The 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

And we don't have any idea of why she is the way she is.

It's been confounding and enlightening, at turns, as a parent to have no idea what is wrong, or even whether something is, in fact, "wrong" with her.

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.

There's a delicate balance in motherhood between anxiety and surrender. Sometimes it really is on us to keep worrying when everyone else says to relax.

But other times, maybe more times than not, relaxing and releasing is the right way to go.

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.

The antidote to all this, for me, has been motherhood.

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.

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.

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), but I still can't summon a diagnosis for my daughter by the force of my will.

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 can control while simultaneously releasing my inflated and, honestly, egomaniacal sense of control.

So efficient, Lord. I see what you did there.

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.

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.

A Love Stronger Than Death

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Photo credit, Jason Pohlmeier

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

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

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

Paul Coakley, pray for us.

On Debt and Openness to Life

I was FB chatting with a friend earlier this week and she made a comment about how freeing their experience of being debt free has been, and I had a kind of "aha" moment while her words sunk in.

I also got really, really excited about the future, and about being able to experience that kind of freedom for myself.

Now, the friend in question has more than a handful of kids. And my mind immediately jumped to the conclusion that financial freedom was probably immensely liberating in the bedroom, too, in terms of family planning.

Does that seem far fetched?

I kept thinking about it all afternoon, considering the connection between our deeply-indebted culture and a general aversion to children, past the perfunctory one or two. (And I'm speaking here to couples who are intentionally avoiding additions to their family, not to those struggling with the heartache of infertility.)

I thought about our neighbors across the street, eager to hand me bags and bags full of darling little girl clothes, and equally happy to tell us on more than one occasion how very "done" they were because they simply "couldn't afford" any more children. That their youngest daughter, though very much loved, was very much a surprise.

They're a sweet family and she works hard to stay home with her girls, running an event planning business and keeping another baby 40 hours a week for a working mama. Their girls have the best toys and clothes, and they throw fantastical themed birthday parties every year - last year's fete for the 4-year-old was Frozen-themed and featured a live, rented reindeer, a snow machine, a karaoke set up, Elsa's wedding cake, and a spread of Swedish food that put Ikea to shame.

I have to wonder whether what they - and so many of us - consider to be necessary trappings to the ideal childhood are really just that: trappings.

I know that kids care about having cool stuff, but I think they can be coached into caring, can be educated into a certain lifestyle and level of expectation, just like any of us can.

On the other hand, I think that parents who are drowning in consumer debt, choked by student loans and car payments and ridiculous mortgages, are probably honest-to-God afraid of having more kids under such circumstances.

I am just wondering where the intersection is between "hot damn it's expensive to raise a family in this economy!" (and it is) and "you know, maybe we don't need to be racking up semiannual beach vacations on our credit cards (but mileage points!) and driving 2-year-old cars with all the best new features to have a happy family."

I wonder how many American couples are avoiding having any/more children because of debt. 

I wonder how much of the Very Real Struggle of NFP is tied up in financial insecurity.

I wonder if there's some kind of connection between generously and prudently managing one's money and one's fertility.

I am speaking to a stereotype here, but as is often the case with stereotypes, they issue forth from grains of truth.

Is it hella costly to raise and launch a kid into the world we live in?

Yes, yes it is.

But we all make choices, whether in our careers or in our decisions at the grocery store or the mall. We all decide how and where we're going to spend the money we've been entrusted with, and whether or not we're going to make debt a part of our lifestyle.

Some families have fewer options, whether due to underemployment, chronic poverty, or disability and restricted income potential, but I'm speaking here to the typical suburban American family, the one driving multiple car payments and buying brand new clothing and eating out in restaurants every week.

I wonder how much of our collective inability to manage money (and I'm looking in the mirror here) translates into our collective terror at the specter of Too Many Mouths To Feed (though that is hardly the real issue for 95% of us, let's be honest with ourselves.)

I think that being freed from the crushing burden of thousands of dollars of debt flowing out the door every month would go a long way to alleviate some of the fear of the unknown in terms of how many kids we might eventually be blessed with, creating some space for daring and generosity in hearts that are cramped and burdened by chronic stress and fear.

And I fully own that we made - and are making - the choices that got us here, and the choices that will set us free.

(And in the spirit of full disclosure, here's a little snapshot of our budgeting plan.)

What do you think? Totally reaching here, or maybe onto something? I can't be the only one thinking these crazy thoughts.

When NFP is hard to swallow

The funny thing about talking shop about NFP (Natural Family Planning) with other users is that the conversation, either online or in person, usually goes one of two ways.

Exhibit A: NFP blows. Meet my fourth daughter, Maria Faustina, miraculously conceived 13 days post peak. She's our 5th child in 6 years. Still, be it done unto me according to my chart...

or else

Exhibit B: NFP is so magical. It will change your life, divorce-proof your marriage, and guarantee smoldering, ecstatic sex almost every day of the month (except for a teeny tiny window, if you're seeking to avoid pregnancy.) You're an idiot if you find it challenging. Because science.

I guess I fall somewhere in between there. And I'd guess that many of us do.

I had the opportunity to speak to a group of beautiful mamas at my own parish yesterday (talk about humbling) and it was just so refreshing to be able to speak openly and honestly about the beauty AND the struggle of NFP. Because, like so much else about love and marriage, it's not always easy and it's not always clear. Because sometimes it's cloudy. Or cloudy-clear.

Aaaaaanyway, the thing is we aren't doing ourselves any favors as a Church or as couples in desperate need of support, fellowship, and wisdom from other families in the trenches if we don't speak openly about this thing that we're all expected to do (wink, wink) but that few of us are actually doing. And those of us who are doing it? Well, we're idiots. And sometimes we believe that to be true.

It's not easy being open to life in a culture so utterly opposed to it.

Our neighbors think we're weirdos. Our parents think we're irresponsible. Our bosses think we don't know what causes that. And our cashiers at the grocery store wonder if we know where the condoms are stocked.

Here's the thing though; Jesus doesn't promise convenience, lack of suffering, or predictability. There was something about a cross and lifting it upright and, you know the rest.

We live in a time and a place where convenience is the highest good. I think some of us actually worship it. I think of this most often when I'm doing the microwave dance, reheating my morning coffee, wondering how 28 seconds can pass so slowly and if I stare intently at this glowing box, will it heat any faster?

But Christianity is not convenient. 

Forgoing contraception and having difficult, meaningful, frustrating conversations about love and eternity with your spouse month after month after month...is not convenient. Having a baby 11 months after the last one was delivered, or facing down months and maybe even years of abstinence due to a medical diagnosis is not convenient. Learning to practice temperance, self control, and chastity within - yes, within marriage - is not convenient.

But convenience doesn't guarantee happiness. Or rather, it doesn't guarantee joy.

Using NFP will not make you happy. It will not earn you a free ticket to heaven or a front-row seat at a papal audience. It's not a panacea for marital woes, and it's definitely not some baptized, back-assward Church-approved method of contraception.

It's more than that. But also less.

NFP is, first and foremost, a tool. It's something the Church, backed by scientific research, offers to her children as a means to understanding the mysterious and often confounding gift of human fertility.

Contraception, on the other hand, is the deliberate dismantling of fertility. Rather than seeking to understand, it shuts down, short circuits, or disables it.

NFP and contraception have something in common in that both can be used to avoid pregnancy. But only so much as both an umbrella and a nuclear bomb can shelter you from the rain. One works within reality, the other creates an alternate reality. And it's not pretty, though it might be very effective at keeping you dry.

NFP isn't Catholic contraception. But as long as those of us who bow our heads and bend our knees to the teachings of Christ and His Church on the matter try to compare it as such, whether in our mirrors or in conversions with each other, we're going to come up short. 

Contraception offers apparent freedom and happiness to couples longing for love. But it doesn't deliver. It can't. It cuts off love at the root, making small what could grow into something grand and majestic. 

NFP isn't a failsafe, foolproof guarantee against marital unhappiness. But it isn't self destructive, either. It's actually morally neutral; we inform the morality by our own use of it, and the choices we make.

So let's have this conversation, shall we? Let's admit that yes, living the Church's teachings on sex and marriage is difficult, insanely difficult in some circumstances. Especially in this culture, in this moment in history, in this climate of me-ness and mine-ness and all the nesses. But let's go further. Let's let people in for a glimpse at the messy, the chaotic, the honest, and the beautiful. Because for everything this culture lays claim to, beauty is not a credible option. We are starved for beauty, searching for meaning, and desperate to find - and to be - love.

And marriages that are truly open to life have a depth and a sincerity to them, even in the difficult moments, that is wildly attractive. That's the real reason people can't stop talking about it. Sure, some people are legitimately disgusted by the sight of more than a couple children trailing a simliar-looking adult in a crowded shopping center. But they're the minority. 

People are naturally drawn to what is true, good, and beautiful - so let's draw them in. And let's not be afraid to look them square in the eye and say, yes, you're right, my hands are full, and somebody just pissed on my foot in the Chipotle bathroom a few minutes ago...but I'm still going to keep them.

Click here for the rest of the series.

Let's talk about "openness to life"

In a Catholic wedding, just before the exchange of vows, the priest or deacon receiving the couple's promises to one another and to God asks a series of three questions. I thought they were part of the vows themselves, but they're actually preliminary questions which allow the vows to proceed, if that makes sense. 

They're conditional, in a way. A sort of final litmus to test the sincerity of the couple entering into Holy Matrimony, making certain the conditions necessary for a valid marriage are in place.

"(Name) and (name), have you come here freely and without reservation to give yourselves to each other in marriage?" 

"Will you honor each other as man and wife for the rest of your lives?" 

"Will you accept children lovingly from God, and bring them up according to the law of Christ and his Church?"

That last line always gets me. I said those words with such sincerity, and without the faintest idea what I was actually getting myself into.

How hard can it be, right? 

Dave and I were well prepared for marriage and kids, both by the examples we had in our own families and in our varies jobs. We were professional oldest siblings, bossy as hell (well, one of us) and super mature.

We were so set.

Then went and like, had a child of our own and we were all, oooooooohkay, this is a little different then what I was expecting.

With each additional kid we've added to our ranks, I've observed an odd mixture of increasing love and parental competence accompanied by stark, raving terror. Because more kids are more work, yes, but also because with each new baby bump my anxiety level ratchets up another thousand points because love invites loss.

There's a very real point at which openness to life intersects with openness to loss.

There are the more obvious examples; infertility, miscarriage, still birth, infant death, loss of a child, major illness...and then there are the less apparent losses. Loss of autonomy. Loss of control. Loss of income. Loss of (perceived) ability to know the future.

I get why a culture such as ours, hell bent on control and predictability, has such a hard time accepting children. And actually, I don't think it's unique to our time. What is unique is the accessibility and widespread acceptance of contraception.

We still pledge to accept children lovingly from God, but we do so with fingers crossed behind our backs, knowing that at the end of the day, we don't really have to rely on God in that arena in this day and age. I mean maybe we think He'll send a couple our when we're good and ready, hopefully healthy models that tick all the right boxes...but we don't honestly plan on throwing caution to the wind and sailing bravely into the unknown, opening wide to the adventure of marriage and parenthood.

But what if we did?

What if agreeing to accept children lovingly from God was more than just an archaic line in an ancient religious ceremony? What if we actually lived that promise, (and I'm not talking about going quiver full or moving to Arkansas, though we do love a good Duggar episode in this house) giving our future over to God and asking for His plans, not our own, for our families. And what if His answer looked completely different from what we'd hoped?

What if there were no children at all, or only a precious one? What if there were 6, and we felt stretched past our breaking point and ready to drop dead? And what if, no matter what story He wanted to write with our fertility, we bowed our heads and whispered, not my while, but Yours, be done.

Maybe we'd be happier. Maybe our marriages would be richer. Maybe our houses would be destroyed and maybe our hearts would be broken open by disappointment and difficulty and sorrow ... and maybe they would be so much larger for it.

I know this is a crazy thought, but what if God knows better than we do the plans He has for us ... plans for our welfare and not for our woe? Plans to give us a future, and hope?

I struggle every single day with relinquishing control. From my first cup of coffee until my eyes close at night. I have three beautiful children. I've got it made. And I'm so lucky. Why rock the boat? Why be open to more difficulty? Why risk the chance that things might get messy(er)/painful/uncertain?

Well, this is why. Faith like this woman's. That's the kind of boldness I want to practice. That's the stuff saints are made of. Radical openness, wild trust, and abandon to divine providence.

Now, to find the courage. Because quite frankly, it's still a terrifying prospect.

Click here for the rest of the series.

How to take a shower (with 3 kids 3 and under)

I thought in light of all the heavy traffic the topic of NFP is generating round these parts, a practical hands-on style post might be in order.

You know, for actually living with all the fruit of NFP under one's roof.

(Painfully obvious disclaimer: NFP does not necessarily equal a house overrun with children. At least, not always. But it can make you more, how can I put this, open to the possibility? Even though it is actually more effective at postponing pregnancy than most forms of contraception. End disclaimer.)

Without further ado: personal hygiene.

Step 1 (Difficulty level: Introductory)

Showering? Bahahahaha ha ha ha ...

Sweat pants + top knot = who even neeeeeeeeds to chart? Ain't nothing going down in this house tonight.

Step 2 (Beginner)

Hand baby to suit-clad husband at 7:49 am. Beg him to delay departure for office for additional 4 minutes. Run to bathroom. Leave door open to hear screams for help. Rub shampoo into partially dry hair and perhaps add conditioner at the same time to streamline the process. Shave one leg using same shampoo/conditioner mix. Eschew toweling off in favor of the painful wet leg denim shuffle. Retrieve baby. Return top knot to upright position.

Step 3 (Intermediate)

Wait until all children are napping. Slam laptop shut. Run to bathroom, leaving door cracked for (in)security purposes. Plan on at least one intruder to peep upon you during your 7 minutes in heaven. Strategically placed loofahs and/or towels hung on exterior of shower door can delay 'the talk' for several more years, potentially. Repeat shampoo routine as outlined above, but perhaps separate shampoo and conditioning into 2 steps. Shave both legs. You are amazing.

Step 4 (Advanced)

Tuck infant under arm and run the water. Test it for ideal temperature for sensitive baby skin. You're about to dispatch two dirty birds with one shiny stone.

Step into shower, taking care to throw a towel down behind you on the bathroom floor. Leave ventilating fan off, because this is a shower + baby humidifying session, you clever minx.

Hold baby firmly in shower spray, gauging baby's level of discomfort by the terrorized facial expression. (We shower our newborns from day one, so they're quite comfortable in the spray, all told.) Keep the terror at or below 4. With baby firmly clasped to body with a cross-crotch hold, use other hand to dispense hypoallergenic body wash/baby wash onto baby's back. Note: you are about to use your child as a loofah. No shame. Drag baby's soapy body back and forth across your ruined midsection, paying special attention to neck rolls (baby's) and any other milk-hiding crevices. Finish with a quick shampoo (for hairy babies) if necessary. Coo at baby and enjoy this sensory discovery/water play activity with your oft-neglected third born.

When hot water is in danger of running out, carefully open shower door and place wet baby on the waiting towel. Baby will now be happily encased in a warm bathroom sauna to loosen up all that overnight mucus. Shut shower door and begin frantically shampooing own hair. This is your big chance to shave all the things. Don't blow it.

Hot water is waning, but you don't care because you just exfoliated and shaved your pale legs, and your conditioner has been sitting in your hair for the entire recommended 3 minutes. Rinse off, step out, and retrieve baby. If the toddlers are still engrossed with their Curious George episode, you might have time for a quick baby lotion massage.

Step 5: Look up, you're being watched.

Let's be Done

I so want to throw my hands up and yell 'enough' to the beneficent creator of the universe who has seen fit to send three bouncing bundles of joy our way in a little over 4 years. Especially after days like today. Especially after bedtime pretty much every night. 

Even now, as I sit here convalescing in the family room, I can hear faint wailing coming from the back corner of the house as the boys resign themselves to the cyclical horror of pajamas and comfort objects in their black-out shade darkened bedroom. Evie is also starting to whimper, because 45 solid minutes of nursing wasn't sufficient to quench her raging bedtime thirst.

With no small amount of effort and resentment I heave my weary body off the couch and pad towards the kids' rooms. I hate this part of the day, and yet I am so very aware of how fleeting these frantic years of littleness really are.

It's also moments like these when I most closely empathize with our contraceptive culture. Because dammit, this is hard.

If that were the end game, keeping life relatively uncomplicated versus taking up one's cross and following…well then sign my doctor's name on the dotted Rx. I can completely understand why a couple would choose to limit the madness, to shut the door on the possibility of further complications, and to issue an indefinite 'no trespassing' mandate to the God of the universe, posted in plain sight on their bedroom door.

But that's not the endgame, is it? 

Our mortal toil here on earth is exactly that: work. A lot of it. No matter the circumstances or situation of one's life, nobody gets out without putting in some hard time. And children are a lot of work. In fact, they're kind of the perfect means by which those of us called to the married life can work out our salvation with fear and potty training. 

But they're more than just work, however ardently popular culture - and tired mommy bloggers like me - might try to convince you otherwise. They're also immortal souls. Little images of the Word made flesh, Who dwelt among us. And they deserve to be seen as more than accessories or add-ons to an otherwise 'perfect' and ordered life. 

Children are not something you 'do' in marriage once you've bought the house, landed the job, and signed the second lease agreement for the fancy SUV. They're actually the point of marriage, the other half of the twofold equation for 'the good of the spouses and the procreation of offspring.'

Surprised? Anyone in this culture would be. After all, how many times have we heard otherwise, been instructed otherwise, even heard preaching that insisted otherwise?

Children, our culture would have us believe, are optional upgrades at best, and life-ending impediments to happiness at worst. This is the fruit of contraception, and its evil twin sister, abortion. Children have become, in our minds, the enemy. The enemy of happiness. The enemy of productivity. The enemy of comfort, wealth, and leisure. And in making them so, we have aligned ourselves against God Himself.

"Whoever shall receive one of these children in my name, receives me: and whoever shall receive me, receives not me, but him that sent me."

We can easily forget, in all our planning and charting and discerning, that we're not ultimately in control. Even when science purports to tell us otherwise. Even when our hearts desperately wish we could be. Life, despite our best efforts to manipulate, frustrate, create, contort, and confine, is not entirely under our jurisdiction. To believe and to act otherwise is to live a lie, to mistake a charade for reality. 

Contraception has become one of the greatest charades in all of human history. It offers us the ultimate illusion of control: control of life itself.

Honestly, the Church doesn't condemn the practice of contraception because she wants more butts in the seats. She isn't trying to corner the market on future human beings, and she certainly isn't attempting to chain women to the cookstove with dozens of children, keeping her happily at home and tucked away from the public square. Couldn't be further from the truth.

She condemns the practice of contraception because of what it does to the person, to the marriage, to the potential children in question. It's all for love, and whether or not modern man can wrap his skeptical mind around this, it's the truth.

In his new pastoral letter, released today, Bishop Conley of Lincoln, Nebraska tells us the following: 

"God... created marriage to be unifying and procreative. To join husband and wife inseparably in the mission of love, and to bring forth from that love something new. Contraception robs the freedom for those possibilities."

Isn't that wild? It's the very opposite of what we've been sold by media and marketing and hollywood and…insert blame here. In many cases, it's the opposite of what we've heard at church. 

Contraception doesn't make us responsible adults; it renders us sterile adolescents, unable to grow in our faith or in our relationships. 

Bishop Conley goes on to quote soon-to-be-saint John Paul II:

In 1995, Blessed John Paul II wrote that our culture suffers from a “hedonistic mentality unwilling to accept responsibility in matters of sexuality, and… a self-centered concept of freedom, which regards procreation as an obstacle to personal fulfillment."  Generous, life-giving spousal love is the antitode to hedonism and immaturity: parents gladly give up frivolous pursuits and selfishness for the intensely more meaningful work of loving and educating their children.

What the what? An obstacle to personal fulfillment? Hell, I feel like that every morning at 6:45. My children are deeply, endlessly opposed to my deepest means of personal fulfillment: sleep.

So you see, even my pew-warming butt needs to hear a message like this. Over and over again. And to re-read Humanae Vitae with a discerning heart and open eyes. 

Children are not some kind of marital accessory, a means of 'leveling up' to the next developmental stage of a romantic relationship. They're something new entirely. And at the end of the day, God forgive me for forgetting this over and over again. I am the foremost of sinners in the arena of marital love and charity. It's part of why I'm so deeply, painfully grateful for a Church who helps rehabilitate me daily. Hourly, some nights.

But perfect love casts out all fear. 

Fear of failure. Fear of bodily destruction (hellooooo stretch marks and extra 30 lbs). Fear of ridicule by a culture utterly opposed to what we are doing with our lives. Fear of loss, even…because the more you have to love, the more you have to lose.

Perfect love. It's the antidote to fear. And the antidote to a culture so utterly self absorbed that the very notion of delaying gratification or suffering for love of another is regarded as pathological.

Fear is at the root of our enormous distrust of life and our hopeless misunderstanding of love. We are a culture rich beyond belief, unprecedented in all of human history…and yet we live like anxious paupers, scrabbling around in the dirt for our daily bread when the One Who created us wants to lay a banquet of unfathomable riches.

I am the foremost of sinners. The most anxious pauper, scrabbling around for a scrap of security or worldly regard, worrying constantly about how things look or feel. Thank you, God, for illuminating my darkened intellect with the Truth of Your good plan for human life, for human love. Though I rail against it internally almost daily, my stubborn will consenting over and over again not my will, but yours, be done.

And that's why we never say never. We never declare, with any certainty or advanced knowledge that we're 'done.' Because who knows? We might overcome our deep-seated natural tendency toward selfishness again at some point in the future. And because we're not intentionally frustrating the procreative power of our married love, there might very well be a name to go along with that momentary lapse in selfishness, 9 months down the road.

Let's never be done living God's plan for our lives. Not until the final curtain call. 

(Read Bishop Conley's entire letter here. It's beyond good.)

How (and why) to Catch a Mother's Helper

So leave it to the old mommy blogger identity to make my recent post about getting a MH one of my most read to date in 2014 (like thousands of page views, go figure).

Apparently you guys want to know more. Well let me be the one to bring you into the happy, light-filled place where well-rested and highly satisfied mothers dwell: the land of helpful teenagers.

Now, I've heard you can get your own helpful teenagers with approximately a dozen investment years of blood, sweat, and tears, but I don't have the luxury of a decade + of mothering under my belt yet, so I had to outsource.

I had several well-respected moms of many extol to me, via email or the combox, how very useful one of these mythical creatures could be, and, even more helpfully, advise me on how best to lure and capture one. So allow to me share the recipe.

First, know what your needs are. Maybe you're the kind of mom who loves to read books, play imaginary games, build endless railroad tracks, and sing lots of kid's songs out loud. But maybe you'd gladly pay someone to fold your underwear and mop your kitchen floor. So tailor your search accordingly. I, however, am very much not that kind of mom.

The tremendous amount of energy it requires for me to engage my introverted momself with my kids all day long is actually weirdly rejuvenated by vacuuming, uninterrupted laundry folding, and even the occasional toilet scrubbing. Plus, I am a bit of a perfectionist in the housekeeping department. Don't get me wrong, my house is not extraordinarily clean, but it for sure is cleaned to my standards and my standards alone, by me. I love my kids, and I also love someone else entertaining them while I take an hour of uninterrupted time to clean. I know many moms who would rather have the cleaning help, and that is fine too. Just be clear in what you're looking for.

Secondly, have a realistic budget in mind. Take a gander at your local Craigslist or Care.com ads for childcare help, cleaning, etc. and get an idea for what the going rate is in your area. Think of what you'd pay a babysitter. Ask your friends what they pay theirs. Heck, ask your friends if they employ mother's helpers of their own. I was shocked at how many of my girlfriends had recommendations for me. And all this time I thought they'd all been Super-moming it on their own…

If you're willing to hire a younger teen, you can definitely save some money. Be prepared to have to be more flexible in terms of availability, however, as they might be younger than driving age and might not be able to handle more than 1 or 2 kids on their own if you decide to leave the house.

Third, know where to look. First, ask your local mom friends. Call around to local churches and inquire with their youth ministers or youth pastors, (think outside the Catholic ghetto - good opportunity for evangelization, too!) ask the barista at your regular coffee spot, or ask your friends who teach or coach at area high schools. If your city has a homeschooling community or email list, this is a great resource, especially since homeschoolers have much more flexible schedules.

Finally, don't feel the need to explain yourself or hover around your fabulous employee once they're on site. I mean obviously you'll want to observe them with your kids, have a character reference or two, and be confident that they're responsible and friendly, but then… back off.

My biggest concern when I was considering making this move was that I'd feel awkward having somebody in my house while I'm there, and that I'd have to justify why I was essentially paying someone to hang out with my children while I took a nap, did some writing, ran errands, went to the gym or just sat on my bed, nursing and reading a novel. Stop it. You don't have to explain to anybody. Even moms deserve the chance to shower without spectators, and I know my husband would rather come home to a smiling wife who might have even cooked dinner than to a frantic shrew who tosses him a screaming baby as she runs past him into the night for an hour of escape. (Don't I paint a rosy picture of family life? Whatever, postpartum mothering is hard.

Hard, but cute.

Mothering in this culture is hard, period. For starters, those of us who don't commute to an office have to answer the idiotic inquiry do you work? at least on a weekly. Coupled with that is the reality that modern America is not exactly family friendly. Sure, there are kids play places and programs at the library for little people, but hardly anybody lives nearby enough to their extended family to get any real help, and childcare is so expensive that it necessitates (and also creates the need for, by the way) a second income. Plus, nobody is home during the day on most weekdays, so if you're staying at home, you're going it super alone. It ain't natural, I'm telling you. And it isn't the way mothers the world over are doing it.

There's a reason so many of us are burnt out, lonely, and wonder on the regular whether our work means anything at all. In the eyes of our culture, the answer is too often a big, fat no. But the eyes of the heart reveal a different answer. What we do is infinitely and eternally important…but we were never meant to do it completely alone. Ladies, don't be afraid to add a co-worker to the corporate payroll when you've found yourself with a broader job description. There ain't no shame in upping your game, even if that means expanding the roster to include some new talent.

I hope this helps you struggling and lonely mamas out there see the idea in a different light. And if the cost is intimidating to you, perhaps there is a solution that doesn't cost a thing. Maybe there's another mom in your same situation who would be willing to swap kids one day a week, and the two of you can take turns relieving each other. Maybe your mother-in-law is local and is dying to be invited to help you with the kids on a regular basis. Maybe there's a teen in your community who just loves little ones, and who would want to come play with your kids for no cost at all. You never know until you ask.

For our own situation, our MH is  15-year old homeschooled high school student whose parents were willing to drive her both ways (this was hugely important to me) two days a week. She comes Monday and Friday afternoons from 1:30 - 5 pm, and I usually entrust her with my 3.5 year old and my 22 month old for the entire time. I will also leave her with the 9-week-old, as long as one of the three kids are asleep. (She doesn't have any qualms about taking care of them all, but I feel like 3 little kids is a lot to ask of a 15 year old.) When I do leave the house, it's usually for an hour or so while I shop or work out. I won't put her specific salary, but the going rate for babysitting in our area is 8-12 per hour, and I stay within that range.

Hope this was helpful and not sleep inducing. (And thanks for a second day of motivation, Jen.)

How We Deck Our Halls

When Dave and I were first married, we arrived home flushed and tan from our Hawaiian honeymoon to our adorable apartment just as the calendar was turning over to December. I think I may have mentioned stopping at a grocery store en route from the airport to snag our Christmas tree, so far behind schedule had our late-November nuptials put us. He probably laughed, but then he looked at my face and realized, ohhhh…and thus our first marital conflict was born. Just kidding. Well, sort of.

To say that we were raised in different liturgical traditions wouldn't be accurate, because we were definitely both raised Catholic. But let's just say that one of in-laws were balanced on ladders stringing lights and hanging tinsel before the Thanksgiving turkey had even hit the table, while the other were peacefully contemplating which Christmas tree of the 4 remaining on the lot on Christmas Adam (Christmas Eve eve, y'all. It's the best non-feast day of the entire year) would suffice for the family evergreen.

So we were at an impasse. I think because we were like 17 days man and wife and because he is a wonderful husband, I won the great tree debate of 2009. Obviously we bought a real tree, and obviously we strung and lit that sucker up before the wax had melted on our Advent candles for that year, and obviously it died a cruel, painful death after a few days in our dry, indoor Denver air. But whatever, we kept that bad boy vertical until Epiphany and then kicked it to the curb in an explosion of dry needles and pine pollen. And possibly sparks of actual fire, because it was d.r.y. and dead as hell.

The second year came, and the second dead-before-Advent-commenced Christmas tree followed. Also, Dave accidentally caught our mantle and part of the garland and stocking situation strung there on fire. Because that dead Christmas tree was prime firewood and not to be wasted. (Our landlord never found out, and we managed to scrub all the soot off the walls by the time our lease was up.)

By last year's Christmas, our third of wedded bliss, we had finally devised something of a blended family tradition all our own, and by golly, it looks as though it has stuck. Don't get me wrong, the tree still died a cruel and miserable death far too early into the season, but it wasn't killed by overzealous decorating or liturgical precociousness. It's still just really freaking dry here.

Christmas 2011, pregnant with John Paul and probably in need of a longer hemline.

So our new 'tradition' was born. This year it feels even more effective, if you will, because I have had to be super picky about what we can commit to and what I can reasonably handle with a giant belly and the looming specter of yuletide newborn sleeplessness. Hence, lowered expectations. Here's how it breaks down:

Pre-Advent/last week of November: Begin and (mostly) finish Christmas shopping. We're blessed in that both our families are content with simple 'Secret Santa' exchanges, so each Dave and I are responsible for buying gifts for 1 member of each of our original families, if that makes sense. So that's a total of 4 gifts. In addition to that, we get each other one gift each, and we sometimes decide to give something additionally to our parents. The boys get two gifts each this year, we decided, because we basically bought them the earth and then some in our relocation back to the US earlier this year, and we have a pretty minimal toy policy around here. I also assemble the necessary ingredients for an Advent wreath and we make some kind of game plan for how we're going to keep the penitential aspect of Advent in the forefront. This year it worked out that we could both go to Confession before Mass this morning, so that was perfect.

First Sunday of Advent: We light up the first candle in our wreath (we're going to try to light the appropriate candle every day and say a very, very brief prayer each day this Advent, we'll see how it goes), and we go out and buy the tree. It's sitting decked out with lights in our living room, but we compromise and only light it on major feast days and during Sundays in Advent until Guadete (the pink candle) Sunday. Then it's lights ooooooon till Santa touches down. We also set up our Nativity set, leaving baby Jesus hidden somewhere else in the house, and putting the Wise Men east of the stable (like that?) and Mary and Joseph heading in from the west side. The cows are already chilling crib side. And speaking of Santa Claus…

I still believe. I also love St. Nicholas, so this year for the first time, we had the boys write letters to Santa/St. Nick (totally interchangeable in my twisted mind) asking for prayer intentions to be brought before the baby Jesus and okay, a couple present requests. It's not theologically perfect, but it's better than secular Santa who has basically been relegated to the role of kiddie crack dealer.

We've also told them that if they put their shoes out Thursday evening on the eve of St. Nicholas' feast day, he will take their letters when he drops off their treats. He'll also leave them a little note of encouragement for how they can help prepare their hearts and our home for baby Jesus' arrival. How cool is that? No pretend trip to the mail box or postage to the North Pole. Bam.

(One year I concocted an elaborate Christmas carol/epic poem of sorts involving Santa-ala-St. Nicholas, bishop and mighty defeater of heretics, capturing and subduing with his sleigh-driving whip all our notorious dissenting "Catholic" politicians. Nancy Pelosi was turned into an enslaved reindeer and forced to pull the sleigh as part of her penance. It was all very disturbing to my audience, I'm sure.)

Second Sunday of Advent: We add ornaments to the tree. By this point our parish usually has their giving tree ornaments up too, so we select a family to sponsor and take a really, really fun trip to Target where we buy presents for 'our' family. I love the way our parish does this ministry because 1. you get to choose the family size you can sponsor (we like to pick a family the same size and in close ages to our own kids) and 2. you get to wrap the presents you buy for them. We also like to write Christmas messages to our family and maybe this year I'll actually think to write down all their names so we can pray for them all season. Work in progress here. We generally spend a decent amount of money doing this, which is part of the reason our gift-giving within our own home is limited. It helps bring balance to the season for us, and I hope it gives the kids a more realistic view of what Christmas really stands for.

Third Sunday of Advent (Guadete): Rejoice! He's coming! Lights on, presents all wrapped and stashed, remaining shopping odds and ends finished up, and perhaps another trip to the Confessional if necessary to prepare for Christmas.

Fourth Sunday of Advent: We top the tree. This year we'll need to buy a new star, and actually our 8 foot Costco beauty is already scratching at the ceiling, but I'm sure we'll come up with something. From here on out it's game time, and any remaining details will most definitely need to be checked off the list, because I plan on being in labor at this point. We shall see.

Christmas Adam: (it's a real holiday in my family) Christmas begins a teensy bit early. Crank the speakers, it's time to play Christmas music and drink awful mulled wine (gluvine, if you're being technical.) I am going to try really hard not to listen to Christmas music during Advent this year, to the extent that I can control it, and I'm looking forward to breaking that little 'fast' on the eve of the big Eve. Get it? Christmas Adam.

Christmas Eve: Candlelight Mass, stockings hung, Mary and Jesus arrive at hotel nativity, and kiddos are slammed to bed in anticipation of baby Jesus' arrival, heralded by Santa himself. Candlelight Mass is probably wildly optimistic this year, but we'll see how much longer this gestational situation can drag itself out.

Christmas Day: Party up in heeeeeere. Mass in the morning if we didn't make it the night before, followed by stockings and presents. I'll be celebrating with adult substances for sure, either via a narcotic dripping into the space surrounding my spinal column or a huge glass of wine perched on my lap, along with my already 2-week-old daughter who is definitely going to be sleeping through the night. Ha ha haaaaaaappy holidays to you all. That's how we do. Congrats if you made it to the festive end.

p.s. Thank you for your prayers for baby Lily. She is improving every day so keep them coming!

The Birth Week

In my family of origin we have a little tradition whereby the birthday celebration somehow gets streeeeetched into a weeklong fun-stravaganza of indulgences for the lucky celebrant. I'm not sure how this got to be the case, considering there are seven of us kids, but so far it's something I've managed to carry into my own little family, basically throwing it around as a blanket excuse for partying for longer than 24 measly hours.

And so I give you Joey's 3rd birth week. Yesterday, because I hate myself, we went to the zoo at/around naptime. And then to a major league baseball game. Yes, all in one day, and no, it wasn't planned. And yes, I know what causes that. Stupid mommy guilt, that's what causes that.

Anyway, we had a free zoo pass gifted by a sweet friend who had the temerity to meet us for the first day post Noah's second flood (we had nary a spot of water damage in our 'hood, thankfully) with her 2 daughters, one of whom is 4 weeks fresh and came with a matching c-section scar for mommy. So basically super mom. Who was I to say 'no, we can't possibly do the zoo at 11.' So we went. And honestly, it was so much fun for all parties involved, that I took nary a picture, but let it be known that Joey thinks Giraffes are "Big, biiiiig zebras" and that mommy tigers have nurses to nurse their baby tigers. And nurses = boobs.

Around 4 pm, when nap time ought to have been ending but was only just beginning, Dave texted me to say he'd scored 4 Rockies tickets at work and didn't we want to take the boys to see the Cardinals get  poached at 6:40 pm that very evening, 20 minutes before bedtime? Why yes, yes we did. So up came the boys, 70 minutes into their ill timed naps and very, very angry about it, and off went we and a pair of Jimmy John sandwiches and smuggled water bottles to Coors Field for a very lovely 6 innings of baseball.

This was another huge home run with the boys, if you'll forgive my saying so, and Joey kept raptously singing out "GO ROCKIES" and whooping whenever anybody did anything and the crowd made any noises of approval in response. On either side. He also wore his Uncle Patrick's little league hat from last season, and was in full-on big boy mode as he strode manfully about the rows and rows of seats, reassuring me when I coaxed him back down to our row, 30 levels below, "I'm just being up here right now Mommy, it's okay."

Alright son. It's your birthweek, after all. Counting down till the real party gets crunk on Saturday night, complete with cousins, a gluten free chocolate cake, and a Superman pinata filled with tiny bottles of something special for all the adults forced to participate.

We love our little Jojo, attitude and all. What a wonderful three years it has been.

Back in the Saddle

So.

Nearly 3 weeks off from stay-at-home mom-ing have left me flabby, exhausted, and a little bit shocked at the brute physicality this job demands. Last night, in a fit of what can only be classified as satanic toddler jet-lag, both boys screamed, alternating their tones and voices, from 8:30 until nearly 1 am. I am still not sure what we finally did to get them to sleep, but I know it involved multiple bedroom re-assignments, a situation involving the AC and a fan, an old laptop spinning Curious George flicks at midnight, and perhaps 5 bottles of milk.

My aching head is telling me that it was either a killer flashback to my first parental rodeo, or I got all kinds of crunk last night. (This baby bump I'm sporting is pointing to A.)

All 6 Senour cousins, in birth order. (We're tapping our next youngest and recently-engaged sister to provide #7, cause Lizzie and I need a b-r-e-a-k.)

I am so grateful we had the time with our friends and families - it was too short, it went too fast, but it was so much fun. And while I can't say why yet, coming back wasn't half as hard as I'd expected. Rome seems almost pleasant in these first few days back on the scene, half asleep in the sweltering summer heat and nearly emptied of tourists. They've all gone to the beaches, and so will we next week, to a charming little town on the Amalfi Coast called Atrani.

What do you think, worth the train ride/bus ride/hike?

While it still doesn't feel like home here, there is a familiar ache as I take in the beauty of Rome, and a realization that our time here, while sometimes difficult and always fraught with Italian bureaucracy, is fleeting. Will my kids remember that we did this? I think Joey will, but I'm sure John Paul will not. Perhaps he'll taste something years and years from now and it will jolt his memory and he will become somehow subconsciously aware that he has eaten octopus before, and that he loved it. Or maybe I'll just have to show them the pictures I really need to start taking again, because cell phone cameras don't really do life justice.

Whatever memories they escape with, I will always see Rome as the place where I became a mother in a fuller, more painful, and more exquisitely demanding sense. Now that I've had a few weeks' worth of love, support, and practical assistance with my blonde wolf cubs, I realize the magnitude of the task of raising them, essentially, alone. I mean obviously Dave is here in the evenings, but all day every day, it's me. No daycare, no gym play area, no mom's groups, no understanding friends with their own cubs willing to swap out for a quick trip sans bambini to the grocery store. I'm on, constantly. And it is almost debilitatingly exhausting. But it has also made me so strong.

We flew, counting our connecting flights, on 12 different airplanes over the past 2.5 weeks. Sometimes JP had his own seat, but usually not, and so he was perched atop my 16 week baby bump for the duration. 6 months ago I could never have done something like that. But I was a younger mom, and a less chiseled mom. And while 'chiseled' is not a word I expected to use in my self-descriptive vocab anytime in the next 1 million years or so, it's perfect for explaining this transformation in what I'm able to do and what I can handle now, as a mom.

Would this have happened if we'd never left the States? I'm sure it could have. I have dear friends whose husbands medical school schedules or demanding jobs require far more of them than what's been asked of me. But I don't know what other circumstances in my life could have made for this perfect training ground to toughen me up, and to ready me for my life-long career in motherhood.

So Italy, for whatever it's worth, thank you. You've been the hard place I've been slamming up against all these long months, and it really has made me stronger. But if you want to add AC onto those trains and buses of yours, I won't turn my nose up.

Stronger, but still not a sadist,

A mom.

Define Necessity

My dishwasher broke 3 weeks ago. I might be able to conjure more indignation than I'm presently feeling, but I suppose my capacity for outrage/frustration/annoyance was maxed out somewhere along the last 5 months. So this is more of a factual statement than a complaint.

Our vacuum cleaner is a drag-along Hoover circa 1987 and, is in perfectly good working condition provided you change the bag frequently and (our landlord's words) 're-scotch the machine' between bag changes. So yes, there are approximately 50 meters of scotch tape wrapped painstakingly around the body of the machine, holding its guts together. The hose also pops off periodically during use, sending a plume of dirt, hair, coffee grounds, and general filth into the air. But that doesn't bother me, because I don't actually use it.

My housekeeping standards, while never high altitude, were nonetheless borderline hygeinic before our immigration here. Now, well, it hardly matters that the kids are 6 months behind on their vaccinations, because natural immunity! Healthy germs!

I've already gone on and on anon about the laundry situation up in here, but won't you indulge a housewife in a little photo-documentation  anyhow?

The good life.

Does the washer keep clothes their original colors now? Aw, hell nah. Did we get a dryer? Hahahahahaha....

But look! A galvanized steel tub to corral detergents! I've stood in the bath/laundry room for minutes upon minutes since the weekend, admiring my craft-tastic handiwork. Somebody pin this shit before it gets away.

I used to be really into housekeeping. And by that I mean I used to spend a lot of time spraypainting crap I found at the Goodwill and trolling Target clearance end caps for that one, magical piece that would tie my entire house together and bring decorative harmony and just plain fabulous to our little abode.

I never found that redecoration unicorn, and I suspect he isn't really out there, after all.


Because no matter how many times I found 'that perfect piece' and DIY'd the shit out of it with a can of teal spraypaint in the backyard, I still felt a hollow 'something-is-still-missing-ness' when I surveyed our little home.

Here, I've had more of an opportunity to explore what that 'something' might be, apart from the latest chevron print throw or upcycled bookcase.

We're ugly and we know it...just lookit that wicker, just lookit that wicker...

Everything in my house is ugly. Almost none of it was purchased by me. And just looking at our  dishes sometimes reduces me to a state of near despondency. A furnished apartment in a city as expensive as Rome is a huge blessing. But hot damn, these people don't know how to decorate.

The ugliest cupboard in all the land. Pinterest is crying right now.

I have not done so, willingly, but rather, kicking and screaming. Last week I believe, after one particularly arduous hand-washing dish session (the suffering, the suffering...) I think I actually tilted my head heavenward and began pleading aloud 'How long, Oh Lord?'

Luckily, Dave was home to hear me, so when something actually difficult eventually comes my way, maybe he will be able to remind me how perfectly I have been equipped to handle hardship like a responsible, spiritually mature Christian.

On a tangentially related note, I have spent the past 2 months without buying a single item of clothing for either myself or the boys, unless you count a 3 pack of the cheekiest man-briefs ever assembled, currently gracing our Euro-toddler's buns. Well, 3/4 of his buns, anyway. But I digress. 2 months is the longest period EVER I can remember not buying something clothing related. And it has been hard.

But the truth is, the Gap is like an hour's walk from here and so. flipping. expensive. That and our rent here is roughly the equivalent of a hearty mortgage payment in the promised land.

So we dress in rags. Or at least, in the same clothes I stuffed into suitcases 5 months ago. And it works. It's not fun or even especially pretty, but it works. We're all running out of jeans and underwear, (well, except Joey Klein) but we'll make it till June 19th. In the meantime, a friend FB's me this morning and asked, did I want to troll through her donation pile of (size withheld) women's clothing and 2T boy's duds (my faux-twins can both rock 2 to the T) and I'm like, dang, God always provides.

He always does.

I used to hardly ever let Him. I mean, I still prayed prayers of petition and still allowed Him the occasional wiggle room to pull off something minor, but for the most part, my life was very much within my control. If I wanted something, I bought it. Or made it. Or concocted a plan of freelance jobs and budgetary adjustments that would put us on track to attain it.

If I wanted something non-material, well, I'd work like hell to make it happen. And usually, due to an insufferable combination of the force of my will and the maniacal persistence normally seen only in political lobbyists and viral illnesses, it would happen.

Not here. Not now.

I can't force my way through life here in Italy. It's partly the language barrier, partly the insurmountable cultural differences, and partly the simple reality of 'we don't have that'/'you can't do that'/'we don't make those.' But it's humbling.

Another domestic illustration, if I may? Our shower door fell off a few weeks back. Not a huge deal, but one we'd like to remedy sometime in the coming months as my ever-changing shape shifts once again into mama grande. It's hard to feel clean when 1/4 of your body is always hanging out of the telephone booth shower.

We've tried to find the replacement part at 4 different hardware stores now. Nobody has it. We had a handyman out 3 weeks ago to look at the dishwasher (Antonio, if you're reading this, please come back...) and he said it would be 'so easy to find, he couldn't bear to charge me were he to perform the job himself.'

Please, perform away.

In the meantime though, well, Dave rigged some hooks up and mounted the door like a picture frame. And it works. It's not pretty or even particularly functional, but it suffices.

That is so much of our life here now that I'm forgetting what pulled together and polished even looks like. But I play with my kids more. And when they wipe Nutella everywhere and soak their mattresses with urine and lose surprisingly hard-to-locate sippy cups I'm all, Yolo. (Except about the Nutella. That stuff costs the earth. But I can't quit it.)

At least this dishwasher isn't broken.

But I don't know, they seem happy here. And I'd probably be just as exhausted and frustrated with 3 under 3 (Can I count the one who's cooking? Because gestating is exhausting) back home in the US, except I'd be more like 'Whyyyyyy was the line at Starbucks so looooong, now I'm late for my prenatal appointment and I have to bring both kiiiiiiids.'

Where here it's more like 'Uuuuuuugh, there isn't enough hot water to do the dishes and shower and I'm going on day 4 and I'll never feel clean again.'

So the problems are admittedly more basic, more along the lines of 'quality of life/standard of living' issues...but they're still so incredibly minor, that it's hard for me to admit to myself that a few months ago yes, I would absolutely have counted a hot shower, a functioning set of basic household appliances, and a car that runs as basic necessities. And I was probably never, ever grateful enough for them.

Now I must try to content myself with our functioning internet, our AC units, (should summer actually ever commence here) and a roof physically over our heads. All still ridiculous luxuries by most of the world's standards. And yet not enough to satisfy me.

God, make me more grateful. And please, do so without smiting the modem.

Friday in 7

1.  

Last night, after a long day of work/mothering/nose-wiping, I was sitting at the 'ol laptop reading the most vile and troll-y comments on some article about something hosted somewhere on the internets and my blood pressure was rising steady, steady, filling up my ears like our stove-top espresso maker and then suddenly, epiphany: why am I reading this shit? My sweet sister Hillary, also a journalist, sagely pointed out that reading comments on any given article is equivalent to sitting in a public restroom and reading all the graffiti on the stall. What. What indeed, have I been doing, and why?

Blogging exempted, the written word is not generally intended to be a correspondence as it is a proclamation, and, therefore, is by its very nature not a 2-way discussion. Mind blown. I knew I had a problem as early as a year or so ago when I was indulging in a very infrequent (perhaps too infrequent) pasttime: reading an actual print newspaper. Probably while waiting in an airport somewhere. And as I finished the piece, my eyes automatically traveled down the page to see what ape_69_mofo thought about what I'd just taken in, in case his sage and worthy opinion might sway my own...what the WHAT.

Occupational hazard up in here, y'all. But I solemnly swear, from this day forward, that I will not - I repeat, NOT - be reading comments on any article that is not my own. And hell, maybe I won't even read those comments, either. Part of the joy of writing, and the mystery of it, is that you're creating something to present to the world, and it's not a collaborative effort that deserves to be shaped by random feedback from strangers. Can you imagine if artists worked that way? Or architects? Or dentists? Imperfect analogies, but do you see what I mean? (And obviously this doesn't apply to blogging, which by its very nature is ordered toward discussion. Different animal.)

2.

 Embracing my new found freedom, I decided to flex my domestic muscles last night and, in a profoundly ironic twist on the plunge into paleo living, I made everything bagels. From scratch. And I've eaten 3 in the past 12 hours. I can't even ... guys they are so good, I almost cried when I bit into the first sample. I told Dave that Einstein Bros was going to call and apologize for ever even attempting what I created in my humble, tiny Roman kitchen last night. Truly life-changing. And, now I totally look pregnant. Probably no correlation there. But this recipe + the addition of dried garlic and onion to the sesame seed topping....carb heaven, I tell you.  

3. 

Joey is owning the potty. We're on the big boy commode now, and his nasty IKEA potty chair is tucked away until little brother wants to jump on this diaperless train. It's a legit miracle, because I was fully expecting to be diapering three little booties come Christmas time, but it's been 2 weeks and I'm calling it 'stuck.' He has had a few accidents, mostly in connection with a nasty cold/ear infection combo which renders him slightly hysterical in the middle of the night, but the last 4 nights have been dry and easy. We'll see what regression the coming months of 12+ hour flights and multiple different sleeping arrangements brings, but for now, I'm rolling in diaper money and he is sporting some of the cheekiest baby man bikini briefs that you have ever seen. I can't put a picture up, because I do actually love him and trust me, this would be a scarring thing, not a 'look-how-funny-and-adorable-thing.' Plus, I want to be invited to his wedding someday. Or his ordination.

4. 

My job is changing just a bit and I'm now going to be creating original content for Heroic News at the new Heroic News blog. Regular topics to include: abortion, contraception, IVF, eugenics, euthanasia, embryonic AND adult stem cell research, gay 'marriage,' and human cloning. Bring your sunblock and your butterfly nets, because, you know...but please do stop by, and please spread the word on the www about HeroicNews.org/blog.

5.

What can anyone recommend for debilitating pregnancy exhaustion, besides the obvious and unattainable? I'm toying with the stupidest of stupid ideas and thinking about giving up my morning espresso(s), figuring that maybe I will crash earlier in the evening and that 10 hours, rather than 8.5, will do the trick? All I know is this morning I was in and out of consciousness for a good 45 minutes during JP's naptime, and I opened my eyes to find a nearly naked toddler crouched on my pillow systematically piling books and clean laundry on my chest.

6. 

Reading and loving this book right now. It's our second literary foray into Duggarland, and color us dorky but we love it, and we love reading about how this family is raising their children and striving for holiness. Do we agree with every single decision they make or belief they proclaim? No, of course not...but I think that's the case for almost anyone else's family who you look at. What they are is a whole lot of inspiring, uplifting, and challenging, especially on the whole parental attitude front. I am often a raging shrew in front of my innocent children, and rarely to I stop to reflect on how damaging mommy's habitual sour puss might be to their little hearts. But the Duggars make me stop and think. And to think, they do it without wine...shudder (like I said, toss the bathwater, not the baby.)

7.

My pretty little baby sister is graduation today. The number 6 whose entrance made our family into a legit 'they-are-definitely-doing-this-on-purpose' public gawking spectacle. The sweetest, most inexhaustibly sanguine and most fashion savvy 18 year old on the planet. And to think, she's already got a semester in Europe under her fabulous leather belt. Tia, I'm so proud of you and I can't wait to see what the coming years bring your way. Wish I were there to see the sixth out of seven Senours walk the blue carpet tarp in Clune Arena at the Air Force Academy tonight. Sniff.

Now if you'll kindly click over to the soon-to-be-published Mrs. Jen Fulwiler, Esq., I'll see you to the door.