Warthog Face Singing.....Why I SIng Out Loud and Don't Worry About It

I love to sing...... Love. It. 

I'm not really all that great at it. In fact, I'm pretty bad.  It's a fact I'm pretty comfortable with by now.  I've been told it's bad by several well-respected people in my life.  When I was in the 7th grade choir, the director pulled me aside one afternoon and suggested that I might want to join the band. 

"I'm that bad?" I asked.

"You sing like a dying frog." He answered.  We struck a deal.  I could stay in the choir class and fill out the group in concerts if I would only promise to not sing out loud.  I was a "mouth singer" only.  I shrugged my shoulders and didn't care.  I got to stay in the choir with my friends and I got an 'A' because I never sang in class again.

By the time I went to Catholic school in the 10th grade, I was lip syncing my way through Mass.  I had seen the cringe of those around me on Sunday mornings, and I wasn't risking my high school coolness by screeching my way through the hymns I loved.

One day, Sr Agnes Marie (old hook-nose herself) pulled me aside after Mass.  I was a nice girl and knew the Mass.  I actually prayed which was more than many of my classmates would do.  Why wouldn't I sing?  I told her simply that I sound like a dying frog when I sing.  I'm not sure what happens to my normal speaking voice once it is set to music, but it's not pretty.

She raised her eyebrows and tried not to laugh.  (She was a full-habit to the floor wearing nun, so no funny business there.)  "People with beautiful voices should sing out loud," she told me. "but you should sing louder.  If you offend the ear of God enough, He might take mercy on us all and change it for you. He is merciful after all.  If God, who is the author of all Creation, can see beauty in the face of a warthog, surely He can find the loveliness in the effort that you make."

So that's why I sing out loud at Mass and don't care one whit who can hear me.  I realized long ago that there are people in this world whose voices show the beauty and wonder of our God.  They sing and the angels sing with them.  Then there's me, the warthog face singer.  I sing and all of creation marvels at his benevolence.  He hasn't struck me mute yet.  He truly is a kind and tolerant God, and you can hear it when I sing.

Hey Nod!

We have a baby gift for you!  LarryD and I organized an awesome virtual baby shower, and I have real gifts to mail to you.  Would you mind emailing me your address?  I promise not to reveal either it or your real name.

Are you a blogger who wasn't in on the shower but want to be?  You still have time!  Mrs Nod is only 35 weeks along so you can just get it in under the wire.  Send me an email and I let you know what to do.

shovedtothem@yahoo.com

Direction

The Computer Guy and I just spent 3 days in the Dallas area.  We were looking at houses, scoping out towns, and leisurely discussing where we want to live and what that life should look like.

One of us wants to be close to shopping and convenience.  That one of us likes people and busyness and sees life as a grand adventure to be met head on with a smile.

The other of us wants a calm and quiet life in a small town.  That half envisions quiet Sundays and easy routine as essential to daily living.

We found two areas that satisfy us.  One liking one and the other the other.  It was alright with us because we each liked the other's choice as well.

We looked at houses and dreamed about the one that would be our home.  We both are agreed that we hope this will be our last move.  At the top of our wish lists is a place for growing roots.  We stood in living rooms and debated whether or not they would comfortably be able to hold our hordes of grandchildren.  We looked at master bedrooms and discussed how easy it would be for us to walk to the kitchen from there once we were elderly.  We stood on front porches and tried to figure out if this porch felt as if it could belong to us.

We didn't find the house this weekend, but we figured out that we agreed on what it would look like: lots of bedrooms, a backyard for playing, quirky architecture, a nice view from the master bedroom window, a space for just the two of us to curl up and watch the world go by, and another to host parties and cram the house with guests.

This weekend was a fun one, and a prelude to all the crazy work that lies ahead.  It brought home to us the fact that while we may not see eye to eye on all the details, we're both looking in the same direction.

Huh...Who Knew?

I've been working furiously on staging the house these last few weeks.  The first 2 were spent solely on cleaning out the clutter, taking things to Goodwill, and packing up the things we don't need right now.  I'm now doing the polishing, the tiny little things that I never think to do but make such a huge difference in the way a house looks.

I've never been a great housekeeper, and I've never made any effort to hide that fact.  I do enough to keep the house livable, but I don't really have the skills and knowledge necessary to do truly deep cleaning.  My mom was never really a great housekeeper either.  She was more concerned with getting a college degree and raising her children than with scrubbing the kitchen floors.  The thing is, because I was raised thinking that a certain level of chaos was normal, I don't even see it.

Thank God for the Computer Guy's Aunt K. His aunt lives a few miles from our house and is a great cleaner.  She's also a creative problem solver and a touch (or more) OCD.  She finds things to clean that I never even knew could be done.

She's been helping me with the polishing and finishing for the last week.  The things she's got me doing are so foreign to me and so brilliant that I just had to share them.

• The carpet that was brand new when we moved in 2 1/2 years ago has gotten smashed down in the high traffic areas.  I looks ancient!  She told me to get a dog brush, the wire kind they make for shedding dogs, and brush the carpet from every direction to lift the fibers.  It worked!  Even the worst spot (the stairs!) looks like brand new carpet.  That'll save us a bit of money.
• We have aluminum framed windows throughout the house.  It was built in the early 70s and they were all the rage back then.  They just look like one more thing to replace now.  She took one look at the old windows and told me to take fine grade steel wool to the frames and polish them up.  Yup!  They look shiny and new, too.
• The stained shower floor that has been the despair of my housekeeping attempts in the past were easily dealt with by a paste of baking soda and peroxide.  I let it sit on the floor of the shower for several hours and then wiped it off.  Even the stubborn spots came up with a bit of that fine grade steel wool.
• Once the showers were clean, I sprayed a bit of furniture polish on the floors and polished them up.  The dirt and soap scum should just slide right down the drain.  Woo-hoo!
• The water spots and hard water deposits on the faucets dissolved with straight vinegar.
• The artistic attempts of my children on the walls weren't really to my taste, so Dawn detergent and warm water were used to remove their crayon renderings.
• I cleaned the inside of our furnaces and scrubbed to outsides.
• There's this magic stuff called Restore-It that I think may be my favorite discovery.  Aunt K told me that I really needed it and I'm trusting her a lot these days.  Rub it on the woodwork in the house and it looks as if the house itself is new.  It's all been refinished with a minimum of effort, just a bit of time.

If you've been wondering what I've been doing, there you go.  I've been learning to clean, scrub and polish and do all of the things I should have learned years ago.  (Except that dog brush thing, that's pretty weird.)  Thank you, Aunt K, for being brutally honest about the dirt and the grime and for the willingness to teach me what to do about it.

I Made It!

After weeks of missing Mass for one sick child or another, I finally got to go this morning.  The soothing calm of the Presence of Christ settled into my soul. Oh, how I have missed Him.

When I was a teenager, my parents threatened and bribed me just to get me through the door of the church, but I would let my mind wander onto important things like my boyfriend, how I could tease my bangs a little higher, or how much I hated being there.  They could get my body into the pew, but there was nothing they could do to entice my mind.

What a difference 21 years can make.  For the last 5 weeks, there was nothing I could do to get my body to the pew, but my mind went there as often as it could.   

I wish I could go back and reassure the parents who worried and the grandmother whose warning became the title of this blog.  Their hand-wringing was unnecessary, but their prayers paid off.

Could You Think Before You Speak? Thanks. ***Updated***

We made an emergency room run this morning, #3 and I.  He has a stomach ache which has lasted 24 hours and has not gotten better.  In a regular kid, I'd put him to bed and bring him toast and chicken soup.  He's not a regular kid. He eats things that aren't food.  Stomach aches are serious business, because not food stuff in your intestine could kill you.

When we got to the hospital, the waiting room had only one person sitting in the chairs.  She obviously had to flu, so I sat him as far from her as possible.  When I filled out the "What's wrong with you?" form, I wrote "belly pain with a history of ingesting non-food items."  That should be clear.

It must not be.  The male 30-something nurse who took us back for triage said "What do you mean by non-food items.  What does he eat?"

I smiled in that don't-judge-me-I'm-really-a-good-mom way, sighed and said, "In the past he's eaten rocks, sticks, Legos, Barbie shoes, ball bearings..you name it."

His eyes lit up and he leaned a little closer to me.  As my 9 year old sat next to me, the nurse said. "Have you seen that show Addicts? It's all about how people get addicted to eating weird stuff."

I silently pleaded with him to shut up and explained that we don't have cable.

"Oh...that's too bad.  There was this guy last night who was really messed up.  He ate his sofa cushions.  What a freak."  He said in front of my son who once chewed the leather upholstery off a chair.  "Those people are crazy.  They'll eat anything.  Nut jobs."

My son turned a worried gaze in my direction as I patted his hand.  "It'll be okay." I told him.  "I love you."


We left the emergency room this morning without seeing anyone.  His stomach was feeling a bit better after we sat for 3 hours in the waiting room chairs.  (I would think a possible perforation would be an emergency....It seems that I'm wrong.)  He's in bed sipping broth and I'm writing an angry letter to the Director of Nursing.   #3 may not have learned a lot in school last semester, but by golly I've learned to write a letter.  (I just wish I had the nerve to say it to the jerk's face.)


I am mystified by people.  I get that what my son does is strange and that the medical staff will talk about it.It's interesting to people, especially those in the medical profession.  Heck, I would talk about it if he weren't my beloved child.  I would just hope that I would have the sense to not discuss it in front of him, to remember that he is a human being, and to see the impact I was having on the person with those big scared eyes.



***Edited to add: I read this to my son who nodded his head and said, "Yeah, Mom, that  guy was a jerk....but can you tell the blog people that I don't chew stuff any more?  I go to vision therapy.  I don't eat things now."

So, blog people, #3 no longer eats non-food things.  He just has a crazy mother who can't let go of the past.  :)

Hip Hip Hooray!

Earlier this evening, I was minding my own business when an email popped up from the intrepid LarryD letting me know that I had been nominated for 4 Blogger's Choice Awards!  4!!!!!!   Can you believe it? Me either.  The weird thing is that it says I nominated myself when I didn't.  I'm not above that kind of thing.  I nominated myself in the Catholic Cannonball award thing last year and look how well that turned out. (I won.  Didja hear?  Me.  Won.  Just sayin'.)  But this time wasn't me.  If it was you..thank you.  You made my night. 

Wanna make it again?  Go vote.  Please?  Just think how fast the house will sell with 4 imaginary Blogger Choice trophies on the mantel.   That'll impress a buyer or two.

I'll even make it easy for you.  Here are the links straight to me in each category.   Oh,  and don't listen to LarryD about the Best Religion one.  He thinks he has that one in the bag, but you and I know the truth.  (Fr Z has it in the bag.)

You do have to register, but it's free and they don't spam you.  Here ya go:








Thanks you mystery nominator person...people...whoever you are...

Hey, Who Are You Anyway?

I've been reading all over the internet that last week was National De-Lurking Week.  Somehow I missed it, but I've never been a girl to pass up a good thing.

So who are you?  Some of you comment often, some of you never say anything.  Here's your chance!  Will you introduce yourself, please? And feel free to ask me anything you've been wondering about or that's been lurking in the back of your mind.  (No guarantees that I'll answer, but you never know.)

Crying for Dad

There was a time in his life when #6 paid no attention to whether or not his father was in the room.  He was focused only on his own physical needs and they all came from me.  Dad was a guy who held him and helped him out, but life was all about mom.  Then he stopped nursing, his focus turned outward, and he discovered the wonder of Dad.


My sweet husband now has to sneak out of the house in the morning when he leaves for work.  At 18 months, our boy loves his father with the whole of his being and begins to tear up as soon as the Computer Guy sits down with his socks and shoes.  His lip quivers when his dad picks up his laptop, and he begins to wail when the front door opens.  He misses his dad even before he leaves the house.

#6 spends the day playing, napping, and looking for his father.  The sound of the front door opening brings forth squeals of delight because it might be Dad.

Most days, I smile at the love my son has for his father.  His pain is a good sign that they are well and truly bonded.  It is a indication of the love his father has for him.



I feel his pain.  It was been weeks since I have been able to go to Mass.  I've been sick or one or more of the children have been sick since the 2nd week of Advent.  They don't get sick early enough on Saturday to allow me to head over to the Vigil Mass, and the rest of the family returns home too late for me to make it to Mass alone.  It has been weeks since I have sat in church, and I miss my Father.

This weekend, it looked as if  I would be able to go with my family, but a late night emergency room visit with our 6 year old knocked the hope of Mass right out of me.  While I worried for her (and she's better now), I thought wearily of the fact that I would miss Mass again.  It's the Feast of the Baptism and I haven't been in a church since the second week of Advent.  Even my attempts at daily Mass have been interrupted by suddenly vomiting or feverish children.

For a reason known only to Him, God seems to have decided that this moment of my life is to be spent in service to my family and aching for Him. Thanks to my son, I recognize the ache for what it really is.  It is a sign of my love for Him, a reminder that we are truly bonded and the merest indication of His love for me.

Rejoice with Me! *(Now with a picture!)

For the 9 1/2 years I've been privileged to be friends with the Woman withe White Minivan, she has struggled and fought against her infertility.  Two years ago, she finally seemed to make peace with it.  Then God surprised us all when she discovered that she was miraculously pregnant last year.

This morning, he arrived!  My little godson!  I have welled up with tears of gratitude all day.  He is here!  I don't have a picture yet, but if he looks like either of his parents then he's a beauty.

She thanked me last week for helping her to carry this cross all these years. ( I guess that makes me her own little Simon of Cyrene.)  "You've been there for all of it, even the ugly parts." She told me.  "As much as you've prayed for him, ached with me, and rejoiced?  He's your baby,too."  Oh my dear friend....he's yours and the Air Force Guy's little miracle.  I'm honored just to get to share in the joy.

Stats?  Baby N  weighed in at a whopping 9 lbs 12 oz and is 21.5 inches long!  He's huge!  I'm giddy!  I can't wait to hold that big ol' boy in my arms and sniff the baby head!

Praise God for the happiness and the joy unconfined!

What It's Like to Talk to the School District

Oh my goodness, this makes me laugh because it's so true!  Sad.......but true.

The Priests We Knew

When I was a girl, we knew our priests.  They were so much more than" that guy up at the altar."  They were our family friends who came for dinner, debated politics, discussed literature, told jokes, laughed, lived.  We were members of small military parishes and the small congregations meant that our priests were well known to us all.


Fr L was the first priest I can readily remember.  He was a constant fixture in our young lives and a beloved uncle figure.  His was the trusted voice of my first Confession.  The church was under construction and we were moving before my class received the sacraments, so he heard my Confession in my brother's empty room amidst the packing boxes.  My first Communion was in our living room where he said Mass for us and our Protestant neighbors.

Fr P spent every Christmas for 4 years with our family.  Santa Claus always came while we were at Midnight Mass, so we opened presents in the middle of the night, had breakfast around 2 and then went to bed.  Fr P would spend that whole late night with us.  He watched as we opened presents, ate the giant cinnamon rolls that were a family tradition, helped my little brother climb onto his first bike, and eventually had a stocking of his own by the fireplace.

I can't remember a time in my childhood where priests were not frequent lunch or dinner guests, where we didn't know them on a personal level, or where they were not a joy in our lives. It is telling that both of my brothers mentioned the priesthood as possible vocations when they were younger.  While neither actually when down that path, it says something that both considered it to be a viable option.

Where is this today?  The Catholic boys of my sons' generation are coming of age in parishes which are so large as to make a relationship with the priest extremely unlikely.  It is a part of the vicious cycle of a lack of vocations and the wariness on the part of priests brought about by the sex abuse crisis.   When my sons talk about what they want to be when they grow up, they will sometimes mention "priest" (except for the one who always does), but when they play there is a confusion as to what a priest actually does when he's done saying Mass.

We are fortunate in that we get to see our priest socially from time to time, but not often. My sons know that he is a fun guy, but they never get the opportunity to just talk to him.  They never have the chance to ask "What do you do when you aren't doing this?"  It's a shame.  How many potential vocations are lost through lack of contact?  I wonder....

It's not the fault of our priests. They are overwhelmed with the volume of work and responsibilities which rest upon their shoulders.  They don't have the time and neither did most priests when I was young.  We were fortunate in our little parish that we had a priest with time on his hands.  I wish that  I knew where to find that for my children and especially my sons.

I want the priesthood to be a viable option for them.  I want them, when they think of it, to be able to picture themselves living that life...because they know what it looks like.

Being the Girl

My 11 year old son (#2) and 6 year old daughter (#4) were playing the Wii yesterday when the inevitable fight broke out.

"But why do you get to be the girl?  There's only one girl and a bajillion boys.  Be one of them." My sweet daughter whined for the thousandth time at her brother.

"I was playing first.  I already picked a character.  Pick someone else." Her adoring brother sneered.

"But you're always the girls." #4 replied.  "I'm tired of having to be the yucky boys.  You are one, so be one."

I'd had enough of bickering, video games, and Christmas vacation when I called him up into the kitchen to figure out what the heck was going on.

"What's the deal?" I asked him. "Are you just torturing your sister, or do you actually want to be the girl?"

"I was that character first.  I want to be the girl."

I took a deep breath and let it out.  Where did we go from here?  Why would my son want to be the girl?  I have brothers, you couldn't have paid them money to be the girl.

"You want to be the girl?" I asked again.

"Well, no." He answered me.  "I'd rather be a guy, but I want to win.  The only character that can win this game is the girl.  The only characters that can easily win most of my games are the girls.  I don't want to be the girl, but I don't really have a choice."


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

I've spent the last day or so thinking about this conversation.  My son is right.  The guys are wimps.  If you want to win, you have to be the girl.

When I was a young girl in the 1970s, there were no strong girl characters other than Wonder Woman, and even her stuff was girly....magic bracelets?  Please. (I know about Charlie's Angels.  I just wasn't allowed to watch it then, and it was a pretty transformative show as far as gender roles went.) As I got older and we moved into the 80s, there was a shift in our culture.  We moved away from the doe-eyed helpless girl and onto the empowered I-can-take-care-of-myself woman.  It was a welcome change and girls everywhere were shown that they could be strong, courageous, and brave.

When our eldest child was born in the mid-90s, I had only a fleeting thought of the kind of role models I would like to find for her and was pleased to see that strong independent women seemed to be all around us.  When our son was born 3 years later, it never even occurred to me that his role models were the ones I'd have to search to find.

Where are the heroes?  Where are the strong, smart, capable men?  The guys on television are crass, rude, and very often too dumb to actually be married to their TV spouses.  The dad on any sitcom is an idiot and his poor wife and children are made to put up with his bumbling buffoonery.  The movies are no better.  The male characters start off looking strong, but have to be rescued by the girls they pick up along the way.  Even the books he reads perpetuate this smart girl/dumb guy stereotype.  The boys may be the main character, but his female sidekick is the brains and cleverness of the whole operation.  We often are left with the impression that without the girls, the boys would fail, but without the boys.....the girl would figure it out.

Are these really the type of men that we want to raise in this society?  Why do we want boys who are as clingy, helpless and doe-eyed as girls supposedly once were?  Who benefits from the feminization and wussification of modern boys?  It's not us.

There were many good things which came from "liberating" women.  I'm happy that women can roar.  I just don't understand why having roaring women means that our boys have to be scared lambs.  Why is it that the only way my son can win is to be the girl?