tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16697622988555112952024-03-04T22:53:39.738-07:00Mama Needs CoffeeJennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07923751596148085363noreply@blogger.comBlogger570125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1669762298855511295.post-50649322656125886542015-04-15T20:36:00.002-06:002015-04-15T20:36:36.291-06:00Mama Needs Coffee has moved ... so come on over to <a href="http://www.catholicnewsagency.com/mamaneedscoffee">Catholic News Agency</a> and keep following along!<br />
<br />Jennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07923751596148085363noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1669762298855511295.post-56902848549631976292015-04-01T18:51:00.004-06:002015-04-01T18:51:37.310-06:00He moved me<div class="post-header" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Crimson Text', serif; margin: 0px 0px 27px; padding: 0px; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: 'Crimson Text', serif; line-height: 26px;">10 years ago on a cold spring evening in early April an old man died in his bed a half a world away, and a selfish, frequently drunken 22-year old college student fell to her knees in her dingy living room.</span></h2>
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Eyes glued to the tv screen, I struggled to make sense of what I was seeing on the television screen and the corresponding ache in my chest for a man I’d never met and for a religion I barely practiced.</div>
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<em style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">I was never the same again.</em></div>
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I spent most of April 2nd in a daze, missing all my classes and breaking into real tears periodically. Eventually the news coverage coming out of Rome lost its pull on me and I ventured from the couch to the front door, destination unknown.</div>
<div style="font-size: 16px; line-height: 26px; margin-bottom: 20px; padding: 0px;">
Within a half a dozen blocks I found myself in front of the Catholic church I sometimes attended on weekends, still drawn to participation in the Mass even when the vigil had been spent blacked out drunk with 20,000 of my closest friends on Pearl Street.</div>
<div style="font-size: 16px; line-height: 26px; margin-bottom: 20px; padding: 0px;">
I pushed on the heavy bronzed door and was surprised when it yielded to me. It was around noon, and the church was unlocked and completely empty save for an elderly woman sitting near the altar and a younger guy with camera equipment standing off to one side of the sanctuary.</div>
<div style="font-size: 16px; line-height: 26px; margin-bottom: 20px; padding: 0px;">
At the end of the aisle someone had erected a makeshift shrine; a single votive candle burned beneath an easel holding the papal portrait of John Paul II. There were a few potted flowers, leftover Easter decor still dotted the stairway surrounding the altar.</div>
<div style="font-size: 16px; line-height: 26px; margin-bottom: 20px; padding: 0px;">
Propelled almost unconsciously, I found myself at the front of the church and dropping to my knees in front of his picture. I noticed the red light burning in a lantern hung in my periphery, and I looked past the image in front of me to the tabernacle behind the altar. I knew He was there, too.</div>
<div style="font-size: 16px; line-height: 26px; margin-bottom: 20px; padding: 0px;">
I dropped my head into my hand and wept. I had absolutely no explanation for the intensity of my reaction, given the attention I’d given to my Catholic faith for the past 4 years. College had effectively paganized me, at least in practice, and I was Catholic in name only. I knew this, of course, but that morning for the first time it caused me both deep, reflective sorrow and inspired the hope that maybe I could turn things around.</div>
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I looked up at the sound of a camera clicking away and the young guy with the equipment shrugged his shoulders and asked sheepishly if I’d consent to having the images used in the paper. The next morning I saw myself under the fold on the front page of the Denver Post. Not many people have a picture of themselves on the day their conversion began in earnest, and even though it’s grainy, black and white, and not terribly flattering, it’s something I treasure. It’s proof that I was there, and now I’m here.</div>
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More than that, it captures the essence of my relationship with JPII: penitent prodigal meets spiritual father. Fireworks ensue. Lifelong friendship is cemented.</div>
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Later that same month I withdrew from all my college courses and stopped going out to bars every night. As my phone stopped ringing and my friends drifted away, I spent long weekend nights listening to CDs of famous Catholic speakers (Scott Hahn, anyone?) and gradually began to come alive to the mysteries and depth of the Faith.</div>
<div style="font-size: 16px; line-height: 26px; margin-bottom: 20px; padding: 0px;">
By early May I had an acceptance letter in my hands from Franciscan University of Steubenville. I would transfer there at the summer’s end and spend the next 3 years in a kind of spiritual, emotional and physical rehab, piecing back together the real Jenny.</div>
<div style="font-size: 16px; line-height: 26px; margin-bottom: 20px; padding: 0px;">
Through it all, St. John Paul II (who I never doubted was directly interceding for little old me) became one of my closest friends.</div>
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I couldn’t have dreamt it on April 2nd, 2005, but on Divine Mercy Sunday in the year 2011, I stood in St. Peter’s Square with a million other pilgrims, my 7-month-old son pressed uncomfortably close to my chest in a baby carrier, squeezed by Italians on every side, and listened as Pope Benedict gave him to the Universal Church as a “Blessed.”</div>
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<img alt="221676_10100229010952113_6682143_n" class="aligncenter wp-image-962 size-full" height="720" src="http://www.catholicnewsagency.com/mamaneedscoffee/wp-content/uploads/2013/10/221676_10100229010952113_6682143_n.jpg" style="border: 0px; display: block; height: auto; margin: 5px auto; max-width: 100%; padding: 0px;" width="540" /></div>
<div style="font-size: 16px; line-height: 26px; margin-bottom: 20px; padding: 0px;">
If that wasn’t sufficiently awesome, three years later I returned to that same square, this time with two more sweet babies in tow and my husband by my side, and we distractedly wrestled toddlers through the long ceremony and misting Roman rain while Pope St. John Paul II was elevated to the altar and proclaimed “Sanctus.”</div>
<div style="font-size: 16px; line-height: 26px; margin-bottom: 20px; padding: 0px;">
<a href="http://www.catholicnewsagency.com/mamaneedscoffee/wp-content/uploads/2014/04/JPII.jpg" style="color: #21a3c4; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration: none;"><img alt="JPII" class="aligncenter wp-image-851 size-full" height="720" src="http://www.catholicnewsagency.com/mamaneedscoffee/wp-content/uploads/2014/04/JPII.jpg" style="border: none; display: block; height: auto; margin: 5px auto; max-width: 100%; padding: 0px;" width="540" /></a></div>
<div style="font-size: 16px; line-height: 26px; margin-bottom: 20px; padding: 0px;">
I smiled because I’d known for years that this day would come, and I cried because I never dreamt I would be there to witness it.</div>
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St. John Paul II, I love you. And I owe, quite simply, <i style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">everything</i> to your intercession. Please never stop praying for me.</div>
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<img alt="P1080052" class=" aligncenter wp-image-843" height="674" src="http://www.catholicnewsagency.com/mamaneedscoffee/wp-content/uploads/2014/04/P1080052-1024x768.jpg" style="border: 0px; display: block; height: auto; margin: 5px auto; max-width: 100%; padding: 0px;" width="898" /></div>
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<em style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">“Have no fear of moving into the unknown. Simply step out fearlessly knowing that I am with you, therefore no harm can befall you; all is very, very well. Do this in complete faith and confidence.” Pope St. John Paul II</em></div>
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Jennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07923751596148085363noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1669762298855511295.post-69760057511412454732015-03-31T16:51:00.000-06:002015-03-31T16:53:17.809-06:00It was never about the cake<br />
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From an email blast sent to Helen Alvare's "Women Speak for Themselves" network of supporters yesterday afternoon: </div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"Indiana has passed a law which <em style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: inherit; font-style: italic; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">balances</em> religious freedom for citizens, groups and businesses, with the state’s “compelling interests” in requiring everybody to obey this or that particular law which might burden religion. It is not a remarkable law. The same language was passed federally by a bipartisan Congress in 1993 and signed by President Clinton. About 31 states have such a law either by statute or state constitutional interpretation."</blockquote>
Probably you've heard once or fifteen times in the past 48 hours how the state of <a href="http://www.catholicnewsagency.com/news/no-indiana-did-not-just-pass-a-law-discriminating-against-gay-people-heres-why-13174/">Indiana is trying to time travel back into the Middle Ages</a> and start hunting down practicing homosexuals and publicly flogging them in the town square for their sins of the flesh.<br />
<br />
At least that's the narrative our progressive mainstream media is broadcasting via every available channel, be they legitimate news sources or <a href="http://brandonvogt.com/apples-ceo-gets-wrong-discrimination-religious-freedom/">floundering, illogical op-eds by the very openly homosexual CEO's of very wealthy corporations</a> who are therefore allowed to have bigger and more important opinions than the average citizen.<br />
<br />
And this, y'all? This is crazy.<br />
<br />
This is the best example of how public opinion - <i>cultivated </i>public opinion carefully crafted and executed by liberal think tanks, billion dollar corporations, and academicians, is becoming the highest power in the land.<br />
<br />
<b>In short: laws need not be based in reason or reality, but must instead conform to popular public displays of outrage and emotion. </b><br />
<br />
But there's a catch.<br />
<br />
Some people - let's call them Christians to simplify the discussion, believe that sex is sacred and, as God revealed in Scripture, <b>is reserved for the exclusive marital relationship between one man and one woman.</b><br />
<br />
Now, Christians believe this to be true because it <i>is </i>true, speaking from a natural law perspective.<br />
<br />
God doesn't make arbitrary thou shalt nots: <b>if He says not to do it, it's because it's objectively wrong. </b>So murder. Lying. Stealing. Adultery (translation: sexual involvement with someone other than your spouse).<br />
<br />
Do some Christians (and lots of other people) do these things anyway? Of course. <b>Because human nature and original sin and lots and lots of falling down and repenting and getting back up.</b><br />
<br />
But now we have this prevailing cultural trend of not only <i>tolerating</i> a formerly forbidden and immoral behavior - homosexuality - but of <i>openly embracing and celebrating it. </i><br />
<br />
And I'm not speaking here of the <b>person</b> <i>struggling with</i> (or openly celebrating, as is more and more often the case) the disordered behavior and deviant attractions, but the very act of engaging in homosexual behavior. That's what we're being compelled to clap and cheer for.<br />
<br />
And this bill in Indiana? All it is is <b>the reiteration of an existing 20 year old federal law that 31 other states have some identical version of on the books that pledges protection for those individuals and businesses who <i>don't</i> choose to jump up and down and cheer. </b><br />
<br />
Does it say that you can discriminate against someone because you disagree with their lifestyle? No. Foolishness.<br />
<br />
All it offers is the chance for businesses and individuals who are being compelled by prevailing public opinion and an increasingly invasive federal government to protect themselves from directly violating their own consciences by participating in immoral acts.<br />
<br />
<b>Because unless the gay couple coming to ask for a wedding cake is planning on entering into some kind of lifelong platonic union of mutual celibacy, that's exactly what forcing someone to cater a gay "wedding" is doing: coercing their participation in the public celebration of immoral behavior: homosexuality.</b><br />
<br />
That's all this law is: an explicit protection for religious citizens who fear (and rightly so) the creeping encroachment of coercive government policies that directly contradict both reality and their deeply held moral beliefs.<br />
<br />
But you won't hear that in the media. Because the gay agenda is powerful, purposeful, and intent upon winning hearts and minds, by force if necessary.<br />
<br />
It was never about the wedding cake in the first place. It was always about - and will continue to be about - the systematic redefinition of our collective moral code.<br />
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<br />Jennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07923751596148085363noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1669762298855511295.post-42770694005662559232015-03-30T22:20:00.000-06:002015-03-30T22:22:16.291-06:00Temperamental ParentingMy second born, my sweet little John Paul Francis, he just has the most wonderful cheeks. Top and bottom (too much? Probably. But it was 77 degrees here today and, as they say, sun's out, bun's out.)<br />
<br />
He's my snuggler, the child ever in search of comforting arms and soothing words and a soft lap to land on. He also lets me kiss those soft cheeks over and over again, never once pushing me away or fighting the snuggle. He's never done hugging; he never pulls away first.<br />
<br />
Not coincidentally, he was also my only "overdue" baby, preferring to hang out for an entire<br />
<i>month </i>longer than his 37 week big brother and a good 3 weeks past his 38 week old little sis.<br />
<br />
I'm telling you, this kid is devoted to me.<br />
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<br />
It's taken me a few years to come to appreciate how deep his little soul is. He thinks about crazy things, and hours later he's <i>still </i>thinking about them, reflecting on joys and ruminating on perceived injustices alike. I can't parent him the same way I parent the other two, which shouldn't be surprising but somehow is, anyway. I have a word for him now though: melancholic. I'll explain later.<br />
<br />
It's surprising that each kid requires an entirely unique set of parenting parameters within which to operate, to some extent.<br />
<br />
<b>It's surprising to me that my kids don't think and act like I do.</b> Never more so than, say, when I'm frantically herding sleep drunken cats out the door for preschool pickup (late! again!) and somebody is distraught because he didn't get to select his preferred pair of superhero briefs and <i>oh the injustice of somebody else selecting and then helping you into your underwear.</i><br />
<br />
(Honestly, when I write it out like that, it <i>does</i> seem rather troubling.)<br />
<br />
And if I were the thinking type, I'd plan ahead to cut my nap time tap tapping short a good 10 minutes early each afternoon rather than burning it down to the wire, choleric style, and then expecting everyone else to jump when I bark "go!"<br />
<br />
Yes, that's exactly what I'd do. I'd note my melancholic son's tendency to wake up slow and snuggly and in need of some time to ponder and recalibrate to the waking world, and I'd gently rouse him and rub his little back, waiting patiently for his conscious brain to come back online while not at all thinking about the load of laundry I could be finishing or the dishwasher I could be loading or the emails I could be sending. Then we'd calmly collect his sister from her nursery, process to the minivan in an orderly fashion, and drive at or near the speed limit all the way across town to collect our 4th musketeer.<br />
<br />
Maybe tomorrow. Maybe after a good night's sleep and some careful reflection on the children I've actually been entrusted with and not the tiny clones of me that I was expecting to receive...maybe then I can manage a more humane afternoon routine.<br />
<br />
I'm really glad they're all so different, even if it is at times completely confounding. And I'm dying to see what the latest addition's makeup will have to offer. So far we have, as near as I can tell, a choleric sanguine who is an impossible 100% extroverted, a mild mannered melancholic introvert, and a phlegmatic sanguine who seems fairly ambidextrous in terms of social preference. Happy in her room alone, happy in a crowd.<br />
<br />
I love figuring out what each of my kids "are," temperamentally, and trying to learn ways to better engage them through understanding their unique set of strengths and weaknesses. My choleric sanguine eldest son is my biggest challenge <i>by a long shot</i>, and mostly because his need for human interaction is very literally limitless.<br />
<br />
I explained to him the concept of introversion versus extroversion a couple months ago in language a 4 year old could appreciate, and he actually started to cry when I expounded on the traits of an introvert. Tears. I guess of disappointment? Disbelief that anyone could or would need downtime? (mommy raises hand to the ceiling)<br />
<br />
Whatever the case, that moment crystalized for me the stark contrast between us, and the lifelong struggle I'll be engaged with (at least while he's under our roof) trying to balance my sanity, which is tenuous in the best of times, with his constant craving for companionship. God was so smart to put us together; I can't think of another relationship that has required more from me in terms of giving of self. Truly. And the days I won't give? Our worst. Hands down.<br />
<br />
So all this long winded soliloquizing to say: <b><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B007JYWQBQ?btkr=1">read this book</a>.</b> I'm not much for parenting books because they all tend to contradict each other, know what I mean? But this isn't really a parenting book. It's more like a code cracking manual, or an instruction booklet (but the good kind, not the IKEA kind).<br />
<br />
And if you happen to look up in disbelief at your polar opposite offspring sitting across from you at the breakfast table in a sudden rush of understanding when you're finished...well, you're welcome.<br />
<br />Jennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07923751596148085363noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1669762298855511295.post-38970558992875406642015-03-25T17:47:00.001-06:002015-03-25T17:47:38.032-06:00And the Word became a clump of cellsAnd dwelt among us.<br />
<br />
As I sit here halfway cooked with this latest addition to our little family, feeling the effects of pregnancy with every fiber of my being, I'm also thinking about Mary.<br />
<br />
I'm thinking about how her life changed radically with a message from an angel, a shocking invitation into something so far beyond her own plans that all she could manage was calm and reasonable "Yes, but how can this be?" - going straight for the logical inquiry over the more obvious "why is there a terrifying angel appearing in my room," or the more nuanced "<i>God</i> wants to have a <i>baby</i> with me?!" route.<br />
<br />
One thing that didn't seem to have occurred to her?<br />
<br />
<b>To question whether or not there was, in fact, a baby involved.</b><br />
<br />
God's proposal to humanity, sealed in the flesh through Mary's fiat, was - and is - a Person.<br />
<br />
Not a <i>potential</i> person. Not an <i>eventual</i> person.<br />
<br />
<i>A real person</i>. From the moment of His conception, miraculous (note: NOT immaculate. Wrong feast day) thought it was, He was both fully divine and fully human, and Mary became fully a mother that day when she gave her consent and conceived by the Holy Spirit.<br />
<br />
Which is why the argument against the personhood of the unborn has always struck me as so profoundly stupid in light of the Incarnation.<br />
<br />
He was <i>there</i>, from the beginning. His little cousin John the Baptist knew as much, and he leapt in recognition at 12-week-old embryonic Jesus from his own uterine perspective.<br />
<br />
Any woman who has ever been pregnant can attest to the incredible other-ness of being with child. From the very earliest days following conception, that baby is <i>there</i>, growing and changing and developing as humans continue to do over their entire lifespan, but undeniably and irreversibly there. You can kill the baby at any point, of course, but you can't undo what has already been done: the creation of an entirely new human person.<br />
<br />
And that's what makes today so special. That's why if you count forward in time 9 months from today in the Church calendar you land on the embodiment of the Incarnation: Christmas. He arrives today in a real sense, tucked safely in the womb of His Mother and ours, and while He remains hidden for another 9 months of growth and development, history is forever altered because He now exists in human flesh.<br />
<br />
So happy feast day, Mama Mary, from one gestating mother to another. Thanks for changing the course of salvation history and loosing the bonds of Eve's disobedience by your generous and unreserved "yes."<br />
<br />
We owe you - quite simply - everything.<br />
<br />
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<br />Jennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07923751596148085363noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1669762298855511295.post-43336085448441553202015-03-24T15:21:00.001-06:002015-03-24T16:15:47.728-06:00House Tour + Insta-gratificationIt's been a good long while since I posted an old school straight-up mommy blogger style post. And I'm sorry for that!<br />
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I'm still trying to find the right balance to keep you, my faithful old friends, satisfied and entertained without traumatizing my new audience at CNA. Because let's be honest, I'm not going to radically alter my voice or content, but some trauma you have to ease into.<br />
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The new blog is almost up and running, the design is going to be beautiful, and I can't wait to show it to you. In the meantime, I'm still "here," and so I figured why not post a little fluff to pass the time?<br />
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Oh, also, I finally embraced the modern world and joined <a href="https://instagram.com/jkuebbing/">Instagram</a> yesterday. Welcome to the 90's, Mr. Banks. (And you all were right: it's the most fun of all social media.)<br />
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So something that I really, really <i>love </i>(because I'm a creeper?) is seeing other people's homes. I'm a would be decorating junkie and an HGTV addict, so there's nothing more fun to me than seeing somebody else's style/space and being able to envision them more accurately in their natural habitat when I'm reading their words. (If you're trying to decide if you're disturbed or flattered, go with flattered: I want to see your living room.)<br />
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Anyway, do you want to see my house? It's been enjoying a little TLC while I <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1607747308/ref=as_li_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=1607747308&linkCode=as2&tag=wwwmothermagc-20&linkId=ESFVJY3M44HPJZSB">KonMari'd</a> the shit out of my wardrobe/kitchen/bookshelves/decor, and I'm <i>much</i> happier with the way it looks now as opposed to 2 weeks ago. Much.<br />
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It's still not perfect, you know, because it's a work in progress. But it makes me happy to coax it along; I get a rush of satisfaction from finding a new spot for a tired piece of furniture or a neglected vase. Cheapest of thrills.<br />
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So, here you go, a virtual tour of casa del coffee:<br />
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First up, the living room/front entry way.<br />
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I just bought gorgeous (and cheap!) long white curtains at IKEA and I'm dying to get them up around that bay window. I have aspirations of hanging them high and wide and framing the gorgeousness of all that natural light that floods into the front of our southern facing house. And since we have a blackout shade we can close at night for privacy and light control, I was free to go with my heart and choose impractical ineffective and oh-so-lovely white. </div>
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The oriental rug was a wedding gift and, while beautiful and expensive, is totally not my taste, but it's here and it's lovely and so I work around it and let it do most of the heavy lifting in terms of pattern/color in this room.</div>
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Next up, the family room. The blankest of blank canvases right now because I just spent an afternoon "quieting the space" ala <a href="http://www.thenester.com/2011/05/how-to-edit.html">Myquillyn</a> and now it's sitting pretty and plain and waiting for the <i>right </i>touches, not just putting up with whatever I happened to have on hand the weekend we moved in. Not that there's anything wrong with going ahead and throwing <i>something </i>up on the walls, but after a year of not quite right, I'm happy to let it sit semi-undone for a bit while I figure it out.</div>
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(I should have disclaimed this sooner, but me + my iPhone 4 are do not a professional photographer make, and I'm not really that skilled on the layout end of things, either, in terms of uploading images. So if this looks like the work of an amateur, at least I'm transparent.)</div>
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Most of our stuff is thrifted, and here's the big fat caveat with that: it takes multiple visits to multiple thrift stores over multiple weeks and months to arrive at a "finished" product, at least for me it does. So even though I've found some amazing stuff over the past year and a half since we moved in here, it did take lots of time and patience to get there. Not thrifted: the white china platter (wedding gift), the leather couch (our first repatriation purchase upon arrival Stateside, American Furniture Warehouse), and the round framed mirror (Walmart. Shudder.) Everything else: Goodwill/Saver's/Homegoods/mom and dad's hand me downs.</div>
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Next: the opposite of a gourmet kitchen. But whatev, it's a decent-ish size and I have a <i>huge </i>pantry, and my husband is really gifted in the charism of doing dinner dishes before bed. So I've got no complaints. Wait, no, I do have one; the heinous "white" linoleum hanging onto the beleaguered floor for dear life. At least it's not carpet?</div>
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Heading down the hall we find ourselves in the master bedroom. It's big enough to fit our king sized bed (the luxury!) but not really big enough to fit anything else, and that's fine by me. I keep it as visually uncluttered as possible because I feel 100% less stressed when it's clean and calm.</div>
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(<i>How</i> do I get such amazing shots? I'm telling you, it's the 2 year old camera phone and the steady caffeinated hand. #gifted #blessed)<br />
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Oh, I forgot, here's a shot of the basement which contains <i>two </i>semi finished guest rooms, an avocado green full bath with some missing ceiling tiles, <i>and</i> a laundry room and play room. </div>
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That stairwell, my friends, is the reason there's zero toy clutter on the main floor. (That and I'm ruthless with the donations. Ruthless.)</div>
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Moving on to the nursery wing.</div>
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How cool is the boys' dresser? It weighs 200 lbs and our landlords didn't want to bother taking it with, so we inherited it. Legend has it the original owner/saint decopauger is now happily tucked away in a convent somewhere, none the wiser that her lovely original piece now primarily houses Pull Ups and filthy pajama pants.</div>
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And my favorite space in the whole house? (Well, at least until this past weekend's decluttering fest); Genevieve's room.</div>
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We don't have a dining room because we're not fancy like that. Actually, it's because I opportunistically transformed the space into my gym/home office while nobody was paying attention. I'm sure if we were trying to fit teenaged boys around our kitchen table we might need this space, but for now I'm super super lucky I can use it this way. Nothing fancy, but it's a happy place that lets me get my work done.</div>
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And finally, some random shots of the front porch and our front yard, where the children frolic as I survey my kingdom from behind the storm door or the bay window. I'm sure the neighbors can't handle how hands on my parenting is.</div>
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Okay one last shot: Evie can stand! If anyone is still hanging on after this endless stream of blurry cellphone pics, you deserve to see something cute.</div>
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What about you? Up for showing a little behind the scenes of your home? Maybe you could throw a little something together and drop a link down below? I'm all eyes, because the only thing better than Pinterest is <i>personalized</i> Pinterest, you know?</div>
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Jennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07923751596148085363noreply@blogger.com25tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1669762298855511295.post-65816298699229927882015-03-19T15:31:00.001-06:002015-03-19T19:18:39.797-06:00You are my luxury Sometimes, thanks to social media, the internet feels like a very small place, a limited orbit. I shared <b><a href="http://mobile.nytimes.com/blogs/parenting/2015/03/12/stay-at-home-parent-is-not-a-luxury/?smid=fb-share&_r=0&referrer">this</a></b> on the <a href="https://www.facebook.com/pages/Mama-Needs-Coffee/226692234136707?ref=hl">blog's Facebook page</a> last night after seeing it posted on another site, but by morning it was everywhere.<br />
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Maybe you've read it by now, in which the "luxury" of stay at home motherhood is contrasted with the "necessities" for survival, as so deemed by society at large. </div>
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I thought it was a well written <a href="http://mobile.nytimes.com/blogs/parenting/2015/03/12/stay-at-home-parent-is-not-a-luxury/?smid=fb-share&_r=0&referrer">piece</a> that walked the fine line between values statements and judgmental proclamations handily. Not everyone agrees with that assessment, but I think that's more to do with the emotionally charged nature of the debate (mom-at-home vs. mom-at-work), and not any fault of the writer's.</div>
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My own impression? I thought it was spot on. And before that gets me in trouble with my working mama friends, hear me out.</div>
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<b>I see you, too. I know you must struggle to leave them every day</b>, to put on your professional face and set your primary mom identity aside from 9-5. I know because you love your kids as much as I love mine, and that while I get a thrill of freedom and relief over the occasional half day in the office every other week or so, spent in meetings or working on a special project, <b>you have to do it every single day, and that it probably doesn't feel much like escape to you. </b></div>
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Home probably feels like <i>your</i> escape when you pull into the driveway at night, because that's where you left your heart when you pulled the door closed behind you that morning. </div>
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And I don't envy you for that. Because I know that no matter how much you love your job, that can't be easy, and that no amount of uninterrupted time in the restroom can make up for the pain of that separation. </div>
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I'm not saying you shouldn't be working outside the home, by the way. You've made your choice and I've made mine, and we're both doing our very best for our children.</div>
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But when I contemplate the idea of luxury like the New York Times piece touched on, when I stop to think about what makes life sweet and satisfying and ultimately, worth living, it isn't cars or a beautiful home that come to mind, or honestly, even being able to pay my bills on time.</div>
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It's them.</div>
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<b>My children are my luxury.</b> </div>
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So in that sense, yes, I have embraced the most luxurious life possible, in choosing to stay home with them, to work a job that fits mostly into nap times and late nights, and in forgoing some of the more typical decisions that might otherwise accompany one's early to mid thirties in modern America.</div>
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We're nowhere near buying a house, but that has more to do with me choosing to spend invisible money on higher education more than a decade ago than with the cost of diapers. We drive older, sort of ugly cars. But there are <i>two </i>of them, which sometimes causes me to catch my breath at the sheer indulgence of it. We did the one car thing and then, living overseas, the no car thing. A car is an enormous luxury.</div>
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<b>But I'd trade my minivan for the chance to be home with them if it came to it, honestly I would. And I know couples who <i>have </i>made that decision, no regrets.</b></div>
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There's something that only another parent can understand: your child is an unstoppable and ever-changing force of nature, and childhood is fleeting. </div>
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And every time I leave them, even if just for a weekend away with their daddy, or an hour or two at the coffee shop, I long to be with them again. Sometimes I even miss them while they're sleeping, an admission that only hormones can be responsible for. (You know you've made the late night forehead kissing pilgrimage too, don't deny it.)</div>
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And I know too, that no matter how far my eyes roll up into my head in Costco when yet another well-intenetioned stranger tells me that I'm so lucky to be able to stay home with them all day...in the end, they're right.</div>
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<i>I am so lucky</i>. And I need to do a better job keeping that in mind, day in and day out. <b>Because I <i>chose</i> this life</b>, and we are choosing it daily, as a couple, and there are sacrifices and sufferings and little deaths involved, as there are in any other big decision. But when we add them up nothing compares to the immeasurable luxury of time with our children. </div>
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And I don't have to explain that to a single other person. Besides, they couldn't possibly understand what I do: <b>that <i>these</i> particular kids are beyond worth it for <i>this</i> particular mother</b>, and that no matter what else I could be doing in a professional capacity, it pales in comparison to what I've been asked to do within the 4 walls of my own slightly ill-kempt home. </div>
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And that's not a judgement on anyone else's lifestyle choices. Just the recognition that my own life is, indeed, immeasurably privileged.</div>
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Jennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07923751596148085363noreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1669762298855511295.post-26773345150156042312015-03-16T13:40:00.000-06:002015-03-16T17:35:23.395-06:00Bond of brothers My boys are lying facedown and soaking wet in a patch of sun on our thawed-out deck, relishing the 79 degree Colorado sunshine after a long winter (which, in all honesty, is probably nowhere <i>close</i> to finished, but I don't have the heart to tell them...) and taking turns slapping each other on the back.<br />
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"What's happening?!" they trade off shouting, dissolving into giggles as they slap each other over and over again, imitating a character from one of their favorite books. They're drenched from freezing hose water and their rash guards and tiny swimsuits are plastered to their bodies. And they are supremely happy.<br />
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Just a week or two ago, down with fevers and ear infections and endless 20 degree days, these same boys were scratching each other's metaphorical eyes out in unrelenting Lego squabbles and disagreements over whose turn it was to open the garage door with the special remote. And to be fair, they'll probably be fighting again in 15 minutes.<br />
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But for now they are deeply content and completely engrossed in one another, their 19-month age difference barely a blip on their consciousness except, of course, when Joey feels the need to assert his chronological superiority with every checkout guy, barista, and random stranger in the library.<br />
Then there will be a reckoning of birth order, a rattling off of personal information and an unbidden recitation of names.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">RIP, mohawks.</td></tr>
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<b>Their personalities are so different, and yet they have a sameness between them that can only be explained by a shared pedigree. </b><br />
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One is bossy, loud, impatient, slow to see the needs of others; the other more gentle, more reflective, more willing to console and to share. But I see the way they rub against each other's temperaments, one emboldened by the fierce desire to keep up with an adored big brother, the other occasionally gentled by a younger one's needs.<br />
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It's amazing the way they were clearly designed to be together. And I'm amazed at how very little I had to do with it. I mean yes, I produced them both, but I couldn't have planned the ways they complete each other, the ways they <i>compete </i>with each other, the ways they force generosity and coax cooperation and unselfishness out of day to day situations.<br />
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I have no doubt they'd learn these things eventually, be it in school or the workplace. But I'd rather they learned them here, now, sooner...so they have as much time as possible to sink deep in, becoming woven into the fabric of developing personalities.<br />
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Their baby sister is beloved by them both, but not fully <i>of</i> their world yet. She's been grudgingly allowed into the bathtub after dinner time, and I'm seeing increased efforts to include her in playtime (or at least throw toys in her path to prevent screaming fits), but she hasn't breached their shared imaginary world.<br />
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Maybe as she grows she'll be welcomed into the club, or maybe the next sibling, growing now beneath my beleaguered ribcage, will be her match.<br />
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<b>But he or she will be so much more than that, too.</b> More than just another playmate or a contrasting personality to add to the crew; a unique and wholly unknown <i>other</i> to enter into the intimate world my kids share only with each other. Sometimes while I watch them play my heart constricts fiercely at the thought that my time with them is limited by the difference in our ages. I might get 50 years with them if I'm lucky. Their siblings might get 80.<br />
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They'll grow old together because they're growing up together. I know it's true, because every week on Wednesday or Thursday night I slip out of the house after bedtime duties and drive a few miles to a predetermined spot to meet two of my sisters and, occasionally, our brother who live nearby. We have drinks and sometimes dinner, too, and we laugh about stuff only people who survived life with the same crazy parents (hi, mom and dad!) under the same roof can.<br />
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And now that babies have come and jobs have demanded relocations and friends have dispersed across the globe, we've become, just as mom and dad endlessly reminded us we would, each other's best grown up friends.<br />
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I can't wait to see that for my boys. Even though I probably won't be privy to the inner workings of it. Even though I'm already being left behind, imperceptibly, day by day as they grow and change and need less of me, but arguabley more of each other.<br />
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I hope when they're sharing beers together one day 30 years from now they can forgive a whole host of <i>my</i> failures and shortcomings as a parent for the simple fact that I gave them each their best friend. And I hope they encourage each other to strive tirelessly to improve their aim, because their bathroom smells exactly the way you might imagine a small space shared by two masculine preschoolers would.<br />
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Love you, boys. And I love your love for each other. Don't ever let it grow cold.<br />
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<br />Jennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07923751596148085363noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1669762298855511295.post-54549571265593974272015-03-09T10:23:00.002-06:002015-03-09T14:08:34.198-06:00Sanity hacks for the tired parentAs demonstrated so, um, eloquently? Painstakingly honestly? in <a href="http://www.mamaneedscoffee.com/2015/03/you-can-have-more-than-2-kids-but-dont.html">my post</a> last week, I'm tired. I'm a tired, washed up old young mom, and I need all the help I can get.<br />
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I'm guessing, based upon the overwhelming response of solidarity, that there are a few of you out there, too. </div>
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Jen Fulwiler wrote a great piece a couple years ago that examined <a href="http://www.conversiondiary.com/2013/01/a-meditation-on-the-shocking-idea-that-maybe-were-actually-not-just-lazy-whiners.html">the fundamental difficulty we face in modern motherhood</a>, focusing on the way the breakdown of physical community - <i>real</i> community - like the kind that used to be found in neighborhoods (and maybe still is in yours, if you're fortunate) has fundamentally altered our daily landscape.</div>
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It's more or less necessary for mental health for most adults to have <i>some </i>human interaction on a daily basis. If it must be virtual, then so be it, and hence, the explosion of social media and the mommy blog movement.</div>
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But it's <i>so </i>much better if it's in person.</div>
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Even I, a dyed in the wool introvert if ever there was one, will cop to the truth that staying home all day alone with little kids is hard. Part of what makes it so is the isolation. </div>
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Another large contributing factor? Being "it" in terms of entertainment, authority, empathy, etc. for a small army. Or even for a single kiddo - some of my toughest days of SAHMing were with my firstborn in his infancy, when I, still fresh from a dynamic office environment, found myself suddenly and deafeningly <i>alone</i> all day long, all week long. It was a huge adjustment.</div>
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Of course, now I look back on that time and long for uninterrupted stretches of napping potential and housekeeping prowess (though, to be fair, at the time I was probably crouched over the packnplay making sure he was breathing if ever he did sleep), but, c'est la vie, hindsight is blinding.</div>
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I'm 5 years into the game now, which isn't a <i>lot </i>of time, but it's long enough to get through college (ahem, just barely, in my case) and so it's long enough to pick up a few tips and tricks of the trade for surviving the eternal winter of staying at home with small children. Here are some of my favorite go-to's:</div>
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<b>1. You are not their entertainment (but sometimes Netflix is)</b></div>
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I had really high hopes of being a screen free, hands on Montessori style mother when my first two were very small. I set up little activity corners for them and filled them with objects to sort and stack, and I monitored their consumption of media carefully. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I still do this, at least as far as piles of toys in the basement corners can be considered "curated content for exploration" and I'm still very careful about what they watch. See me painstakingly select "Netflix Kids" and pull the screen up, inviting them to thoughtfully choose between the Wild Kratts and Daniel Tiger. Watch me scrutinize the clock, calculating the time between now and dinner, and then make a generous dispensation for "just one more" episode. Notice me generously donating additional siblings to the dynamic to make playtime more interesting (and giving our sports teams a deeper depth on the roster, down the road.)</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Y'all, this is survival mode. And a wise old mother once told me that the advent of television was God's gift to mothers to offset the decline in childhood mortality in the industrial age. </div>
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<br /></div>
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(Which is <i>horrible</i>, okay? And a joke! But definitely one that I'm still laughing at...)</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Oh, and a painfully necessary addendum to the above paragraph? Nothing against screen free parenting, Montessori schools, or moms who like to craft with their kids. We're all wired a little differently on the inside, aren't we? And that's ok.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b>2. DVD players are in cars now</b></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
When we bought our nothing too fancy 9 year old mini van, it might as well have been a spaceship for all the upgraded features it boasted over, say, a Roman city bus. One of those prominently emphasized by our enthusiastic salesman was the drop down DVD player. I scoffed, because surely my children could enjoy car rides around town in the MIRACLE OF A SINGLE FAMILY VEHICLE and not also be expecting onboard entertainment, but wouldn't you know, the thing does come in handy at times. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
For example, during the 12th consecutive day of light snowfall and temperatures in the 8-11 degree Farenheit range. You know what those days are awesome for? Driving aimlessly around town blasting the Frozen: Sing along! edition for 50 or 60 minutes of choreographed boredom busting. And maybe hitting the drive through at the end. Boom, morning over.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b>3. Indoor wading pools</b></div>
<div>
<b><br /></b></div>
<div>
At our house, summer is for backyard water play. By 9 am we've got the slip n slide unrolled, the baby pool filled, and a sizable mud pit attracting diaper clad cousins fermenting in the side yard. In the winter when the mercury rises about 50, my poor native Coloradan children who were born without a sense of temperature or a knack for appropriate public attire (geographical disabilities) have been known to strip off their shirts, kick off their shoes and run hopeful into the backyard, searching for the hose. (No, kids, it's rolled up for the season. Please put your Tevas on and curb your enthusiasm till May.)</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
But there's always the bathtub. I know the trend this week is to breath a deep sigh of relief and admit that your child hasn't been bathed in 2 weeks or longer, but when I read the articles that starting circulating last week on the importance of building up microbes or something, I laughed until the tears came, because not only have we had the most hideous winter of illness on recent record, but my kids take 2-3 baths per <i>day. </i>Yeah. Can't believe they're not immune to all sorts of ailments!</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And you know what? I don't care if it has destroyed their delicate immune systems (which I don't believe for a second) because of two things: first, they're just as wet all summer long because of the aforementioned wading pool fetish, and second, we don't use soap. Because it was long ago emptied down the drain in a fit of toddler creativity.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Bam, microbes intact.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b>4. Costco is a wonderland </b></div>
<div>
<b><br /></b></div>
<div>
You probably recall that Target and I are on a break right now (3 months strong, and the budget to show for it!) but you'd best believe that the biggest adjustment to life outside the Bullseye was what to do with the children on those frigid days when milk and diapers and morale were all running low. Well, now we go to Costco, the magical land of free samples, giant carts, and comfortable furniture to lounge about on. And maybe a salty hot dog at the end, if everyone behaves themselves.<br />
<br />
And you know what else? There are no dollar bins at Costco. <b>Nobody has ever "accidentally" spent $13 dollars on crap at Costco</b>. You know why that is? Because no single thing there costs less than $13 to begin with, so you tend to think through those purchases.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I'm never excited to go, but I'm always glad we went. Because everybody's tummies are full and 2 hours have mysteriously ticked by and I have 48 cans of crisp cold La Croix to stock my fridge for preggie happy hours.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b>5. Phone a friend</b></div>
<div>
<b><br /></b></div>
<div>
Some days are just beyond redemption. So why not throw reason to the wind and welcome another 2-4 dirty children into your home for some good old fashioned team parenting with a friend or sister? 3 whining kids of your own might feel overwhelming, but when there are 7 of them all clamoring for snacks and thundering through the kitchen in superhero capes, it usually feels more comical than anything else. Some of my most successful "playdates" have resulted from 3 pm phone calls to a desperate friend in a similar situation, only to find us 40 minutes later sipping wine in relative chaos while our beautiful babies trash one or the other of our basements. If you can't beat 'em, multiply 'em ... and pour yourself a drink.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b>6. The one-hour recharge </b></div>
<div>
<b><br /></b></div>
<div>
For some days there is simply no other remedy than escape. And so, with dinner made (or not) and kids handed off to daddy, I flee the house at the bedtime hour. This accomplishes the twofold purpose of preserving my mental health for another sunrise, and allowing daddy some wonderful bonding time when the children are at their absolute most precious. Wink. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Sometimes it's a hot tea at the coffee shop down the road, sometimes it's a solo trip to the grocery store, and sometimes it's a half hour in Adoration, but I swear by these little escape trips that leave me exponentially refreshed and recharged and able to kiss sweet sleeping foreheads and mean it when I return by 8 pm.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So there you have it, some of my most effective trade secrets (and admissions that would have shamed me 5 years ago. You live, you learn.)</div>
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What helps you keep your nurturing neurons firing?</div>
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Jennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07923751596148085363noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1669762298855511295.post-7609512641350522722015-03-04T14:32:00.003-07:002015-03-04T14:41:06.059-07:00The lonely mission of motherhood<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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If I've learned anything during my transition from mom-plus-2 to
mom-with-a-double-fistfull it's this: the culture at large does not
understand you, or your predicament.<br />
<br />
You know, the one you got
yourself into when you got yourself knocked up so far outside
the status quo that strangers at playgrounds goggle their eyes at you
and actually stutter the number "4" because it's so shocking.<br />
<br />
<i>And it is, by the way, fairly shocking.</i><br />
<br />
The
average family size in the United States of America in 2013 (the most
recent year I could find reliable statistics for) was 1.9, a number that
has held steady for at least half a decade. Which means by the time you
get your "one boy, one girl" matched set lined up, you're already
technically outpacing the national norm.<br />
<br />
So when you roll into
Costco with a trio of small people riding dirty in the double cart and
then have the audacity to cut a maternal profile should you be foolish
enough to leave your winter coat unzipped over the burgeoning baby bump
below...you're gonna get some arched eyebrows in your general direction.<br />
<br />
I'm grateful to be on the receiving end of <i>mostly</i>
positive feedback when I've got my small-but-multiplying crew out in
public, but make no mistake, it's not an "atta girl, good for you" warm
fuzziness that usually greets us, but generally more of an incredulous
"better you than me," or "you will overcome, mom" vibe.<br />
<br />
But God help me if the day is going downhill, or if anyone has a public display of insurrection.<br />
<br />
If
there's one thing a culture which is fundamentally opposed to (or even
merely apathetic to the existence of) the child is notable for, it is in
not knowing in the least how to react to one when encountered in its
native habitat of, say, the peanut butter aisle at King Soopers.<br />
<br />
Nervous laughter, averted eyes, or, if we're especially unlucky, pursed lips and disapproving scowls.<br />
<br />
<b>And
sometimes the only thing harder than being a mom to a bunch of little
kids is the way the general public reacts to them - to you - when you
muster the audacity to take them out of the house.</b><br />
<br />
Listen,
I'm not looking for some kind of medal of recognition when I hit up the grocery store at 4 pm with my wild
posse, but for the love of all the generic Oreos on the shelf, don't
stare at us like we're the 8th world wonder because we're there.<br />
<br />
You
might be the first adult I've laid eyes on since 7 am, and I'd love if I
didn't have to pretend everything was fine fine FIIIIIINE with an
unnatural glint in my eyes and a slightly manic smile fixed on my face,
because otherwise you might think that I'm not enjoying myself and this
little child army of mine.<br />
<br />
<i>God forbid you think that.</i><br />
<br />
God
forbid I'm allowed to demonstrate, in public, how hard this is, because
after all, didn't I literally and figuratively make my bed and lie in
it, and then repeat the feat 2 or 3 or 4 more times after that?<br />
<br />
Yes,
I know what causes this. I know where babies come from. I do have a tv,
but it's in the basement and we generally prefer Netflix, but that's
beside the point.<br />
<br />
<b>I'm raising children in a culture that despises them</b>,
for all intents and purposes, both in word and in deed, and indeed, by
the very laws of the land itself. And it kind of feels like it despises
me, too, most of the time.<br />
<br />
Motherhood is already hard as hell,
because, yes, diapers and bedtime chaos and ear infections and the
crushing isolation of a post industrial society bound up by fiberoptic
cables, but fractured of any physical community...but the difficulty is <i>greatly</i> magnified by the public disdain for and incomprehension of our children's - and to some extent, our own - existence.<br />
<br />
So
what does this mean? Well, lots of the time it means I've got to be the
brave little soldier mother, the one bucking the trend and smiling and
saying "yes" over and over, not because I'm oppressed or brainwashed or
lacking in education or opportunity, <b>but because I chose this of my own free will.</b><br />
And
for that, I have forfeited the right to complain, at least outside the 4
walls of my home or my safe little corner of cyberspace.<br />
<br />
I have
abdicated the right to expect a sympathetic ear or an understanding
spirit from a total stranger, or even my next door neighbor, because
we're swimming upstream in this household and most of the other salmon
we're commuting with are not only staring at us in blind
incomprehension, but sometimes they're throwing their slippery bodies in
our way. Because we might be idiots. And we're clearly not operating
out of our right minds.<br />
<br />
And some days it's harder than others.<br />
<br />
Sometimes
I want to not have to pretend that everything is fine while we're out
and about only to come home and collapse in a sobbing mess behind the
bathroom door once the groceries are put away and the snacks are dolled
out.<br />
<br />
I want to share with the other moms I encounter that it <i>is</i> hard, that I'm <i>not</i> doing it all, and that even though there are more days than not where I feel like crying by 8 pm, <b>I wouldn't have chosen another life than this one.</b><br />
<i>Can't it be hard but also worth it?</i><br />
<br />
Can't
I confide in some well-intentioned stranger that it is a struggle to be
this busy and pregnant again, but that some hard things are worth
doing, and that pursuing a life of self-actualiztaion and leisure isn't
the only thing we were put on this earth for?<br />
<br />
Can I be unafraid
of coming across as a stereotype of the tired, overwrought, and
oppressed mother who hasn't yet happened upon the wonders of birth
control and daycare if I let the smile slip from my face and I make
honest eye contact with you while my 4 year old is lying on his back
sobbing in the library because his favorite dinosaur book was checked
out by somebody else, and his two other siblings are ready to leave now,
and we can't spend 20 minutes hunting for an acceptable substitute?<br />
<br />
I
wonder how much of the hardness of my hardest days is because it is
hard right now, and really lonely, too, and I feel compelled to put on a
brave face and pretend that it isn't hard, out of fear that someone
judge me accurately to be the sobbing, overworked mess of a mother that I
really am.<br />
<br />
Motherhood is always hard, and it always has been.
But motherhood in a culture that shies away from self-immolation and
self-denial and radical generosity in grotesque horror is especially
challenging. And sure, I'm doing my little part to buck that trend, bit
by bit, baby by baby. But it isn't easy.<br />
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I remind myself over and over again of Pope Benedict's words (but not often enough, obviously) <b>"The world promises you comfort, but you were not made for comfort, you were made for greatness." </b><br />
<br />
But
God help me if I don't crave comfort, just the same. I just wish I
could talk about it honestly sometimes without getting counseled on the
latest, greatest advancement in IUD technology. <br />
<br />
I didn't say I wanted to <i>exterminate</i>
the little darlings, just that raising them is hard, and doing so in a
culture that sees them primarily in terms of risk and cost is
exhausting. Because I feel compelled more often than not to play along
like everything is rosy, lest I be adding fuel to the anti-child fire.<br />
<br />
<br />
And
then, wouldn't you know it, I am myself exhausted by the effort to make
this look good, make this look enjoyable and attractive and worth it. <br />
<br />
It <i>is</i>
all those things, and more. So much more. But I'm so tired. And
sometimes I just don't have it in me to pretend otherwise, even when I
know people are watching. <br />
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<br />Jennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07923751596148085363noreply@blogger.com42tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1669762298855511295.post-7315306860048405232015-03-02T12:34:00.002-07:002015-03-02T19:29:34.937-07:00What's so wrong with trashy books (or movies)?Our weekend was filled with runny noses, pink eyes (I die. The second worst of childhood ailments, dethroned only by vomit), and lots and lots of reading.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The kids and I and even daddy all had books in piles around the house, freshly liberated from the library down the street and competing with Netflix for our winter-bound attention.</div>
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I must confess I spent the better part of Saturday reading a book I probably should not have finished...and I'm going to tell you why.</div>
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<div>
But first, a little background. Last week I asked my lovely readers who follow along on <a href="https://www.facebook.com/pages/Mama-Needs-Coffee/226692234136707?ref=hl">Facebook</a> for some literary recommendations. And boy did I get some. You guys are so awesome, you flooded my newsfeed with more than 100 titles.</div>
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One evening later that week, after bedtime, I snuggled down with my laptop and my library account and went on a little hold binge, filling my e-cart with close to 50 titles. It was addictive, like shopping without money. Well, maybe like shopping with taxpayer money...but less of a sting than Amazon, for sure. (50 titles was a bit enthusiastic though, I will admit. Especially since 20 of them popped up in my email the next day as "ready for pickup." Oops.)</div>
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I trudged through the snow with one small boy in tow and we retrieved about a dozen titles, probably more than I could read in 2 weeks, but hey, a girl can dream. </div>
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Sure enough, the powers of illness and weekend frigidity combined and was stayed inside reading <i>plenty. </i>Enough for me to finish one entire novel and crack into another one, only to be discarded and replaced by a 3rd option.</div>
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<div>
Here's where things get weird though. You see, the first book I read, while engaging, was ... <i>questionable</i> in terms of content. It was little things here and there at first, offhand references to casual sex. Details about make out sessions. Backstories involving (thankfully) derailed trips to the abortion clinic. And things kind of escalated from there.</div>
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The problem was though, I was so engaged in the story line and the characters by the time things got really steamy (read: super trashy) it was hard to shut the book and walk away. So I didn't. I read the whole dang thing and pretty much enjoyed it but definitely squirmed through increasingly larger sections of it. </div>
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<b>And afterwards, I felt acutely that I had betrayed an essential part of myself: my conscience.</b></div>
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For someone who can write confidently about <a href="http://www.mamaneedscoffee.com/2015/02/50-shades-of-pain-sterile-sex-and.html">skipping 50 Shades of S&M</a> and has no problem flipping over the top copy of Cosmo in the checkout line, when it came to a book that was already in hand and being enjoyed, I had a more difficult time stepping away, <i>even though I was fully aware that it was bad for me.</i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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And no, I don't think that I committed any mortal sin by finishing a smutty novel, because I was skimming through the squirmy parts and was definitely repelled by - not attracted to - the sins being committed on the pages. But still. I didn't look away.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And I should have. I should have shut the book and played with my kids. Or picked up another title and tried again. Or, hell, painted my toenails or jumped on the elliptical or taken a nice long bath. There are <i>plenty</i> of things a tired mom can do with her limited leisure time that don't involve torrid affairs and steamy sex scenes in the back of cars.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Because here's the thing: every time I expose myself to the glamorization and normalization of evil - be it promiscuous teens losing their virginity, extramarital affairs, premarital sex, period - I lose a little bit of my natural (and supernatural) sensitivity to these sins.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
It matters little that I will probably never personally commit them, (and I'm more than aware that t<i>here but for the grace of God go I); </i>but when I am granting them entrance into my imagination - and my heart, because it dwells there, too - then I am throwing open an opportunity to grow not in virtue, but in vice. <b>To do one thing with my "real" life, but to play by different standards inside the equally-real world of the mind.</b></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And why invite those imaginary characters to come and live inside of me, occupying space in my brain and my heart where I'm desperately trying to cultivate virtue to impart to my kids, and to overcome the smallness and the very real fallenness of my own interior world?</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
We all struggle with sin, and thanks to the grace of God, we all have access to the grace to overcome them. Again. And again.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
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But that is by no means a license to roll around in the mud in our minds, rationalizing away the imaginary teflon divider between body and mind, spirit and flesh.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
What we put into our bodies - our minds, our <i>selves - </i>matters. It matters because it becomes a part of us, just as much as the food we eat and the water we drink. It is incorporated into us in a permanent way. And as much as I <i>have</i> the authority over what will become irrevocably a part of me, it is my duty to exhort quality control over the raw material.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
That's why it's not okay to go see a porno movie, even if it's mass-produced and wildly popular.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
That's why I should probably delete that raunchy rom-com from my Amazon playlist, even though "it's a cultural classic" and "a little smut never hurt anybody." Because actually, all sins start small, and they have to start somewhere.</div>
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<div>
It's hard enough to cultivate virtue in a culture that is anti-virtuous, the enshrines and celebrates the very things we are commanded to avoid: murder, adultery, gossip, slander. </div>
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Why compound the difficulty by filling our brains with the crap we're trying so hard not to step in ourselves?</div>
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Why read stories about characters succumbing to temptations we're striving mightily to overcome ourselves, entertaining plot lines that, if played out in vivo, would land us right in the confessional (and maybe divorce court, or prison)?</div>
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<div>
The past 6 years of living without cable has made me much, much more sensitive to televised smut than college Jenny ever dreamed of being. So yeah, my standards there are fairly high, but its' because I'm not regularly exposed to it. The boiling frog effect hasn't set in, and I'm instantly repulsed when I see something graphic on tv that I know is wrong,<b> in part because it's so shocking and so out of the ordinary.</b></div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
I need to be more careful about what that looks like in terms of reading material too, though. Because just like you can never unsee something once it's flashed across your vision field, it's very, very difficult to divest yourself of the written word, too.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
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And I'm having an epic enough struggle swimming upstream in this culture. God knows I need all the help I can get.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I'm not going to undercut myself with friendly fire by reading "harmless" chick lit filled with innuendos and sex scenes between imaginary characters. Because they might not be real, but I am.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I'm a real flesh and blood woman with real struggles and real proclivities to sin. And I've also been entrusted with a husband to care for, and 4 little souls to guide back to Him.<br />
<br />
<i>My God, I need all the help I can get. </i></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And when I do need to escape (and I <i>do</i>, very much, very often in these exhausting early years) <b>it ought not be to a place I have no business visiting, even if only in my imagination.</b></div>
<div>
<b><br /></b></div>
<div>
<b>There's plenty of other stuff I could be doing with my free time, anyway. </b>I could paint my daughter's toenails, watch a make up application tutorial on Youtube, write my husband a love letter, curl my hair, shop online for some cute unmentionables, go for a run (or a walk, as this widening load would have it), call my best friend, stare at maternity style posts on Pinterest...etc.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
(I'm intentionally leaving out the titles of the books in question, partly because I don't want to hurt anyone's feelings or embarrass them if they <i>did </i>make the recommendation, and partly because I do believe that different people have different thresholds for what makes them squirm.)</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
But I do want to challenge myself - all of us - to be conscious of that threshold, and how we can deaden or attune our own consciences with the choices we make and the company we keep, even in our own imaginations.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Maybe especially there.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Oh, and for the the record, I'm currently reading O Pioneers! by Willa Cather, at someone's excellent recommendation. And loving it. There's plenty of grit, there too. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Because I'm not looking for an impossibly squeaky clean "unrealistic" universe, but for one that plays by natural law. Think "Les Miserables" ... plenty of sex, plenty of sin...<i>and plenty of realistic consequences for what happens when we fail to choose the good</i>. That's the kind of steamy I can handle.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Or a bath. I can always handle a nice hot bath. If only the kids would all nap at the same time.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
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Jennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07923751596148085363noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1669762298855511295.post-72472567973270323802015-02-27T14:35:00.001-07:002015-02-27T14:35:09.941-07:00The annual Lenten crash and burn <i>Well, well, well.</i><br />
<br />
We all saw this one coming. At least I presume <a href="http://www.mamaneedscoffee.com/2015/02/lent-in-age-of-excess.html">most of you fine people did</a>, along with my husband and my entire extended family (we're close knit like that).<br />
<br />
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."<br />
<br />
I lack self knowledge. Let no one question that.<br />
<br />
I also lack humility, apparently, and what better way to remedy that than to admit crushing defeat 9 days into 47?<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
At least, I failed at the ones I picked for myself.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
<i>I can't do it on my own. </i><br />
<br />
<b>And when I fail to take His plans into account, I fail. Every time.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
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.<br />
<br />
Seriously, I haven't missed a day yet.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
<i>I'm so lucky.</i><br />
<br />
<b>I mean that. </b>Because look, if I had been relying entirely on <i>my</i> 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.<br />
<br />
But the one <i>He</i> had in mind for me? It's in full swing.<br />
<br />
<b>More time spent in prayer</b>, because I'm drowning and I need His grace to make it till bedtime.<br />
<br />
<b>Healthier meals and wiser choices in the grocery store</b>. Because my sane and stable husband is doing marvelously well in <i>his</i> efforts to eat clean. And I'm in charge of the meal planning round here.<br />
<br />
<b>Growth in the virtue of patience</b>. 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.)<br />
<br />
<b>Tons of opportunity to grow in humility.</b> 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.<br />
<br />
Hello, <i>Lent which was meant for me</i>. 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.<br />
<br />
<b>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</b>, 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.<br />
<br />
I'm listening now. And, yeah, I'm eating cheese.<br />
<br />
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<br />Jennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07923751596148085363noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1669762298855511295.post-64012974394053304352015-02-25T13:22:00.002-07:002015-02-25T13:22:26.214-07:00Is it really about the children?There has been much discussed about immigration in the news cycle of late. 5 million granted amnesty, amnesty revoked, bills vetoed, legislative vs. executive branch showdown...it's a hot mess.<br />
<br />
There are millions of young people who want to be living here in the US of A. Whatever your politics, that fact stands. And both sides of the debate seem to have settled on the youth narrative as a good place to start from. Because 45 year old drug runners or convicted felons make less compelling subjects, and old people are boring, I guess? I think that's the line of reasoning, anyway.<br />
<br />
So the children. Both pro amnesty and anti amnesty groups point to the kids as the reason we need to fix the system/open the borders/streamline the process, and they're right. The kids are the reason. They have as much dignity as the little people you have tucked up under your own roof each night, slumbering peacefully and securely.<br />
<br />
Now, forgive me if I'm wrong, but <a href="http://www.catholicnewsagency.com/news/how-threats-to-religious-freedom-could-harm-unaccompanied-minors-34152/">this piece </a>casts a rather disingenuous pall over the motives of some of those within the Department of Health and Human Services working so earnestly to secure residence for young illegal immigrants. And it smacks of the worst kind of eugenic elitism.<br />
<br />
Sure, send us your poor, your huddled masses ... and we'll welcome them and abort their children.<br />
<br />
Is there not rather an abrupt break in the narrative, at that point, if it is indeed supposed to appear as though the primary concern in the forefront of everybody's generous heart is the children?<br />
<br />
I guess, then, it still boils down to a prejudice of geography. Children running across deserts and fording rivers are welcome, but the stowaways within their wombs will be executed upon arrival, courtesy of the US taxpayer.<br />
<br />
And yes, sure, it specifies that the abortion services will be extended to those children who were sexually assaulted during their crossing, but with the amount of trafficking occurring on our borders right now, that casts a wide net indeed. I wonder who decides whether a pregnant 14 year old girl has been assaulted and is therefore "entitled to" (read: has it forced upon her) abortion. Perhaps even against her will.<br />
<br />
But then,<i> it's for the good of the children. </i><br />
<br />
Violence upon violence.<br />
<br />
This is the fruit of the assault on religious freedom, on purging goodness and truth from the public square. When we lose our voices and our rights to exercise our consciences, everybody suffers. And government bureaucracy is no replacement for the human heart for determining good from evil.<br />
<br />
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<br />Jennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07923751596148085363noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1669762298855511295.post-20081310315741434212015-02-23T20:08:00.003-07:002015-02-23T20:52:17.893-07:00Sometimes it looks like thisToday 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.<br />
<br />
And it was, truly, one of the best days in recent memory.<br />
<br />
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 <i>so</i> 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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
I wonder if it's always there?<br />
<br />
I suspect it is.<br />
<br />
I read a piece on a better blog than this one a while back, and one bit of wisdom in particular stuck with me: <a href="http://www.likemotherlikedaughter.org/2015/01/my-secrets-to-taking-common-sense-care-of-your-sick-child-at-home/"><b>when your kids are sick, stop what you're doing and take care of them</b></a>. Don't ask me why that's rocket science to me (seriously, please don't), but it hit me right in the gut.<br />
<br />
I do so much <i>in spite of</i> 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.<br />
<br />
And I drag them with me.<br />
<br />
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.)<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
Maybe I'm not giving myself enough credit, but it certainly didn't <i>feel</i> 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.<br />
<br />
<i>For my children.</i><br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
For mommy to be around, in the fullest sense.<br />
<br />
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Jennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07923751596148085363noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1669762298855511295.post-57431507857591744342015-02-19T15:51:00.000-07:002015-02-19T16:15:46.053-07:00Why everybody loses when we sugarcoat NFPThere's a common thread that runs through so many of the conversations I've had about NFP lately (and, as this belly pops out more and more, I'm guessing those opportunities are just going to start rolling in gangbusters at Costco and the like) and it's the very simple and very often understated reality that it's difficult.<br />
<br />
Did you catch that?<br />
<br />
<i>It.is.hard.</i><br />
<br />
There is nothing easy about it, whichever method you practice and however charismatic your instructor and however earnest the smiling couple with 5 mewling children careening about their feet who run you through your introductory session as an idealistic (or perhaps incredibly bored) newly engaged may be.<br />
<br />
It's not easy.<br />
<br />
It's not easy to choose this alternative lifestyle, to live the practical nitty gritty of the Church's strange and beautiful and salvific teaching on sex and love and human life.<br />
<br />
It just isn't.<br />
<br />
I doubt it was easy 200 years ago when less was understood about the female reproductive system, and more was left up to a prayer and a chance.<br />
<br />
And it's not easy today, for we who are often steeped in and strangled by technology, terrified at turns by our ability to procreate and our inability to control, ultimately, this mysterious force at the center of human existence.<br />
<br />
It's heavy stuff we're dealing with, and it deserves a more serious and frank conversation, at every level of engagement.<br />
<br />
On the one hand, yes, we ought to be encouraging and enthusiastic in our presentation of the Church's beautiful teachings on sex and marriage, <i>but we ought not do so at the expense of reality.</i><br />
<br />
<b>Nobody has ever pointed to a crucifix and said "look how pretty, look how effortless."</b><br />
<br />
Is it beautiful? Peerlessly.<br />
<br />
Is it staggeringly difficult? An incomprehensible level of suffering?<br />
<br />
Yes, also that.<br />
<br />
There is nothing to be gained from hiding the beauty and the difficulty of living this countercultural reality from those who come to us with questions, comments, or even ridicule.<br />
<br />
And there is surely nothing to be gained in failing to advise young engaged and newly married couples, enthusiastic in their love and devotion and early in experience, that the road they are going to walk down is not paved entirely in roses, or rather, that there are thorns, too.<br />
<br />
Spouses who practice NFP are less vulnerable to divorce, yes, but not because of NFP alone. There is room in their marriages for charity, for generosity, for communication...but it's an opportunity that must be actualized by hard work and hard choices and constant death to self. It's not a guarantee.<br />
<br />
And please, for the love, pastors, well-meaning friends, family members...if a couple is drowning in plain sight, overwhelmed by their present circumstances, or just plain exhausted by the physical and emotional strain of parenthood, do the truly loving thing and lift them up. Offer them babysitting help. Take a meal over. Drop off a gift card. Pray for a multiplication of sleep and energy. <i>But don't lean in in a conspiratorial tone and ask them if they've thought about doing something about all those bouncing babies that keep coming their way.</i><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Yes, they've thought about it.</b><i style="font-weight: bold;"> </i><br />
<i style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></i>
And they've either discerned that now was indeed a good time for another new life to come on the scene <i>or </i>they're struggling with understanding their fertility or they just plain made a miscalculation, or God one-up'd them.<br />
<br />
Whatever the case may be, they're not morons who've never watched tv, and your suggestions are less than helpful; they're deadly destructive.<br />
<br />
I can't tell you how many women I've talked to who have been counseled by pastors/friends/in-laws, well-intentioned Catholics and less-than-well-intentioned Catholics, that contraception was the obvious and only answer to their problems.<br />
<br />
When somebody is drowning in plain sight, you don't chastise them for getting in the water in the first place. You throw them a life preserver and wrap them in a warm blanket and hold them until the shivering subsides.<br />
<br />
To suggest that living the fullness of the truth of the Catholic Church's teachings on family life is only beneficial up to a point, up to the part where it gets really hard and excruciatingly challenging, empties the authority of those teachings to nothing.<br />
<br />
<b>Either it's life giving and soul saving, or to hell with it.</b><br />
<br />
Tell me that from the pulpit and I'll sit up and give you my full attention. Anything less is a waste of my time and an insult to my intellect.<br />
<br />
Let's do a better job of talking about NFP. Let's be bold in our conversations with our Catholic friends who are unconvinced. Let's be transparent with our curious (bemused?) family members. And let's be charitable with our incredulous neighbors.<br />
<br />
Because there are a whole lot of people searching for real love, and for the meaning of life, and for answers to lots of big questions. Shame on us if we're not willing to offer some answers, or at least start the conversation with an explanation.<br />
<br />
Finally, let's encourage our priests and our seminarians to dig deep in their study of these difficult, beautiful truths. There is vast room for improvement, on both sides of the altar.<br />
<br />
We live in a society steeped in sexuality and yet utterly illiterate in matters of the heart. People are breaking their bodies and their hearts for want of a little love, and we hardly hear a word about it from the pulpit.<br />
<br />
I live in a city populated by some of the finest clergy in the world, and I am richly blessed. Our seminary is peerless, and our parishes are full.<br />
<br />
But many are not so fortunate. And even in familiar territory, we cannot assume that everyone is on the same page, that everyone is in agreement and has had the same level of catechesis and instruction.<br />
<br />
There is so much room for improvement. And, thankfully, so many opportunities to let Him in, to extend grace and mercy and His beautiful, difficult, life-giving truth.<br />
<br />
Let's get to work.<br />
<br />
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Jennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07923751596148085363noreply@blogger.com60tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1669762298855511295.post-19128443347214128342015-02-17T21:49:00.000-07:002015-02-17T22:03:46.999-07:00Margin for errorThis morning my babysitter texted me at 7:43 am "I woke up with a sore throat but I feel fine, still want me to come?"<br />
<br />
My heart raced as my fingers flew over the keypad, tapping out a rapid fire <i>yes yes YES, come if you can, unless you'd feel better curled up in bed. I'll extract an oath of angelic obedience from the kiddos, and here's a bag of homeopathic cough drops if you find yourself hoarse.</i><br />
<br />
She came, they behaved, and I fled the house for a few hours of solitude in a coffee shop where I wrote nothing but emails and accomplished very little in the grand scheme of things.<br />
<br />
I did, however, come to the realization that I've overcommitted myself in almost every area of my life, and that I'm so relived that lent is upon us.<br />
<br />
I have no margin in my day-to-day right now. I can feel it in the frantic, rising panic that sets in if the kids wake up 20 minutes too soon for the day, if the library's children's section is under construction and I've lugged all three kids into the building though the snowy parking lot for naught, if dinner burns, if somebody falls and something starts bleeding.<br />
<br />
There's no room for any of these inevitabilities which are, after all, no more than the reality of life with small children. Each of them feel, by turns, like emergencies. None of them actually are. (Well, the library situation was acutely felt by my 4-year-old, but he was placated by a lone rolling cart stocked with wooden puzzles. Because we go to the library for the toys.)<br />
<br />
I can't sustain this level of intensity. I nearly wept on the phone with a dear friend this afternoon, my voice rising as I explained all the things I'd said yes to and all the reasons why, and how very necessary each item seemed, in isolation, but how the larger list was crushing me.<br />
<br />
<b>Sometimes I think I wrap my motherhood in layers and layers of busyness and "important external commitments" so that I won't have to look to closely at my performance in my primary occupation.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
I'm not so sure I want to see the results of that evaluation. Not at this particular moment in my mothering career, at least.<br />
<br />
It's very, very tempting for me to rationalize away the frantic pace of life right now because <i>the kids are little, they won't remember much, we're getting out of debt/getting established in our careers/treading water as babies keep getting tossed our direction</i>...but every one of those excuses falls flat when I test it aloud.<br />
<br />
The truth is, my days <i>aren't</i> all that full. There are a handful of commitments each week set in stone, and some daily metrics I need to hit, but for the most part, <i>I'm the thing keeping me from fitting it all in.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
And that's because I have largely failed to identify what "it" is, exactly.<br />
<br />
Even though I read and immediately implemented (and gushed obnoxiously about) "A Mother's Rule of Life," truth be told, I haven't found my daily rhythm, and I've yet to set and follow a schedule for more than a week at a time. Because the stomach flu. Morning sickness. Nightmares and wet sheets and cars that need a trip to the shop and, well, life.<br />
<br />
If the stars don't aline and I don't log 8 hours of sleep, I pretty much throw my hands up and let my day happen to me rather than moving through it intentionally and with purpose.<br />
<br />
<b>And that means there's just no room for anything to go wrong, because there isn't all that much going right to begin with.</b><br />
<br />
I don't wake up before my kids, unless the current resident-on-board forces me into the bathroom in the semi dark morning hours. We don't really have a morning routine, unless the blessed babysitter comes and then, well, I flee the premises. But not before stuffing 3 loads of laundry into the machine, setting the crockpot, and frantically washing all the mirrors in all the rooms and ... you get the idea.<br />
<br />
So lent. It's here. <i>I'm</i> here, in this place of utter chaos, and along comes this liturgical season, practically begging me to fall to my knees and don a sackcloth and get my priorities in order. And I know that the one thing I can do that could make this all better is to set, and follow, a daily prayer time.<br />
<br />
And yet it's the first thing to give when the day starts out on the wrong foot, when there's someone literally getting up on the wrong side of my bed and waving a used Pull Up under my nose, demanding inspection. And it's the last thing I want to do when I retreat onto the couch at nap time, or in the evening after the dishes are done and the lights are dimmed. There's always something more apparently productive I could be doing, something more leisurely, something more concrete.<br />
<br />
Meanwhile, time marches on, life speeds by, and I collapse at the end of the day, stunned by the ferocity of its demands and the unchangingness of my competency level. <i>Shouldn't I be better at this by now?</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
I think I would be, if I weren't constantly trying to do it all under my own power. And I don't just mean at motherhood, but at life.<br />
<br />
I think I'd be better at life if I made more intentional room for Him, if I had continual recourse to <i>His</i> plans for the day and not my own.<br />
<br />
I mean, I <i>know</i> this is true. But closing the computer, declining the invitation, turning down the project, turning off my phone...those are all the thousand little places I struggle, frittering away my days and my weeks until the quarterly meltdown, <i>the back-up-against-the-wall why-do-we-do-so-much</i> conversations, either with my husband or my best friend. And then a deep breath and a foolhardy dive back into the madness, none the wiser or more peaceful.<br />
<br />
Enough.<br />
<br />
Can this lent be different? Can I leave some margin in these 40 days, opening up my calendar to His discriminating gaze, and asking not "Can I?" or "Am I able?" but "Should I?" and "Is this what You want for us?"<br />
<br />
I'm going to try, anyway.<br />
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<br />Jennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07923751596148085363noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1669762298855511295.post-27780670941189933572015-02-15T22:36:00.000-07:002015-02-15T23:19:18.132-07:00Lent in the age of excessAs much as I loathe the trend of turning the penitential season into a social media campaign, and as obnoxious as hashtags can be, I still find myself 2 days out from Ash Wednesday wondering if maybe a little virtual peer pressure might be just what I need this year.<br />
<br />
I have a decidedly first world problem, and it's mostly to do with food, but also to do with leisure time and belongings and disposable income and wifi connectivity. The unifying theme? I have too much of it. All of it.<br />
<br />
Food, in particular, is my Achilles heel. In varying ages and stages past, I've struggled by turns to rule my appetite and, having failed in the struggle, to let it rule me.<br />
<br />
In adolescence I would have sworn up and down that it was I who called the shots, but in the throes of an eating disorder that stretched well into the college years, I was blind to the harder truth that I was, in reality, every bit a captive to the rigid rules and cravings and triggers that dictated my daily life.<br />
<br />
When I got pregnant with my first child the month after my wedding, no sooner had the test turned up positive then I was happily filling the freezer with ice cream, delighted both by the impending glory of motherhood and the freedom to eat carbs again. I gained an ungodly amount of weight that, surprisingly, did not simply melt away under the efficient assault of non-stop nursing and never sleeping ever again. So odd. So ... disappointing.<br />
<br />
So realistic.<br />
<br />
I tried between each pregnancy to regain some semblance of my "normal" body, but around the time my old jeans start fitting, that pink line shows up again.<br />
<br />
Which is a huge blessing! Don't get me wrong. But, it's becoming increasingly obvious that pregnancy, for me, is not a temporary blip on the radar screen of real life. The kids are going to keep coming, so long as we discern we are in a position to welcome them, (or, more to the point, so long as we discern the absence of a grave reason which would prevent their coming) and so I need to adjust my lifestyle to better reflect reality.<br />
<br />
And the reality is, if I put away pints and pints of the finest gelato American dollars can buy, I'm going to be enormous at 40 weeks. And after three repeat performances, I can confidently report that those lb's don't actually melt away once one exits hotel hospital.<br />
<br />
There's something else though, and it's not just about excess weight gain and late night visits to the freezer section: when I remove any semblance of discipline from the dietary realm, I stumble and atrophy in other areas of my life.<br />
<br />
<b>It's hard to say no to oneself</b>, which is, in part, a large reason for the existence of Lent. It's an annual dose of concupiscence-be-gone; a chance to recalibrate, to dissolve unhealthy attachments and form better practices, to hone more heavenly habits.<br />
<br />
So while it's terribly cliche to give up entire food groups and call it one's penance (I'm looking at you, Eastern Church), I'm going to go ahead and push the reset button on <i>this </i>pregnancy, here on the precipice of 15 weeks, and hope that by making better choices in the kitchen, I might be strengthened to grow and stretch in other areas of my life, too.<br />
<br />
Plus, I'm straight up exhausted from all the carbs and sugar.<br />
<br />
So thus begins the countdown to <b>Lent:Whole40</b>.<br />
<br />
Terrible, right? I know it is ... and yet I have such hope that eating in a way that is <a href="http://whole30.com/whole30-program-rules/"><i>so </i>utterly penitential and unappealing</a> to me, particularly when I'm in a family way, will open up spaces in my day and in my mind for Him. And that while I'm saying <i>not my will</i> over and over again, all day long, from the moment my feet hit the floor and I start dreaming about depressing the lever on the toaster till the moment I collapse onto the couch after bedtime stories, jonesing for Ben and Jerry, I'll be gaining some sorely needed self mastery, if not a more reasonable number on the scale come delivery day.<br />
<br />
I could have chosen other vices to exorcise this season, believe me. God knows I could spend less time on social media, that I could be more committed to daily mental prayer and staying on top of the laundry than I am to answering text messages and emails. <b>But this feels most fundamental, and most essential to bringing order in the rest of my life as a result.</b><br />
<br />
I'm pretty much counting on it. Because there's a laundry list of a dozen other character flaws, shortcomings and patterns of sin to examine, but I'm too lethargic from the half tub of Trader Joe's chocolate cat cookies (that aren't even <i>good</i>, by the way) consumed during tonight's viewing of Downton Abbey to commit them all to paper. And wise enough to know that at Lent, sometimes less is more.<br />
<br />
Happiest, fattest Tuesday to you all this week, and may your sacrifice choose <i>you</i> this year, and may you know it when you see it.<br />
<br />
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<br />Jennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07923751596148085363noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1669762298855511295.post-59593447601937700932015-02-11T16:36:00.001-07:002015-02-11T16:53:31.902-07:0050 Shades of pain: sterile sex and the problem with pornI've seen dozens of articles about <i>50 Shades </i>floating around the internet the past week or so, and I've read a handful of them. One or two are worth reading, <a href="http://www.lincolndiocese.org/op-ed/bishop-s-column/3226-real-love-and-the-urgency-of-evangelization">this piece</a> and <a href="http://www.patheos.com/blogs/inebriateme/2015/02/the-sexual-reaction/">this piece</a> in particular.<br /><br />The
thing that has me scratching my head over the whole situation, the fact
that a trilogy of pornographic novels have been adapted to a reportedly
dismally-cast and middlingly-entertaining big screen production, is how
we got here in the first place.<br /><br />Not whether it's <i>wrong</i> or <i>weird</i> or <i>nasty</i>
to plan to take your spouse on a hot date to the movies on Valentine's
day to see Anastasia get spanked by Christian (though it is assuredly
all of those things), but how it is that we have arrived at this
destination, en masse, as a culture.<br /><br />Let's look at the numbers;
these books have sold 100 million copies since their release in 2011.
That's some kind of record, and whatever else we can take from those
numbers, we can presume that there's definitely an audience for the
stuff. And in the pornographic culture we live in, it has become
perfectly acceptable to identify oneself as a paying member of that
audience and synch up the Kindle for a little smut to ease the long
layover or kill the time in carline.<br /><br /><b>Because you see, the overwhelming majority of that audience is female.</b><br /><br />I'm sure plenty of guys have read <i>50 Shades</i>
too, but it wasn't written for them. Romance literature (if abuse and
domination can be so categorized) is the centerfold pull-out of the
female demographic. It's printed porn, spelled out in characters and
punctuation marks instead of screen shots and video clips.<br /><br />And
there's a growing market for smut of the feminine persuasion, because
yes, it has become more socially acceptable to raise one's hand and
identify oneself as a woman who consumes porn, but also because, I
think, there are a lot of sexually-unhappy ladies out there.<br /><br />So
why is that? Aren't we all liberated and unshackled from the fear of
pregnancy and the stigma of unmarried sex? Isn't everyone entitled to
access anything they could ever have dreamt of, in terms of the erotic,
now that all bets are off and all taboos have been discarded?<br /><br />And
yet what we're longing for, apparently, is something so "exciting" that
in polite circles and legal terms, it is actually defined as abuse and
battery?<br /><br />Which leads me back to the title of this piece.<br /><br />I have a pet theory about sex in the current cultural climate, and it goes like this: <b>when
a couple removes all of the mystery, all of the suspense, and all of
the "riskiness" from sex, perhaps it becomes intolerably boring.</b><br /><br />Maybe
your interest in your partner fades, over time, because sex becomes
merely another option in a long list of activities which can be pursued
after the dishes are done.<br /><br />Obviously my husband and I are in a
unique and temporary season of marriage, during which time it is
actually possible, when everything is functioning properly, for us to
get pregnant.<br /><br />On paper, that means that every time we decide to
have sex, unless we're already currently pregnant, we first have to
discern whether or not we're disposed to receive another child into the
mix. <b>Because that is always a possibility.</b> When the answer to
that question is "not right now," we still have to enter into the act
prepared that the outcome might be another diaper-wearer, even when all
our calculations and observations tell us otherwise.<br /><br />Translation:
even when we're in an NFP "safe zone," scientifically-identified as a
period of infertility, there's still always a chance that we're wrong. I
might have missed an observation or miscalculated a date. Or, since I'm
not God, it could happen anyway, despite our best efforts otherwise.
Because I'm not the one in control of my fertility, ultimately. <br /><br />I didn't design me, and, short of a hysterectomy, I cannot 100% guarantee that I can suppress my fertility.<br /><br />(An
aside, that's why "surprise" babies in contracepting couples always
strike me as such an odd concept. I mean, sure, you were using condoms
or taking the Pill, but <b>did you really think that if you did the thing that makes babies, there was zero chance you might end up making one?</b>)<br /><br /><b>Honestly, this does add a certain level of excitement/fear/wonder at the unknown to the mix.</b><br /><br />I'm not saying it's comparable to the, uh, <i>thrill</i>,
I guess? of being tied up and hit, but frankly, I don't have the time
to entertain thoughts of spicing things up with whips and chains. Nor
the inclination.<br /><br />I wonder if couples who can have all the sex
they want - as much sex as they can physically stomach, kind of like the
Golden Corral of the bedroom - thanks to contraception, aren't getting a
little bored?<br /><br />Is that why Christian Grey is a welcome figure in
the imagination of a woman who is already being used, on some level, by
her partner?<br /><br />Is that why a man feels comfortable taking his
girlfriend to a movie where a young woman is physically and
psychologically abused by an older guy, because it's a little thrilling
to control her like that?<br /><br />Maybe there's no real correlation, but I
do think it's worth considering that porn and contraception influence
each other, even if only because they are both simultaneously so
prevalent.<br /><br />But sex doesn't need to be increasingly dangerous and
forbidden in order to be satisfying. There isn't some kind of pleasure
threshold that only riskier and kinkier behavior can satiate; indeed,
the further we drift from the Christian ideal of sex as a total gift of
self, the more dissatisfied (and sexually dysfunctional) we become as a
civilization.<br /><br />Because at the end of the day and in the dark of the night, what we do <i>with</i> our bodies and <i>to</i>
the bodies of the ones we love matters. It matters very much. And a
relationship that purports to be loving but that trades in the currency
of use abuse is anything but romantic.<br />
<br />
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<br />Jennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07923751596148085363noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1669762298855511295.post-85530778433028057822015-02-09T16:53:00.001-07:002015-02-18T09:02:20.323-07:00Such a time as this From the Associated Press this morning:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"The U.S. Supreme Court
cleared the way for same-sex weddings to start in Alabama, letting the
number of gay-marriage states climb in advance of a constitutional
showdown that may mean legalization nationwide. </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
In a 7-2 order,
the justices rejected Alabama’s bid to stop a federal trial judge’s
legalization order from taking effect Monday. The state now will become
the 37th where gays can marry."</blockquote>
At first glance, this perhaps
doesn't look like much in terms of news. States' marriage laws have been
crashing down left and right like felled timber over the past 2 years,
and it's hardly shocking that Alabama has joined the ranks of the other
36 places in the U.S. where same sex couples can legally contract a
"marriage."<br />
<br />
No big deal, right?<br />
<br />
<i>Live and let live</i>, and <i>live the life you love,</i> and <i>you love who you love</i>, and all the other platitudes that fill the airwaves and our ears in this modern cultural milieu.<br />
<br />
I
have some news for us Christians, and maybe it's going to come as a bit
of a shock, but it may well be that none of those clever turns of
phrase are going to apply to us before too long.<br />
<br />
Make no mistake,
this has never been about simply leveling the playing field so that all
may freely participate in the institution of marriage; what it is about
- what it has always been about - is redefining and recreating marriage
into something else entirely.<br />
<br />
And when something gets redefined,
the old definition is, by necessity, destroyed. Retired into the annals
of history, if you will. Marked down as a tried-and-failed social
experiment, and abandoned in the name of Progress.<br />
<br />
If you believe
that Christians, Jews, progressive Muslims, people of other faiths who practice
monogamous, heterosexual life-long fidelity within the context of a
religious sacrament are going to be allowed to continue to teach,
preach, and contract said marriages in peace once gay "marriage" is
enshrined as the law of the land, you may be in for an unpleasant
surprise.<br />
<br />
Maybe not immediately, but highly likely in the not-too-distant future<br />
<br />
If
you think you're going to be able to teach your publicly-schooled
fourth grader that sex is sacred and reserved for the intimate communion
of marriage between husband and wife, you may have another think
coming. (And possibly a visit from CPS, to boot.)<br />
<br />
Once gay
"marriage" becomes the law of the land, it will no longer be possible to
hold a competing worldview and still be viewed, either professionally
or legally, as a person of good will. <br />
<br />
You will be a bigot, first and foremost. <b>A menace to the pluralistic good of a society unshackled from the burdensome moral code of the past.</b> And your kind - our kind - may not be tolerated.<br />
<br />
Oh,
it might not be a matter of legal troubles, at least not yet. It will
probably be a quieter persecution. Passed over for a promotion. Let go
from a job. Denied entry to a committee or school organization. Little
things like that, white martyrdoms in varying shades of grey.<br />
<br />
Because
you see, it's not really possible to live and let live when life
trajectories are fundamentally opposed. Something has to give, someone
has to yield.<br />
<br />
We can't all be right.<br />
<br />
<b>Relativism only
works on paper. In real life it plays out like this: someone is right,
and someone else is a bigot who is breaking the law.</b><br />
<br />
Marriage can't be <i>both</i> a monogamous, permanent, life-long commitment between a man and a woman <i>and</i> an open-ended sexual relationship configured by any two consenting adults. The two definitions are fundamentally contradictory.<br />
<br />
And while I may be perfectly capable of ignoring the antics and goings-on behind my neighbor's bedroom doors right now, <b>when I am forced to publicly endorse their lifestyle by the laws of the land, my reality is altered.</b><br />
<br />
Then it's no longer <i>live and let live, </i>but becomes instead a<i>pplaud what we do and accept what we teach</i>, because you are now legally bound.<br />
<br />
It's
time for us to wake up. Authentic Christian charity doesn't mean
turning a blind eye to social ills and harmful behavior just because
they're fashionable, trending heavily on Twitter, and popular in
Hollywood. <br />
<br />
I can love my gay brother or sister - and indeed, true love is <i>willing the good of the other</i> - without endorsing the institution of gay "marriage."<br />
<br />
But I may not have that option forever.<br />
<br />
One
day in the not-too-distant future, it might not be okay to say that in
public. It may be something we whisper in private: "oh, we still believe
in the Sacrament of Marriage <i>personally</i>, but we can't talk about it here."<br />
<br />
And
you know what? That's on us. We have been hand-picked, each one of us,
to occupy this unique space in this place and time in history. So what
witness are you prepared to give, and what defense for the faith you
have?<br />
<br />
We ought to be praying, fasting, working like crazy to
share the goodness and the truth and the beauty of married love. Not
sticking our heads in the sand and pulling our kids, our voices, our
potential to be influencers and world changers, out of the public
square.<br />
<br />
We have to be fearless. St. John Paul II said to us, over
and over again, "be not afraid." This is the heart of the Gospel:
perfect love that casts out all fear.<br />
<br />
I won't let my fear of what
somebody may think of me prevent me from speaking the truth. And so
long as we have the freedom to do so, we ought to be speaking it boldly,
humbly, inviting people in to the Faith, not cowering in church
doorways, bracing ourselves for disaster.<br />
<br />
Be not afraid. Over and over again, I have to remind myself. <i>Be not afraid.</i><br />
<br />
Gay
"marriage" isn't going to satisfy the deepest longings of the human
heart; only the one Who created us can do that. Let's invite as many
people as we can to experience the truth of that firsthand. Jesus is
what this sad, suffering culture of ours seeks, whether or not they know
Him by name. And if we center our lives and our marriages on Him, we
cannot lose.<br />
<br />
<b>Marriage is a beautiful vocation, and it <i>is</i>
worthy of being defended. But it is our lived example that speaks
volumes to a visually distracted and chaotic culture starved for beauty.</b><br />
So that awkward encounter with a fellow commuter holding a matching newspaper early in the morning? <i>Be not afraid.</i><br />
<br />
A hard conversation with a beloved friend or college roommate who champions an alternate view of marriage? <i>Be not afraid.</i><br />
<br />
An
unpopular stance with your child's school administration for the sake
of your impressionable 5th grader who won't be participating in the
sex-ed program? <i>Be not afraid.</i><br />
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<i><b>"For if you keep silent at this time, relief and deliverance will rise for the Jews from another place, but you and your father’s house will perish. And who knows whether you have not come to the kingdom for such a time as this?" Esther 4:14</b></i></div>
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Jennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07923751596148085363noreply@blogger.com38tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1669762298855511295.post-80965017963990825362015-02-06T13:59:00.000-07:002015-02-06T14:04:04.888-07:00There's an Essential Oil for thatHi, my name's Jenny, and I'm coming out of the granola closet to say...I'm a little bit crunchy.<br />
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More accurately, I'd identify myself as an opportunist. So I like to look at the vast expanse of options and then kind of pick and choose, cafeteria style (which is totally cool when it's not in matters of morality isn't that fabulous?! <a href="http://www.mamaneedscoffee.com/2015/01/why-i-dont-believe-in-parenting-styles.html">There's no one right way to do this parenting thing</a>.) what works best for our family.<br />
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So on a practical level what that looks like is lots of trips to the doctor's office for looks in ears, the occasional Z pack to dispatch Beelzebub's bronchitis, and bi-weekly chiropractic adjustments for the entire family. I guess you could call it modern, medically-eclectic parenting.<br />
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Gosh, so anyway, I think more of us are like this than not. I'd bet that lots of people are open to trying new things, especially if they're frustrated with a lack of results in their current routines.<br />
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When <a href="https://littlebitofparadise.wordpress.com/">Steph</a> offered to send me a starter kit of Young Living Essential Oils and a diffuser I was pumped, because I've picked up the occasional bottle of oregano oil at Whole Foods for ear infections, but I didn't actually know a whole lot about EOs, nor was I in love with the way their bedrooms smelled like the Olive Garden at last call when I used the stuff.<br />
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Enter Young Living oils. I was so excited when I cracked open the first bottle I pulled out of the box, lavender, and it smelled like...lavender.<br />
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I was even more excited when I added a few drops to some coconut oil and gave each little monster a back rub during a particularly heinous bedtime meltdown and suddenly...silence. Blissful silence. And 10 solid hours from every small member of the household.<br />
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For the last month or so I've been playing around with the oils, diffusing some, consuming others in glasses of water, and rubbing some on little necks and little (and not so little) feet.<br />
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My favorite oils so far, the ones that have actually wormed their way into our crazed daily life, are, in order of love: lavender, thieves, melaluca (tea tree), lemon, and peppermint.<br />
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Here's how we use them. The lavender, as I mentioned, helps to calm and soothe and put to sleep an anxious human, little or otherwise. It also makes an amazing bath for a pregnant mama.<br />
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I've been guzzling water spiked with thieves oil during this never ending flu season from hell, and the kids have been getting a drop of it rubbed into their feet day and night. I've also started spiking water with lemon oil for midmorning pick me up of the non-caffeineated variety (and it also helps to break up mucus during a cold or cough), and I love rubbing the peppermint oil directly into the skin at the point of origin of a headache. Or if I've overdone it at the gym. Or, ahem, thrown my neck out coughing.<br />
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Highly effective.<br />
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Finally, the embarrassing one, the melaluca. I have some gross runner's feet, even though I'm not really much of a runner anymore. But the elliptical and the stair master don't know that I'm not running, and so my feet still look...rough. I've tried every otc solution under the sun, but you know what's finally doing it for me? The tea tree oil. But it's <i>this </i>tea tree oil, specifically, and I think it's entirely to do with the high grade ("therapeutic," as YL calls it) of the oil I'm using. It's also miraculously effective for stinky little boy feet/shoes.<br />
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End embarrassing endorsement.<br />
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I've been trading emails and Facebook messages with Steph this month and gleaning her wisdom and practical suggestions for use, and while using oils was a little bit overwhelming to me at the beginning, I feel like I'm beginning to get the hang of it.<br />
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It's definitely not a magic fix; it takes diligent daily use to see results, but to me, that confirms their effectiveness; like good diet or exercise, you have to do it daily to make it work.<br />
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Steph has generously offered a free sample kit and intro booklet to anyone interested. Email here at Stephanie(dot)Weinert(at)Yahoo(dot)com and she'll hook you up.<br />
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(Incidentally, you should totally<a href="https://littlebitofparadise.wordpress.com/2014/11/06/his-illness-and-how-we-got-our-son-back/"> read her story</a>. The her son's recovery from debilitating allergies is amazing.)<br />
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For those of you who already know you want to make the jump, she's offering a discount to Mama Needs Coffee readers right now. If anyone wants to try Young Living oils with the Premium Starter Kit (same one I have), they can sign up on Steph's <a href="http://www.tinyurl.com/stephaniesYL">website</a>, and as extra gifts for my readers, she'll send you a free 24-page booklet "Essential Oils Starter Guide" and a $20 Amazon Gift card you can use towards purchasing more Essential Oils resources, or anything you want (offer expires February 28, 2015.)<br />
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You can purchase oils directly here: <a href="http://www.tinyurl.com/stephaniesYL">www.tinyurl.com/stephaniesYL</a>.<br />
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Okay, finally, another giveaway! (Crazy, right? Two in one week.)<br />
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Steph has generously offered a 15ml bottle of cedar wood, her favorite EO, to one lucky winner. I read through the list of things Cedarwood oil is known for, and let's just say I'm sorry I can't win it myself: good for things like eczema, acne, skin issues, sleep (as in the best nights' sleep you've EVER had), psoriasis. urinary tract infections, cellulite, and the list goes on.<br />
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Pshaw, I don't need any cellulite help. Heh, heh... (thinking about rigging the rafflecopter.)<br />
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I'm interested to hear from you guys, are you already "oily?" Do you use this stuff for health? Do your kids run screaming from the smell of your greasy hands when you draw near? (One of mine does) Or do they scramble eagerly into your lap for their nightly "mawsawge?" (another one of mine does.)<br />
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I'm all ears. And they're mercifully clear, fyi. Thanks, recovering immune system.<br />
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<a class="rcptr" data-raflid="4c7892fd3" data-template="" data-theme="classic" href="http://www.rafflecopter.com/rafl/display/4c7892fd3/" id="rcwidget_3dywbcuw" rel="nofollow">a Rafflecopter giveaway</a>
<script src="//widget-prime.rafflecopter.com/launch.js"></script>Jennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07923751596148085363noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1669762298855511295.post-42125186334416727862015-02-05T13:21:00.002-07:002015-02-05T13:21:40.593-07:00The gift of not knowing Our youngest child, our sweet daughter, has been a bit of an enigma wrapped in a mystery since she first graced us with her presence.<br />
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Even in utero, her short little legs were confounding ultrasound techs and raising eyebrows about the accuracy of my charts (NFP: 1 Radiology: 0, BTW). Then she arrived and all was well, if not petite.<br />
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And that's pretty much been her story for the past 13 months. She's darling, and not just in an every baby sort of way, but in a stunner-who-stops-traffic kinda way. I can say that because I'm her mom, and because I have 2 other kids who, while good looking, never got us the kind of attention this girl has.<br />
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She's teeny tiny. Doll-like. The proportions of a wee American Girl doll, clad in 9 month clothing still at month 13, but perfectly balanced in terms of length vs. weight. And, every month or so since last Fall, we dutifully truck her down to our local children's hospital for another round of testing, bumping from one department to another. First nutrition, than orthopedics, now endocrinology.<br />
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She's had more people poke and prod her in her first year of life than most people do in a lifetime, I'd wager. But to no avail. At least, to no apparent avail.<br />
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She's teeny, she's stubbornly "alternatively mobile" (translation: no walking, standing or crawling, but girlfriend has a mean scoot), and she's utterly charming in her willingness to allow complete strangers to pick her up.<br />
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And we don't have any idea of why she is the way she is.<br />
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It's been confounding and enlightening, at turns, as a parent to have no idea what is wrong, or even <i>whether </i>something is, in fact, "wrong" with her.<br />
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And it's been a humbling exercise in "what ifs" in terms of the much bigger and much scarier situations that other parents really are facing.<br />
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There's a delicate balance in motherhood between anxiety and surrender. Sometimes it really <i>is </i>on us to keep worrying when everyone else says to relax.<br />
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But other times, maybe more times than not, relaxing and releasing is the right way to go.<br />
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I'm naturally high strung and extremely anxious. I have grand delusions about what and whether I can manage, and I have a ludicrously inflated sense of control.<br />
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The antidote to all this, for me, has been motherhood.<br />
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No other experience thus far has come close to the gut wrenching, soul-shaking reality of recognizing my true impotence and insignificance. And I don't mean that in a self deprecating way, but in a reality-recognizing way.<br />
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Motherhood has unveiled reality to me: I'm not in control, I never was in control, and even with ready access to arguably the best medical care on the planet...there's still no guarantee of control.<br />
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Now, I can put truckloads of faith into modern medicine and research journals (and I do) while simultaneously barking up alternative trees for innovative ideas (woof, woof), <b>but I still can't summon a diagnosis for my daughter by the force of my will.</b><br />
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And that has been incredibly freeing for me. To be able to truly exercise the old adage to work as if everything depended on me, and to pray as if everything depends on God. It's at once taking responsibility for what one <i>can</i> control while simultaneously releasing my inflated and, honestly, egomaniacal sense <i>of</i> control.<br />
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So efficient, Lord. I see what you did there.<br />
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And even if this latest round of blood work turns up with a big fat question mark like all the rest has, we'll be able to sleep at night knowing that we asked the questions and made the appointments, and that, if nothing else, she'll be a champion blood donor some day with nary a needle phobia to be found.<br />
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And if God sees fit to send us a label to know Evie a little better? We'll take that into consideration, too. But it won't define her, not in any real sense. Sure, it'll simplify my Google searches. But it won't change the way I have to love her, nurture her, and let God fill in for the ever-growing list of all the things about motherhood that are far above my pay grade.<br />
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<br />Jennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07923751596148085363noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1669762298855511295.post-73159699122896123492015-02-04T12:02:00.001-07:002015-02-04T12:03:12.666-07:00Howdy, Sirius XM listeners!Ciao y'all. For those of you who wandered over via <a href="http://www.conversiondiary.com/">Jen Fulwiler's</a> kindly introduction, you are most welcome here. For my regular readers, I hope you enjoy(ed) the always fascinating (alarming?) phenomenon of finally getting to match a spoken voice with a written voice.<br />
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If you're new to these parts, allow me to introduce <a href="http://www.mamaneedscoffee.com/p/about-me.html">myself</a>. My name is Jenny and I live in Denver with my wonderful husband, Dave, and our 3 (<a href="http://www.mamaneedscoffee.com/2015/01/promotions-and-upgrades.html">+1</a>) children. We lived in Rome for a crazy year during the great Papal transition of 2012, where one of our boys was <a href="http://www.mamaneedscoffee.com/2013/02/a-kiss-goodbye.html">kissed</a> by Pope Benedict and I did a lot of laundry, <a href="http://www.mamaneedscoffee.com/2013/01/super-target-italian-style.html">pined for Target</a>, and fed my baby <a href="http://www.mamaneedscoffee.com/2013/02/language-barriers.html">powdered baked goods</a> in his bottle.<br />
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These days I mostly write about the general chaos of <a href="http://www.mamaneedscoffee.com/2015/01/why-i-dont-believe-in-parenting-styles.html">raising small humans</a>, understanding the <a href="http://www.mamaneedscoffee.com/2014/10/catholics-do-what-31-days-to.html">teachings of the Catholic Church</a> - especially where <a href="http://www.mamaneedscoffee.com/2014/05/i-gave-little-talk-this-morning-to.html">matters of the heart</a> are concerned - and general social commentary on the craziness that is our modern cultural milieu.<br />
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I recently accepted a full time position with <a href="http://www.catholicnewsagency.com/">Catholic News Agency</a>, a member of the EWTN family, and this little 'ol blog will be permanently hosted there soon. But don't worry, a lazy google search or a visit to <a href="http://www.mamaneedscoffee.com/">my current URL</a> will still land you in my virtual living room. God bless technology.<br />
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Oh! I also recently contributed a chapter to a <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Catholic-Married-Leaning-Into-Love/dp/1612787320">book</a> featuring a roster of far more impressive authors, and I've got more fun writing projects coming down the pipe. In my expansive free time, I paint my toenails and watch terrible documentaries on Netflix whilst sipping IPA. Or espresso, as my gestational state permits.<br />
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Thanks for stopping by, I'm glad you're here.<br />
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(You can find me here on <a href="https://www.facebook.com/pages/Mama-Needs-Coffee/226692234136707">Facebook</a> and <a href="https://twitter.com/jkuebbing">Twitter</a>.)<br />
<br />Jennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07923751596148085363noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1669762298855511295.post-55574689615219867252015-02-03T11:18:00.003-07:002015-02-03T16:45:04.322-07:00A Love Stronger Than Death<span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Open Sans', Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;">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. </span><br />
<br style="font-family: 'Open Sans', Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;" />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Open Sans', Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;">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.</span><br />
<br style="font-family: 'Open Sans', Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;" />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Open Sans', Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;">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.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Open Sans', Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;">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.</span><br />
<br style="font-family: 'Open Sans', Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;" />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Open Sans', Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;">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!"</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Open Sans', Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;">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. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Open Sans', Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;">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.</span><br />
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<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3WlpdYBxa0RmwQhQfFhVuTEgBL1tBdCoG3OPiv3OC12nj-B7iUqPHP9EJHk2t4pAZtxIkXGVtyYDTisONiFT8pzqCn8VqA1OS5-z0mzS3VtaftS3QlY33dByfGDvR5mzc6PHcoS332egx/s1600/10958691_10152972503181413_3155306098741725557_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3WlpdYBxa0RmwQhQfFhVuTEgBL1tBdCoG3OPiv3OC12nj-B7iUqPHP9EJHk2t4pAZtxIkXGVtyYDTisONiFT8pzqCn8VqA1OS5-z0mzS3VtaftS3QlY33dByfGDvR5mzc6PHcoS332egx/s1600/10958691_10152972503181413_3155306098741725557_o.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><span style="background-color: #dddddd; font-family: 'Open Sans', Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 19px;">Photo credit, Jason Pohlmeier</span></td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Open Sans', Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;">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. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Open Sans', Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;">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.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Open Sans', Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;">For ways to support the Coakley family, and to meet Annie and the children, visit <a href="http://lovelikepaul.com/">LoveLikePaul.com</a>. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Open Sans', Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;">Paul Coakley, pray for us.</span>Jennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07923751596148085363noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1669762298855511295.post-65702480486719981892015-02-02T14:36:00.000-07:002015-02-02T17:53:35.011-07:00Mama does, in fact, need coffeeI drink 1-2 shots of espresso every morning, rain or shine, pregnant or not, and it's a fabulous way to start the day.<br />
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Before our stint in Rome, I was a Starbucks-guzzling, cheap coffee swilling, all morning long chug-a-long coffee drinker. I <i>sort </i>of liked the taste of it, but honestly, I was in it for the caffeine. I was under slept, overworked, and over stimulated.<br />
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I may still be some of those things, but it's no longer the coffee to blame. While we were living in Italy I learned to savor the art and the experience of coffee, not just the results.<br />
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I watched in fascination as the entire city ground to a halt multiple times per day while neighborhood bars filled up with impeccably-coiffed businesspeople, priests and bishops, grandmothers pushing strollers, street sweepers and shop keepers, all after one thing: a little sip of luxury in the midst of the chaos of daily life.<br />
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Romans do not swig coffee. There are no to-go cups, there are no bottomless mugs, and there are no warming plates holding pots of muddy water, ready to dilute with chemical creamers and sugars.<br />
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There are, instead, fat bags of perfectly-roasted beans spilling onto gleaming stainless steel counters. Thousand-Euro machines puffing steam and smudged with coffee grounds, streaming out rich shot after rich shot of perfect, <i>crema</i> topped cups of espresso.<br />
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And the counters in every coffee were lined with familiar faces and tiny cups, neighbors and baristos shooting the breeze, sipping their brews, and then heading off to their respective daily business for another couple of hours.<br />
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It was eminently civilized, and it ruined me for drip coffee forever.<br />
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Want to know another secret about espresso? It's actually <i>less </i>caffeine than a big 'ol mug of coffee, provided you're only drinking one or two of them. Now, order up a Venti something or other at the big green house? You might be doubling down on your jitters.<br />
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But rest assured, my heart rate and my baby are safe with one or two sweet little shots of black gold every morning.<br />
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A couple weeks before I found out my blog was going to be relocating, I got an email from a company promoting their fair trade, shade-grown, ethically sourced coffee, and would I like to review some and then host a giveaway?<br />
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Translation: free high-quality coffee.<br />
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Answer: yes please.<br />
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So, for the past 2 weeks, through the doldrums of January and the heinous scourge of bronchitis fest 2015, we've been drinking the best coffee we've enjoyed with any regularity on this side of the Atlantic: <a href="http://camanoislandcoffee.com/">Camano Island Coffee Roasters</a>.<br />
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Y'all, this stuff is <i>good.</i> And the company who sells it is <a href="http://camanoislandcoffee.com/why-were-different/"><i>doing </i>good, too</a>. They're a Christian company who believes in the dignity of their workers, the sustainable methods of their famers, and the palates (and pocketbooks) of their customers. And they've offered to give a lucky 2 of you faithful Coffee readers each 2 pounds of some of the good stuff of your choosing, ground (or not) to your preference.<br />
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I'm not much of a giveaway gal, but when somebody offers to subsidize my daily life (come at me, Costco) I'd be a silly girl to look the other way. So enter ye all who hope for delicious, and be sure to check out their site and look at <a href="http://camanoislandcoffee.com/why-were-different/">the life changing work they're doing in the Third World</a>.<br />
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<a class="rcptr" data-raflid="4c7892fd2" data-template="" data-theme="classic" href="http://www.rafflecopter.com/rafl/display/4c7892fd2/" id="rcwidget_mqobndsd" rel="nofollow">a Rafflecopter giveaway</a>
<script src="//widget-prime.rafflecopter.com/launch.js"></script>Jennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07923751596148085363noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1669762298855511295.post-34788255547360828352015-01-30T14:39:00.000-07:002015-01-30T14:42:19.488-07:00Why I Don't Believe in Parenting Styles Once upon a time I was newly married and freshly pregnant with our first little bundle of joy, and I had all kinds of plans and ideas for how we were going to raise him. For starters, I would be delivering him naturally because birth is exactly like a marathon and you just need to train for it, everybody knows that.<br />
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My little sister who'd flown across the country with her her 6-week old son to stand up in our wedding <i>should</i> have known that, but since she ended up getting an epidural, she obviously hadn't put in the work to train for it. (Somehow, she refrained from punching me in the face. Bless her.)<br />
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But <i>I</i> was going to do it differently. I was going to birth my baby naturally, with my husband-coach standing supportively at my side, and then I was going to exclusively breast feed because of course it was best for his little brain and it would handily assist me in losing all 55 lbs. of baby weight within 6 weeks of giving birth.<br />
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I remember vividly the first time we gave him a pacifier. He was about 3 weeks old, neither of us had slept in as many days, and one evening during an hours-long scream fest I furtively pleaded for my husband to run down to the car and dig around in the backseat where I thought I'd remembered throwing the free sample pacifier from the hospital.<br />
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<i>"Nobody has to know, we'll just give it to him this once. He'll still nurse, right? Right?!" </i><br />
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Sobbing, second-guessing, and then, wonder of wonders...a calmed and soothed baby. Who went on to breastfeed for 13 grueling and occasionally rewarding months. I remember being <i>so</i> proud that his first beverage other than breast milk was plain old dairy milk. No nasty formula for my little prince, I was mommy, hear me roar.<br />
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About a year and a half later I was standing in an Italian farmacia on a Roman street corner, anxiously scanning the shelves of baby supplies, trying to select a formula that might be good enough for my colicky 10 month old who'd never slept through the night and who had injured me so severely with his budding teeth that I had to supplement for a couple days. Let's just say <a href="http://www.mamaneedscoffee.com/2013/02/language-barriers.html">I chose unwisely</a>.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCRxKIBoQHLxPOWTeFXOkH63GfFSXEzyUPoY4BwRg9m9rwHB4gvxXtNDXmp7Q_lq3f1j47JYOIEabp0SedID6Qa_LBPIPV3w5ksaL-PrOoI7-B1mb6aIbgOiCxmy0NDbhuOyeLh79gRQOe/s1600/P1050118.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCRxKIBoQHLxPOWTeFXOkH63GfFSXEzyUPoY4BwRg9m9rwHB4gvxXtNDXmp7Q_lq3f1j47JYOIEabp0SedID6Qa_LBPIPV3w5ksaL-PrOoI7-B1mb6aIbgOiCxmy0NDbhuOyeLh79gRQOe/s1600/P1050118.JPG" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Boom.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
By our third trip down L&D lane, I swung merrily into the nurses' station after 3 days of prodromal labor and announced that I'd like my epidural placed now-ish, and that I didn't want to feel anything other than joy for the next 12 hours.<br />
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The unifying theme to all of the above? Well, aside from the obvious <i>you don't know parenting until you've done it with each particular child, </i>the common thread is this: never say never.<br />
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Unless, of course, it's truly an issue of good versus evil.<br />
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I've learned to pick my battles in the ongoing drama that is the mommy wars, and there are only a handful of hills I'm willing to die on. They all have something in common though:<b> they deal in objective moral reality.</b><br />
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Have a different style of discipline than we do? Great! We can still totally be friends. Super into co-sleeping and attachment style parenting? Okay, well that's cool if it works for your family. Feeding your children conventional dairy products and processed chicken nuggets? Hey, if the grocery budget balances, who am I to judge?<br />
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But seriously, <b>none of those issues deal in moral objectives</b>. There is no black and white when it comes to pacifiers vs. nursing on demand, sleeping at mommy's bedside vs. a room with a view down the hall, and appropriate spanking vs. love and logic.<br />
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The issues I will do battle over? Exposing our kids to evil via inappropriate television or movies. Vulgar or sexual language in front of them. Violence - <i>true violence</i>, not playground scuffles - against them or by them. Those are moral issues. Those are the times when parents must stand up and fight.<br />
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But for the love of all the loves, let's back the flip down when it comes to co-sleeping. Let's stop spamming up threads all over social media about immunization. Let's not pat ourselves on the back so hard we fall flat on our faces if we've been blessed with an unusually compliant toddler who doesn't need to be leashed near traffic, because we all know it's<i> our</i> immaculate parenting practices that are responsible for <i>his </i>angelic nature.<br />
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The truth of it is, kids are a crazy combination of genetics and gentrification, nature and nurture. And for the most part, every parent is doing their best with what they've been given. And please, please let this filter down deep inside your mommy brain: <i><b>nobody is parenting at you</b>.</i><br />
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If your sister posts a Dr. Sears article on her Facebook page, you don't need to feel affronted. If your best friend chooses not to vaccinate with morally-questionable (NOT illicit, mind you, but questionable, i.e. up for determination <i><a href="http://www.ncbcenter.org/Document.Doc?id=7">by the individual conscience</a></i>) formulations, she is not trying to kill your newborn. And if your mother in law chides you for not giving that squalling 4 month old a hearty bottle of cow's milk, smile kindly and thank her for her suggestion. No need to whip out The Womanly Art and start quoting scripture to her.<br />
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You are not a hero for birthing a baby without drugs. You are not a criminal for putting your child in day care. You are not a negligent mother for working outside the home. And you are not a thoughtless breeder for having your children 15 months apart. You are an unique, unrepeatable individual and a highly-specialized expert in <i>your </i>field: your kids.<br />
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Nobody else has the right to raise them. God knows, because He's the one who gave them to <i>you. </i><br />
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So strap on that Ergo. Or don't! Toss that chubby baby in an exersaucer and hit the treadmill next to them. Hell, switch on that iPad and take a shower by yourself. And be confident enough in your decision that you don't waste precious time and energy defending your choices to strangers on the internet or your comrades in arms at play group.<br />
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Because whatever else you're choosing to do for your child, in your home, in your family...you surely don't have the time for that.<br />
<br />Jennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07923751596148085363noreply@blogger.com31