Plodding through Weigel's biography of John Paul II, I am struck by the Pope's frequent insistence that decisions (or actions) must never simply be made "against" something negative, but ought to be made "for" something good.
That insightful principle has given me a powerful new tool with which to evaluate decisions I am making as a wife, mother, friend, citizen, etc.... Recently I have had several reasons to reflect on whether or not to continue homeschooling. I have chosen to go forward, after clarifying to myself that homeschooling must never be a decision "against" anything, but a decision "for" something great.
The big buzzword in our family life these days is "parish renewal". Rich's brand new job is all about Church renewal, the New Evangelization, parish renewal - in short, his job involves deeply recognizing that something has gone drastically wrong in our culture, that "religion" is no longer thriving quite as it used to. Something new, something creative and perhaps radical, some attempt to think outside the box is needed; if the Catholic faith is going to flourish in the next generations, parishes must dare to do things differently, even if some choices discomfit those who prefer the same old same old. Without compromising the dogma, depth, beauty or demands of orthodox Catholicism (and its liturgy), parish culture itself must be reimagined; the traditional model is not as powerful in the face of the new culture in which we live.
Reading and talking so often to Richard about "Parish Renewal" has led me to see parallels to "Family Renewal". The family is faring just as poorly as the Church, or arguably worse. It's a chicken-and-egg situation, and it behooves the one to invest in the other. I esteem homeschooling as a real possibility for "family renewal" - requiring the same courage in scrutinizing how fruitful the "normal model" has been, and demanding the same levels of prayerfulness, humility, commitment, creativity, ambition, passion, prudence and fortitude to try something new. When I look at the culturally normal and accepted model of family life and child-rearing, I ask myself - I am obligated to ask myself - how successful has this model been in producing close-knit families that are true schools of love, community, character and faith? Which factors might account for the failures of the Normal American Family? How can I do things differently so as to give my family the best possible chance of being genuinely intimate and close-knit for life, of becoming persons of character and sanctity, of investing in Christ and His Church wholeheartedly? Those are profound questions and I have no guarantee that the answers I am finding are correct.
One consideration that has given me much pause in my reading of the life of Karol Wojtyla: when he lived under Communist rule, he noted that Polish families were kept separated for as many hours a day as possible - husband from wife, mother from child, brother from sister - in a successful attempt to undermine the family. That does not sound so entirely different from the de facto segregation occasioned by the crazy pace and chaotic scheduling of the modern American family: two working parents (who may or may not cohabit); kids scattering in every direction for school; hasty dinners eaten solo; and homework, sports and extracurriculars eating up the nights and weekends. If separation undermines the family so successfully, then will more togetherness have the opposite effect? Is homeschooling a good method of fostering togetherness? (or is it too much togetherness?) I don't know. It's an experiment. I don't know the outcome yet. I presume it will depend almost entirely on what I do with all this togetherness.......a grave responsibility and not one to be undertaken lightly. Only in rising to that challenge do I satisfy John Paul the Great's instruction to choose for something good. If I'm keeping my kids home for the good of family life, character formation, etc.... then what I do with them all day better actively serve those goals. Not only must I carefully plan and execute for their academic education, but I must be constantly striving for a home life that is joyful, cheerful, peaceful, orderly and an absolutely compelling school of virtue.
Every young Catholic has a responsibility to truly discern religious life, which the Church recognizes as the highest calling and the most perfect (complete) gift of self. We are not all called to become religious (in fact, few are), but if we truly love God, we at least open our hearts to allow Him to call us completely to Himself, if He so desires. In a similar way, I feel obligated each year to discern whether I am called to continue homeschooling my children, which I see as a vocation within a vocation and the most complete gift of self that I can possibly make to my family. My children have been uniquely entrusted to me and no one else loves them (or knows themselves to be accountable for the persons they will become) as I do. Therefore, as primary educator of my children, if I choose to delegate significant portions of their upbringing to someone else, I am morally obligated to make that decision seriously, after prayerful discernment, well-informed of the personal and cultural influences that will shape my young children outside of our home. Not only what does the school itself purport to do, but who is the teacher who will be in direct authority over my child? do I know of and admire her character & values sufficiently to responsibly entrust a good portion of my child's upbringing to her? is she kind, fair, challenging and just? is she vigilant about the culture of the classroom? what are her deepest attitudes about God and the Church? how much emphasis does she place on these in her private life and in the public life of the classroom? what about the teacher next year? and the year after that? who are the student peers who will tremendously influence my child's tastes and attitudes in nearly every domain? how well has my child internalized our family values and how much maturity does that child possess to lead, rather than be led? These are questions to be dismissed (or answered flippantly) to our collective peril. Adults speak glowingly of the tremendous influence one great teacher had on their lives. Is the reverse true? What is the lesser-noticed impact of mediocre teachers? I don't believe that homeschooling is obligatory for all families, nor that I will certainly homeschool every year of my children's upbringing. Only the discernment seems obligatory to me, given the state of family and culture.
I discerned religious life for two years in my 20's, in a very serious (although very immature) way and determined it was not my calling. I do believe that there are (many!) people who could discern homeschooling and determine it is not for them. Thank goodness there are so many other options! When I first became a parent, I was open to the idea of homeschooling, but had not made a definite decision. Finances seemed to indicate a long term inability to ever afford Catholic schools and our public school district was unappealing. However, our kids were babies and really it was a moot point. A short time later, while living in New Zealand, I found a Montessori preschool near our house that was absolutely "perfect" by every yardstick I held - and tuition was nearly free. At the time, Maria was 3 years old, Bernadette was not quite 1- and I was newly pregnant. Not only pregnant, I was suffering from pregnancy-related depression and overwhelmed with living in a new country, with abundant missionary responsibilities and a home filled with daily visitors who distracted me mightily from interacting properly with my toddler. It was a hard time. Nine months later I was overwhelmed with caring for a seriously ill newborn, on top of everything else. In those particular seasons of my life, I discerned that sending my eldest child to school was the best thing I could do for her and I was tremendously grateful to have the option to entrust her to such a wonderful little school. Having outstanding schools is important and I have immense respect for all those who are involved in ensuring that that option exists. Our parish school and local Catholic high school are both phenomenal, and both are constantly striving to become ever better. It gives me great peace of mind to know that there are wonderful schools in town, if ever I discern that one child, or all the children, ought to be in school. Homeschooling for me is not about "rejecting" traditional school any more than consecrated life is about "rejecting" marriage and family.
I end with a bashful confession. Homeschooling is challenging; it is a constant struggle by this imperfect woman to grow in patience, self-giving, self-control, creativity and the ability to be in a fruitful and sympathetic relationship with each child. It is not perfect. It is often messy. Often I wish my kids had more access to peers and microscopes and fine arts. Like all things, it's a trade-off. The microscopes and kilns and band ensembles help keep firmly in my mind the fact that I am not choosing against traditional school, but for family culture. One of the biggest struggles for me (and here's the confession part): often I feel frustrated by all that I can't do because of the immense time and energy demanded by caring for and educating five kids of disparate ages who are all home all day every day. When I recently thought about what I could do with my time if some/many of my kids went to school..... I thought of the idealistic (more prayer! volunteering! ministry!); the domestic (a cleaner house, more mommy-and-me activities for the baby and toddler); the mundane (a part time job, keeping better in touch with friends); the disappointing, yet very likely (wasting more of my life breath surfing the internet) ...... I realized that, with exception of more prayer time, there is nothing more important, worthwhile, or frankly satisfying than what I am doing, despite all its myriad frustrations. I am possessed of a renewed sense of gratitude that I live in a free country where I am (still) permitted to homeschool, that I have a husband fully supportive of my desire to do so, that I have the education and temperament conducive to succeeding at it, and lastly, that I do have a firm sense of having a God-given vocation to homeschool.
The experiment continues.
Saturday, 11 July 2015
Sunday, 10 May 2015
bad religion
The formal review, as promised in yesterday's post..... (I wrote this for our parish bulletin, which will explain some of the otherwise curious references I make to "our parish", etc....)
Ross Douthat's Bad Religion: How We Became a Nation of Heretics (2012) speaks to anyone who suspects that a decline in religious faith is responsible for the vast majority of our country's problems. It also addresses itself to anyone who believes that the root of our nation's woes is too much religion. Douthat posits that both positions are correct: bad religion is undermining America. Religion done well, he argues, is our sole hope for national health.
Douthat (who is Catholic) begins by tracing the history of religion in America. After a brief sketch of the religious convictions of the pilgrims, colonists and Founding Fathers, he skims the fluctuations of Christianity in the US through the 1950's. He identifies the 50's as the seeming Golden Age of American Christianity, but notes that collapse was imminent and delves deeply into the question of why? What pre-existing conditions, what cultural undercurrents, what political events set off fifty years of religious decline in a country that appeared so robustly pious?
The subject matter does not make for light reading, but it's a particularly interesting and important topic, given our parish's recent commitment to renewal. "If it's not broken, don't fix it".... But, if "it" is broken.... find out why; find out what has been done to attempt repair; find out which repair attempts met with some success and why each ultimately failed. This book provides much of that necessary information.
Douthat touches on the Civil Rights movement, the emergence of the megachurch, Fulton Sheen, Billy Graham, Ronald Reagan, Barack Obama, the sexual revolution and the sex abuse crisis, parish shopping and organic eating. His scope is broad, peppered with insights sure to challenge some of the political and cultural assumptions each reader holds, while vindicating others. He is especially preoccupied (and unimpressed) with "accommodationist" Christianity, by which he refers to fifty-plus years of attempts to adapt worship and creed to make both more appealing to lukewarm Christians of each decade. (This censure gave me pause. Isn't that what we are attempting at Epiphany? As I continued reading, I was able to confidently answer that fear with a resounding "No").
Douthat identifies four major "heresies" on our current cultural landscape. He takes pains to plumb the depths of these popular modern spiritualities and pseudo-spiritualities, explaining (not unkindly) why they are attractive to so many people. These fascinating pages scrutinize figures such as Joel Osteen, Oprah Winfrey and Glenn Beck; they also explore cultural phenomena like Dan Brown's The Da Vinci Code and Elizabeth Gilbert's Eat, Pray, Love. Douthat sounds the alarm over a shift towards "the steady conflation of religious belief and partisan politics, to the detriment of both." But perhaps most importantly, he does a solid expose of the "God Within" trend: the fashion of being "spiritual, but not religious" which is so attractive to young people (as well as many of their parents). We would do well to understand the appeal of this "heresy" and Douthat's book is good resource. The concept of God as Light, Being, Creation, the Universe, or the individual's own Highest Thought has been identified by Richard Dawkins himself as "a sexed up atheism," and it is crucial for us, for the sake of our young people, to understand the seduction of this spirituality. Rather than dismiss it as foolish fluff, it behooves serious believers to penetrate more fully into the mindset of those who enshrine "niceness [as] the highest ethical standard". We are speaking of persons who espouse tolerance and embody narcissism, who possess an ever-increasing ability to communicate on social media and a frighteningly diminishing ability to live in community, who have more freedom and less happiness than any previous generation....in a word, this heresy touches nearly all of us - to some extent or another. This is the heresy perhaps most responsible for emptying our pews and breaking parents' hearts. If I want to protect my child from losing her faith and help my neighbor rediscover his, I must have a well-trained ear to notice the (often surprisingly subtle) voices peddling this loose spirituality and I ought to become fluent in my ability to counter its errors.
Douthat's short conclusion contains his evaluation of possible and popular sources of religious renewal, as well as his descriptions of what renewal ought and ought not look like. He recounts G.K. Chesterton's brilliant insight that time and again "the Faith has to all appearances gone to the dogs [yet always] it was the dog that died." While Douthat encourages the reader in the virtue of hope, reminding us that America has come through worse times than these and Christianity through much worse, he also cautions "that it would be heresy and hubris to assume that a renewal of either is inevitable." With a touch of humor and a thump of solemnity, he insists, "Jesus never said that the gates of hell would not prevail against the United States of America." Implied is that it is up to each of us, in our own adherence to authentic religion, to ensure that the gates of hell do not continue encroaching upon that goal.
Wednesday, 4 March 2015
Mission to New Zealand, P.S.
Charlotte came to the States on a "nun run"; believing that the Lord is calling her to religious life, she spent a few weeks visiting various convents across this country (and serving in Haiti as well). She also got a VERY up-close-and-personal "Come and See" experience of Catholic family life. In fact, it was so up-close-and-personal that I feel utterly confident that her vocation to celibacy was assured by the second afternoon of her nine day stay at Casa Sealy.
The last time Charlotte spent any time with this family, we were in New Zealand with an almost 5 year old, a 2 year old, a sick newborn and a little one on the way. Now - the eldest in nearly 8 and was delighted to see her old babysitter once again. The former 2 year old is five and a half - she remembers nothing of Charlotte or New Zealand, but was delighted to get reacquainted with both (see below). The sick baby is a miraculously healthy little boy and the "little one" has never been called "little" since he burst out on American soil weighing nearly nine pounds. Plus, we now have another fat baby - our only child with absolutely no claim on New Zealand :(
Charlotte knew exactly the way to their hearts:
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| Kiwi "lollies" and "biscuits" |
She asked them to help her learn how to play in snow!
They hoped this Kiwi girl would never leave! But, alas, she did. At 4:30 this morning, to be exact. But not before she witnessed a promise made. Rich wants me to start blogging and he extracted a promise from me to post photos from Charlotte's visit and photos of the latest pegs. So, in fulfillment of my word....
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| Vietnamese Martyr, St Valentine, Queen Esther, St Juan Diego, Our Lady of Guadalupe |
Charlotte and I had one lovely evening when she painted a gorgeous Peg of Our Lady and I crafted a St Cecilia, but we hid her peg from the sticky (in every sense) hands of my children before I photographed it. When she gets home from Haiti, I'll have her email me a photo of her peg and post it in here.
Charlotte and I also prayed Stations of the Cross with the kids, using the Passion Pegs or Resurrection Peg Set I'd made a few months ago. As each Station was announced, the kids picked out the appropriate pegs, arranged them, and even built appropriate props (like a cross and a tomb) out of wooden blocks. It was the best way I have ever prayed the Stations with kids - by far! They have been busy with the pegs even when we are not using them for Stations - they've had those pegs act out nearly every part of the latter half of the Gospels.
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| Judas arranging to turn Jesus over to the Pharisees |
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| In the Garden of Olives, Peter, James & John witness Jesus betrayed with a kiss |
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| With Pilate |
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| "Behold the Man!" |
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| Veronica & Simon of Cyrene |
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| Maria is so proud of this cunning Cross she built |
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| "It is finished." |
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| At the tomb on Easter Morning |
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| Reinstating Peter on the beach |
So, there we go. Up and running after many months. Safe travels to Charlotte and we look forward to welcoming you back to the States - in a habit ;)
Monday, 20 October 2014
five kids
John Paul has arrived, weighing in at 7 pounds 11 ounces, and greeted with sheer delight by all four older siblings (phew!) He's ten days old tonight and doing great. I, on the other hand, still feel like I recently tangled with the Whomping Willow, but am confident that once I start getting more than four hours of sleep at night, that sensation will fade off..... (so little guy, that's a gentle hint to start sleeping less during the day and more during the night, okay?)
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| just a few minutes old and really unhappy about being "out" |
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| one day old, in a hat I bought for baby Joseph in New Zealand four years ago..... |
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| two days old |
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| one week old and fresh from our first bath |
One thing that changed for me over the course of this pregnancy was my immediate gut-level reaction to the decidedly negative or awkward comments that strangers make about the size of my family. In the past, those comments offended me. At some point in my life with four children, I realized that since having four kids is sort of counter-cultural, I simply had to expect and accept that the culture would indeed counter it.... I finally connected "Accept your share of hardship for the sake of the Gospel" to these often uncomfortable experiences. It occurred to me that it was rather naive and whiny to be surprised or riled by those comments at all. Immediately they stopped bothering me. Sometimes they even began to amuse me.
So, while pregnant with this fifth child, it did not ruffle me when a male neighbor - shocked by my newly evident pregnancy - burst forth with, "Wow.....you're really going to have a whole passel of....um...uh....tax breaks." (I laughed in my head while I waited for him to grope for a somewhat appropriate noun with which to finish his impulsive outburst.)
Nor did I get upset a few months later when a tradesman working in the neighborhood asked me if I was running a daycare in my front yard. When he learned that the kids were all my own - with another sibling clearly on the way - he responded, "Well.....Just so long as you know when to stop...." (in a tone of voice that clearly implied that HE thought THAT time had been three children ago.)
And it did not bother me this evening when I took my eldest daughter (and the baby) to an art class and the instructor, who had presumed through previous classes, I suppose, that I was pregnant with my second child, congratulated me warmly on the birth of the baby and asked my daughter if she was enjoying life as a big sister. Maria was so intent on her artwork that she did not hear or answer him, so I smiled at him and told him it was our fifth baby and that Maria was already very used to being a big sister. His face changed from warmth to utter confusion and he blurted out sincerely, "Are you some kind of glutton for punishment?" Although I wasn't offended, I admit that I didn't really know how to answer that question. He really seemed to want a direct answer. Sadly, my response was a flustered non sequitur. As we continued talking, he kept returning to the "five kids" thing and each time, in a slightly different way, he reiterated that he had three young boys who were already "too much" for him and he simply could not imagine having or wanting FIVE children. I still didn't know what to say and just kept trying to redirect the conversation to easier topics.
Driving home I realized something. Most of the people who say these awkward things are not trying to be rude. These comments are not really about ME and my kids at all - these comments are revelations about what is going on in the heart and the home of the speaker. People who blurt these things out are basically confessing that they are struggling with parenthood so much that they can't imagine it being any harder than it already is. These are people who are not enjoying family life the way they hoped they would. If their experience of parenting was mostly sunshine and butterflies, they would hardly be surprised that anyone would pursue more sunshine or additional butterflies. These are people who need encouragement. Badly. As do I (often!!) I know some parents of large families like to coin ruder responses to these unintentionally "rude" comments, but really this is a huge opportunity to give to someone else and to encourage. It's hypocritical to do anything else. Why pretend to be shocked by the implication that parenting is incredibly burdensome? It is! I've got plenty of friends with lots of kids and we regularly exchange frazzled texts when we are at our wits' ends with our kids. And these aren't texts like:
"Oh, golly - today sure is a challenging day with my dozen little blessings :) :)"
No.
I've sent abundant texts along the lines of:
"Today I would sell any one of them to the lowest bidder."
But we encourage each other. We empathize, encourage and pray for each other. We recommend good parenting and marriage books. We share the graces we're being given and help each other to grow. We brainstorm together about our most frustrating challenges. We keep each other committed to growing into patient, kind, gentle, joyful, wise mothers instead of just settling into resentful mediocrity. We laugh (sometimes through tears) about our colossal screw-ups - but we also hold each other accountable for trying better next time. Some parents maybe don't have that kind of support. Some parents reach that inevitable point in parenting where you realize that you stink at being a parent and they just give up. They lose the joy of it all - the sense of gift. The bulk of their parenting consists of feeling frustrated, angry, exhausted or overwhelmed. They lose hope that they can grow as a parent and change the dynamic in the home. Instead, they decide that kids are overrated or that they've got uniquely difficult kids or too many kids or they decide that they just don't personally enjoy parenting - or that they had their kids too close together - or they were too young when they started having kids - or too old - or that family life is not what they imagined it would be........... and they decide it's too late to change themselves and it's too late to change their kids and to just hope instead that "childhood" passes as quickly as possible and that the kids grow up fast - meanwhile they will look for fulfillment and pleasure in career or hobbies or anywhere other than the little terrors who they simultaneously love and endure. The art man must have said three different times tonight that he just can't wait for his kids to get older so that he can be done with these challenging years. That always makes me sad to hear. I cling to these years. But I'd feel quite differently if I didn't have the support and encouragement that I do have.
So - I wish I had just heard this guy's heart tonight. I was so busy in my head thinking about what I should SAY (other people were listening! I felt like a freak!) - and mostly what I said was just a bunch of meaningless cliches and bland pleasantries and pathetic attempts to "normalize" the conversation. Instead, I wish I'd just heard him out about what was so hard with his three boys. I have no idea why I didn't just ask him about his life instead of trying to force the conversation into vaguer and more superficial waters. I wish I hadn't fled from the topic. I wish I'd asked good questions and really listened to his answers. I probably would have had no words of wisdom, nor perhaps would it have been appropriate to have offered any, but I definitely could have empathized sincerely with how hard parenting can be. He clearly wanted to talk about it - he was the one who kept steering the conversation back to the inconceivability of five children and the overwhelming and draining experience of life with three sons. If nothing else, I could have prayed for him. Well, I still can do that. But next time, I hope I do the other things too. I think now that I understand it better, I just may be able to do so. And..... perhaps.....perhaps it would be best to start planning ahead NOW for even bigger and wilder reactions to a hypothetical sixth child......
(sound of Richard fainting)
Saturday, 29 March 2014
NOT a pathetic wuss?!?! (maybe just less so than previously thought)
Wow, time flies when you're taking care of four little people...while pregnant! Despite (or because of) all of my mediocre attempts at holy resignation about not having that fifth child any time soon....there is, indeed, a fifth child currently on backorder and due to be delivered this autumn. And despite (or because of) my intense longing for this child, it has been a dark, dark, first trimester. A few weeks ago I failed my prenatal depression screening (with flying colors) but managed to talk the OB staff into giving me two weeks to pull it together before starting medication.
Prenatal depression is something I never heard of before I heard I had it. Postpartum Depression (which I am blessed never to have experienced) gets all the attention. While pregnant (and miserable) with Maria, Bernadette and Joseph, I blamed myself for being such a wuss - I was disgusted with myself for allowing a little physical discomfort to send me into such emotional darkness. I thought it was just immense self-pity. I thought it was an inability to suffer well through nausea, vomiting, fatigue, sleeplessness, hyperactive bladder, painful veins, physical awkwardness (and the 24/7 discomfort of late pregnancy). I thought I was REALLY pathetic. I was ashamed of myself and envious/skeptical of women who seemed to breeze through pregnancy with such chipper spirits.
It wasn't until I was pregnant with James that I even started to wonder if it could be "real" depression. I'd heard so much about Postpartum Depression - I finally began to wonder if it had a cousin who attacked before birth and departed in the Labor and Delivery Suite. I certainly had never heard anything about it before - but I did begin to suspect it might exist. It wasn't until my midwife diagnosed me with prenatal depression a month or two prior to James' due date that someone else confirmed that suspicion. But still....I wasn't sure I "really" had it. I still wondered if I was just a wuss. A big, selfish, immature, pathetic wuss.
I also wondered if perhaps it was because I was always pregnant alone. Rich and I have moved so many times (seven times during our eight married years) that, despite an amazing network of call-on-the-phone girlfriends, I have always been bereft of physical, in-the-flesh community during the magnificently uncomfortable third trimester of every single pregnancy. While "third trimester pregnant" with Maria and James, I literally had not a single friend in town yet - that's how newly moved we were. When entering my infamously sad third trimesters with Bernadette and Joseph, I did have wonderful women around me, but I had known them so briefly - just a few months - that it was too hard to be so real about how I was coping (or failing to cope).
But this time was going to be different. There are so many great women around me this time, women I have known well for over a year and with whom I can be very real. Plus, I was going to brace myself to suffer heroically. I knew it would come, so I was reading the outstanding Diary of Elisabeth Leseur for inspiration and tips on how to suffer physical discomfort with valor. I was praying in advance. I was letting my friends know that I might need a little extra company over the next few months. I was totally prepared to fight my pathetic-ness and win. And then....I had a little nausea, a teeny bit of fatigue - just enough to reassure me that I was really pregnant but not enough to even inconvenience me - and I crashed harder than ever before. With no physical suffering at all. And only then did I realize I was blaming myself for something totally out of my control.
As the first trimester now draws to an end, I feel much more like my old self. I had assured the kind women at the OB office that I was usually f-i-n-e during the second trimester and they agreed to give me a few weeks to prove it. They also did some blood work and found some vitamin deficiencies - which means that supplements might possibly get me to the point that I can handle whatever the third trimester throws at me. Maybe. If at all possible, I want to avoid medication because of the possible adverse effects on this unborn child. However, there will be definite adverse effects on all four "born" children under this roof - and, more abundantly, upon their wonderful father - if this third trimester is anything like some of the dark trimesters of the past. I take both considerations seriously.
I wanted to write this post because I never knew about prenatal depression until recently - and it would have made my husband and children MUCH happier if I had known about it years ago. Maybe now someone else who needed to know about it knows too..... Her husband and children can thank me by praying for me :)
Prenatal depression is something I never heard of before I heard I had it. Postpartum Depression (which I am blessed never to have experienced) gets all the attention. While pregnant (and miserable) with Maria, Bernadette and Joseph, I blamed myself for being such a wuss - I was disgusted with myself for allowing a little physical discomfort to send me into such emotional darkness. I thought it was just immense self-pity. I thought it was an inability to suffer well through nausea, vomiting, fatigue, sleeplessness, hyperactive bladder, painful veins, physical awkwardness (and the 24/7 discomfort of late pregnancy). I thought I was REALLY pathetic. I was ashamed of myself and envious/skeptical of women who seemed to breeze through pregnancy with such chipper spirits.
It wasn't until I was pregnant with James that I even started to wonder if it could be "real" depression. I'd heard so much about Postpartum Depression - I finally began to wonder if it had a cousin who attacked before birth and departed in the Labor and Delivery Suite. I certainly had never heard anything about it before - but I did begin to suspect it might exist. It wasn't until my midwife diagnosed me with prenatal depression a month or two prior to James' due date that someone else confirmed that suspicion. But still....I wasn't sure I "really" had it. I still wondered if I was just a wuss. A big, selfish, immature, pathetic wuss.
I also wondered if perhaps it was because I was always pregnant alone. Rich and I have moved so many times (seven times during our eight married years) that, despite an amazing network of call-on-the-phone girlfriends, I have always been bereft of physical, in-the-flesh community during the magnificently uncomfortable third trimester of every single pregnancy. While "third trimester pregnant" with Maria and James, I literally had not a single friend in town yet - that's how newly moved we were. When entering my infamously sad third trimesters with Bernadette and Joseph, I did have wonderful women around me, but I had known them so briefly - just a few months - that it was too hard to be so real about how I was coping (or failing to cope).
But this time was going to be different. There are so many great women around me this time, women I have known well for over a year and with whom I can be very real. Plus, I was going to brace myself to suffer heroically. I knew it would come, so I was reading the outstanding Diary of Elisabeth Leseur for inspiration and tips on how to suffer physical discomfort with valor. I was praying in advance. I was letting my friends know that I might need a little extra company over the next few months. I was totally prepared to fight my pathetic-ness and win. And then....I had a little nausea, a teeny bit of fatigue - just enough to reassure me that I was really pregnant but not enough to even inconvenience me - and I crashed harder than ever before. With no physical suffering at all. And only then did I realize I was blaming myself for something totally out of my control.
As the first trimester now draws to an end, I feel much more like my old self. I had assured the kind women at the OB office that I was usually f-i-n-e during the second trimester and they agreed to give me a few weeks to prove it. They also did some blood work and found some vitamin deficiencies - which means that supplements might possibly get me to the point that I can handle whatever the third trimester throws at me. Maybe. If at all possible, I want to avoid medication because of the possible adverse effects on this unborn child. However, there will be definite adverse effects on all four "born" children under this roof - and, more abundantly, upon their wonderful father - if this third trimester is anything like some of the dark trimesters of the past. I take both considerations seriously.
I wanted to write this post because I never knew about prenatal depression until recently - and it would have made my husband and children MUCH happier if I had known about it years ago. Maybe now someone else who needed to know about it knows too..... Her husband and children can thank me by praying for me :)
Saturday, 25 January 2014
parables in real life
My kids have been playing a super-fun game of "pass the bug" for, oh about two weeks now. They're playing Advanced Level, so there are multiple bugs in play. We've hauled the whole gang to the pediatrician twice, carted dehydrated and listless victims off to the ER both weekends and we've chatted with pediatric nurses almost daily. Some of the bugs have been named by various physicians: ear infections, bronchitis, croup, viral gastroenteritis, norovirus, rotavirus, upper respiratory viruses.... We've had Standard Daily Fevers in the 103 range and our fridge looks like a pharmacy. To those whose phone calls and texts and emails I have not returned - this is why and I am sorry.
We're wiped out.
Today a pediatric nurse (on the phone) was concerned that Bernadette might be showing symptoms of meningitis. Just for a change of scenery, I decided to bring her in to a different hospital than the one we've been frequenting. There was nothing "wrong" at the original hospital, per se. Well, ok, the floors were filthy, the nurses hit-or-miss and one PA gave my 2 year old son a drug that our pediatrician later said ought never to be used in children due to possible psychiatric side effects. So rather than buzz two miles down the road to our neighborhood ER, I drove over to the next town to give their hospital a go. I'm so glad I did.
We walked in to cleanliness, friendliness and competence. There was an air of order and peace in the Department, our room was immaculate, the staff were remarkably kind, and Bernadette did not have meningitis. All very good things! And the last two are almost on par with one another.
Every person employed in the department was strikingly attentive, gentle and loving. Really, there is no other word I can use to describe the way they treated the two of us. Two receptionists, the triage nurse, the follow-up nurse and the doctor - all, stunningly, loving. The grand finale, though, awaited us when we "checked out". A sweet, gentle grandmotherly woman double checked all our insurance and billing information. Then she said, "Your insurance copay for today is $150, but we realize that not everybody has pots of money laying around, so you can just pay whatever you feel able to, or nothing at all."
I thought I had misunderstood her.
"Oh, so whatever I don't pay right now, you'll just send me a bill in the mail?"
No. That was not what she meant. What she meant was that I would pay what I felt able to pay and there would be no further responsibility towards my copayment.
I'm still not really sure that I am properly understanding her meaning. I have no idea if this policy is a reflection of the hospital's mission statement to treat patients in a way "rooted in our understanding of all people as created in the image of God." Maybe it has something to do with Obamacare. Maybe it's some kind of battle that hospitals and insurance companies wage between themselves. Or perhaps I'm just "not getting it" and missing something really obvious here. I do that. Often. But the minute I understood that she was apparently freeing me from any obligation to pay for the outstanding care my sick child had just received, I wanted to pay every blessed cent.
I could have satisfied my conscience with paying far less. I had neither cash nor check on me. I did have my debit card, but I knew that there was only $25 in our checking account, with no more funds imminently available. So I dug my one credit card out of the depths of my wallet and handed it over. She looked at it for a moment and then handed it back, asking gently, "Am I reading this small print right? Does it say this card expired in August?"
It did say that. Alas. I was humiliated. I admitted as much and explained that I hadn't used it or even looked at since long before it expired. In the softest, most motherly tone possible, she sweetly said that she was glad I never used credit cards and she was doubly glad this event had not occurred when I was trying to pay for a cart full of groceries. Oh my gosh. So was I!
As the direct result of her efforts to smooth over my mortification and brush it all away as unimportant, I suddenly found myself now wanting to pay double. I felt so grateful to this tender old soul, to all the other staff we had seen during our visit, and to the hospital philosophy that had so clearly imparted this priceless charity into the attitudes of its employees. I wanted to make that gratitude abundantly clear. I wanted to repay it. I told her to send me the bill. I almost begged her to.
And then a truth I have long held came rushing into my heart once more:
That which is demanded can never be freely given.
I know that the hospital has a right to demand money for its services. This is about something bigger and deeper than the hospital. This is about the human heart being free to respond to goodness with goodness - this is about the soul's natural (if sometimes slow) desire to repay generosity with generosity. So often it does not get the chance. So often repayment is demanded. Immediately. Before the natural impulse can arise, take shape and act.
The demand kills the natural instinct. Do it enough in a relationship and it can kill the gratitude instinct altogether.
I do this with my kids - hand them something good and then, before their little minds can even compose any kind of sincere expression of thanks, I demand, "What do you say?"
I do this with my husband - perform some little service or sacrifice for him, and then, before he really has time to process the love that prompted the favor, I demand acknowledgment. Did you notice that I put the trash out tonight? Did you see that I bought you a case of your favorite beer? I may say this very lightly - casually - even lovingly - but the demand is hidden there. Say thank you. Feel grateful. Repay me.
That which is demanded can never be freely given.
Isn't that the key to the mystery of our free will?
What is demanded cannot be freely given.
And that which is freely given is so much sweeter than that which is extracted by demand.
It's sweeter for the giver and for the recipient.
The payment of an extracted demand satisfies the cashier at the store, but not the person in relationship.
I'll pay the hospital bills for Joseph because the hospital will demand that I do so. The law of the land and my own private sense of justice will ensure that I do so. But it will not be sweet. For either side.
I'll pay the hospital bills for Bernadette because the hospital lavished love upon us and made no demand in return. Some profound, beautiful natural law will prompt me to do so. And I will write a heartfelt note to the hospital. It will be so sweet to me to be able to do so. I hope and believe it will be so sweet for the recipients as well.
I hope that I will more consistently live the moral so eloquently proclaimed to me this evening in the Parable of the Two Hospitals. I hope that with my family, my friends, my acquaintances and with strangers, I will be governed by the truth that that which is demanded can never be freely given. I hope I can let go of my petty demands and enjoy the sweetness of unprompted gratitude. And I hope that I can grow in my ability to express gratitude - abundantly and sincerely - towards those who demand, towards those who rarely demand, and towards the One who never demands.
We're wiped out.
Today a pediatric nurse (on the phone) was concerned that Bernadette might be showing symptoms of meningitis. Just for a change of scenery, I decided to bring her in to a different hospital than the one we've been frequenting. There was nothing "wrong" at the original hospital, per se. Well, ok, the floors were filthy, the nurses hit-or-miss and one PA gave my 2 year old son a drug that our pediatrician later said ought never to be used in children due to possible psychiatric side effects. So rather than buzz two miles down the road to our neighborhood ER, I drove over to the next town to give their hospital a go. I'm so glad I did.
We walked in to cleanliness, friendliness and competence. There was an air of order and peace in the Department, our room was immaculate, the staff were remarkably kind, and Bernadette did not have meningitis. All very good things! And the last two are almost on par with one another.
Every person employed in the department was strikingly attentive, gentle and loving. Really, there is no other word I can use to describe the way they treated the two of us. Two receptionists, the triage nurse, the follow-up nurse and the doctor - all, stunningly, loving. The grand finale, though, awaited us when we "checked out". A sweet, gentle grandmotherly woman double checked all our insurance and billing information. Then she said, "Your insurance copay for today is $150, but we realize that not everybody has pots of money laying around, so you can just pay whatever you feel able to, or nothing at all."
I thought I had misunderstood her.
"Oh, so whatever I don't pay right now, you'll just send me a bill in the mail?"
No. That was not what she meant. What she meant was that I would pay what I felt able to pay and there would be no further responsibility towards my copayment.
I'm still not really sure that I am properly understanding her meaning. I have no idea if this policy is a reflection of the hospital's mission statement to treat patients in a way "rooted in our understanding of all people as created in the image of God." Maybe it has something to do with Obamacare. Maybe it's some kind of battle that hospitals and insurance companies wage between themselves. Or perhaps I'm just "not getting it" and missing something really obvious here. I do that. Often. But the minute I understood that she was apparently freeing me from any obligation to pay for the outstanding care my sick child had just received, I wanted to pay every blessed cent.
I could have satisfied my conscience with paying far less. I had neither cash nor check on me. I did have my debit card, but I knew that there was only $25 in our checking account, with no more funds imminently available. So I dug my one credit card out of the depths of my wallet and handed it over. She looked at it for a moment and then handed it back, asking gently, "Am I reading this small print right? Does it say this card expired in August?"
It did say that. Alas. I was humiliated. I admitted as much and explained that I hadn't used it or even looked at since long before it expired. In the softest, most motherly tone possible, she sweetly said that she was glad I never used credit cards and she was doubly glad this event had not occurred when I was trying to pay for a cart full of groceries. Oh my gosh. So was I!
As the direct result of her efforts to smooth over my mortification and brush it all away as unimportant, I suddenly found myself now wanting to pay double. I felt so grateful to this tender old soul, to all the other staff we had seen during our visit, and to the hospital philosophy that had so clearly imparted this priceless charity into the attitudes of its employees. I wanted to make that gratitude abundantly clear. I wanted to repay it. I told her to send me the bill. I almost begged her to.
And then a truth I have long held came rushing into my heart once more:
That which is demanded can never be freely given.
I know that the hospital has a right to demand money for its services. This is about something bigger and deeper than the hospital. This is about the human heart being free to respond to goodness with goodness - this is about the soul's natural (if sometimes slow) desire to repay generosity with generosity. So often it does not get the chance. So often repayment is demanded. Immediately. Before the natural impulse can arise, take shape and act.
The demand kills the natural instinct. Do it enough in a relationship and it can kill the gratitude instinct altogether.
I do this with my kids - hand them something good and then, before their little minds can even compose any kind of sincere expression of thanks, I demand, "What do you say?"
I do this with my husband - perform some little service or sacrifice for him, and then, before he really has time to process the love that prompted the favor, I demand acknowledgment. Did you notice that I put the trash out tonight? Did you see that I bought you a case of your favorite beer? I may say this very lightly - casually - even lovingly - but the demand is hidden there. Say thank you. Feel grateful. Repay me.
That which is demanded can never be freely given.
Isn't that the key to the mystery of our free will?
What is demanded cannot be freely given.
And that which is freely given is so much sweeter than that which is extracted by demand.
It's sweeter for the giver and for the recipient.
The payment of an extracted demand satisfies the cashier at the store, but not the person in relationship.
I'll pay the hospital bills for Joseph because the hospital will demand that I do so. The law of the land and my own private sense of justice will ensure that I do so. But it will not be sweet. For either side.
I'll pay the hospital bills for Bernadette because the hospital lavished love upon us and made no demand in return. Some profound, beautiful natural law will prompt me to do so. And I will write a heartfelt note to the hospital. It will be so sweet to me to be able to do so. I hope and believe it will be so sweet for the recipients as well.
I hope that I will more consistently live the moral so eloquently proclaimed to me this evening in the Parable of the Two Hospitals. I hope that with my family, my friends, my acquaintances and with strangers, I will be governed by the truth that that which is demanded can never be freely given. I hope I can let go of my petty demands and enjoy the sweetness of unprompted gratitude. And I hope that I can grow in my ability to express gratitude - abundantly and sincerely - towards those who demand, towards those who rarely demand, and towards the One who never demands.
Friday, 17 January 2014
another
Kelly -
October 2013: ANOTHER !?!?!?!!
November 2013: another....?
December 2013: another......
January 2014: another. another. another. another.....
Rich -
October 2013: ANOTHER !?!?!?!?!!
November 2013: ANOTHER !?!?!?!?!!
December 2013: ANOTHER !?!?!?!?!!
January 2014: ANOTHER !?!?!?!?!!
James turned one early in November. He's old enough to have worn a tie to Christmas Eve Mass (see Exhibit A). So....I should be almost three months pregnant right now, had we followed the Standard Sealy Family Plan For Family Expansion. But I'm not three months pregnant right now. I'm not one month pregnant. I'm not even one day pregnant. And oh how I begin to wish I was. But, as the handy chart above shows, Rich and I are still in the negotiations process - and we are not swiftly moving in the same direction.
I've been in this place before - a place where my prayers cannot help but start with that one wistful word: another. But for the very first time, my prayers are not ending on the same expansive note. Because.... I'm not sure that they are likely to be answered as per my exact wishes any time soon, and I'm trying hard to accept that. Though I would be tremendously glad for the gift of another baby, my husband would reeeeeeeally not - so..... I'm trying very hard to remind myself that I already have a baby. He doesn't even have hair yet. Well, ok, he has some completely ridiculously cute curls on the back of his head, but he's still practically bald up top. He's in diapers. And a high chair. He's nursing. And spoon-fed. He barely talks, except to say Hi-dah! (Hi Cat!) and Cook-Cook (As in "cookie". As in "I saw you eat that cookie and if you don't give ME a cookie in the next 13 seconds I am going to make the next half hour absolutely miserable for every.person.in.this.house."). He also says Genk-oo (Thank You. For the Cookie.) and when Rich gets home from work, he RUNS trippingly and unsteadily to the door with outstretched arms and lovingly, joyfully, exuberantly calls to his beloved father,
MaMa !!!
(We're working on that. Hard. Well, Rich is - I think it is hi-larious).
He's only two months past his first birthday. He's a baby. I HAVE a baby.
But every time I find myself in a moment of silence and solitude - every time I turn my gaze on God - my heart whispers it - "another". I can't help it. There are PLENTY of moments of noise and chaos and near-disaster (and actual disaster) each day when another seems like a perfectly foolhardy design, but in the quieter moments, the desire is anything but foolhardy.
Last night I was unable to sleep, sitting up in bed in the dark and staring out my window. Snow was falling heavily and my eyes were mesmerized by the sight of it streaming past a streetlight. I was mentally going over all sorts of things and then.... Another. Jesus, another.
I caught myself (almost in time) and surrendered the desire (again). Suddenly, for the first time in my whole life, I wondered if Mary ever had to surrender that desire....to be pregnant again, to labor again, to hold a brand-new infant again, to see a gummy first smile again, to fill up the home further, to add another little face around the dinner table, to hear one more layer of laughter around the house and enjoy one additional source of silly faces and earnest expressions and tight hugs. Did she ever find her heart whispering another?
But how could there ever be Another for her?
Another virgin birth? Another star-drenched angelic host? Another magi? Another child divine?
Another was impossible.
Mothers aren't supposed to have favorites, but how could it be helped if the First Child was God and the others were just.....ordinary. No. Mary had to be satisfied with Just One. More than satisfied, she had to be humbled and grateful and overjoyed beyond telling. She had to submit to her vocation as He had shaped it, trusting that His designs were best for her, best for her Child, best for her family, best for the world. She had to pour herself completely into what had been given her without broodingly longing for anything other or additional. She had to live in the moment, surrender completely and accept whatever unfolded in the life of her Family with total trust in the goodness of God's (often surprising and always challenging) plan.
As do I.
As do I.
October 2013: ANOTHER !?!?!?!!
November 2013: another....?
December 2013: another......
January 2014: another. another. another. another.....
Rich -
October 2013: ANOTHER !?!?!?!?!!
November 2013: ANOTHER !?!?!?!?!!
December 2013: ANOTHER !?!?!?!?!!
January 2014: ANOTHER !?!?!?!?!!
 |
| Exhibit A |
James turned one early in November. He's old enough to have worn a tie to Christmas Eve Mass (see Exhibit A). So....I should be almost three months pregnant right now, had we followed the Standard Sealy Family Plan For Family Expansion. But I'm not three months pregnant right now. I'm not one month pregnant. I'm not even one day pregnant. And oh how I begin to wish I was. But, as the handy chart above shows, Rich and I are still in the negotiations process - and we are not swiftly moving in the same direction.
 |
| a head wound that already made him look like The Boy Who Lived just begged to be finished off with a marker |
I've been in this place before - a place where my prayers cannot help but start with that one wistful word: another. But for the very first time, my prayers are not ending on the same expansive note. Because.... I'm not sure that they are likely to be answered as per my exact wishes any time soon, and I'm trying hard to accept that. Though I would be tremendously glad for the gift of another baby, my husband would reeeeeeeally not - so..... I'm trying very hard to remind myself that I already have a baby. He doesn't even have hair yet. Well, ok, he has some completely ridiculously cute curls on the back of his head, but he's still practically bald up top. He's in diapers. And a high chair. He's nursing. And spoon-fed. He barely talks, except to say Hi-dah! (Hi Cat!) and Cook-Cook (As in "cookie". As in "I saw you eat that cookie and if you don't give ME a cookie in the next 13 seconds I am going to make the next half hour absolutely miserable for every.person.in.this.house."). He also says Genk-oo (Thank You. For the Cookie.) and when Rich gets home from work, he RUNS trippingly and unsteadily to the door with outstretched arms and lovingly, joyfully, exuberantly calls to his beloved father,
MaMa !!!
(We're working on that. Hard. Well, Rich is - I think it is hi-larious).
He's only two months past his first birthday. He's a baby. I HAVE a baby.
But every time I find myself in a moment of silence and solitude - every time I turn my gaze on God - my heart whispers it - "another". I can't help it. There are PLENTY of moments of noise and chaos and near-disaster (and actual disaster) each day when another seems like a perfectly foolhardy design, but in the quieter moments, the desire is anything but foolhardy.
 |
| (10 AM. disaster. idea seems foolhardy. extremely.) |
 |
| 1 PM. idea appears far less foolhardy ( or at least slightly more sensible than napping with a toothbrush in hand) |
I caught myself (almost in time) and surrendered the desire (again). Suddenly, for the first time in my whole life, I wondered if Mary ever had to surrender that desire....to be pregnant again, to labor again, to hold a brand-new infant again, to see a gummy first smile again, to fill up the home further, to add another little face around the dinner table, to hear one more layer of laughter around the house and enjoy one additional source of silly faces and earnest expressions and tight hugs. Did she ever find her heart whispering another?
But how could there ever be Another for her?
Another virgin birth? Another star-drenched angelic host? Another magi? Another child divine?
Another was impossible.
Mothers aren't supposed to have favorites, but how could it be helped if the First Child was God and the others were just.....ordinary. No. Mary had to be satisfied with Just One. More than satisfied, she had to be humbled and grateful and overjoyed beyond telling. She had to submit to her vocation as He had shaped it, trusting that His designs were best for her, best for her Child, best for her family, best for the world. She had to pour herself completely into what had been given her without broodingly longing for anything other or additional. She had to live in the moment, surrender completely and accept whatever unfolded in the life of her Family with total trust in the goodness of God's (often surprising and always challenging) plan.
As do I.
As do I.
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