevada primary elections. Because she wants a government restricted to constitutional activities, I replied, which means, for example, eliminating such things as the Department of Education and the Environmental Protection Agency.

Our host leaned over the table to look at me as if his eyes were lasers. "Jack, you need to explain something to your friend. You need to explain something to America and all those Congressmen you know. Amputate or die. That's the choice America has right now. That's the choice Republicans will have after November 2nd, because they're the only surgeons around who can do the surgery." 

Everyone was quiet so he continued. "Gangrene will kill you. If you don't amputate a finger or other limb that's gangrenous, it will spread bacterially [viaClostridium perfringens], and you will die. Look at these unconstitutional growths of government on the body public as gangrenous infections that have to be amputated for the body to continue living."

Head over and read the whole thing and spend some time reading the blog.

There's an Irony There

Earlier this week, I screwed my courage to the sticking place and went down to the school district to enroll #3 in the public school.  I had such anxiety over the perception that these government employees would have about our parenting decisions, specifically our choice to homeschool and our objections to certain vaccines.

My fears were confirmed when the chipper woman on the other side of the enrollment counter asked, "Did you bring his transcript from his other school and his shot record?"  I gulped and handed over the documentation I had.

"Honey, I need his whole shot record." She told me. "You're missing some on this form."

I smiled my best I'm-really-not-a-lunatic smile and said, "No, that's it.  We don't do some of them."

She rolled her eyes, suddenly exasperated, and handed me a conscientious objector form.  It's the nature of bureaucracy, if you're going to dare to be different, you have to be prepared to explain yourself.  I thanked her and took the form, along with the stack of enrollment paperwork, and went across the room and sat down.

"I love when the homeschoolers come in here." She said in a mock whisper to her co-worker.  "We get to see the look on their faces as they discover that teaching kids is hard and you have to be smarter than they thought."

I briefly considered explaining to her the physics of sound waves and how they carry across an empty space before rejecting it as argumentative and utterly futile.  "I hate public schools.  I hate public schools.  I hate..." repeated in my brain. I calmed myself down and re-focused on the task at hand, the conscientious objector form.

With jokes about my lack of intelligence still carrying across the open space, I set about answering the question of why my child hadn't gotten the chicken pox vaccine.  It didn't help that I had a space one line long.  How do I reduce my faith, politics and health philosophies into one line?  I finally settled on "The varicella vaccine is cultured in fetal tissue.  As Catholics, we can not materially cooperate in any way with the intentional destruction of human life."

I handed the forms to the smirking women behind the desk and walked next door to the Special Education office.  The woman behind that desk was expecting me and was much kinder and more empathetic to my fragile emotional state.  I told her of the insulting behavior of the enrollment office, and she was truly embarrassed by what she heard.  She apologized repeatedly for them and commended my efforts at educating a special needs child up to this point.

It was then that the loud-mouth from next door came in waving the objector form.  "You need to re-write this," she demanded, "I don't understand what you've written here."

I scanned the document and then wrote on the margin, "The chicken pox vaccine is grown in the tissue of aborted babies.  I can't play a part in the murder of innocent children." and handed it back.

"I hope that's better." I told her and then turned back to the special ed woman who was laughing.

"I see." She said, as the other woman left the room. "You're not smart enough to teach your children, but she's not smart enough to understand a simple sentence which you wrote.  And she called you dumb?  I think there's an irony there."

I smiled back at her. With this woman running things, at least I have some hope for the Special Ed department.