About Those Beads….

Posted on September 17, 2011 by coffeemom

Oh boy, what beads? I love beads! Always have!

I want to talk about the most special set of beads I know or have seen, ever.

These beads are beads from my husband, made for and given to his son. These beads, they are special ones indeed.

Yup, you guessed it, this post is another in my series on my son’s entry into religious life. As you all surely know, my Chris is now living this year as a Novice with the Dominican Eastern Province of St. Joseph. He now goes by the name of Brother Peter Joseph – a whole ‘nother post coming on that one. {I need to get a sidebar for my posts that are in the ‘mini-series mode’…it would make my life a bit simpler, at the very least. Hmm, site maintenance on my to-do list…} There is still so much to talk about with this new step in my son’s life. So much change and so much adjusting going on, for him, for us, for the family as a whole. Don’t get me wrong, it’s almost all good. But it’s, well, it’s a lot of adjusting and transition too.

Anyhow, THIS post, this post is about those beads.

When Chris was getting ready to go to the Novitiate, he was given a list of things to bring. (I’ve decided to use Chris when talking about prenovitiate time and Bro Peter Joseph when talking about the time after he took his new name…keeps my head from spinning. Hope this helps you keep up too.) It was a VERY short list. It was the basics, really, because that’s all he really needs. Heck, it’s all any of us really need, right? Right. But, it was the usual stuff: a set of work clothes and exercise clothes, underwear, socks, tennis shoes, black shoes, limited personal toiletries, a breviary, bible, etc. Then, there were two “habit specific” items: a 1.5 -2″ black belt and a 15 decade rosary. That’s it. That was the list of must bring items, with any additional items strongly discouraged. Vow of poverty, simple life, and all… These list items were things he already possessed, except the belt (oddly enough) and the rosary. The belt was an easy get, of course. The rosary..well, it could have been an easy get. A quick drive down to St Mary’s bookstore, where they have a lovely selection of rosaries of all types and stripes….

But, in thinking of it, this rosary was kind of special. It needed, ideally, to be one that can last. Stand the test of time flying and fingers praying. Stand the test of wearing, day in and day out, through the bumps and knocks of any given task, however mundane: dishes, serving, laundry, singing, praying, studying, and so on. So this rosary needed to be durable, but also have a good feel. Not flashy, but not cheap and breakable and something to worry over. No surprise then, that Tom, Coffedoc, the dad…he had the idea to make one.

Now, permit me an aside: we parents were keenly feeling this move approaching. But you already know that. And, as parents are wont to do, world over, we wanted to send something with our boy/young man/beloved son. I had even made him a small painting of St. Dominic, in case he could bring such a thing for his room. Chris said he couldn’t take it with him. Ouch. But. Ok. We couldn’t give him money – vow of poverty and all. We couldn’t give him lovely THINGS – vow. poverty. simplicity. No cashmere socks, ha! No fancy watch. We couldn’t give him electronics – vow. poverty. simplicity. You get the idea. I know, I know, it was desperation of the departure taking it’s toll. Foolishly or not, we had the very strong urge to give him a part of ourselves…somehow. Even though of course, he was and IS a part of ourselves, built in, and that travels with him no matter where he goes. Still. The urge was there. Thus, when Tom hit on the idea to make the rosary, Chris kindly said, ok. It was a kindness, he was unsure if it was a good idea or if there was time. But he knew, we all knew, that if it could be done in time, it would be. So he said, “Ok, Dad, that’d be great.”

Thus began a kind of lovely intense time leading up to the departure for the novitiate. Chris and Tom spent a lot of time together…looking for the crucifix, selecting the right one. Finding a crucifix prayed over by another Dominican, a sister from years ago, worn just right and with the heft of time and prayer. Simple, lovely. They pondered what made a good feel to a rosary, the materials used to string it: wire, links, string…what would be best, lasting, have a good feel. What size beads, what material, what heft, what feel? It sounds like a lot of fussing, but it wasn’t fussing, it was a joint project and it was time together, talking, evaluating, hanging out. Chris didn’t want it too precious, needed to pull back his father’s natural urge to find the most amazing special coolest ever parts of this or that….remind dad again of the simple life he is thinking of, being possibly called to. Nudge, pull, push…listen, understand. Both of them.

Finally, the parts were in. All materials needed to be and ended up the simplest, not expensive, but strong. The crucifix and centerpiece found and arrived, agreed that they were “just right.” The beads arrived, wooden black beads, just right. The cord to string it all, finally, located and brought home (harder than it would seem, that one). The length determined, adjusted, fixed. The knots practiced, tried, adjusted. Different knots for between the beads, then the decades. Special knots for the crucifix and the centerpiece; complicated beautiful and secure. Thus, finally, the actual making of this special rosary could begin. This sweet dad, he stayed up into the wee hours many nights, he knotted and he pulled and measured and tested, knotted, reknotted, redid it to perfection. Almost. Tom would point out, here, “No, not perfect.”

But it was perfect. It IS perfect. The entire process was pure gift of himself. To his son. It makes me cry to type it, it means so much to each of them, but so too, to me. The hours put it, a prayer over each bead, each knot, for his boy. Each time our son, now Brother Peter Joseph, prays that rosary (which is daily) his fingers slip across the same beads and knots that his father too held in prayer and love. He carries that, all that, tied to his belt with him, at all times. That very rosary stays hooked on his belt and habit.

Thus, my son, carries a huge piece of his father’s heart and love with him, always.

And yes, of course, he does anyhow. With or without that particular rosary. We know that. He knows that. But, those beads. Those deep brown black beads…. They are a tangible touchable reminder, for him and for us…that we are linked through prayer and beyond time. That particular rosary – I can say because I only watched the whole deal, I have no personal glory here – it is stunning. It is simple. It is beautiful. Not only because my husband can tie knots like nobody’s business, not only because he is a master craftsman. But because that rosary is the tangible embodiment of a father’s deepest love and prayers for his son and entrustment to our Blessed Mother through those seemingly simple brown beads.

Now, Brother Peter Joseph, receiving the habit and with it, the beads

So, yeah, it’s about the beads…in so many ways, they are kinda special.

Gleaning Grief

Posted on September 1, 2011 by coffeemom

I have hesitated to write about this. But, after all, I think I need to, if only, ever, for my own processing. And, because this blog is my way of processing…and maybe, with a little luck, my way touching on a point in common with some of you out there too…I’m putting it up. Please, don’t flame me. It’s a nervous making post. But it’s honest.

So, with disclaimer all claimed, here we go:

We have had an odd summer of grief here at the coffee house. We knew some of it was coming, we could see it on the horizon. But some of it….well, some of it hit us like a beam smacked up side our heads. And it’s been exceptionally difficult, as grief is and will be. And it’s been exceptionally nuanced, as grief is and can be. And it’s been healing in it’s own exceptional way…as grief sometimes, with luck, can be.

Now, I will also add, on the front end of all this because it’s so important…. In no way will I ever say that grief is something good in and of itself. Grief is an evil in that it defines loss. Grief is a hardship. Grief is a….grief.

But here is what I’ve been thinking about and what I’ve been trying to tie together in my own heart and mind. I think it’s even Catholic in so many ways – but mostly in the transformation that can come through suffering. (C‘mon, you knew I had to tie that in sooner or later. Might as well throw it out there right now). You see, grief is a suffering.

Yeah, I’m gonna repeat myself: Grief is a suffering.

But, with a great deal of grace and the eyes and heart to see it, PARTS (NOT all) of grief can be a transformation. Ahh, I’m getting ahead of myself. What a surprise. I guess I’d better back up and explain. Deep breath….

I killed our dog.

I know! It was as horrible as reading that is.

In fact, it was much much worse. It was hands down the worst thing I have ever done. Just typing this makes my hands kind of shake and my stomach flutter with sick and nerves. {Whoa, did you hear that? Those tens (I’m not kidding myself, I’d love to say hundreds but this is my dinky blog….less than tens??) of clicks of readers clicking away in disgust??? I know! I heard them too….. See I told you this post wasn’t gonna be pretty or popular…..But this blog is not only ponies and rainbows….}

Anyhow. I couldn’t eat for a week. I still can’t park in the same spot. I ran her over. I didn’t mean to, and wasn’t even racing out. I had no idea she was there. I’m still simply horrified by it and some nights I wake up thinking about it. Because I loved her. But even worse, my kids loved her. And she was just sweet and stupid and it was just the most horrible accident. Literally, Horrible. I got out fast and saw and I think I must’a screamed (and I’m not a screamer despite what you might imagine). My big sons came running out and I had to run in to stop the girls from doing the same. And I had to tell them. And then I had to run after them as they ran screaming. Quickly I had the two who would take it hardest corralled next to me on the back steps and we wailed and cried and I kept saying “It was an accident, I’m so sorry.” And they kept forgiving me and wailing from the shock. All this time my amazing awesome manly sons took care of it all. They cleaned up, made the phone calls to Tom and the vet and my best girlfriend. They helped the smaller kids and the teen sort out what to do and what not to do. They canceled appointments and then they helped hug and console. And then we all hunkered down, to begin to get over the shock. We all piled onto our big huge sofa and found mindless movies so that we could pretend we were watching. We began the steps of grieving.

And here is where it was awful and horrible and hard and exhausting and yet, and yet….. where some of the good can be found. Because I have to pull from this. I have to or I will go nuts. I can’t not, I’m not made that way. [Perhaps to your pain but for those of you who couldn’t stand my ramblings you’re gone anyway. I heard the clicks.]

Anyhow. I prayed and prayed for a way through this. Because you know, that pup was intended in large measure to be a “therapy” pup for my girl from hard places. And ya know, accidentally running over the dog is not on the worksheet in the therapy-parenting workbook…. No. It’s not. So, how do you do something so antithetical to TWO years of hard work and slow progress and not have it all slide backwards to back beyond the beginning? How? I don’t know. But even my first screams of horror were prayers, “Oh my GOD help!” Literally. Oh, my God. Help us all. Right now. I don’t know what or how to handle this.

And I didn’t know. I didn’t know. So I just kept doing the next thing. And that meant, I held the kid, each of them, together, separately, in pairs, however I found them. We cried together. We looked at each other, knowing what wasn’t being said. The sad. When one kid would drift off, I’d give them a bit of time, minutes maybe, but I’d find them and pull them into my lap and cry with them. Let them tell me again and again and again how sad they were. I told them, “I know. Me too.”

Really, it was hard work. Is still some days.

But, of course, the first shock of grief ebbs and the days get filled with time and distractions. And life continues in it’s messy busy way. And it did. We hung close to each other for awhile, but even that, soon enough was replaced with the schedules of summer day camps and hot sports outside and swims to cool off. And those things helped heal too.

Now, none of this is the gleaning. All of this is the normal, if there is that, grieving after a loss, and this loss was only a pup. Not a human. So it was a smallish loss, in some ways, considering what it coulda been. Really.

But, in this loss, what I have seen is that it has added a new layer to our family. It has added a new bridge to our new daughter, the one who has had so much too much grief in her life already. The difference with this one, and perhaps the reason she actually did surprisingly well through it, considering….is that this grief was shared. By us.

This grief was the first big grief that we all shared together.

Yuh. Read that again. BIg big stuff. We’ve had some family losses; but most were before she came home, before Gabey came home. But since she’s been home, thankfully, nothing. She’s lost so much, so many.

But those losses were all BEFORE.

And she had them alone.

They are separate for her.

Even when she processes them now, here, I can’t share them with her.

None of us can. It is apart. Which can only add to it, it seems.

But this one, we did it together. In fact, this one, we went through all the steps of processing: the shock, the wailing, the angry denial, the dumbfounded sinking in of it, the aching hurt of it, the remembering, the finally being able to talk about the puppy, remember her, laugh about her, the sometimes heart-bruise showing up again. We did and do all that, together. Separately, but also, together.

And that, that processing together is bonding.

That’s what you do with family.

It’s not a bonding process anyone would choose. Really. Not. But it does still fill the function. And the hopefully healthy stepping through the cascade of it….that too, has tremendous value. {Which is NOT to say that we did so fantastically at it all, we stumbled our way through just like anyone ever does}.

Gleaning from grief. Sounds kind of morbid, like a vulture even. I don’t mean it that way.

But that opening horrible day of our summer; I really think it helped us to prepare for the other griefs that were lining up for us. Chris was leaving in a big way. Jon was gonna leave again too. It was a big deal. Great grief amidst excited joy. But for the sibs, grief, change, hard.

This horrible event beginning our summer gave us a little road map and the assurance that we could get through it. We’d cry. We’d wail. We’d sniffle and run to have time to ourselves, then come back to check in, sit near each other pretending to watch bad tv. But mostly, we’d be together, sharing that change, sharing those looks.

Without that process, together, we’d never be able to move to the open clear land after grief. That’s the place where you can laugh, even after the loss. We can joke that Chris has tripped on his habit up the stairs as he learns how to wear it. We can laugh about Jon and his new crazy roommates. We roll our eyes with a smiling wink over using Brother Peter Joseph’s new religious name and the strangeness of it. We can even joke that the puppy was not so terrifically bright and remember that really, every single time she saw Tom…….. she’d pee on the floor.

And then, we can smile, a real one without tears, and laugh.

Little Miracles, Can You See Em?

Posted on August 23, 2011 by coffeemom

One of the cool, inspiring blogs I follow, Love that Max, had a post that has kept me thinking. It’s a post about seeing miracles, big and small and worth a look. Go see, then come back…

Ok, thanks for coming back! So. Heres what I’m thinking after reading that: It’s easy to only have eyes to see the “Capital Letter Miracles.” Heck, who doesn’t want that? It’s awesome and wonderful to see the “Capital Letter Miracles!” Let’s face it, we crave those kinds of miracles (So much so that tv charlatans have manufactured fake ones for decades, don’t be snookered)….

But what I’ve been thinking about is Max’s point…that we see miracles every single day. In our own families. And no, I don’t only mean that it’s a miracle we got to school on time! Ok, maybe sometimes I do mean precisely that….ahem. Not to be too drippy or saccharin..but we can and do see them, all the time. And I need to remember to mark them, heck I need to marvel at them, with a wide open grin. Because, I don’t know about you, but I can all too easily slip into the daily grinding drill and forget to see any of those moments for the clutter and clanging of the chaos. Yes, chaos. The puppy peeing, the small boy banging, the larger boy crashing down the stairs while the silent attitude of the teen is a siren stomping up the stairs. Those times, I’m pretty darn hard pressed to see any miracle. Much less a capital M one. Mostly I see a certain preteen left shoes in the hall and someone else left the towels on the stairs….

But they are there, those tiny flickering miracles. And I kinda like the small ones best, in many ways. Maybe it’s all I can take…who knows? But really, if I can slow down my vision, still my spinning gears or, at least, stop after the rush hour is over and gaze around the momentarily silent house, take a breath….I can see past the smudges and the socks. I see miracles.

We did get to school on time!

And that silent-bellow, the freezing attitude of the newer teen? It shouts of a newfound security, strong enough to withstand a huffed stomp up the stairs and the scowls of a sibling and/or second mom. We weren’t sure we’d get there many months ago. A miracle.

The quiet drawing, so carefully intricately etched by a loud crashing whirling dervish of a seven year old boy? A miracle: the artistic gift, and the few mintes of stillness to allow it forth onto the paper.

A small warm sweet four year old, sleepy curling under his covers, whispering to me…asking if I would hold his hand while he falls asleep. Pure miracle; he came, wary, from across the world and now nestles by choice next to me.

A preteen with a guarded but hopeful heart, joining the same school again with her siblings, no longer needing to be separated in order to get the accommodations she needs….everyone doing their part to make up the differences. That one might be a capital M, it’s so good, so important, so unexpected all those years.

The same new teen from hard places who can freeze you out…. being able to finally relax enough to actually play, be playful…with a new sweet puppy that sparks laughter and silliness in a child that has known so little.

The unbidden hug goodnight of the eldest teen daughter, just now as I type, on her way to bed…with a real sparkly true smile in her eyes, and the same in mine, right back at her. If you have a fifteen year old, you know that, in itself, some nights, IS a miracle! I’ll take it.

So, I’m counting my miracles. I’m trying to open my eyes to see them. Because you know, miracles are funny. If you don’t have the heart to see them, or if you close your eyes for a moment too long. They are gone. And that is just a waste. Because if we open our eyes to look, we can but marvel….

Pure gift

Posted on July 16, 2011 by coffeemom

It’s pure gift. All of it.
I don’t always have the eyes and clarity to see it as such. But sometimes, in this rare sparkling days in the sun, I do.

We are at the beach,still. Visiting family this weekend, intensively. My oldest dear friend, a sister, really, has come down to visit and hang out with us. My sister and her three big boys plus one of their lifelong buddies has come, her husband arrives today. My folks even came up and we had a loud big old crazy beach supper. The big boys are so physically large, just big ol’ men, that they take up enormous space in this tiny old simple condo. Six of them sprawling around. Plus of course, the rest of my not small at all clan. And then my sister and I, handing out plates of salad and slices of pizza, reaching over heads and across sunburned backs as bbig guys forage for more. My dear friend tells stories of us as girls, making my boys laugh at me, my folks embellishing to hoots. I worry about how Marta will handle the commotion but she does fine; she withdraws to the balcony for a few minutes here and there for a breather, then comes back in and sits near, then goes and laughs at the big boys antics. Big guys head out to surf and ride waves, again, its dusk, we all watch, footballs are thrown, we stay on the beach until the tourists (I know, that is us, but this feels like home too, so we don’t count ourselves as such) go home and the cold chases us in. Finally, my folks make their goodbyes for the night, my sis and sis head down to stay at my folks house…big boys go to call girlfriends and walk into town for ice cream. I tuck small sandy boys into eternally sandy beds.

I wake first; pad around the house picking up stray shirts, flip flops, legos, sunglasses. I make another pot of strong coffee. I go out and gaze at the empty beach, tide low. And I breath deep and whisper a prayer of thanksgiving, my entire self twinges with gratitude for this time.

It is time out of time. It is gift. I’m taking pics, but more, I’m searing it into my heart and soul and memory as best as I am able.

Thank you tom for making this happen. We are all missing you and Hannah. But it is oure gift. Every moment. I feel a touch guilty for not seeing my other friends who live near (sorry Clyde) but this is what this time is. It is time to imprint all of this, it’s a special weekend. My nose keeps twitching here and there, feeling the tears press in suddenly….I’m outing them back and instead choosing the grinning sparkly skittly joy of it (yes, Courtney, skittley). Gabey just woke, he pads iver and snuggles next to me, then he’s up and checking out the ocean. He turns to me and says, “Can you believe Nancy is coming back today?” Yup. She is, they all are. It’s gift. Every sandy salty funny loud messy moment of it.
It glitters.

Across the Pond

Posted on June 26, 2011 by coffeemom

My girl is flying away today….for three weeks.

She is heading across the pond on a student exchange program. Officially, she is a Loughlin Scholar. She goes to Britain for three weeks, paired with a girl student buddy from the partner school, living with the family of the student buddy.

St Edwards School. Whoa.

Later, the same buddy comes here to stay with us for three weeks, same deal but reversed. This is a great program, her brother Jon did it before her and it was a great experience all around. But even so, it’s her first time away from the family for more than one night. Which means of course that she is chomping at the bit to go and we are excited for her but dreading having her gone. And while she has spent time with celebrities and such…

….this living with a completely different family, strangers, is a whole new gig. Can she do it? Sure, she’s got the social skills when she feels like it – typically much more in evidence when she’s not skulking around our own house on her regular loop: bedroom, kitchen, piano room, sunroom.

I fear she will be homesick, but know it’s good for her in it’s own way. We will be daughter-sick, missing her terribly.

Anyhow, today she flies with her school group. I would appreciate any prayers you might throw her way. I pray for her to be happy, healthy, safe and sound – to have fun and be comfortable with her own self in this new group of Brits. Because, she’s my girl, I think I miss her already.

Applying to the Dominicans of the St. Joseph Province

Posted on June 9, 2011 by coffeemom

{Note; the Aspirant time frame was about 6 -8 weeks. Again, these posts are post-dated, if you will. The timing is not, currently, real time. I wrote them earlier and only publish with Chris’ permission}

So. Now, my son is an Applicant.

This pleases me if only because now I can pronounce it properly. This is a comfort. Also, it’s easier to explain or address in a concise manner. So when friends ask about him, wondering about his post graduation plans, I can say, “Well, he’s applying to the Eastern Provence of St Joseph, the Dominicans.” And even though that it is something of a mouthful its much more direct than trying to explain and pronounce what an aspirant is. So, because these posts are really about our parental side of this process…this is a step forward in more ways than one.

Now of course, he has a boatload of work to do. Not that he didn’t already have a boatload of work to do, what with extra class units, senior piano recitals for one of his his majors, work as an RA, being social and all…..and oh, the continuing discernment to the priesthood…now he has an a “formidable” application to undertake. We never said he wasn’t an overachiever. This will be quite the juggling act. Good practice, the discipline it will take to manage it all. Anyhow, so, now he has a list to work on. It’s a lengthy list, but a tangible list, rather than only the more internal work that he’s been doing for this process.

I think that this concrete, numbered, tangibility is helpful. Then again, i am totally task oriented so maybe that’s just me. But for me, this next step, this new title to the process kind of releases me from some of the fretting about all this. Because even though this whole process isn’t about us, it is, tangentially. There is an underlying sense of import and looming change for us, the parents and family .

As I type this, now, he has just finished the rigors and requirements of the application. He had to write either a shortish narrative of his life to date, or answer a number of personal exploratory sort of questions. This was probably the most challenging part of the application for my son. Having a tendency toward procrastination, typically he put it off until this clanging deadline and personal introspection demanded the attention of his numbered hours. My guess is that he completed it in the standard fashion of most applicants; both fussing over it a bit and then barreling through it to get it off the to do list.

After that he had to request five letters of recommendation from various persons in his life; happily they all agreed to the chore. On of those letters had to be from one of us, his parents. He asked his father. Thank goodness for that, as just reading his father’s letter made me cry; I couldn’t have done it so well. It was a most excellent letter. No surprise that, the quality or the tears I suppose. Lastly, but certainly not least, he had to run the gauntlet of full bodily examination: physicals of every sort. He had his eyes checked, his teeth, his body with the big general physical and blood work. He had his mind and psychic well being checked too; they don’t need to cope with any burdensome neuroses, the garden variety ones are certainly enough for each of us, eh?

Certificates of sacramental preparations, birth certificates as well as baptism and confirmation were requested. I happily gave him a scare when I mentioned finding and sending the perfect Baptism pics: where he looked both cute AND holy, even at five months old. No, I didn’t send the pics but it was awfully fun to tease him that I did. It’s good to keep your kids on edge, just a bit, I think. A mom has to have some fun with this process right? Right.

The last official part of the application process and the most weighty perhaps, other than the ongoing discerning, was the official “Vocations Counsel” interviews. Chris had to fly to D.C., and after his psych evaluation, have a few interviews with some of the higher ups Dominicans of the order. I asked him, after, if he was nervous. He said, “A little, but they were very nice. One was kind of hard in a way, but it was good.” Listening to him after the trip, between flights to come home, made me grin. The excitement in his voice was, again, like a young man, excited about a new adventure.

And now, we wait. His application has been approved by the vocations counsel ( even without the baptism pictures, imagine!) and has been sent to the Prior Provincial for the final stamp. Kinda like sending the bill to the president; he can approve or veto it, final answer. I’ve asked him if he is nervous for the outcome. “Not really” he says. Funny, me neither. Yeah, I think we all know what that outcome is going to be. Gods will. Thankfully, the peace of that is settling in.

For today. Today my son is, still, an applicant. Tomorrow, in the next few weeks, we will see if his status changes. Prayerfully, we wait.

Grad-o-palooza

Posted on May 29, 2011 by coffeemom

So, last weekend we went up to ND to watch my eldest son, Buddybug, graduate from college.

My big boys: Jon my now ND sophmore & Chris, our graduate

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, as they say….

Because, that’s how it plays when you travel long road hours with cars stuffed full of family. That’s how it plays when you have a relatively rigorous event schedule and many different ages and stages along for the ride. That’s how you start rethinking strategy for next time and consider the benefits of babysitters for smalls…..but I’m getting ahead of myself. So much. This past weekend was so much. I can only do the bullets, I can’t be eloquent or profound or witty…it’s all a flashing jumble, it’s own mental slideshow with quick cut editing. And the only way I’ll ever remember the details of it is to kinda chronicle it here. Fair warning, this is my scrapbook edition post.

Thus, in no particular order, may I present: Graduation 2011.

predawn packing of the car with sleepy cranky children
twelve year old wakes up feeling sick. Perfect timing, of course.
wild seven year old Little Man hurtling, hollering, down the driveway…because that’s just what he does sometimes, and before we can catch him.
cranky teen daughter yelling about obnoxious brother
angry neighbor, woken by sibling drama under his window. Because we like to start our crazy weekend road trips with a bang…
Mortification by parental types, ok, me
hitting the road, little man still so wild he has to change cars even before we get on the main road; meaning, outta mine & into dad’s, Plan B
settling into a long day o’ driving, two cars, separated oil/water unmixable sibs, pandora on the radio
settle into house rental, quick change, meet graduate to hug and eat

Waiting outside DeBartolo Auditorium for the music department concert, a tired bunch

Zip over to music department concert
More wildness from the smalls as ever optimistic dad puts us dead center in auditorium
Mom panics quietly but not graciously
Mom wrestles (as discreetly as possible) small boys, stuck in the row, whispering cosmic “I”m sorry’s” to all the other parents in the auditorium…for the duration of the program
The music was amazing, such talented graduates
Chris’s Chopin piece, as ever, is amazing….
I can say that as the mom
But it’s totally true

Playing Chopin, beautiful

His hands move so fast it’s almost blurry
Where did that kid come from anyhow?

Car dead bright and early Saturday morning. Perfect.
Plan C, swapping cars
Saturday department luncheon outside on a perfect day
Thanking the professors, meeting friends
Dutifully tripping while carrying plates, because I’m just graceful like that (saved them tho!)

Horsing around w/ Marta

Quick, needed, confession before Mass, fast walking through rain with my girls to arena to make Mass in time
The Baccalaureate Mass is just lovely, even though it’s in the basketball arena and we are in the tippy top seats, I don’t care. It’s lovely.
Waiting for the Baccalaureate Mass

The small boys are good! It’s a miracle!
I blink back the tears at the Alma Mater, knowing I have tomorrow’s commencement to get through too.
Pick a day, pick a day to cry . Blink. Blink.
Dinner, all fancy and a risky but successful endeavor with a family of one of Chris’ closest buddies
sheer exhaustion by all, living on the edge of the knife…..

Trying to get boys to rest in afternoon, gearing up for long night

Me and Hannah sick overnight, perfect
Sunday morning, the big day, my son is graduating, neither his dad and I can quite believe it and yet, here we are.
Swift triage with tired sick kids on Sunday, another one down (Little Man, not so wild now) delegating babysitting after all and revamping logistics…Plan D
Football stadium is sunny, not a cloud in the sky despite dire predictions – yay!

Yeh, it was sunny, hot and great up at the top of the stadium

hot sun, high seats, still a great view of a field of grads
A perfect morning, special ordered it seemed
It’s done. My son is a graduate.
It’s all perfect.
Post morning gig: quick swap of babysitters and venue for diplomas, time for a picture and hug of my graduate, when did he get SO tall?

Saving seats in basketball arena again for the afternoon segment of festivities
graduates process in, happy, lighthearted, grinning waving like Olympians, fun to watch
girls arrive just in time with dad and grandpa, we settle in to listen to 800 graduates names be read
My tall son walks across the stage, no trip, no falter, only a calm happy smile. Perfect.
I holler, loud, because that’s my boy.
He stays and stands on stage at last with a few of his friends for the closing prayer.

My chris, third from left

Ahh, here they are, those tears, watching my boy
Annnnd the Alma Mater, and my boy linked arms with his friends, on the stage, stepping out of one part of his life, and into the new
I blinked, gulped and smiled bigger….because that’s my boy up there.
Pictures after, hugs, congratulations to friends and families

More pictures, more waiting
Marta meltdown in the parking lot, it’s all too much
Recovery, but not so deftly managed by mom, price will be paid, I swear I hear the bells tolling…..
Easy dinner at his choice; favorite local pizza place
exhausted bedtime, hard night of dealing with kids and fall-apart from all too much: time mood emotions changes no routines close quarters

Monday morning comes early, long day ahead
Marta very worried about car and finals Tuesday and long drive ahead
General post event crankiness abounding
Tom crawling under car to whack the fuel tank, per mechanic’s advice to try to get car running
hours fiddling with car and stalling kids, antsy to go
Success! Hero. Car is idling and loaded, kids scramble in, we are off
Three blocks in, my car dies, I push it to right lane (a guy got out to help after a few mins, yay)
Lurched car to dealer, left for repair
teen girls needing to leave bags at dealer and cram in one car to go get the old volvo, ..what plan are we on, anyway?
more drama from teens, son is tired and sad from goodbyes, and we have to leave him too, plan D
drive home is fraught with storms and danger and hours of extra time
tense hard long scary driving

Home again. Finally. A new form of family, one with a young man, all done with his main block of schooling. As parents, we have done our part in educating one kid, all the way through…how did that happen?

It was a wild weekend. Even so, I wouldn’t have missed it for the world. Wild horses, wild boys, broken cars, sick kids couldn’t have kept us away. And they didn’t. Because my first born son? He graduated from college, he ran the race and finished well.

Congratulations Buddybug. We are SO proud of you.

Almost Wordless Wednesday

Posted on May 25, 2011 by coffeemom

Yup, school’s out for most.

Two days for all…….(Do you hear the theme from Jaws? Me too!)…..

>Turn-Keys in Adoption: Family Dinner

Posted on April 27, 2011 by coffeemom

> Ah, the family dinner.
A subject that greater minds and bigger hearts than mine have explored and pondered for many years. Indeed, it’s a fixation of modern shelter magazines and cable shows; how to cook and create a wonderland of fantasy meals.

I’m not gonna attempt to lay down new paths or thoughts; that’s above my pay grade.
This post is my ongoing consideration of dinner, supper, and what it means to the family, especially one built through the often messy process of adoption.

In fact, I have come to believe that the seemingly simple concept of dinner is really, for us at least, a turn key in attachment.
Yep, this is another one of those posts. I have a series of them, sporadically put up as I need to process things or I start stewing about stuff {go here:trust, touch, transitions, schedules, Christmas, prayer}.

I think that the whole idea of family dinner is one that is super easy to brush off. We’ve heard it all before, from our own parents to the modern beta parents on tv: Oprah, Dr. Phil, Dr. Spock, Judge Judy…heck, everybody’s got an opinion. But this forum is mine and thus this blog post is about my meandering musings down the dinner table.

Now, I’d love to say that our family has beautiful Rockwell quality dinners. That we all sit down in a calm and mannered fashion to an elegant and/or chic table every night and linger easily over interesting and savory local, foodie creative meals that nourish our bodies and souls. Right. But if I did, I’d be lying.

Ramare Bearden, Color Screenprint, 1993

Our dinners are often a jumble; kids needing to be called to the table, fetched from outside, hollered for repeatedly (yes, we/I holler, it’s not my proudest moment). Kids race to snag the primo chair; which designation will ever remain an unfathomable mystery to us parents. {Sometimes it’s a mystery to the racers too, but the race is on, nightly, nevertheless.} This frequently leads to some sulking about not claiming said spot and having to sit in the “stupid” spot. Dinner is considered and often declared “gross” or “yuk” and the sulk extended. We parental types try to regain calm by lighting a candle or two and then beginning with prayer, going around the table to nudge each kid to come up with something, anything, to be thankful for this day…all the while reminding the wild small boys to sit on their chair, hands off their legos, cars off the table, sshh, with significant looks and the not infrequent verbal cue. After that, we try to have real conversation as we dine (ok, we eat). This effort rarely succeeds; what with two teenage girls and two preteen girls, any variation thereof who can often be found nursing some level of mood. Occasionally, one of the girls might be working an angle to get some yet unknown advantage and thus launch a bright and superficially charming conversational gambit. Those nights the repartee is especially exciting for the unknown results and volatility. Otherwise the conversation can be rather stilted attempts at extracting details of the day at school (yes, much like pulling teeth, actually) and continuing to referee sulking players; all the while leaving us two over forty craving scintillating discussion of current events or politics or heck, number theory…anything at all to change it up. (I lied, I will never crave discussion of number theory, evah.)

Jean Foss, “Family Dinner”

Often enough one or three kids will thank me for the cooking, signaling the end of the meal; a truly lovely and appreciated gesture (always Marta, sweet habit) and then bolt to the beyond of upstairs to escape the ensuing chaos that erupts after dinner. Then the dishes are clattered to the counters and sinks, reminders of dish night assignments handed out, and the dinner comes to a close as I try to scoot/race the little boys up to the bedtime routine.

Thus we have three phases to our dinners: preparation, partaking, and cleanup. All of them are key to our family dinner and to the foundation that is laid. It is the whole of the process that makes the family dinner so important, and yes, a turn-key to adjustment.
I want to say that again: I think the whole of the process: the prep, the sitting/eating, and the aftermath, is important to the bonding and attachment found in the family dinner.

The importance of this meal, it’s function as a key for us, is coming more and more clear to me; especially over these past few months of our adjustment to our newest daughter Marta. She has a need for a very defined order to her days, she counts on it, it is her safety zone. And the dinner routine, as close to ‘no matter what’ we can get, is key to her sense of well being, and thus, attachment.
I daresay it is the same for our other children, young and old, bio or adopted.

Family dinner counts.

The time to prepare it shows our newest daughter, without words, that this time is important to us as family. She sees me, as do all my kids, thinking about it in advance, shopping, preparing it, prepping the table for it. If it wasn’t important I wouldn’t bother. They all know it.
If I can get it together during the day, I try to have the table set and dinner planned and begun to prep as she/they arrive home from school….yes, it’s very Donna Reed, but it’s very very comforting and secure. All of my kids, each and every one, ask me, every day within minutes of seeing me after school: “What’s for dinner?” Each one of them need that answer, sometimes I say “I don’t know!” But, if I name a meal, it’s an almost visible sigh out of them to hear the answer – even if it’s not their favorite. Because it signifies that I am on it and life is secure. Now, they won’t say it that way, but I see it that way now…because of my newest daughter. Her life was not secure and dinner wasn’t a guarantee or even always an option. So, yeah, this is important stuff…for all of them, but absolutely critical for her.
It is a turnkey on so many levels: food, primal sustenance, comfort, family, routine.

Peter Blume, Vegetable Dinner, 1927

The sitting down together is a coming together, a pause in the day to nourish our bodies and us as a group together, to nourish our sense of family. The kids can’t see that, sometimes it’s just a chore…for me too. (I can easily, if I were to choose, skip the eating of dinner, most any day…..)
But beyond that obligation and duty lies great unspoken meaning: family, it’s important and this is ours.
And happily enough, that meaning is not reliant on the context of perfection or glossy fantasies of “should be” or “looks like.”
I will go out on a cyber limb and even say that the very chaotic mess of our dinners, and it’s own particular kind of standard chaos, defines our own family culture and is a feature of this key to attaching into our family.

The cleanup, well, its not nearly the pretty part. Not that any part of our dinners every really are so much…but cleanup is a mess and a job. But by having the kids all take part (they rotate dish duty) and their dad usually giving them a boost of help…they learn that they too are contributors to the family. They don’t only take…they too give to each other and the family. Giving back is part of the key to attachment. Unless you are invested in something or someone, by serving them in some form (time, attention, effort), it’s very hard to have a two way attachment. Now, that’s just my opinion…but I hold it close. I think you love by doing. I think the best way to help a child learn that they are an integral part of the family is to have them pitch in and help that family, just the same as the other kids (or to their ability).

So, who’da thunk it?
Family dinner, be it vichyssoise or burgers, means ever so much more than the calorie count. And really, it’s not even about the actual food or the quality of it; be it fancy french or sub sandwiches.
It’s about the whole process of the dinner, as a family.
I think it’s one of the better keys in your tool belt as a parent.
I think that so much of what we do, we feel we have to follow the perfect script or recipe or rules or recommendations. But the beauty in the messy chaos and routine of the family dinner is that it allows for our unique seasonings and tweaks and settings. It is our own.
It is in the very making and prepping and sitting and tastings of it, we find our own selves and each other.
This is a turn key to attachment for each of us, adopted or not, for healing and blending together as a family. It is a key that is not a hard metal bit to be clanged about…rather this one is as a red ripe tomato, bursting with goodness, begging to be savored.

Jos van Riswick, Tomato 15×15

>Gems

Posted on April 14, 2011 by coffeemom

>Ok, so the blog’s been all solemn lately, with serious posts.
Just so you all don’t think I need an intervention or something, here’s something to brighten the mood for today.

Saw this at the great site, Love that Max, and well, this video says it all and makes me smile.
And yeah, it’s cheery and STILL apt for this season of lent.
Yup, lent isn’t only about the tough bits, it’s a season of cheer in a weird way…because we can see and smell the rain, Easter, just around the bend.
Enjoy.

>My Baby Bro, Happy Bday!

Posted on March 17, 2011 by coffeemom

The quintessential John as a boy

Happy Happy Birthday and St. Patrick’s Day to my dearest baby brother!
John is 45 today, which means I’m getting old.
But so is he and for the record, he is grayer than I am!
But even so, he is still cuter and has those eyes that sparkle and laugh, to go along with his crooked goofy grin and his razor sharp wit.

I miss him so, but I know he’s having a great day surrounded by his gorgeous wonderful wife and two beautiful brilliant daughters, not to mention sparkling blue water, tropical palms and no doubt some great breaks as he heads out to surf this morning.
He’s in Micronesia, still. But to our great familial joy, and my parents relief and giddy exhales, he is coming home. His family returns for good in only a few days and we are all counting down to the moment they get to go hug on them at the airport.

John and I were always partners in crime, play, you name it. We were “the little kids,” which we now lord over our older siblings with relentless pleasure.
I was terribly jealous of him while I was young, because he was the baby and ridiculously cute and was terribly spoiled and I couldn’t stand it.

I was spoiled too, as the youngest girl, but I didn’t understand that then. Now, having many kids of my own, I get it. It’s the baby thing.
And John was and is the baby and favorite in the family.

It can’t be helped, we all accept it now..and admit it’s just true.
Even though I was terribly jealous and imagined great suffering because of him, he could and still can make me laugh harder than anyone I know. He makes me laugh until I cry and one of my favorite things is when all of us kids can get together and reminisce around the kitchen table, start telling stories which get bigger and more um, vivid, with every telling. Soon enough we are hooting and wiping tears. Great stuff.

So, today he’s on my mind and in my prayers and I wish him a last tropical blast of a birthday.
I love you so much John, I miss you and wish you safe swift travels home.
Catch some great waves and I can’t wait to see you soon.

My new favorite pic of him, ever.

Happy Happy Birthday Little Bro!

I love you!

>Turn-Keys: Prayer

Posted on February 24, 2011 by coffeemom

I’ve written a number of posts on turn-keys in adoption. {Enough of them that if you want to go back and check them out (and please do!) it’s probably easiest to do a search on the phrase “turn key.” }
Here is another one that I’ve been thinking about for awhile but have hesitated to post because many of you will scoff or immediately click away. It’s not out of character for me and for this little blog but it’s not always a popular subject. But, regardless, it’s integral to me, this blog, and this post.

So, here goes:
This turn-key is about prayer.
If you are parenting a kid from hard places, or an older child new-ish to your family, or yes of course, any of your kids…..prayer is simply key. A turn-key. Perhaps THE turn-key.
But it’s not nearly so pat or simple as you might presume.

I think prayer works as a super skeleton turn-key in that it unlocks that attachment in both directions. Read that again. Prayer helps the bonding and attachment and healing, in both, or all directions.
No surprise that, eh?

I prayed novenas to bring our Marta home.
I prayed novenas after Marta was home to help us grow through those difficult first months.
I prayed the rosary, every day, for over a year, to help bring Marta home – to help her heal from her TB, to help us have the faith and courage to go get her.
I prayed the rosary most days, but not all, after she got home; and am back at it now, more diligently again.
Others, friends and family, have and do pray the rosary then and now, on behalf of our girl, and me.
I don’t of this praying of mine to say I’m all that. Because I’m so not, if anything it reflects how low I can go, and how great my need is. Ever.
But I put this out there to say that ALL of these prayers, and the intentional action of doing them, have carried us to this Now.
I can’t even begin to imagine trying to undertake this without all that prayer, those rosaries, those novenas, the Mass.
{I should also insert my a declaration of my endless bottomless gratitude for all of you who have prayed on our behalf, you know who you are, and oh, my, thank you and please don’t stop!}

But another important angle in all this is Marta’s part in those prayers.
We have had to teach Marta how to pray, these prayers.
Well, we haven’t had to teach her, but she wanted to be taught.
Even before she had/has the language sufficient to say the prayers in full, still, she understood immediately that this was prayer that she could do with us. It was similar enough to some of her Ethiopian Orthodox prayers that she could feel a bit of familiarity.
The Mass worked the same way for her.
Marta, from the first day we met her in Addis, has asked us to go to church, to Mass, to pray.

She asks to pray rosaries with me, with us, even though she still doesn’t have all the words down yet. She asks to go to Mass, every chance she can get (Which is really every day, Mass is a daily event in the Catholic Church, thanks be to God). She doesn’t get to go EVERY day, but she goes every day we can get her there, of her own volition.
Because she sees that we value this, she can hold onto one of the deep values from her life before us. She can even grow it into deeper faith and understanding, of faith, of family, of what it means to love….and that’s just pure gift to us all.

More, when you pray for someone for a year, or every single day…you cannot help but attach to them, to some degree. The point of prayer is not that WE transform God’s mind, rather it’s that the praying transforms our hearts.

Prayer, praying, and especially praying together, however rudimentary, transforms each of us little by little into a closer image of God. And as God is love, that is precisely what we need in this hard road of older child adoption and attaching and healing from hard places.
I need to transform my stony heart into God’s heart, big enough to love someone, all ones, who cannot love me back, not really.
She needs to learn to open her heart to love and trust this new family, letting God himself in more and more by love.

Praying brings us to common ground.
It’s no longer our big old established family and her small tiny new hurting self; it’s each of us, opening our heart’s to love.
Prayer is the key to that door.
It’s a familiar, well worn key….but it’s a golden turn-key.
Because that familiarity, that common ground of praying as a family, WITH her, FOR her but with her, has been a huge, gigantic, encompassing tool for her to find her way to us and us to her.

As prayer should, when it’s at it’s very best, it brings us home.

>The Race Card

Posted on February 15, 2011 by coffeemom

>She did it.
My daughter, she played the race card.
I guess I knew it was coming.
And it’s not like we haven’t had all the usual discussions over the years, comparing skin tones, talking about history and social aspects of racism historically and now, current events etc…
So I was kinda hoping, in my heart of hearts, to get a “bie,” a pass, on this particular, barbed, targeted lob.
Oh foolish me.
Because this is part of, a huge part of, transracial adoption.
Some will argue that it shouldn’t be, that we should be ‘colorblind.’
To which I say, “Baloney.”
You can’t be colorblind if you have a multiracial family.
You shouldn’t be colorblind any way; but you sure better not be if you are raising a family of many hues.
Because if you are a white mom and are raising kids who have skin color that is different: brown, nutmeg, mahogany, ebony, dark, light, pink….whatever…..then you have to deal.

It’s easy to deal with when they are little and adorable and just so darn cute.
But, what’s so easy to ignore is the looming fact that kids grow up, into the people they are meant to be, and if you have a brown skinned baby, that person is going to be a brown skinned teen and adult.
As they should and will.
And then you are going to, not might, not could, but you WILL get to deal with a teen that looks different than you.
Overstated, you think?
Think again.
It might seem like nothing, when that teen is still a baby or toddler and looks different than you.
It might thrillingly radical or like you are making a stand for something, that we are all God’s children and such. Well, yah…….
And might not seem like a big deal since you loooong ago, as a wee one, knit this now teen into your heart and soul and very fiber of your being and she’s just your kid who has a messy room and hates math but makes you laugh with the way she shuffles in to say goodnight.
But this teen is gonna be a teen with teen attitudes and fussing and pushing boundaries and all the usual teen standard issue, expected, and even on some levels necessary, drama.
But this teen, she’s got a little extra ammunition.
And if you don’t know it yet, you will soon enough…but teens, they like to stockpile what they can -ammunition – to lob at you when they are irritated or angry or feel like they are being unjustly asked to do, oh, anything. Like dishes or homework or chores or ________ (insert request here).

Our kids are savvy.
By which I mean, kids these days, are very savvy and tuned in to the culture at large.
I swear they have a usb port somewhere on their person that is a direct connection to the http://www.worldOteendom……that feeds them a constant stream of teen and/or early adult content somehow.
This is to say that, no matter how limited and guarded you think you are about keeping your kids sheltered from the pervasive cultural attitudes that float about, from the net, from tv maybe, from MTV, whatever….some of it does drift in, more than you realize.

This teen, she’s actually a PREteen.
But she knows enough to know she could play the race card, she could give it a try if she’s angry.
So she did.
I asked her to fold her laundry.
I know!
Horrible.
She was so angry that she stomped and shouted at me, “Just because I am black doesn’t make me your slave.”
“What?” I said.
“You heard me,” she said, arms crossed glaring.
“Nice try,” I said. And I should’a then just probably repeated, “So, fold your laundry please now,” and walked away.
But I”m not that good.
So, I said, instead, “Come with me.“
And we went to talk to the cool headed Dad, who never really gets his buttons pushed by the girls (the boys did that, not so much the girls…you can see the fun we have ahead with four teen girls at home now, but I digress).

I made her repeat her declaration; mumbled this time.
He gazed at her and said, “Nice try.”
Then he said, calmly and well, “You are our daughter. Ever. Period. You are the daughter I walked the floors with when you were swaddled. You are the daughter we have kissed and fed and tickled and hauled to sports and schools and kissed your booboos and wiped your tears. You are the daughter who is part of the team of this family and who has responsibilities because you are old enough to have them, along with the privileges that go along with that too. You have brown skin and I have white skin and God gave you to us as our daughter, and us to you as parents.”
Now, please go fold your laundry.”

And so she did.
The race card.
Prepare for it.
It’s gonna happen.
This won’t be the last time, I’m quite sure.
Maybe it shouldn’t even be, maybe I shouldn’t wish for it to be the last time.
I write this post not to show that we did any good job with this fired lob.
I’m sure we could’a should’a handled it better and/or differently.
I write this post because so many families now have adopted transracially, and so many of those families still have only smalls.
It’s easy to forget or dismiss the reality that you are charged with raising every child to adulthood, not just into kindergarden and we are charged with teaching them how to navigate this world as a person of color.
And it’s not a nothing.
The world is not colorblind.
Not only should we as parents not be so, but we need to remember, always, that our kids are not either.

>Imitating Life….

Posted on December 28, 2010 by coffeemom

So, maybe I don’t snarl at the kids…ok, at least not on a good day {and we just don’t talk about those bad days do we?}…but still. Made me laugh out loud, needed today, so thank you Booboo! So goes the Christmas vacation…
**disclaimer: I have never watched this show and probably won’t. So this is not an endorsement of it. But this clip makes me laugh, it’s my house. Mom mom mom mom gabe gabey gabe gabe me me me me……**

>Behind the curtain….

Posted on December 21, 2010 by coffeemom

Yeah you moms know what I’m talking about…
It’s really really great to act like and try to make the world, or at least your own little family unit, think that you are the “great and powerful Oz.” Right? Right.
And much of the time we can fake it. Or we can fool ourselves into thinking that we are making or faking it. And when we are really “on” we make it look effortless. {Insert maniacal laugh here.}
Sometimes we’ll even have other folks say to us, “Oh but you are so pulled together!” Yeah. That’s it.
But then, now and then, you run into those times when everyone gets to see behind the curtain. And the truth is revealed. Not only are you not the “great and all powerful Oz Mom” but you are pedaling and pushing the levers as fast as you can, sweating even!

Yup. Mom fail. It happens, to the best of us.
Some of us however have more opportunities to fail…yeah, you moms, you still know what I’m talking about. I believe that the number of kids you have is a direct correlation to the number of fail opportunities that will present. Well, that’s my story and I’m sticking to it. So, follow me here: if you think about it….with my eight kids (and I get extra chance points for having some with particular needs…) I have, um, let’s see…approximately 11,000 chances per week.

And, today I got another. I got the Christmas version, oh boy oh boy.
You see, most of my kids got out of school last Friday on the 17th. One of my daughters is at a different school and had a few days left in class this week. Three. Or so I thought. So she said. So I thought the website said. And don’t get all snippy and ask why I didn’t get the schedule handouts. Because I didn’t get the schedule handouts. I don’t even know if they had schedule handouts. Because this daughter doesn’t let me get to her backpack and go through her papers often, it becomes a battle and therefore I choose not to. But I digress. Anyhow, so even this morning, she traipsed off to school and as she got on the bus she I said, “2:30 pickup?” and she said, “Yup.”

Off she went. Back in the house I went. Then I went off to the market and flipped the laundry and checked in with the other kids and so on. As soon as I made it in to start wrapping her teacher gifts, my cell rang. It was her school. It was her principle. Uh oh? So, I picked it up and her very nice principle, we’ll call her Ms. Principle, said, “Is anyone coming to get Sarah today?” “Wha??,” was my eloquent reply, “Aren’t they done at 2:30?” Genius, right? “No,” says kind and long suffering Ms. Principle, “they are out at 10:30 this morning.” “Is today the last day of school,” I say in my flash of numbingly stupid insight, “I thought it was tomorrow! Oh no! I have her teacher gifts right here. Ok, Ok, I’m on my way.” “Are you far?” asks Ms. Principle because now it’s after 11 and she wants to go home. “No, at home, on my way now!”
Sigh.
And I threw the yummy teacher treats in gift bags and taped their cards to the front so fast it was like a cartoon. And I grabbed my purse and coat and box of gift bags and keys and went outside to find that my son had taken my car. And I went back inside to dig through the drawers to find the truck key. And I found it and raced up to the street and threw the box and purse and self in and took off to school. Clock ticking, I knew the principle and maybe one teacher was waiting patiently as my sweet daughter sat in the office, last kid at school, waiting for her slacker mom to come pick her up.
I screeched to a stop in front of the school in the almost empty parking lot, grabbed my keys and box of gift bags and raced inside the now empty school building. Two of the teachers were still there, plus Sarah’s and the principle. They were all ready to go. Oh dear. Bad mom. I crashed into the office, and smiled crookedly at Sarah, and said, “I am SO sorry! This is why God gives babies to YOUNG women (line stolen from best friend’s dear mom, thank you Jean!) !” Now they were all sweet and kind and made nice polite small talk, so as not to embarrass me further.
But, they knew.
Mom fail.
Christmas edition.
Bah…..

See that mom behind the curtain??? She’s working those pedals and levers and buttons as fast as she can….but sometimes the whole contraption clanks to a heap.
Maybe I need me some ruby slippers….

>Hey Booboo! It’s your Birthday!

Posted on December 10, 2010 by coffeemom

It’s my Jon’s Birthday today!!!!

He is 19!

See that cute little guy standing with me in the London underground, above? That sweet little boy is now a big strapping college boy, standing well over me in height and strength and size.
Because he’s 19 now.
Wow. I could say “wow” nineteen times, and I’d still not be done saying it.
But that he is: 19.
My Booboo.

Gone are the days of the goofy skateboard cakes and homemade rockets (well, mostly, anyhow…).

Now we have the days of college classes and games and girlfriend; visits home and dreams of future.

It’s his first birthday away from home, which is making me miss him quite a lot. But today, on his 19th bday, I want to point out some things about my Booboo. Because, it’s his bday and I wish he was here and it’s what I do, to make him smile and squirm a little bit too, just like old times!

So, here’s what I know about my dear Jon:

He is a loyal steadfast son, brother, friend, first, foremost always.
I love that about him.

He has a huge generous kind heart; only rarely (now that he’s 19) enclosed or limited by modern teen pastimes.
Though he still will leap at any chance to jam with music buddies and play late into the night…
…or to try out a big adventure or thrill seeking opportunity.
He is athletic and, again, a daredevil, which used to make this mom a little nervous and by this time, now has me mostly resigned to it.
Despite his love for snowboarding, he kinda hates the cold.

He loves home but also loves to travel the world, unless it’s cold, and has done a fair bit of it, more than me!

He always has, and probably always will, have plans to do big things, make his way, on his own.
To say he is independent is an understatement.

That is one of this strengths, even when it makes us all crazy.
I am absolutely certain that he will reach his goals, no matter how big…

because he has the drive, determination, work ethic, faith and ability to do it.
No matter what.

Despite that determination, he can be melancholy and philosophical.
Which is also a strength,
and one which will have staying power over the long run.
Because his heart is big, and that very melancholy is a yearning that will call him to great things.
He just doesn’t know it yet….
But I see it.
I know it.

He is a dreamer.
He is an eater.
Especially of sandwiches.
Of those, he is a connoisseur!
They are, perhaps, his favorite thing to eat of all.
Unless possibly it is my homemade bread…but it’s a close close race.

He is enjoying the freedom of college to try out new things:
facial hair,
no uniform restrictions,
or haircut or laundry guidelines.
Even so, he still cleans up nicely when he puts his mind to it,
which is ~~a great relief~~ always a lovely thing!

He is a sleeper, extraordinaire!
My best sleeper of all the kids, as a matter of fact.
He won that crown when he slept through the night at four weeks old.
He is still sleeping every chance he gets.
This ability might be put to good use, depending on his career path.
But let’s just say, he gets this from his father.

He is funny.
Laugh out loud funny.
He can make me laugh so hard I cry; he does this on purpose.
I miss his quick dry humor when he’s at school.
He is a joker though too.

He and his father together, dreaming up ideas, is maybe not the best of combo’s…
they get a little wild eyed and start grinning and then you know..
uh-oh…watch out…crazy ideas ahead.
But oh, they have fun.

He is a loyal friend, long lasting.
His friends are not made in an instant, but they are well chosen.

They mean the world to him.
As does, I believe, his family…
even his sibs…

because he believes in the value of family…
even when it makes him nuts.
And we do.

He is talented:
creative, as a problem solver, a tinkerer, as well as with music.
He writes and produces music that can make me cry,
or make me wonder where does that come from?

He is thinking of paths:
Medicine?
Business?
Music?
Somehow, all three?
It’s anyone’s guess….
But…
He is able.
He is one that is able to get along, get there, make it work, work it out.
Those may sound like vague and odd things to mark…
but as a mom, they are key.
They provide me with comfort, knowing he can be ok.
Better, knowing he can thrive.

Even so, no matter how able..
he lives mostly at college now.

And I miss him.
We miss him.
I am sending him his requested cake.
I will make him another for a post-finals bday party at home.
Where we will finally celebrate this boy’s bday properly, this young man’s bday..
he is 19 now.
A young man.
And one of the finest I know.

Happy Happy Bday Booboo.

No matter how old, I reserve the right to call you that.

No one else has it.

But I do.

We are so proud of you on this, your 19th bday.

We love you so.

>The Boys are Back in Town!

Posted on November 23, 2010 by coffeemom

Well, almost…

Tonight, if all goes as planned.
Read that again, my boys are coming home from college tonight!
I’m so excited. I am, I am just pleased as punch that they are coming home tonight (No, that phrasing doesn’t date me at all….jeepers!).

They are driving home together after classes tonight, hopefully the weather will clear and they will get in safe and sound. Most of the kids will be asleep I think. I might be too. But I will wake up, and hustle downstairs and hug them tight, grinning and maybe blinking back a tear or two. How do I know? Because just typing that they are coming home makes me blink back a tear or two (It’s been a tough week or so, I’m just so pleased to get all my kiddos, my big guys, back in the house altogether).

So, I am prepping the house for thanksgiving. I’m giving myself permission to kick Martha Stewart and her looming pressure ghost of insane perfectionism right OUT of my house and instead focusing on making this a calm happy peaceful thanksgiving, big family style. The first part of that is a little quiet time this morning to set up the dining room and the boys room, maybe make a little something good for them to eat when they arrive.

Because my boys are coming home!
And I am counting my blessings.

>New Monday: Pre-K

Posted on November 15, 2010 by coffeemom

So.
My Gabey went to Pre-K today.
I can hardly believe it.
No, really….
I hadn’t planned, last summer, to send him yet.
And I’ve never been a huge “gotta go” kinda gal with pre-k programs.
And last August, when school began, he wasn’t ready for anything other than time home, with me.
So that is what we did.
It was great.

But lately, that time has morphed into a strange “at loose ends” time with him.
Not for me. I rarely have time with loose ends….or, more precisely, I’m busy sweeping up and tying up those loose ends all day every day.
No, what I’m talking about is my Gabey. He ended up….at loose ends.
He went from being content with me, following me around, helping me, hanging out with me, learning colors with me…to spending the bulk of his day wishing for something he couldn’t get. Asking for it.
As soon as we dropped off the kids at school, he began: “Can I watch tv?” No. “Is it lunch?” No. “Can I have a cookie?” No. and, the most frequent question of all…asked countless times a day, “Is it time to go pick up the kids?” Um, no, sorry honey.

Now before I get flamed, I did all the enrichment stuff. We worked on colors and shapes and went for walks and talked about birds and looked at acorns and read books.
I can do the mom thing, I can. I did.
But my other “mom thing” also means dragging him along on many many doc appointments for the other six kiddos who are still at home {dentist, orthodontist, therapists, dermos….and so on, just do the count, it adds up and keeps me driving…}. Not exactly enriching stuff. So – he’s been restless. My gut told me, it’s time. That and his electric radar for any other kids around when we are out and about on errands; his racing them in the vet’s waiting room, waving at every kid in the market, striking up kiddie convo’s at the orthodontist. It started to be clear that he was ready for a wider social life than me.

So, last week we visited our school’s pre-k program. It’s excellent; the best in our county, with an wonderful teacher I’ve long admired. (No, she doesn’t read the blog, I can’t score points here, shame on you…however, she IS the best pre-k teacher in our area, hands down, fantastic! No way is that a shameless plug….really…).
He was a little nervous to start his visit day. It helped that his big brother and best friend on the planet was across the hall (like…close: you could shoot a rubber band over if you were inclined…not that my boys would think of that, ahem, because that would get a yellow card…).

He was paired with a nice little boy buddy to show him the pre-k ropes for that visit day. I was nervous. I hung out in the library, being mostly useless during the quiet morning of book fair. After his day was done, he pitched a huge out-of-character fit in the office. I was sure he was tired, overwhelmed. But as we got in the car to head home, I learned otherwise: he was bent, just ticked off. He wanted to stay. He wanted to stay in school and not go home yet. Oh! He calmed and told me again and again about the class, the kids, the rug, the reading, the parade (lining up), the tools (toy tools), the girl (curly hair, quite the talker). He asked to go tomorrow. That has been his new question, usurping the others: “Am I going to school now?” Meaning, whenever we get in the car, regardless of time of day. He asked me, relentlessly, “Can I go to school” after his visit.

So, yes, my Gabey, you can go to school.

And so today he did.
And, yes, I had to blink back the tears when I kissed him goodbye and told him I’d be back later.

It’s my first time in the house, alone on a school day, for over eight years. Read that again: eight years…gosh maybe longer, I’d have to really sit down and chart it out to know precisely. I hardly know what to do with myself. So, I’m procrastinating a bit. I’m gonna start by cleaning…..And, on a make me smile and breath easy note, the school JUST called and said “He is having an awesome day and smiling and happy.” I love this school. For just this reason, they call the kinda nervous moms to let them know their littles are doing great. Nice.

Eight years, and it’s a new Monday.
It’s good. It’s weird. But it’s good.

>When your boy comes home.

Posted on October 19, 2010 by coffeemom

>It’s a happy week.….and I’m a happy mom.
because my boy is home from college, for the week only, but I’ll take it.

Here is what you remember when one of your son’s come home again, these things that so easily you forget in the hustle and crazy of everyday life:

That it feels so good to hug him, to feel him solid and sure and there; instead of crackling over a dropping cell phone connection or a glitchy skype feed.

That you never do expect to feel that blink of tears,
or that gasp of recognition, “There he is!”
just because he’s walked into your kitchen with a big eager grin.
That that big grin and quick step to hug you means everything.

That he looks good – that he’s growing up even as you can see the small changes now, in your kitchen, but that it is settling on him well.

That you really think its a great dance to see the hubub of siblings all talking at the same time and twisting around each other to get plates and milk and it doesn’t matter that it’s late and the kitchen is getting messy again and the windows are dark and it’s way past bedtime.
That standing around the kitchen counters and between the bags and stalling bedtime is just the best thing to do on a late Sunday night, when a boy comes home again.
That you really really enjoy watching him eat cake and soak in the hubub of his house, again.

That you love to cook for your kids who love to eat.
That is a treat to cook a Halloween supper a week in advance; upon personal request.
That brisket cooking on the stove is a smell of love and happy.
And that homemade chili and cornbread, pumpkin pie and goofy little mini wrapped hotdogs wrapped mean home.

That even bandaging him up, now all big and growing up as a man, is still a privilege and a way to be a hands on mom {and he is kind enough to ask me to do it}.
That bandaging up his elbow will make me think of all the reckless hurts he’s had, that I’ve bandaged, on this daredevil boy and maybe make me blink hard for a minute.
That making the house a home for this week is important and it’s not only for this boy, on his return…..
But it’s important for the family.
It’s important for his brothers and sisters to see that welcome and that soaking right back into the family.
It’s for me.
It’s where the joy is…in the small things…the things that matter in that quiet sink in sort of way.

So today I remember the beauty in the red pot simmering on the stove,
in the bowl of apples,
in the bandages,
and in the folding of clean shirts.
And I see it fresh, for a moment, in the heart of this home, his home, that he returns to with a grin and a sigh and a “It’s really really good to be home.”

Yeah. It is.

>Not the fun one.

Posted on October 16, 2010 by coffeemom

>By which I mean: me.
I am not the fun one.
That would be Coffeedoc, Dad, Tom.
He is the fun one.

He is the one who travels the world and gets twitchy when he’s been home for more than a few weeks.
He is the one who drives fast, be it boat or car.
He is the one who takes the kids tubing and tries to dunk them with donut circles in the chop of the wake.

He is the one who makes silly voices and tells silly stories during dinner.
He is the one who makes gross out jokes during dinner.
He is the one who will buckle and snap endless coats and ski boots to get the kids on the mountain.
He is the one who will take them to Monkey Joe’s so they can run and slide and shriek to their heart’s content.
He is the one who will jump out of a plane, or hike up the hilltop to see what is there.

I am the one who could stay home forever.
I am the one who savors the different light of the seasons.
I am the one who stays off the lake while they flip off the tube, to make dinner after they come home wet and cold and laughing.
I am the one who stays with the baby while they see the Imax movie, ostensibly because it’s too much for the baby…but really because the swooping bigger than life high definition 3D makes me queasy. It’s too much for me.
I am the one who plays bananagrams and counts it as big fun.
I am the one who makes yogurt in a slow cooker, for pete’s sake!

He is the fun one.
He is the fast one.
I am the slow one.
I am the one that holds to bedtimes and routines.

{football at ND, last year}

This weekend, all the girls are with dad at Notre Dame.
They have gone up to see their brothers and a game.

My boys, yesterday on campus.

They will get to bed late, and eat way too much junk food.
They will yell at the pep rally and shout over the band.
They will see the drumline way way after bedtime, staying up until far into the night.
They will roll their eyes at his silliness and bad jokes.
They will alternately giggle and fume over his benign neglect of their girly natures.

{football game last year, ND}

I will fret that the change in routine will throw a few of them off kilter.
I will fret that the lack of sleep will be a catalyst for meltdown by multiple girls.
I will worry about them coming back rather undone, frazzled and unable to recalibrate into the instant return to daily life and requirements.
I will wonder if medicine was taken and how the moods are swinging.
I will brace myself for the impending meltdowns upon re-entry.
I will see the texts to me, complaining and fussing, and deflect them with “be nice, have fun.”

But, because after twenty-one years of being a mom, I am learning…..
that they will survive this weekend away without my ‘stick in the mud’ tending,
that they might even build new memories that will make them laugh til they cry….someday,
that they can live off of some junk food and be happy for my cooking when they get home,
that they can learn to be cranky and out of sorts and still survive,
that getting to bed crazy late is not the end of the world,
that Dad is not Mom.
And that he is the fun one.
And that there is time for that too.
And that their world is better for it.

I am not the fun one.
I am glad that he is.

>Little Big Love…

Posted on October 1, 2010 by coffeemom

>It’s the feast of the Little Flower: St. Therese of Liseaux!

Which means it’s also my Marti’s feast day: Marta Therese (get the connection?).

St Therese is one of the fav’s at our house, you all know that. I’ve written about her many times, and posted multiple novenas to her here on blog. But whether you want to talk about her being a Doctor of the Church; known for her solid writing/teaching and doctrinal insight, or whether you want to talk about her humble “Little Way”……St Therese is about Love.

And wadda ya know…so is our Faith. So is God. So, should be, myself.

And I kinda always thought we added “Therese” to our Marta’s name because we prayed novena’s to this saint on Marta’s behalf. We hit St. Therese up for many prayers to bring our girl home and get her healthy. St. Therese had TB too. St. Therese wasn’t highly regarded among the other nuns in her convent. She was thought to be slow or dim, she was often overlooked, she was young, she was small. She was one of God’s “little ones.”
And so is our Marta, to be sure…one of God’s “little ones.”
If I know anything, I know that.

But really….
I am learning, every single blooming day, that I think we were compelled to add “Therese” to Marta’s name also because this saint teaches us how to love.
In the little things.
Which of course, means that they are the very biggest things.
Because this saint struggled all her life to die to her self and her pride and her desires so she could love Jesus better.

And she ultimately was given the grace of real understanding of the biggest simplest secret: that the Love was waiting for her. She didn’t have to scale great heights, or go on far missions, or accomplish amazing feats to prove her love. All she had to do was lift up her arms(heart) and open herself to Love. And, um, do it. Love. Love in the little things. Every day. The next thing, right in front of her. Do the chore before her without complaint. Smile at the irritating Sister and bite her tongue. Not correct the error of someone being catty, but let it roll off her back.
It wasn’t easy for her, she didn’t possess any “saintly” or superhuman patience:

“I understood how easy it is to become all wrapped up on self, forgetting entirely the sublime goal of one’s calling.“

Rather she figured out that:

“…perfection consists in doing God’s will, in being what he wills us to be.”

and

“We can do no good when we seek our self.”

Or, in other terms, to be us, and to love.
Period.

And yeah, it sounds so simple. Like stupid simple, right?
Well, yup, it does. So why do I fail and kick and fuss and gripe against it every blooming day?
Because it’s the hardest most profound thing we can do, any day, any moment.
And yet, also the most sublime and simplest.

To bring this ramble back around…and so it is with my Marta Therese.
She too, teaches me how to love. Really.
Really love.
Because it can be so hard with her. Because she is small and suffers the after-effects of the TB that ravaged her. Because it’s still sometimes strange and it’s still often hard and it’s sometimes ridiculously complicated. Because I am slow and am ridiculously complicated and strange. Because she has delays and it makes things very slow and often limited.
But oh, I know, she is aptly named.
She is one of the small ones.
And she loves, to the best of her ability.
And I am called to love her.
And sometimes that is simply an act of will.
And sometimes it is with a tired fuss.
And sometimes it is with a stabbing intake of breath, glimpsing her for a moment as God does.
He sent me one of his special ones, to give me remedial lessons.
Because I too am slow.
And need so much to learn to truly really love.
The little way.
It’s so big.

So today we celebrate, I am thinking upon, St. Therese of Liseaux, and her intentions:

“I ask Jesus to draw me into the flames of his love, to unite me so closely to him that he live and act in me.”

And I am asking her for her prayers, for our Marti Therese, my family, and for me.
So that I can lift up my arms and heart, and love better, more truly, all those littles ones given to me…..eight of them.

See, remedial lessons, lifelong….me.
Doh.
And so I can say, “Thank you, here I am Love, lift me up.”

>And today a man, my son…

Posted on September 28, 2010 by coffeemom

Today is my first born son’s birthday.

It is one of the biggies: his 21st birthday.

Wow, yah, already!

And I know, I know, how did that happen already??

Where did the time go, blah de blah..the usual.

But, really….

OH MY GOSH! HOW DID THAT HAPPEN? WHERE DID THE TIME GO??

My baby is 21.

Which means of course this is the landmark bday for being legal to drink….yah yah…

He already has a cultivated fondness for Italian Reds, preferably quaffed in Italy, and for German beer, preferably quaffed in Germany. Or Austria. Or Polish beer in Poland…you get the idea.

Not sure what he’ll do in South Bend tonight…..South Bend brew?? Hmmmm.

Somehow I think he will find some fun….

But my BABY is 21.

Already.

And he is a fine, fine young man.

But you probably already know that….or know that I’m partial there, at any rate.

But because he IS twenty-one…I simply can’t let the day slide by without a list.

You know it had to happen, because this is my blog and I love bday lists.

So, without further ado…..

Twenty-one things about my Chris, my Buddybug, on his twenty-first birthday:

1. He is a senior at Notre Dame and loves it.

2. He is a rabid sports fan; ESPN perhaps his favorite channel.

3. His personal fav game is basketball, followed perhaps by ping pong; but his viewing favs are all over the map.

4. Except for NASCAR. Happily, never, never did he or will he like NASCAR.

5. He is a musician; he has an ear and hands and a voice for music, gifted to him…plain and simple.

6. He likes all kinds of music, except maybe not so much country or heavy metal…for which I as his mom am forever grateful.

7. He is a genial chap.

8. He is a true friend, to so many, and he means it…once you’re his friend, that’s it. Done deal.

9. He is a lightening fast Bananagrams player, able to create word combos at a maddeningly fast clip…..house champion – much to my chagrin. (And tho I put that up as a bday present of sorts….I can still whup him from time to time, and he knows it. It’s good, it keeps him humble.)

10. He is very even keeled, patient, and calm..which is probably the armor God equipped him with in order to grow up w/ me as his mom and this tribe around him.

11. He loves his faith; it truly deeply and really means very much to him, and for that he inspires me.

12. He loves to travel, has done so all over the world, and will surely continue….just like his dad.

13. Even so, he loves to come home too and is content to hang out with his mom, read, and play volleyball in the pool with his sibs.

14. He is not materialistic….at all. He doesn’t have cravings for many things.

15. He is very very difficult to buy a bday present…see number 14.

16. He does however, and always has, like a good watch (exception to number 14…and good, not necessarily expensive, just “good” simple function.).

17. Even as a small boy he was fixated on time, to the point of our exhaustion at his referencing the time, ever so precisely, ALL the time, but particularly as you were running late to school….See number 16.

18. He is often late, despite number 17, and thus, number 19.

19. He is a procrastinator….at odds with number 17, or perhaps because of it (?).

20. He loves my cooking, especially my cakes and pie; which makes me ridiculously happy.

21. He has grown into an exceptional young man, a fine son, brother, friend….and we all love him beyond speaking.

Happy Happy 21st Birthday my Christopher.

You have grown into a fine young man.

I so very proud of you and love you so on this landmark birthday…..

We all miss you so much and I am sending you virtual hugs and kisses and birthday wishes today…

Eat some cake!

>Fall? Really? What’s for supper?

Posted on September 24, 2010 by coffeemom

>I have less time to blog and surf nowadays (the net….cmon…)…
But every now and then I need some inspiration for the relentless question in this house:

“What’s for dinner?”

So, I pass by my many cookbooks and go to the uber hip and happening ‘net to find some cutting edge inspiration, especially on Fridays (which in this house, are usually meatless).

And so, this is just to kind of note that right now, all over the web, we’ve got all those lovely cozy inspiring “fall” stews and ragus and braises and whatnot.
Lovely.

Except for that it is STILL in the mid to high 90’s here and if I could skip cooking entirely until it dips into the 70’s or, even better, the 60’s…well, I would.
My garden is long dead from neglect in the searing heat…
My inspiration to make healthy summer type fare was left in Italy for the most part….

And I’m whining a bit today I guess because I need to figure out a no meat simple easy quick simply tasty simple (did I mention I got very little sleep last night due to a wakeful fussy Gabey and a croupy Em?) supper for dinner tonight.
Not the soup’s I love so much, because it’s not autumn yet here, despite what the calendar says and what the web is cooking…too hot for soups.

Nope….I need some ideas.
So, if anybody is out there…..take pity.
It’s still smothering hot here.
But a mom has to make something easy and kid crowd pleasing and meat free and easy for supper.
And it’s NOT autumn yet…it’s kinda summer, kinda not….and my creative brain is sizzled with the heat….

Little help?
What’s cooking, meatless and easy, at your house?

>Going, going….

Posted on August 19, 2010 by coffeemom

>Going.
We are going.
We are going tomorrow to take my son to college.

He is going.
He is, in many but not all ways, moving out.
Why yes, tear did just spring to my eyes, just typing that, thank you for noticing.

(this is eldest, one of those goodbye’s that we’ve done many times..)

And I kept and keep thinking that since this is boy number two, meaning second time, that we’ve done this…it should somehow be easier.
But it’s not.
Not at all.
But, he’s ready.

He’s excited to go and we are excited for him and the big adventures he has ahead.
His dad and I think he is gonna fly, soar and maybe set the world on fire.

We are not quite ready for the house to be so quiet, ok, not that it will actually quiet…but there is a difference, a tangible physical difference of presence or lack thereof in the house when the college kid(s) are in school.
We are not quite ready for most of our talks to be on the phone or the occasional skype.
I am not quite ready to not see him for a long time.
So, I’m not gonna think about that.
And I’m not gonna think about how coffeedoc kind of grieves after the boy(s) go.
But he does.
But life is awfully busy happening in our house too, so we will focus on that.

Today we prep for the long hot drive tomorrow.
We pack up my big old car.
We do a last load or two of laundry.
We change the oil and fill the tank.
Tonight we have a double party: going away and pre-bday party for tom.
And then I have to watch him hug his sibs goodbye and try very very hard not to break down and cry in front of them.
Because tomorrow we are going.

Tomorrow he is going, going….going to take on the world.
And we will laugh cry and cheer him on, the whole way.

>Sibling Rivalry: Snips snails puppy dog tails….

Posted on August 13, 2010 by coffeemom

>So, we are having an intense go-round with sibling rivalry in our house…again.

Every time we bring home a new child, we have a new mini wave of sibling rivalry. {Don’t get all in a tizzy…wait for it.}
I mean, textbook stuff, right? Happens EVERY time.

The first time when we brought home my Booboo/Jon, two year old Chris watched him for a few days and then emphatically declared that he “should sleep in the trashcan.”

When Hannah Banana came home on Halloween, it was a matter of days before the boys would run through the house, fingers in their ears as they rushed for cover for her decibals shouting, “Make her stop, Mom!” (One word: colic.)

Then the two little girls came home, within two weeks of each other, and we went from three to five almost overnight. Hannah would try to push the two babes out of my lap and crawl in and the boys just took refuge in another room.

Anthony came home at three months old, and the sibling rivalry seemed less intense….he was an adorable three months old cutie with a naturally sunny disposition.

But then he became mobile.
The little girls have been squalling and fussing at him ever since and he has learned that it is the purest of sport to tease.

Gabey came home, this time Anthony had to sort out what he thought about this new little one. On the one hand – he already was really good at wrestling and was an instant bosom buddy. On the other hand, gosh, my lap (Tonio’s turf, in his mind) had gotten quite too crowded.

Then came Marta, the girls were (and still are at times) jealous of the time she takes demands needs from mom and dad, the boys are all just jealous of the same: time and attention – and with this new sib there is no getting around the needs or the jealousy in all directions (her too), it just bubbles up for them all at different times.

And now, we have Abby.
Yup. But this time, the sibling rivalry is a pup.
Yup. Pup.

And the rival is Gabey.
I suppose it’s his turn.

I didn’t expect it though, not only because well, he’s my CHILD and the puppy is a erm, DOG…..
but rather, because Gabey is my dog whisperer, cat whisperer. He’s my most intuitive animal kid, by a long shot. He is the only kid who can pick up my cat. Ok, he still picks her up like a sack of potatoes, but even so, she LETS him. I’m the only other one who can pick her up (Outside cat, not wild but not as cuddly as the posters.) He bonds with our old Golden, resting draped over her as she rests, whispering secrets to her.

So, stupidly (I know, what was I thinking?), I thought he would carry that intuitive radar to a new dog.
Hmmm. Maybe, maybe he would have if it was a new DOG.
But this is a puppy.

Which means a new baby in the house.

And Gabey-baby…he is jealous. Capital J. Green eyed jealous.
Enchanted with the pup? Yup.

But also, so jealous of the cooing and ooing and “Oh cute!” that comes with a cute doofy little puppy.
So, while he wants to play and pet and touch and coo at the puppy, he kinda also wants to smash it and wrassle and teach this pup “who’s got game. “
He is like a Gabey Godzilla to this tiny pup.

So I have to protect them both from each other.

Sibling rivalry.

I have to teach them both, once again (haven’t I done this a hundred times?), that there is enough love and time and attention in this big ol’ family for each member…no matter how furry, ill mannered, cute, housebroken, or not. Here we go again…..

{h/t to Jean who pegged it first}

>Take down

Posted on August 5, 2010 by coffeemom

>The locs, I mean.

Yup, after years, like four, we are taking down Sarah’s locs.
It’s a bittersweet transition.
It’s been long pondered discussed contemplated researched stewed over.
By both of us.
But, Sarah has wanted her locs out for more than a year…..even though some days she wanted to maybe keep them too, as they were getting long enough to pull up and that was fun.
So the idea of going back to her natural hair (not that locs are not natural, of course they totally are, but her non-locked hair) has been pulling at her but the idea of having to go back to a teeny weeny afro has not been so appealing.
Because going from locs to non-locs is a drastic change, and often requires just cutting them off.
That’s the easiest quickest way, to be sure.
Now, Sarah’s hair grows like wildfire, and she has a LOT of hair.
But even so, no eleven year old girl really wants a teeny weeny afro.
So we researched and consulted, talked and thought about it all, for a really long time.

Now, locs are a commitment.
All the way around.
A commitment to put them in, grow them, care for them, and a commitment to take them down.
It is a big decision; not like we can just change our minds if we don’t like it after all. Thus the hesitation. Also, we originally went with locs because some med she was on made her fragile hair extra triple fragile and locs were the strongest hairstyle we knew. And they were.
I think she looks great in them!
But an eleven year old girl doesn’t want to look and feel so different. And it’s easy to say, “just teach her to be strong, how unique and special she is!” Yeah. I know. We do, we are. But even so, sometimes it’s nice to just be normal too. Especially when you’re eleven. Sarah already goes to a school that is different than her sister, because of some learning needs. If she wants to blend a bit more, finally, to sport a hairstyle that is less radical…I think it’s her call. It’s her hair. Ultimately, it’s just hair. (Now, don’t flame me, I know the politics of hair, I really do, but really, it’s HER hair, and I’d like it be just “just” hair for once for her if she wants that).

Sarah gets to have her hair, her choice, now and as she grows. She’s entitled. Period.

Yesterday, after going to school to meet her new teacher and see her new classroom (We are both very excited, love the new teacher, it’s gonna be a good year, starts tomorrow!)…..Sarah said, “Could we try taking down a loc or two and see if that would work, not cutting?”
I said, “Sure.“

So, we did.
And it worked.
Ok, it’s not easy, it’s laborious, and time consuming and you have to go slow and be gentle and extra patient.
It makes your fingers cramp after awhile.
It makes her backside sore after sitting awhile.
We take breaks.
Emmy is helping because she is a good egg and likes doing hair too, so we are taking turns.

After researching how others have done it, and some trial and error, this is how we do it:
We turn on the tv (critical…).
We get the tools, here (simple).

We soak a lock or two in this concoction (conditioner, water, olive oil).
And then, we pick out the lock, slowly, from the bottom up, with this comb/pick – combing the free hair as we go. Now and then we have to snip the very bottom tip of the loc off to get the untangling going, but then, it’s just the job.
We are managing to keep a good bit of the length; though without the loc itself holding the length out, it pulls up when dry of course.

We will give her whole head a good DEEP condition once we are all done.
It’s gonna take a few days, though we are kinda hoping for a marathon today (including the good start of yesterday) because it would be wonderful to be done in time for school tomorrow.
We will see.

A new school year.
A new grade, a new start…new hairdo. Fun!
Make no mistake: no matter what hair, she is still and always will be my beautiful girl.

>Suddenly: Last Summer

Posted on July 15, 2010 by coffeemom

>We are here.
The last real summer.
And it’s a doozy.

I am talking about this last summer with my Booboo, my Jon (I can still call him that, mom privilege).
He is a graduate now, all 18 and big and prepping to head off to college.
And while you might think, “Oh, there she goes again, being all maudlin and melodramatic,” and you would be right to a degree………
This summer is different.
It is rare and precious.

And, kinda excruciating.
And, kinda exhilarating.

Yes, he will be home again, on breaks and next summer too. But it will be forever different, changed in tone, tempo, tenor. Some of those changes are great steps forward, and important, necessary and even welcomed by us all. But even so, change is hard, and even when he comes home for extended weeks in the summer it will be different. It’s irrevocable. That’s part of the process. I know it. He knows it. We all know it, and can feel it pressing on the edges.
It’s there, rushing toward us – too too fast.
But also, on those hard angry fussy hurting days, in it’s own way it’s too slow.
Especially too slow for my son, who is simply twitching right out of his skin to break loose and head off into his own life.
But, maybe, just maybe some days, also a little tiny bit too fast for my son…who loves summer and needs a bit of time to prepare himself for this big change….then again, that might just be ME. (Oh, right.)

He needs us still, and will.
But he doesn’t, and shouldn’t as much, also.
Besides, there is work to be done; work that IS being done.
It is important work, but oh, it is the hardest work there is.

(Yup, I look just like that, feather-version…..yup yup…ahem.

Maybe some of those hard days tho, we both do.)

Separation.

The unconscious prep to start into a new life, and the classic process of parting those ties a bit: it’s textbook. But, often the process finds itself played out in the short fuses and loud or hard arguments over often stupid things or stupid misinterpretations.
My husband asks me, “Why do you let him push your buttons? Just shrug and hold the line.” But it’s not so easy for me.
One, because I stink at doing that. I am like one of those phones for toddlers or elderly where the buttons are enormous, to aid in their ease of pushing. That’s me, easy buttons to push all over. Especially here, I guess. Tom/Coffeedoc’s right, of course.
Two, because often it’s me pushing my son’s buttons to a degree, having expectations that might not be utterly fair. (Ok, I’m just saying, it took a lot to admit that…..ouch).
This work is being done mostly by Jon and me, the family and dad too a little, but the hard work…it’s the two of us.
We have to ease out of this tightly knit together life we have into a new stitch of knitting.
A looser stitch, no less strong, but even so, it has to be unraveled a bit to retie it anew.
Not far.
Just a bit, and with a new pattern.
Stronger even.

But right now, those unforeseen, loud or angry and/or frustrated misunderstandings are very hard.

This summer, suddenly, is about time together that is so good that it takes my breath with wonder at this great young kid/man who is smart and funny and good, deeply good.
Then, we both turn around and we are simply aggravating each other and stepping on land mines that blow up in our faces. Ouch.
The swings and shifts are hard.
And that is so typical, it seems…of a mom and her boy, who is heading off to college, out of the house, into the world.

Suddenly…it’s the last summer.

>Anthropol….oh gee!

Posted on June 3, 2010 by coffeemom

Recently, I had the ~~task~~ privilege of chaperoning a school field trip for my Little Man.
Happpily for us all, a little mini-anthropological study evolved out of that sunny day at the zoo.
Who knew? They call anthropological studies “fieldwork,” this is “fieldtrip work.” Read on…

It was a kindergarten class field trip, and in a fit of guilty zeal I signed up as a parent chaperone. Now, I know better. I do. I’m an old hand at the mom world. But I was struck with guilt as I have been swamped with special needs issues and such all year, so I signed up and watched the calendar with ~~dread~~ anticipation.

Upon arrival at the school for the trip, after tanking up with gas for my car and a redeye (Espresso, c’mon people!) for me, we were handed car seats and names of our charges. Anthony’s teacher, “the saint” (otherwise known as Ms. Thompson), assigned me “the good ones,” by which I mean, my Anthony and two of his buddies who are nice little boys. Lucky me! So with a renewed bounce in my step, I strapped them all into the my big ol’ car and followed the chaperone caravan to the zoo.

And so it began.
The day’s renewed primer on six year old boys.
It’s easy to brush off the behavior of one energetic, ok, kinda wild, six year old boy as just a high spirited lad. When you have three of them in your car, giddy with the anticipation of lions, tigers, and bears (oh my!), then you realize, they are something of a species in and of themselves.

I had forgotten just how fixated six year old boys are on “pee” and “poop” and how just the very words can make a boy fall right out of his seat guffawing, belt and all. Or how it’s fun to experiment with how many variants you can find for bodily functions. Or how those bodily functions can be turned into countless jokes, simply by appending them to passing sights. “Look, the clouds are peeing!” Insert maniacal laughter here. Six year old boys don’t need music, or polite chat, they only need a forum for relentless scatological jokes. A moving car with a captive parent and a participatory audience is ideal. Best to make a note of that, moms. Happily, however, the variety and creativity with which they apply this focus speaks well for their imagination and breadth of alert cognitive engagement. Right? Right.

On a cautionary note, I will point out that any field trip mom’s worst nightmare is when one of the assigned children (who you do not know well, or at all) clutches his pants about halfway through a 45 minute freeway only drive to the destination, and says, loudly, with some urgency, “Gee I wish I wasn’t having diarrhea.” Not what a driving mom wants to hear. Happily, with some encouragement, the boy made it to the park, successfully, and was able to make use of their facilities….often. But that is why they have them and thus we field trip moms are happy those facilities are in place. {Note to Nashville Zoo: more facilities in the upper and lower sections of the park would be most helpful rather than the center main facilities. Your main patrons are children. These are little kids we are talking about, their bladders are the size of peanuts.}

But I digress. Taking a small group of boys to the zoo is an opportunity to watch a drag race, up close and personal, but instead of flashy loud cars you have flashy loud boys. And oh, these six year old boys are fast! As soon as we lined up to enter the zoo, they were revving their engines, through the turnstile and they were off!
Zoom, “We wanna see the alligators!” “Ooh, look, cool look at their mouth!“
Zoom! “We wanna see the monkeys!” “I see them up there, what’s next?!“
Zoom! “Let’s go find the tigers!!” “WOW, look at him, what’s next!?” and so on.
By the time the chaperone, myself, caught up with the boys (And really, I have a very fast walking pace, so this was impressive) they were burning rubber of their tennies, racing to the next animal. I think I had time to say a whole sentence one time, “Oh, wow, look at that tiger, how beautiful!” before I was coughing on the clouds of dust kicked up by their run. Thus, we saw the entire zoo in a zippy loud 45 minutes, thus allowing for ample time on the amazing playground and many trips to the restrooms. We even got to see parts all over again, for good measure, after lunch and before our second trip to hang at the playground.

This rapid mode of sightseeing at the zoo may be frowned upon by some. However, it has a certain charm of efficiency and leaves no room for boredom, thus matching the attention spans of most six year old boys. It can be summed up by the term: expedient. Six year old boys are nothing if not expedient. Watching meerkats for more than 30 seconds is not expedient. Waiting for lorikeets to drink out of your cup of liquid gold, also known as sugar syrup, is not expedient. They snooze, they loose, those birds must find another source…. perhaps the middle school girls who just received three sugar syrup cups shoved into her hands as the boys exit, off to race to the next thing.

Finally, it can be surmised from observation that a six year old boy is most content, or rather, utterly overjoyed to spend the bulk of his time at the zoo playing on the large playground. Running, racing, jumping, climbing, laughing, shouting, hooting, growling and roaring in the playground is the fullest expression of the nature of a six year old boy.

One might even decide that the giant zoo playground is the well crafted exhibit and ideal habitat for the underrated species more commonly known as “six year old boy.”

>Pomp and Circumstance

Posted on May 17, 2010 by coffeemom

We had a big weekend around the Coffeehouse.

My boy, my Booboo…Jon…graduated from high school!

Which means we had a weekend of celebration and sniffling up a few happy tears but mostly grinning from ear to ear that he did it, and he did it well! We are so proud of him, happy and excited for him. He is now ready to rocket into a future of big adventures.

Here are the pics. These are from the beautiful (My favorite part of the graduation ceremonies) Baccalaureate Mass, then from Graduation itself (venue change from flooded Opryland to the Belmont Curb Event Center). I’ll save the most of the commentary except to say, it was once again pouring all day on Sunday, (changing the fashion choices and making us all a tad bedraggled) and that this graduation was special, of course. But they are a really great group of kids and this bunch has one of those rare group friendships that is a gift to all. And, last but never least, this boy, my son…he makes my heart burst.

Friday night. Before the Baccalaureate Mass….excited and happy for my son (and he cleans up well!). Marta was giddy over the thrill of her first graduation weekend of hoopla and for her adored big brother.

After, proud happy parents, happy Jon.

After the Baccalaureate Mass, with a few sisters.

Sunday: The real thing, shaking Bishop’s hand and getting the diploma! Hooray!

(thanks Marcie/Fred for the pic, those seats paid off!)

We have a bona fide graduate!

Shaking hands with the Headmaster, Faustin Weber.

First steps out into the world,

girlfriend Leslie and good friend Gabriella.

Jon, with cigar (a nod to tradition/dad), channeling his inner Columbo….

Jon and my goddaughter Olivia, priceless.

>"Acoustic Flood:" Song for a Friday

Posted on May 14, 2010 by coffeemom

>Ok, it’s late, but still worth a listen.

My son Jon, Booboo, wrote and played and recorded this for me for Mother’s Day.

It’s a song: “Acoustic Flood,” but I rather prefer the title, “Mom’s Song.” Just for me. It’s acoustic guitar, one of my favs….and it’s tailored to me, for me, because I fuss at him to play “something nice.” Jon is very creative and loves to spend e~~very waking moment~~ a good bit of time fiddling with his music stuff. Often however he asks me to listen to his latest creation or some music that he and his friends were making and that he recorded. Often that music is, um, LOUD, and ELECTRONIC, or RAP and just too hard for my old stodgy ears, I guess. That’s when I fuss and say, “Good…but, oh, play me something nice.” He usually rolls his eyes and says, “I am!” And around we go, but with a smile.

So for Mother’s Day this year, he did it. Jon played me “something nice.” He made me smile, and he made me start to cry. Because THIS sound is my son, my Booboo, and his playing makes my heart kinda burst.

Have a listen, it’s a treat {h/t to Marc}:

http://www.google.com/reader/ui/3523697345-audio-player.swf?audioUrl=http://media.marcandsuzette.us/misc/acoustic_flood_clean_up.mp3

Another Espresso, Please

Why, yes, I did just have one, thanks…

Category Archives: family life

About Those Beads….

Gleaning Grief

Little Miracles, Can You See Em?

Pure gift

Across the Pond

Applying to the Dominicans of the St. Joseph Province

{Note; the Aspirant time frame was about 6 -8 weeks. Again, these posts are post-dated, if you will. The timing is not, currently, real time. I wrote them earlier and only publish with Chris’ permission}

Grad-o-palooza

Almost Wordless Wednesday

>Turn-Keys in Adoption: Family Dinner

>Gems

>My Baby Bro, Happy Bday!

>Turn-Keys: Prayer

>The Race Card

>Imitating Life….

>Behind the curtain….

>Hey Booboo! It’s your Birthday!

>The Boys are Back in Town!

>New Monday: Pre-K

>When your boy comes home.

>Not the fun one.

>Little Big Love…

>And today a man, my son…

>Fall? Really? What’s for supper?

>Going, going….

>Sibling Rivalry: Snips snails puppy dog tails….

>Take down

>Suddenly: Last Summer

>Anthropol….oh gee!

>Pomp and Circumstance

>"Acoustic Flood:" Song for a Friday

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{Note; the Aspirant time frame was about 6 -8 weeks. Again, these posts are post-dated, if you will. The timing is not, currently, real time. I wrote them earlier and only publish with Chris’ permission}

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