The annual Lenten crash and burn

Well, well, well.

We all saw this one coming. At least I presume most of you fine people did, along with my husband and my entire extended family (we're close knit like that).

Bottom line: committing to a radical total-life overhaul is the number one recommended way to screw up New Years... and Lent. And to do it while pregnant? Even better! That way there's plenty of hormonal support for those lofty goals, fueled by prenatal appointments and late-night Pinterest binge sessions on Paleo meal planning and having "the best pregnancy ever."

I lack self knowledge. Let no one question that.

I also lack humility, apparently, and what better way to remedy that than to admit crushing defeat 9 days into 47?

So the Lenten Whole 40. Um, no. It's not going ... well. We're eating decent, low carb dinners and staying away from sugars and dessert, but other than that, I have utterly failed. First it was the occasional spoonful of crunchy peanut butter to supplement that morning banana. Then it was the occasional glass of whole milk "for the baby." And the only thing less impressive than no finishing this stupid endeavor would be to fail to cop to it here. So, my name's Jenny, and I failed my Lenten sacrifices.

At least, I failed at the ones I picked for myself.

Oh my gosh, it's so predictable and it's so stupid, but it's kind of the same way I feel when I go back to Confession time and time again for the same exact sins, the same exact issues.

I can't do it on my own. 

And when I fail to take His plans into account, I fail. Every time.

Oddly enough, the little penances He chose on my behalf, the sleepless nights with sick kids (again! Again with the ear infections! A pox on this winter!), the teeth-gritting Mommy and Me decade of the Rosary in the mornings, the endlessly pleasant soundtrack of an almost-three-year-old's chronic whining...well those sacrifices are going great.

Seriously, I haven't missed a day yet.

And yesterday I even had the opportunity to re-mop a delicately steam-cleaned kitchen floor when a sweet little somebody barfed up her antibiotics over the side of her high chair.

I'm so lucky.

I mean that. Because look, if I had been relying entirely on my great ideas and lofty goals for self improvement, this Lenten season would already be DOA. And it is. My Lent is dead in the water.

But the one He had in mind for me? It's in full swing.

More time spent in prayer, because I'm drowning and I need His grace to make it till bedtime.

Healthier meals and wiser choices in the grocery store. Because my sane and stable husband is doing marvelously well in his efforts to eat clean. And I'm in charge of the meal planning round here.

Growth in the virtue of patience. Because 4, 3, 1, and 16 weeks in utero. And all very needy. (Though all the small one wants is Cool Ranch Doritos, truth be told. Bad baby.)

Tons of opportunity to grow in humility. Literally, tons. Because my pants don't fit now that, once again, the beautiful soul-stretching work of bringing a new body into the world is destroying mine in the process.

Hello, Lent which was meant for me. It's nice to make your acquaintance. Sorry I'm a week and a half late, it's just that I haven't bothered to look up from my plans until now. But I'm chastened and deflated and feeling much more teachable.

And I promise I'm going to try really, really hard and take my own advice in future years and just accept the Lent that has been handily laid before me, custom crafted for my own particular vices and weaknesses, and not try to concoct one on my own that is so lofty, so fantastically challenging that I've literally no hope of seeing it through.

I'm listening now. And, yeah, I'm eating cheese.

Sometimes it looks like this

Today was one of the best days we've had at home in a while, for me and the kids. The long-awaited pajama day at preschool was trumped by a snow day, and all three little people spiked fevers sometime after breakfast. No fewer than 7 (seven. SE-VEN) hours of cartoons were consumed by a certain someone with a 103 temperature and an abiding love for the Octonauts, and I was only dressed in real clothes for about an hour, during a brief foray to the doctor's office and the grocery store.

And it was, truly, one of the best days in recent memory.

I didn't yell, I didn't cry, and I didn't stress over what I was or wasn't getting done. The kids were so needy, and I, for once, was so acutely aware of their littleness and their neediness that I just threw up my hands and settled onto the floor in my yoga pants to soothe, cuddle, and read aloud.

Sure, a few loads of laundry got washed, but nothing notable was checked off my endless to-do list. For once I could clearly see their needs, and somehow, there was the grace to meet them.

I wonder if it's always there?

I suspect it is.

I read a piece on a better blog than this one a while back, and one bit of wisdom in particular stuck with me: when your kids are sick, stop what you're doing and take care of them. Don't ask me why that's rocket science to me (seriously, please don't), but it hit me right in the gut.

I do so much in spite of my kids, stepping around them and over them and looking past them - or at least looking past whatever trying developmental stage we might be stagnating in currently - that I've lost countless opportunities to train flabby mommy muscles and hone parental prowess by meeting reality head on. I grit my teeth and get through it, whatever "it" happens to be: pink eye, potty training disasters, sleeplessness, etc.

And I drag them with me.

Today felt different, though. Today, maybe because it's Lent, or because I prayed first thing like I always should but never actually do, or because school was cancelled and my agenda was derailed, I just met them where they needed me, extending my arms and letting them climb all over my slowly shrinking lap and reading Little House on the Prairie until my voice got scratchy. (And yes, hours and hours of Netflix, too.)

I didn't try to escape it, not in the virtual sense or the literal sense. I didn't load them up and force the planned Costco run. And, miracle of miracles, I didn't send a single electronic smoke signal to my homebound husband on the evening commute. I just accepted the day as it unfolded, and for once I played the role of competent, caring adult for a solid 10 hours.

Maybe I'm not giving myself enough credit, but it certainly didn't feel very familiar. I think I spend more time than is polite to admit attempting to escape from this particular season in life, whether it be through exercise or constant, low-grade panic-cleaning or the endless busyness of saying yes to yet another little project or another small commitment, giving away little pieces of myself bit by bit until there's nothing but scraps left for the children.

For my children.

This isn't some kind of self castigating tell all about the terrible state of my motherhood. I'm not a bad mom, and I know that. But I am a highly distracted mom, most of the time. And an overworked mom, exhausted by my own free will more often than not.

My choices and my standards are what keep me there, though. It's not really the kids, most of the time. It's me. My expectations, my plans, my agenda...and my failure to put first things first, vocationally speaking.

I'm not saying mom shouldn't make it to the gym every other night. God knows I need that precious time on the Stairmaster with HGTV blasting through my earbuds. And there's nothing wrong with keeping a clean, clutter-free house that brings peace and life to your family. But there is something wrong, something out of place, when the kids and the marriage and the vocation you chose, of your own free will, become not the means to your sanctification but the burden that tugs at the edges of your sanity.

I am there too often, and I can see where a long string of days and months and years in such a place could lead.

Thank God, then, for little graces wrapped in feverish bunches of damp pajama bottoms and snot-streaked faces. For the bloodless surrender to a day spent reading stories and filling juice cups and vacuuming around clumps of kleenex. He knew just what I needed today - what we all needed.

For mommy to be around, in the fullest sense.

A Love Stronger Than Death

Have you heard of the Coakley family? Maybe you read something on social media over the past month about their story, about the sudden diagnosis of aggressive testicular cancer, just before Christmas. About the beautiful back story involving infertility, miscarriage, and then finally, joy of joys, adoption and conception. 

Maybe you clicked on a picture of Paul, grinning magnetically in a bright pink shirt, and followed the link to one of dozens of blog posts popping up all over social media, extolling his otherworldly thirst for adventure and his outrageous sense of humor.

Maybe you checked Facebook dozens of times each hour, one cold week late in January, holding a kind of cyber vigil over the span of a couple days, your heart seizing with an indescribable ache when you happened upon the picture of Paul and Ann holding hands as he labored for breath in his hospital bed, hers clad in latex to protect their unborn baby from the chemo drugs poisoning his system in a heroic effort to halt the terrible march of cancer through his ravaged body, now his lungs, his brain.

Maybe your babies woke you up all night the day before he went to the Father's house, forcing you to count your blessings and hold them, quieting their whimpers and offering midnight prayers for a family you never met, a couple whose love story inspired you and terrified you by turns.

And perhaps that next morning you read Ann's updates with a lump in your throat and real tears trickling down your face as she announced bravely that her beloved had raised his arms (after 12 unresponsive hours of suffering) and gone to meet his Savior. And then maybe your 4-year-old scrambled into your lap and asked what was wrong, and then cracked the dam of sorrow open wide with his innocent, joyful observation that "Heaven has a new saint, Mr. Paul is with Jesus now!"

Such sweet sorrow, this family's story. And it's the story of a wider community rallying around his widow and their 4 precious children, one still in the womb. 

The week following his death has to be one of Franciscan University of Steubenville's finest, as alumi and students from decades past and present rallied around this grieving family, offering support, prayers, food, money, and finally, literally lowering Paul's coffin into his grave with their bare hands, the bonds of Brotherhood evident in an indescribable and unforgettable photo.

Photo credit, Jason Pohlmeier

We live in a culture both saturated with and utterly terrified of death. It isn't understood, it isn't revered, and it certainly isn't discussed. 

These past few weeks the Coakleys showed us in an unforgettable way that this life is but the beginning, and that the point of our time here on earth is to love fiercely, to live bravely, and to seek His will above all else. Thank you, Paul and Ann, for your living tutelage of what it means to "do" marriage. You have offered us a glimpse of heaven, of the Father's heart, and of what it means to be Christian.

For ways to support the Coakley family, and to meet Annie and the children, visit LoveLikePaul.com. 

Paul Coakley, pray for us.

An Advent to Remember

This year has been...whew. I mean for us, personally, it's been filled with ups and downs, suffering and joy, but nothing major as far as hard things go. But for this weary world of ours, I just feel such a heaviness. It seems like every time I open Facebook it's a constant stream of tragedy, and each news cycle brings with it fresh anxiety and mounting dread.

For the past four years my job as editor of on online news aggregator meant that I spent hours each day coming the www for stories touching on life issues and bioethics. It was, I'd estimate, 90% negative. Taking in that kind of horror daily wears on a person. And while I'm thrilled to share with you guys that I'm stepping into an exciting new role (details to come soon. Promise.) I'm definitely still feeling the weight of all the awfulness I've waded through, especially this last year.

And I realized something else today, too; I've gotten pretty good (scary good, really) at forgetting something terrible 14.5 seconds after I've clicked the link/read the story/sent the donation. It's almost a sort of disassociation that I've developed, probably to protect my finite human brain (and heart) from the infinite stream of tragedy and horror that filters in every second of every day via the airwaves. And this without even having cable.

I skimmed past a link on somebody else's page yesterday and saw a thread of discussion still active from late October - October! - about Britanny Maynard and suddenly my mind and my heart were freshly jolted back to the horror of waking up on the feast of All Saints to discover that she had, in fact, taken her own life.

I was so shaken by that story. And then...I moved on. Ebola, Ferguson, Bill Cosby, Syria, Ukraine, babies in sewer pipes and young fathers murdered in cold blood didn't leave me with the mental or emotional stamina to keep processing her death. Or even to remember it 5 days after it happened.

I don't want my use of technology to strip me of my humanity.

And I don't want to overload my brain with so much horror that I lose the capacity to feel, deeply, the sting of loss, an ache at acts of evil, or real sympathy in the face of suffering.

I was thinking that in addition to the mild smattering of efforts we're making as a family to consecrate Advent as a time of waiting in joyful hope, I could also bring my heart to bear on those stories from this past year that will give our weary world the most cause to rejoice when He comes.

For the next 3 weeks, I'm going to try to recollect one story each day from the past year that broke my heart, and offer the little sufferings and inconveniences of that day for those still hurting in connection with those stories, if that makes sense. So for Robin Williams' family. For the young wife and mother whose husband is gone. For a city burning and roiling in turmoil. For a mama whose girl's days on earth are numbered.

Surely I can do this small thing in an effort to bring some meaning to all the suffering we've witnessed this past year, and to hold these families and individuals up in prayer as we prepare for the Baby who will save us from ourselves.

If you want to join me, my plan is to simply scroll through my Facebook page and my browser history each morning and select a story, a situation, a loss...and then to make that the focus of the day. I'm confidant - sadly - that I'll have no trouble filling up the next 21 days or so.

This isn't meant to be depressing, but redeeming. I really feel like I've lost something in my rabid consumption of news and media, and I'm hoping it isn't an irrevocable loss.

May your Advent season be filled with joy, anticipation, and deep empathy for those who are most in need of Bethlehem this year.

Jesus doesn't care about your epidural

... At least not any more or any less than He cares about your harrowing trip to the dentist sans novocaine, your half marathon finished under 2 hours with a stress fracture in your tibia, or your heroic push through to bedtime while your better half is away on business and the natives are restless. And pooping in the bathtub.

I've observed an uncomfortable phenomenon in the Catholic blogosphere whereby some moms seem to be trying to out-suffer each other with gruesome labor tales, stories of timing contractions to correlate with each mystery of the full, 20-decade rosary and, my personal favorite, uniting the incredible pain of labor to the mystery of Christ's redemptive suffering on the Cross. Because holiness.

This is right and good. It is what we as Christians are called to do: unite temporal suffering to the salvific passion of Christ.

But, here's the thing. There are as many ways to suffer virtuously as there are human persons on this planet. And there is nothing uniquely efficacious about labor pains and the grueling achievement of birthing a fresh human being. Aside from the fact that in modern day 21st century America, it might be the closest many of us come to true physical anguish for the first time in our lives. And I totally get that. That is powerful.

But there is nothing about labor - particularly labor sans meds - which makes the suffering incurred more holy or more effective than any other cause of suffering. And there is nothing wrong with a woman choosing to forgo or mitigate some of that incredible physical pain with modern medicine. It doesn't make you less of a Christian. It doesn't make you less of a hero. And it definitely doesn't make you less of a mother.

Look, I'm all for a good birth story. God knows I've penned a few in my day. But let's cut the crap and stop trying to one up each other in the delivery room (or in the birthing pool, as it were.) It's not a competition. And you are not more holy than what's-her-name if you did it all without a needle stuck in your back or an incision across your bikini line.

We live in a time where medicine is available to mitigate the pain of labor. And God did not say "though shalt not numb thy nether regions for to give birth is to remove the stain of original sin."

That's actually what baptism is for (the stain removal, not the numbed nether regions. But I digress.)

I love that some women are prepared to enter into the birth experience with a clear mind and veins absent of any controlled substances. My two best friends have birthed 7 children between them using nothing stronger than castor oil. Good for them!

And if that is your story too, then good for you! May your child know of the real sacrifice you made, for whatever reason, to bring them into this world au natural.

But may you never presume that the months of sleepless nights with a newborn, the horrors of mastitis, the hell of postpartum depression, or the pain of recovering from a c-section are somehow lesser sufferings. We each carry our own crosses. And no two look the same.

There's no one way to have a baby. Thank God for that.

Relatively speaking, we have a problem here

As everyone on the planet with an internet connection or cable service now knows, Brittany Maynard took her own life last weekend, on the feast of All Saints.

Everybody has read the story by now, and the web is teeming with predictable banter from all sides.

How very brave

How very sad

She did a noble thing

What a waste

Brittany is no longer here to defend herself, and so her real motives lie with her in her grave, unknown to everyone save for her Creator and His creature. We who hope in a resurrection must commend her to the arms of her Father, seeking His mercy for her life and the choices she made.

But those of us left behind have some explaining to do.

Namely, how can a culture so uniformly horrified and saddened by another very public suicide only a dozen weeks earlier have pivoted so efficiently and entirely 180 degrees?

Simply put, this is the tyranny of relativism, the reality of living in an age where intentions and feelings rule the day, and where my version of reality can be entirely different from - and largely irrelevant to - yours.

Except that's not how it really works. Defy gravity without a parachute and you're still going to fall. Even if you call it liberated plummeting, or something like that.

Swallow some prescribed lethal medication, you're still going to end your own life, even if you're calling it by another name.

When we create our own reality, we write our own rules to live by. And to die by. But rules without the authority of reality behind them are just empty words. I can shout "I am the president of the United States" while standing in my kitchen all day long, but my children are not going to morph into members of Congress.

Since the day Brittany's story broke, the media fell all over themselves christening her as brave and noble, lauding her vulnerability and her heroism. Why? Because she followed her heart.

And in her heart, she believed that a life lived in suffering and diminished by disease was not a life worth living. 

Thus, the media had their new darling of the moment, their temporary "it girl" repping the culture of death. It's always a temp position, because the turnover is so frightfully high. In fact, even now, less than a week after her death, it already feels passé to reference her.

Next drama, please.

That's the problem with a culture so caught up in ensuring everyone has their own interpretation of right and wrong...it doesn't leave any room for reality.

Ironically, the case du jour is another young, pretty girl with brain cancer. But this girl is fighting and living with her disease, spreading a message of joy and raising awareness for particularly underfunded pediatric cancers. Her name, of course, is Lauren Hill. And once again, the media is calling her brave and showering her with praise and interviews.

But wait...Brittany was also brave. But for ending her life. Now Lauren is brave, but for choosing to live hers to the full...so what gives?

That this stunning contradiction disturbs virtually no one covering the news is a telling sign of how far gone we are as a civilization, that we can wholeheartedly (and in all earnestness) give a standing ovation to a woman who kills herself because she has brain cancer and then turn around, not even a week later, and give a standing ovation to a woman who doesn't kill herself because she has brain cancer...it's mind boggling.

But, but...it was her personal choice, they say. And it was her freedom to end her life, to end her suffering. And Lauren has that same freedom, and is choosing to exercise it differently, to live her life to the end, enduring her suffering. This is true, of course. But the critically important distinction is that they can't both be right.

It can't be brave to kill yourself and to choose to live in the face of unimaginable suffering. That's not how the universe operates.

Those are what's known as opposing realities. And if we had the collective capacity to think logically and reasonably, the difficulty would be obvious. But because we are, all of us to some degree, enslaved to that spirit of the age, relativism, we are somehow capable of entertaining wildly opposing realities in our addled brains.

Enough.

It is not unloving to speak of good and evil, of wrong and right.

What is unloving is to pretend that all options are equally weighted, that all choices are equally valid. Do you know what the consequences of that are? School shootings. Child pornography. Domestic abuse. Sex trafficking. Cutting.

But we can't speak of that. We can't speak of the reality that some things are right and some things are wrong, for fear of offending or alienating someone. But then tragedy strikes, and we sputter and struggle to make sense of it, to demand consequences for the perpetrator and compensation for the victims, all the while realizing that we don't really have a leg to stand on, because we're the ones spouting nonsensical buzzwords like tolerance and non-judgement.

We ought to be intolerant of evil. We out to make swift, sure judgments on actions and behaviors which are fundamentally anti-human and therefore, utterly wrong.

To do any less is to reject the fundamental call of Christianity, to love thy neighbor as thyself.

Let's practice authentic, life-giving love. Love that is willing to suffer, to be mocked and scorned, and to be rejected by a society utterly captivated by death.

The ruins of Auschwitz.
(photo credit Katy Senour)

Suicide is not dignified

So there's a lot of crazy stuff trending online this week. Lots of pain. Lots of suffering. I hope you'll forgive this slightly tangential but definitely related contribution to my 31 days series.

One of the saddest things I've read is the story of beautiful Brittany Maynard. 29 years old. Newlywed. Terminal brain cancer. You've probably read her story. If you haven't, I'll give you a minute to click over. Then go ahead and read this and this, while you're at it.

She's really sick. She's been given a death sentence, basically. And she has, in the face of unimaginable suffering and terror, decided to take matters into her own hands through the hands of her doctor and end her life via assisted suicide rather than face down the specter of the unknown.

On some level I get it. She's been given this horrific prognosis and has been told in exacting detail how heinous her suffering will be. The interviews she has given paint the picture of a woman used to being in control all her life, and her doctors have told her she will inevitably lose that, along with her life. Who wouldn't be afraid?

What I'm mostly struggling with is the reaction to Brittany's story in the media, and on social media.

Scrolling through the comments on the pieces I've read about her this week I'm most struck by the pervasive sense of fear and, God forgive me, cowardice imbued in so many of them.

We put animals down when they're in pain, humans deserve the same right.

It's a basic human right to have the chance to die with dignity. (Dignity here being defined as controlled, on one's own terms)

I hope I'll be that brave when the time comes.

Good for her, she deserves to choose the hour and the day.

While my heart is breaking for Brittany and her husband, I can't help but feel sickened and enraged by the massive outpouring of support for the proposed suicide of a fellow human being. This woman has announced to the world that she intends to kill herself in order to avoid the tragic, wasting consequences of her hideous disease, and the world is cheering her on.

Listen, this is madness. This is evil incarnate. This is the very epitome of the culture of death. 

In celebrating her "right" to end her life, she is being used as a pawn to advance an agenda that claims to bestow "dignity" and "compassion" on circumstances already fraught with suffering and pain.

This woman is dying. She quite possibly is suffering from mental illness from the effects of her disease on top of it all. And we're racking up likes and shares all over social media, gushing about bravery and compassion and strength.

Is this the same culture that mourned the death of Robin Williams en masse just last month? Was his suicide not heralded as brave because his illness was depression and not cancer? How has the conversation pivoted so dramatically in such a short time?

This woman is walking in her final weeks, perhaps her final days, and rather than serving her in her time of greatest need, the world is clamoring to hasten her demise.

There is nothing compassionate about giving someone the tools to end their own life.

But we live in a world that recoils from suffering, that sees no meaning in the cross.

Brittany's life has meaning. And her death will have meaning, too. Christ crucified and resurrected guarantees this.

But to celebrate death, to tout death as the cure for her terrible illness...it is the least humane of all possible options. And her husband, her poor, brokenhearted and newly-wedded husband. He is standing by his bride's side and watching her announce, to the world, that she's taking her own life before cancer can take it from her. And he's cheering her on.

It's not supposed to end like that.

I am not judging Britanny Maynard. God knows she is carrying a heavy cross, and I pray that she will experience a change of heart and a conversion to Christ. But I am judging a culture that would jump up and down with excitement at the idea of a person having the right to choose the moment and the means of their own death and would call it brave.

That's not brave.

May God have mercy on her and on her family. And may her husband recall his wedding vows, freshly pledged, promising faithfulness in sickness and in health.

Don't do it, Brittany. Every moment of your life has meaning, and your suffering is not in vain. You have a right to be here. Every moment of the life you have been given is a gift, and nobody has the right to take it from you.

Not even you.

Read the rest of the series here.

An experienced mother becomes a hand-wringing idiot

Hi there, just checking in for a quick second tonight whilst I gulp my illegal beer down (definitely not Whole 30 approved) and wait for dinner to finish simmering. (Deeply ironic paleo beef stew, since you didn't ask.)

So about that boob injury I referenced last week on the blog's Facebook page. Yeah, go head and cover yo eyes, male readers, because it's about to get real.

Evie is 8 whopping months now and while she is of course old enough to wean to formula and of course there is nothing wrong with formula feeding your baby. NOTHING. I'm just...reluctant. You see, about a week ago something went horribly and terribly wrong one one side of her nourishment delivery system and suddenly there is like blood and cursing and all kinds of writhing in pain at every feeding.

It's been difficult to know what to do, because while my brain (and my very supportive husband) are like wean that baby you're squirting blood in her mouth and oh the suffering (sorry for that detail. Just...sorry.) my mother heart (and I suppose my oxytocin-addled mind) are like nooooooooo, must nurse the baby until she decides she's done and my particular favorite, THIS IS SUCH A BONDING EXPERIENCE! HOW MUCH DO YOU FREAKING LOVE YOUR BABY RIGHT NOW?! which is a totally true statement, but it feels weirdly amplified by the very real hormonal hit that accompanies each nursing session.

So. That leaves us here, on Tuesday, one week into the great boob trauma of 2014, whereby I have decided on 4 separate and consecutive days that I am going to a. wean her, b. wean her to one side only (is this possible? It doesn't feel possible), c. call my $$$ lactation consultant who is literally on speed dial and drop another Benjamin on a cozy private conversation, or d. go to Whole Foods and buy all the organic formula made from the delicate tears of pastured, free range celestial cows.

Here is where the rant ends and the questions begin.

Mothers of the nursing variety, have you ever/has someone you've known weaned a baby to one sided feeding? Did you look like a sideshow specimen in your clothes? Did the awful one-two punch of nipple trauma + engorgment finally abate and you found yourself left with one sufficiently productive breast? Can you explain to me why it's fine to write "breastfeeding" but when I write "breast" I feel like I'm 13 years old and male on the inside?

Any comments or anecdotal accounts are welcome, but just know that I've tried all the lanolin, all the pumping, all the weird natural concoctions and all the healing compresses. There's still a situation resembling the San Andreas fault, and I'm pretty sure that I will never, ever look or feel the same on that side.

(Dad, I hope you stopped reading a long, long time ago.)

St. Maximilian Kolbe and Living in the Present Tense

{In honor of Thursday's feast day, a little something I whipped up in honor of one of our family's patron saints -- Joseph Kolbe is named for the angel of Auschwitz. Let's beg the intercession of a man who died a heroic death at the hands of the Nazis in a particular way for our brothers and sisters who are suffering terribly right now in Iraq, Syria, and around the globe. New conflicts, same old evil.}

On August 14th the Catholic Church celebrates the life of a man who died wearing the notorious stripes of Auschwitz. He lived a life of professed celibacy, poverty, and obedience, and he met his martyrdom not at the end of a sword on a battlefield, but in a dimly lit bunker filled with the stench of human waste and decaying flesh. His death was meant to make him feel powerless. It was his humiliating death, however, which would engrave his name in the annals of human history, and in the trophy room of heaven.

St. Maximilian, born Raymund Kolbe in the kingdom of Poland, joined the conventional Franciscans with his brother, Francis, at the age of 13. He enrolled in minor seminary after illegally crossing the border between Russia and Austria-Hungary and was accepted into the novitiate when he turned 16. He took the name Maximilian Maria to honor Mary, whose cause he would champion all his life.

During St. Maximilian's doctoral studies in Rome, he become convicted of the need to fight the growing influence of Freemasons and other demonic forces warring against the Catholic Church, and so he founded the Militia Immaculata, a movement dedicated to the spread of devotion to Mary's Immaculate Heart. At the peak of the MI's influence, their magazine circulated to one million monthly subscribers, thanks to Kolbe's media savvy and use of cutting edge techniques in radio and publishing. 

His health was not great. He'd suffered a bout of tuberculosis in his youth which left him frail, and he routinely pushed himself beyond reasonable human limits even for a person in good health. This was not a man who lived in the future; his concern was solely for the good he could do in the present moment.

St. Maximilian's efforts in the MI took him around the globe to Japan, India, and finally home to Poland where, at the outbreak of WWII, he was able to shelter more than 2,000 Polish Jews from Nazi aggression. When the Gestapo discovered his efforts, he was taken into custody and imprisoned at Auschwitz. It was May of 1941.

A few months later, toward the end of July, there was a break out in the camp. To give an example to their captives, the Nazis randomly selected 10 men to be executed in retaliation for the escape. They were to be starved to death in an underground bunker. One of the men selected to die cried out in anguish at his sentencing: "my wife, my children!" 

Fr. Maximilian stepped forward.

"I am a Catholic priest," he stated simply, "I wish to die for that man."

Living in the moment. Embracing his present cross as simply the next right thing to do, St. Maximilian willingly entered the underground bunker that would become his tomb.

Reports from the prison guards tell the rest of the story. Each morning when they checked on the condemned men, Fr. Kolbe would be found kneeling or standing cheerfully in the center of the group. As hunger and thirst drove the prisoners to madness, forcing them to drink their own urine and lick the walls of the bunker for moisture, Fr. Kolbe was there, accompanying them. He was one of them and yet somehow calm in the midst of the horror. He encouraged them, he prayed with them, he heard their confessions if they so desired, and then, at the end, he alone remained conscious, watching over them and walking with them into the valley of the shadow of death.

His heroism didn't display itself in the face of a firing squad. When he stepped forward to save the life of Franciszek Gajowniczek, he was simply doing the next right thing. He lived in the moment, accepting the challenges of his situation as they presented themselves. He didn't think about 2 weeks without food or water trapped in a small room filled with panic and death. He simply saw a need, recognized his capacity to do something about it, and stepped out in faith.

When at last, on August 14th, 1941 the Nazis decided they needed the starvation bunker for new victims, Fr. Kolbe was given a lethal intravenous dose of carbolic acid to stop his lion's heart. He held out his left arm as the doctor approached him, offering himself up, until the very end, as a willing victim. His body was cremated without ceremony or reverence, like so many other millions. But his heroism echoed throughout the camp, a beacon of hope in a dark hell of suffering and human misery.

Fr. Maximilian Kolbe was canonized in 1981 by Pope St. John Paul II, who declared him “a martyr of charity.”

And Franciszek Gajowniczek, the man whose life St. Maximilian Kolbe ransomed? He made it home to Poland, where he lived to be 95 years old. But every year on August 14th he returned to Auschwitz to pay his respects to the saint whose life consisted of a series of choices for the present good, culminating in a sacrifice of the highest order.

Sarah and the Saints

A little over a week ago a family a few degrees of separation from ours lost their mother and their youngest unborn sister. I'm sure many of you have seen stories of Sarah Harkins floating around the internet -- just this morning the Washington Post did a beautiful write up on her life. I didn't know Sarah, but I did know her brother, and we had probably a dozen friends in common. She and her husband graduated from my alma mater the year before I transferred there, but Franciscan is a tight knit alumni network and you can never completely escape the 'Ville.

Although we didn't know one another, her death has rocked me to the core. For the first few days after the news broke I was incredibly anxious and on edge, looking around me in disbelief at my perfect life, waiting at any moment for the phone call or the accident that would change everything.

I don't know if this makes sense, but the death of this woman, this lovely friend-of-friends, seemed to momentarily knock the spiritual wind out of me, so to speak. I could not see how a good and loving God could have allowed such a tragedy.

Yes, but Ebola. But Israel and Syria and Ukraine and Boko Haram and Maylasia Airlines and homelessness and poverty and SIDS.

Yes, I know. So much suffering. So much evil.

But this was personal. It wasn't something far away, happening to someone I'd never met. I mean no, we'd never met. But I felt a connection to this dead woman that I could not shake.

Every time I came across another tribute to her life, I clicked. Every time another fundraising opportunity popped up, I felt compelled to give and to share on social media. And in every one of the pictures of her sweet, innocent children accompanying the story of her tragic end, I saw a future of fathomless grief for a family not very different from our own.

I wept against Dave's shoulder, railing against a God who would take a pregnant mother and young wife from her family. I scrolled through her blog backwards, reading post after post from a woman whose faith was clearly lightyears ahead of my own, and whose love for life radiated off the page.

I couldn't understand.

I still can't. The Harkins family didn't just lose a mother. Her husband lost his best friend, his lover, his partner, and his greatest earthly consolation. Her children lost their caregiver, their teacher, and their primary catechist. The void her death leaves is massive.

In all of my clicking and scrolling during last week, I came across something beautiful written by a friend of hers, something that switched on a light in my brain in a kind of 'aha' way.

I cannot understand this kind of suffering, she said (or something close to it, forgive my paraphrasing) and so I'm praying to Sarah, asking for her intercession for us all as we try to cope with her loss.

What a simple solution. And what a preposterous idea. (Non Catholic readers, stick with me here. You're about to get a crash course in the Communion of Saints.) And yet it was the first thing I'd seen in connection with her loss that made any kind of sense.

Of course we should be begging for her intercession. I thought, who better knows the specific needs of the family she left behind?

I realized that the anger I'd been feeling towards God was misdirected. He doesn't cause our suffering in this vale of tears. But only His mercy can make any sense of it. Sarah's seemingly senseless and random death was simply the end of her earthly narrative; but her influence on the still-unfolding story of salvation history just hit the big time.

So I started praying to Sarah Harkins, right then and there. And I believe with every fiber of my being that she can hear our prayers, and that she is presenting them before the throne of God, and that she has a powerful interest in interceding for tired, overwhelmed mothers trying to reach and teach their little people and love their husbands well.

I've talked to a couple other friends in the last day or so and they have enthusiastically informed me that they, too, have been asking Sarah's intercession in these particular areas. These were casual acquaintances of hers, and women who'd never heard of her before reading her obituary, and yet each one of them confessed to feeling a powerful and particular connection to her.

This doesn't explain her passing. It doesn't make sense of the loss of a 32-year-old woman in the prime of her life and the middle of her vocation, striving to raise a happy, healthy, holy family with her husband.

Death is ultimately the most unnatural thing that will ever happen to us. We were not designed to die. We were not created for dirt and ashes. The fractured reality rent by sin has condemned each of us to suffer its fate, though we have a Savior who opened the way into the next life by the shedding of His blood. Still, I think I can speak for the majority of human beings (now there's a statement) when I say that few look forward to the end of their mortal toil.

The dread of death, the fear of the unknown, both are evidence to me that it wasn't meant to be like this. We are longing for a return to something that none of us remembers, and yet, we each of us will suffer death. Why then, should it be so surprising and so disturbing when it comes?

Sarah's death has called me back to life in a real way. The sudden here-now-there of her story has jolted me from a sort of creeping pragmatic agnosticism, giving God cursory nods and an hour on Sunday but little more beyond that.

But that isn't His plan for me. That isn't His plan for anyone, to live as if He is in one place and we are in another, and eventually the twain shall meet but only after 80+ years of satisfactory time on earth.

He wants more.

Sarah knew that. As her fingers fashioned the beads of the clay rosaries she crafted, she must have pondered the mysteries each one represented.

This morning I went to send an email to another girl named Sarah on my phone. I began to type "Sarah H" into the address bar, and Sarah Harkin's name popped up on my screen.

Stunned, I scrolled through a series of 4 emails we'd traded back and forth. More than 2 months ago she had commented on a post here on this blog, and I'd responded to her. I couldn't believe it, and I certainly didn't remember it. I want to share a small portion of something she said. It was real, and it wasn't sugar coated, and I pray her family won't mind my sharing it here:

"After 4 kids spaced close together and homeschooling thrown in the mix, I am hardly the poster child for mommy bliss. It is hard. Hard is not fun. But that's ok. There are times when it is fun - but God forbid the rest of the world sees the hard times on your face!"

It is hard. But that's ok.

Thank you, Sarah. I hope you'll continue to pray for those of us in the trenches from your heavenly vantage point. I pray for the courage to live the kind of life you did.

Won't *something* wreck our bodies eventually?

Ah, summertime...when a young (or old) mom's fancy turns to thoughts of swim suits. Or at least mine does. Now I'm a lifelong swimmer. 9 competitive seasons under my belt and countless stints on the lifeguard stand. I'm actually less traumatized in the fitting room by swimwear than by any pair of jeans I've tried in the last 4 years. I guess it's like a second skin for me, in a very real sense. And nobody's skin is perfect, you know?

But I know for lots of people, especially mom-shaped people, swimsuit shopping is thee worst. On par with dentistry and public speaking and unmedicated birthing and all manner of horrors (not judging any dentists, conference speakers or natural birthers here. Just identifying usual suspects of terror).

I'm sure everyone has read at least one piece this summer (see what I did there?) extolling the virtue of just putting on the damn suit and jumping in the water, and that's all true and good. Some writers reasoned it is for our children's sakes that we ought to suit up and get to splashing. Others insist that our bodies are made for more than just lookin' good (don't I know it) and that doing it for the kids indicates that there is some kind of aesthetic nose-holding going on and that we really need to be more comfortable with whatever shape we're in, and not endlessly consumed by some sisyphian quest to alter it. I can see both sides.

And then some of us - some of us just want to be left alone, both by the mirror and by the assessing eyes of the general public. Sure, it'd be nice to look toned and tanned in a two piece, and sure, it'd be great to have sand as the primary irritant of water play and not the arduous ascent of one's bottoms to one's waist once wet.

All this talk of spandex got me thinking. And now that I'm walking roughly 5 miles a day, I have a lot more time for thinking lately, even when I'm pushing and hauling child tonnage around the neighborhood. So I was wearing Evie, pushing the boys and sweating my literal ass off and smiling at the thought of that metaphor becoming sweet reality and it suddenly, startlingly occurred to me that no matter how great of shape the miles I'm logging gets me into, the inevitable ravages of time and work and (hopefully) future pregnancies and nursing are still going to destroy things, aesthetically speaking.

This has occurred to me before on some level. Earlier this year when I was still wearing workout clothes day and night and chugging aqua from my hospital-issued jug, my little sister helpfully (and fraternally, if a sister can speak in such a manner) pointed out that I wasn't getting any younger (and, presumably, any hotter) so I may as well get dressed and put on makeup, no matter how rough I felt, because there truly is no time aside from the present that we have to actually live in our bodies.

Now maybe you don't wear makeup. That's fine! I don't wear a ton, but I find that on the days I go further than my spf tinted moisturizer, blush/bronzer and eyebrow filling, I feel markedly better. Even with the same amount of sleep/coffee. There's something very life-giving for me about getting dressed, albeit in very simple, preppy clothes, and swiping on a bit of mascara. It helps me take my job more seriously as a mother, and it helps me present a more joyful persona to the general public.

All that is good, and it's helpful for me to be aware of the tone I set for our day with my level of self care. I also think it's a bit of a witness to not present to the outside world the shrewing, frantic mess I am on the inside, lest they feel confirmed in their suspicions that having children is a hell of a lot of work which daily sucks the marrow from your very bones.

But you know what else sucks the marrow from your bones? I mean, aside from being bone-marrow donor, which would be an excellent practical application of life-giving love.

Life. The ravages of time. Pulling all nighters for work (or for partying). Traveling the globe. Digging ditches. Landing contracts. Getting on and off of highway exits. Gravity. Gluten.

Whatever it is you're spending your time (your body's time, too, because you are your body) doing, it's undoing you. Piece by piece, wrinkle by wrinkle, cell by cell. It's all breaking down, even as we're busy building up a life for ourselves. And the only thing any of us are going to have to show for it, in the end, is a laundry list of accomplishments or failures. And I think relationships will be at the top of the laundry list.

It's comforting to me, not in a sadistic way but in a serene and pragmatic way, to think that no matter what, 50 years from now, if I'm still chilling in my mortal form, I'll look pretty much like old lady in the Denny's booth next to mine. Okay maybe I'll have a tad more sun damage, but at 81 years old, I don't think anyone will be counting my sunspots and wrinkling their already wrinkled nose over it.

So no matter what choices I make now, my body is going to look pretty much the same. I mean, maybe I will score some additional longevity if I eat well and stay active, but no amount of starvation dieting or pinning miracle smoothies or popping birth control pills to keep my waistline trim and my bank account plump is going to make me any better looking, in the end.

So while I feel very acutely that I am quite literally spending myself for the sake of my children, I struggle to identify another, worthier cause in which to invest.

Our culture is obsessed with becoming - and remaining - thin. With appearing more beautiful. With capturing and domesticating youth, both in appearance and in behavior. But it's all fleeting. And truly, there is nothing sadder than a 60-year-old man or woman dressing down by 3 or 4 decades, desperately striving to appear relevant. Desirable. Loved.

But what about the 60-year-old who is desired, deeply, by her husband? By his children? By her friends and co-workers?

What about the person who has invested deeply, not in himself (though there's nothing wrong with self investment, rightly-ordered) but in the relationships which are the very essence of life? How good will that feel, to be fading into antiquity as we all do, but to be very much unforgettable to the children you've raised, the spouse you've loved faithfully, the friends you've nurtured, the lives you've spent your own on?

There is no original thought here, just the arresting realization that it's all passing away, and that no matter how much I might want to look like another body, I'm in this one, and I'm the only one who can choose how I'll use it, how I'll spend myself.

Our culture tells us that to spend a life in service to another is a waste. To give up one's very body in bearing and nurturing life is obscene, is antithetical to real happiness.

I beg to differ. I look down at my soft, motherly midsection and I know that while it's hard to give up the body I once had, we're all asked, each of us, to surrender the goods eventually.

The only real question is, will you give it away, or will it be taken from you by force?

I choose life. I choose to give it away. It's a small cross, and it's marred by stretch marks and double digits in the denim department, but I won't be any more beautiful in 50 years for refusing it.

In fact, in embracing the cross of life, I might just guarantee beauty beyond all comprehension.

The Distressing Disguise of the Toddler

We’ve been trying to incorporate more daily prayer into our little household, and with toddlers underfoot and a hungry baby calling the mealtimes, it isn’t the most prayerful environment. Honestly, it’s the antithesis of what I picture as a prayerful environment. But, work with what you’ve got, right?

Last night found me on wakeup duty at 11 pm, 11:45 pm, and then midnight. All the same child, and all requests of a similar vein: “I’m thirsty, I’m hungry, I just can’t sleeps.” This particular child, my sweet eldest son, is my most challenging; he is the most like me in temperament, and he may be more intelligent than I am. He challenges my authority daily, and he is constantly practicing his litigation skills during nap and meal times. We’re two of a kind, and there is nothing quite like looking into the mirror of your child and seeing some of your own deepest struggles reflected back at you.

As I hoisted him up on the kitchen counter last night, perhaps a tad too forcefully, I shot a resentful glance at the digital display on the stove: 12:04 am.

Doesn’t this kid know how hard I’ve been working all day? Don’t I deserve some peace and quiet between 7 pm and 7 am? Why can’t he just wait until breakfast for his next calorie download?

I looked at his small, tear-streaked face while I peeled his banana in the dimly-lit kitchen. Suddenly seized by an affectionate impulse, I bent down and kissed each of his little bare feet, dangling limply off the counter top. Hadn’t I just read a quote from Bl. Mother Teresa earlier today on somebody’s blog? Something about seeing Christ in the distressing disguise of the poor?

Well here was my street urchin. Here was my Calcutta. Standing in our kitchen at midnight, resignedly peeling fruit for a child who is allergic to sleep and knows no end of testing my patience. He was not an interruption, I suddenly realized, but an opportunity to show greater love. Love that cost me something, love that must be wrenched from my selfish heart and offered with straining muscles and forced smiles and a bone-weary soul.

Here in first-world America, surrounded by luxury and convenience and shielded from almost all physical suffering, it was the closest approximation to the radical, self-giving love preached by the saint of the streets that I could make. Take my looks, take my free time, and take my pants size…but when you take my sleep, that’s when my real Calvary begins.

I tried to see him as a little image of Christ, this naughty son of mine, and even while I felt a tad dramatic embracing and kissing his dirty little boy feet, I felt intensely that this moment was an opportunity of grace custom made for me. He needed a drink and a midnight snack, but not as much as his mother needed a chance to flex her flabby muscles of self-denial.

It’s all very well and good to pray with your children when’s it’s convenient. It’s essential, actually. Earlier in the day I’d felt quite satisfied after praying 3 decades of a ‘cheerio rosary’ with this same child, interiorly patting myself on the back as we counted out 10 Hail Mary ‘o’s’ and some raisin Our Father’s which he painstakingly tracked and consumed as we worked our way through the mysteries.

Parenting, I’ve got this! I thought to myself, feeling the warm glow of accomplishment. And it was an accomplishment, getting my child involved and engaged in formal prayer. But it cost me very little.

There are opportunities for both kinds of grace every day in this vocation: moments that are easy and natural and flow out of the steady rhythm of a happy home, and moments that feel enormous when they occur, demanding sacrifice and seemingly-heroic patience.

I just pray I get better at recognizing the latter, never content to remain only in the former. I don’t want to be a surface level Christian with my children. Happily for me, they don’t seem content to let me remain there for long.

(hosted at Catholic Exchange.)

Heinous to Humorous

During our evening prayers last night I believe I hit a new all-time parenting low when I earnestly asked God for the grace to view my children's behaviors as humorous rather than heinous. Dave has now been texting that as a response to my daily smoke signals today, so I think we have a winner.

In all honesty, pre-school and toddler aged boys are varying shades of heinous on a regular basis. There is lots of (naturally, inexplicably present) bathroom humor, there are multiple episodes of public humiliation per week involving somebody screaming about farting in the grocery store, and let me not get started on the colorful language. While I'm hoping, as promised, that my kids are more 'abuse-proof' for knowing the proper names of any and all genitalia, I am also super pumped about all the times Joey has screamed 'penis' in mixed company. (Don't bother praying for humility, just pop out a couple of young male children and let your life circumstances round off your sharp, prideful edges.)

Insisted on wearing a woman's fedora. I don't know.

I was visiting with a friend this morning and she was talking about her childless sister's plans to summer in Paris with her husband and I felt a pang of 'wouldn't that be nice?' and then, upon further reflection, I realized how very, deeply necessary it has been for me to have these children. Because I am selfish, prideful, small-minded and stingy by nature. In other words, I'm a fallen human being.

Redeemed, yes, but not all at once, and not by some magical divine intervention that has rendered me gentle, compassionate, and humble. Nope, not this girl. It's more of an arduous, day-by-day struggle to choose them - and in so choosing, to choose Him - over myself.

At 5 am when somebody is crying to eat. At 6:40 am when somebody is kicking the frigging closet doors hard enough to rattle the house because 'the sun is almost up!' At 10:56 when it's apparently already time for our first lunch of the day. And more than any other time, at 4:00 pm when all hell hath been loosed upon this house and tempers are flaring and patience is wavering and so.much.screaming. Mostly mine. But increasingly, I'm trying to keep my voice out of the cacophony and to just smile and maybe even laugh at them. Because why the hell not laugh at them? They're ridiculous. I'm ridiculous. This life in its present state is ridiculous. I acknowledge this fully. Having a baby every 19 months for 4 years is insane. Staying home with them is a huge investment in time and energy - and at no little cost to my own mental health. But what's the alternative? Summers in Paris?

I mean, we did 3 seasons in Rome. And let me be the first to confess it was less than glamorous. Without kids? It would have been so different. But so would I.

Meaner. Smaller minded. Less fun. Less fulfilled. Maybe a little prettier, but not on the inside.

I'm not saying having children is the solitary path to goodness and holiness. By no means. But it's my path. They're not a means to an end, either, though, these children of mine. They're irreplaceable, incorrigible, immortal human beings with unique personalities, desires, and preferences about public urination. And they are testing the hell out of me.

Heinously, humorously, one awful, triple, 90-minute pediatrician visit at a time.

So if my life sounds like hell, it's because that's surely where I would end up, were it not for all the daily, hourly opportunities for sanctification this child army provides me with. I had this epic revelation the other day while I was wiping a snottysnottysnotty nose for the millionth time and much to the dismay of the nose's owner and, well, maybe I went in a little too enthusiastically, a little angrily even, with my diaper wipe. And it occurred to me, unbidden: you're wiping the wounds of Christ.

Immediately my hand went limp, and I was honestly ashamed of how vigorously I'd been attacking those innocent boogers.

Would I treat Jesus this way? Even when I found Him to be inconvenient, disgusting even? Would I ever use this much force/this tone of voice/this disposition of heart?

Game-changer, that moment.

Even though they don't much look like Him, not when they're covered in ketchup and vomit, anyhow, they are my little, living icons of Christ. And how I love them…it's a direct reflection on the sincerity of my love for Him.

God help me love them better. Help me love You in them. And for Your sake, give me some divinely inspired potty training wisdom. Because there's a heinous shitload of diapers in my trashcans right now.

Pun intended.

Oops, it happened again

Well, I didn't quite make my 7 in 7 goal…but it seems like a lot of us are in that camp.

C'est la life of a mommyblogger, eh?

Speaking of life, and of mommy blogging, how's this for some shit?

I have post partum depression. Again.

Thinking that I had sailed smoothly past the telltale signs and symptoms of this most dreadful of maternal foes, I somehow failed to connect the dots until this past weekend:

• anger, uncontrollable at times
• exhaustion, bone-deep, even after 8 + hours of sleep
• shortest temper ever (think tears and wailing over spilled milk, smeared poop, burnt toast)
• stalled weight loss/insatiable appetite (hmmm, those two might be more closely related to each other than to an outside impetus. I'll get back to you on that one.)
• weeping spells
• feelings of "I can't do this"/"This was a terrible mistake"
• the unshakeable certainty that I was certainly the most unfit mother in all the land
• numbness and the propensity to 'zone out' periodically throughout the day

etcetera, etcetera.

I thought it was worth putting it out there, embarrassing and humbling or no, simply because I've talked about it here before and gotten so much amazing feedback from my mom-rades in arms, and also because duh, this is a blog, and what good is a blogger without transparency?

So there it is. I have it, again. And maybe I'm the stupid one for saying "yes" to a new baby 3 times in 4 years, or maybe this is just the particular cross I've been handed to carry at this moment, but whatever the case may be, I don't see any benefit to avoiding it here on the 'ol blog. I'm not asking for commentary from the peanut gallery on how 'stupid' having kids is when you're mentally ill/prone to mental illness (aren't we all, as humans?) and believe me, I've had that kind of feedback in the past. But it won't keep me from speaking out because I know there are other moms out there who are dealing with this, who have dealt with this, and who will deal with this in the future. And it sucks. And you feel totally alone and alienated from reality and out of touch with your past/present/future self…but here's the thing: it's not you. 

I'll never forget something Dave said to me while we were dating, and I know I've mentioned it here before. After I confessed to him my struggle with depression and the embarrassment and sorrow I felt over my illness he wrote me a beautiful letter - in Adoration, no less - and in it he quoted Bl. John Paul II who adjures Christians to remember that "the person is not their illness, and is never to be confused with the condition from which they suffer" … or something to that effect.

"You are not your illness, Jenny" was the specific line that stands out in my memory of that letter from him. I believed it then, and I still believe it now, and that's why I feel confident in sharing this here. Because it's not me. It's something that is happening to me, yes, but it's not the sum of who I am as a person, or as a mother. I've been a good mother before. And I'll be a good mother again. And in fact, I'm a good mother even now, in the midst of the hard times, because I'm still doing it, dammit. Because adulthood. And responsibility. And faithfulness.

Anyway, I'm taking steps to get better. I had some progesterone injections today, courtesy of my fantastic Creighton-trained doctor. I'm in the process of scheduling some counseling sessions to talk it out. I'm working with my Creighton instructor (who happens to be a nurse and a nutrition junkie herself, conveniently enough) to plot a course using supplements and nutritional tweaks. I might even get rilly crazy and toy with the dose on my regular 'ol daily antidepressant (for my regular 'ol depression, not to be confused with PPD. Aren't I a lot of fun?)

At any rate, we'll see how things go. Already after just 2 progesterone shots today I feel as if there is air in the room again, if you know what I mean. Before I could breathe and breathe and still feel oxygen deprived. But now…it's all seeming a little lighter. A little more manageable. 

So that's where I'm at. I'm not looking for sympathy here, but I am asking for empathy, because I know there are enough of us out there who have gone through this, or who know somebody who is going through this. Pray for them. Offer to watch their kids so they can get to a doctor's/therapist's appointment. Don't say stupid stuff to them like "well, maybe you should stop getting pregnant if it makes you so sick." Hi, that's asinine, and it's equivalent to telling cops to quit showing up for their shifts if they don't want to keep getting shot. Occupational hazard and all. Rant over.

I hope this helps someone. Or I hope it helps you understand someone you love.

I do know one thing: she was more than worth it.

It's a Beautiful Day

Since I mentioned a wedding, I felt it was only fair to share a picture or two from the blessed event. We were all more or less recovered from our plague, and I thoughtlessly rewarded my still fragile immune system with copious amounts of alcohol and carbohydrates, so I'm calling an early start on Lent this year…just as soon as tonight's episode of Downton wraps. #31isnot21 #oldmomproblems #vodkasodas4ever.

Hashtag.

Anywho, here's the happy couple, aren't they gorgeous?

The first 'look.' (They didn't actually lock eyes till she started down the aisle.)

If you're local-ish and lucky enough to get on her schedule, this gal is an amazing photographer, and a sweetheart with two beautiful baby girls who she takes gorgeous pictures of on her blog all the time. Check her out. And okay, one more gorgeous pic:

55 degrees in February. Go home Colorado, you're (happily) drunk.

I think I'm jumping on the Fulwiler bandwagon and taking up the 7 in 7 challenge, so I'll be back tomorrow. 

In the mean time, any thoughts on Lent? Dave and I were talking about it on the way home from Mass this morning and he had some awesome words of reflection from our Holy Father's Message for Lent about overcoming destitution, which he explains as being very different from poverty. Destitution, says Pope Francis, is poverty without hope, and can be in a material, spiritual, or emotional form. He was encouraging us to find ways to overcome destitution this Lenten season, both in the world and in ourselves. He also said (and this one is a little scary) "I distrust a charity that costs nothing and does not hurt." Ouch. 

That little gem led me past my usual line of alcohol abstinence and no desserts unless it's a feast day reasoning and onto the possibility for a greater sacrifice for this year. I think the very most difficult thing I could imagine at this stage of life is to start setting an actual alarm and waking up before my children to pray for 10 minutes each morning. I don't know what is sadder about that sentence, the idea that a grown adult doesn't use an alarm, or the fact that my greatest suffering is waking up in the morning, but I'll get back to you when I've decided. Pathetic.

So no booze and waking to an alarm. It'll be just like high school all over again. Maybe I'll get my body back, too…

What are your Lenten plans?

Winterized

I don't know you guys, I probably shouldn't even throw my cap into this ring because I'm sure it will be close to 50-something next week here in (usually) sunny Colorado, but this week has been brutal. Canada, I feel your pain. Kind of. I have never been the kind of mom to flinch in the face of the elements, at least when it came to something like weather standing between me and my forays to procure groceries, coffee, etc., and yet here I sit, 7 week old baby tucked snugly under one arm and croupily coughing up a storm and the mercury? It's hovering right around negative 10 degrees and so I'm eating Panda Puffs for lunch. My options - like my luck - have run out.

Poor Genevieve has been sick as a toy poodle for days now, and yesterday spiked a scary (to me) fever of 101.5. She is better today but still not eating well and keeping us (okay, mostly me) up aaaaallll night long with her sad snorting and snuffling and gagging on snot, etc. Too much information, I know. But my brain is short-circuiting from too many consecutive days of crazy housebound baby-wrangling, and I'm pretty sure my sweet, single, medically-trained sister in law, visiting us from exotic south Asia, just had the SAHM version of a 'cultural immersion experience,'

Claire, I'm so sorry, and God love you for all that Curious George you read Joey. He is currently waving a sippy cup in my face and berating me for serving him "old" milk, so feel free to come back any time. Or right now, really.

Do you see that liquid? It turns out you cannot leave an unattended keg of beer in the company of men of any age. "Beer fight, Mommy!"

Don't even ask why we had a keg in our garage, but know that it was Fat Tire.

This too shall pass, I know, I know…but just when I felt like I might kind of maybe be getting a little bit on top of my newly-expanded mom game, bam: gut check courtesy of mother nature.

So there you have it, delivered to you fresh from the land of stretchy gym pants and unmade faces. I've been sustaining myself on this gem of a book my sweet husband brought home for me last week and came across this cool lady, who saw housework as a form of temporal punishment for sin and oh MY GOODNESS YES. Amen. And alleluia.

If you'll excuse me, my penitential load of dishes awaits me.

On a warmer note, now that the embargo has been lifted, I am beyond thrilled to invite you to come share a pint poolside on a glam rooftop in the humid heart of Austin, Texas this summer with Jen, Hallie, and a whole slew of other queens of the internets who will be speaking at the Edel Gathering.

You best believe when J + H emailed me a month or so ago to ask if I would emcee this fantastic creation of theirs that I simultaneously started doing labor breathing and trying to craft a somewhat cool and casual reply of "Oh hell yes" a very reserved 11.2 seconds after the email hit my inbox.

So if you wanna come hang with the creme de la creme (them, not me) of the mommy hood, I hope you'll start dropping hints to your husbands about what a fabulous St. Valentine's gift a weekend away of this caliber would be. Come on, a rooftop pool. Starbucks. Multiple bars in the hotel. Quiet, sanitized bathrooms with ample hot water. I'm sorry, I just fainted from the anticipation of a 25 minute shower followed by an enormous glass of red wine.

Join us. You know it to be your destiny.

(I'm really, embarrassingly sleep deprived. Luke Skywalker called and confirmed it for me.)

A Wish and a Prayer

So the stupid blog and the stupid RSS feed and the stupid new URL all work now. And I only shed like, 3 stupid tears each day of the saga over it all, so…all's well that ends well. The moral of this story is, I suppose, that people like me who rely on the internet for work and play should maybe learn a thing or two about how it all works, or else have some IT savvy friend in their inner circle, lest one find oneself on the phone with Chet from Phoenix late one Monday night, using techie words in inapplicable instances and trying not to heave pregnancy-induced sobs into the phone because it's 10 pm and I just want to take a bath. Wah. I wish I'd taken a computer class in college.

Moving on.

My friends, there is this little baby. I know there are so many little babies in need of prayers right now, both in the womb and outside of it, but I am asking for specific prayers for the same little girl I introduced you to last week (when my stupid.freaking.stupid.blog was still broken). She is making great strides and is off all her tubes and monitors and even taking a bottle…but (and this is a big, ugly but) her parents just had their most recent consult with her neurologist and his diagnosis is not a hopeful one. Basically, due to the trauma and loss of oxygen at birth, her cerebrum was catastrophically damaged and he expects her to suffer from cerebral palsy, which can mean an absence of speech, motor skills, limb control, expression of feelings…in a sort of any or all combination.

I know a thing about cerebral palsy, because my uncle, my dad's little brother, also suffered it due to a traumatic birth and was wheelchair bound and institutionalized for most of his 49 years. He used a computer to communicate and while he had full intelligence, he was basically locked inside of himself and a body that would not cooperate with his mind. I don't want that for baby Lily, and I can't believe that God could refuse the petitions of her family and friends if we storm heaven on her behalf.

I know a lot of us are pregnant right now, and I know that sucks sometimes. From morning sickness to back labor to actual tearing of flesh that ought not to be torn…it's a grueling process, giving life. And if you're in my camp then you'll probably be searching for remedies to alleviate some or all of the suffering entailed on a physical level. I guess what I'm asking is that you take a tiny amount of that suffering and offer it up on behalf of Lily and her complete and miraculous healing. Whatever that looks like for you, whether it be waiting 10 minutes to pop a Tums when the heartburn kicks in or offering up those early pre-anesthesiologist contractions upon admission to Labor and Delivery, let's use our occasions of motherly suffering to call down graces and prayers upon this little baby girl and her family. And if you feel compelled to help in another very real and tangible way, God bless you for it.

I know I complain far too often about my beautiful, healthy children and the imaginary traumas they inflict on me all the live long day - I know! I'm in the least likely position to advocate for some kind of heroic redemptive suffering. But I can make little efforts here and there, I know I can, and I can pray that they have some effect on Lily's healing and recovery. I hope you'll consider joining me to do the same.

Thanks for hanging with me during the techno-saga of Advent 2013, and I pray your hearts and your homes are being beautifully prepared for the Big Event in a couple weeks' time.