To start the week off right:
My girl. Can’t see her face well enough to suit me, but I still like hearing her sing….
{production note: the girl playing violin is her friend Jacqui Ramos, a very talented musician and nice girl. This was the school talent show at end of March….but it seems that there was a production glitch in the upload and the song plays twice though. So, if you love it, by all means, listen twice; otherwise, it’s only actually 5-ish mins long, not 10, don’t panic}
Soooo, things have been a little slow around the blog, eh?
Yeah, I know. And it’s not because life in the coffeehouse has been slow, though part of me desires to cultivate that intentional slowness. No, no. Rather, life has been way too fast. It’s not even been way too fast due to a pile of graduations or events…no, no. Rather, life has been way too fast and full of the shifting moods and emotions and…wait for it…yes, DRAMA, of having four teen girls in the house.
The Drama-rama has become a blog blockade.
This picture actually sums it up well: a herd of sheep, jostling for position, bleating and scowling, occasionally moving aside in a kind gesture, other times shoving through, leaving a mess behind them. Teen girls. The drama might put me under. Add to the fact the complications of adoption and attachement issues, older child adoption transition issues (yes, still, ever?), special needs, intellectual disability and developmental delays, standard sibling rivalry, pressure cooker schools and just, oh, our modern culture and our desire to swim against the tide to a fair degree (as Catholics)…and well…you’ve got a blockade of drama that it most impressive.
Add to that my own circular thoughts on whether or not I should or shall continue blogging…some days I absolutely want to keep on because I process my swirling thoughts by typing; and some days I think, you know, the blog-o-sphere doesn’t need another whiny mom throwing her opinions up on the net. Go quiet. You’re busy. And then my practical side reminds me that I’m also losing my memory and I’ll never remember these moments or thoughts unless i document them on blog. So, I’m dithering too. Adding to the bleating noisy sheep up in that roadblock.
Lovely aren’t they? But, oh, a handful!
So, this is just a once again too long short post to say, I’m still here. Just kind of slamming busy being mom to four teen girls (and four busy boys to boot)…and it keeps my days and nights in OVERDRIVE. But for now, please bear with me and don’t disappear entirely (though I understand if you do). Because the thing that keeps me tethered here, is, ultimately, the community that I have found on this blog and the many others that I read and cheer onward. That’s the best of it all….but you already know all that….. So for now, I’m not quitting. I’m just on diva delay……..
Happy May! Thank goodness, it’s May! Now, for us Catholics, May is the month of honoring Mary as the Mother of God, indeed, as our mother too. It’s the month for remembering we have a role model and someone who really “gets it.”
As we all should, it’s the month to tell your mom you love her and to just give her a break and treat each other well. So, to that end, we have the annual video put out by the May Feelings folks, drawn from the witness of Pope John Paul II and his encouragement to youth the world over to go out and be a light in this world.
We are all so connected, more than we realize, even with the pervasive reach of social media. We need each other, it’s our greatest gift: connection, caring. Mind your mom:
“Trust me.” Such a simple phrase. We say it all the time. The problem is, it IS said all the time, by all kinds of people. Thus, it becomes meaningless, or worse, a sure marker to do just the opposite.
So, given that, how do you build trust in older child adoption? Well, that right there is the million dollar question. And if I had the short answer and the sure fire key, I’d be a buying a house on the Big Island. But, I don’t. I don’t have any pat answers.
When you adopt an older child, trust is the huge issue. It is the elephant in the room. It is a barrier like the Berlin Wall, some days. I wonder if it is a bigger problem or issue corresponding to the aging up of a child. As we adopted a teen, we find it a big prickly deal; a frequent barrier. Big. So, part of me wonders if the younger a child is at placement, the easier it might be to build trust again? But, I’m sure that’s naive and it’s also a bit of “grass is greener’ thinking, so don’t flame me. I know it must be also dependent upon their prior history and background and trauma and attachment and on and on. But even so, TRUST. It’s the holy grail in so many ways for us adoptive families, isn’t it?
Trust, or the lack of it, is such a barrier. We each tiptoe to the wall of it and peek over the side now and then….sometimes we wave. But it is still there, sharp and solid between us, all too often. She doesn’t trust us. Not yet. At almost three years home, not yet. Oh she trusts that I will have dinner each night and that we will drive her to events and I will get her new socks and wash the dirty ones. But the big stuff, or even new small stuff? No. On the flip side of that coin, I need to trust her, fully, too. And, I don’t. Not deeply to the core. (Shame on me? Perhaps. Indeed.) OH, I can give her the benefit of the doubt…but even trust on my side has a ways to go to be fully rooted. (And, really, when you’re talking about teens in general…I think the motto needs to be “trust, but verify.” So we’re already in a caution/hazard zone to begin with.) For you folks who have a relatively recent adoption of an older child, take note. Things take longer than most presume.
It’s a funny thing about Trust. It cannot be GIVEN. If so, I would have heaped it upon my hypervigilent teen daughter, and had her soak in vats of it in order to have it seep into her pores and bones, and heart and mind. I would wrap it around her to tamp down her anxieties. Heck, I would weave a shawl from it and keep it wrapped around ME; for my own trust issues. However, it cannot be given. It must be EARNED. And it has to be EARNED in each direction. I have to earn her trust; she has to earn mine. Mine for her is further along, I understand her very well now and can anticipate most of her behaviors, even as some frustrate and wear on me. Her trust for me, for us? Well…that’s a thing that might very well be a LONG time coming. And of course, I hate that. She cannot understand so much of this new world and culture and family. Her disabilities make this so terribly much more difficult, she cannot understand always the steps we take or what we say/do when we are working for her good. Her trauma background, the hypervigilence and anxiety that result just throw fuel on the fire of her fretting suspicions.
So how to earn trust? I don’t know. Truly, I don’t. Other than just walking the walk and putting in the time and proving to her, again and again and again – in the small things and the big ones – that we always work for her best good. Showing her that we mean what we say and we say what we mean. “An elephant’s word is 100%”
How do you moms ALL deal with these trust issues? I’d love to hear how they are handled. Right now, I suspect the best answer is simple: “Time.” But, as an impatient mom, I want to pull a Ronnie Reagan and say, “{Mr. Gorbachev}, tear down this wall!“
It’s an art, isn’t it?
Certainly, it’s been depicted so many countless time in art. Letter writing. Letter reading.
This year, we have gotten to enjoy learning, all over again, this art. This year, our main communication between my eldest, Brother Peter Joseph, and home has been the letter. This felt like a forced discipline in some ways, at the beginning. Maybe discipline is too harsh a word, though I think it’s actually most precise. However, certainly at the beginning, it felt like a forced…separation. And that, it was. It is. And now, after much of this year has passed, I can say that “I get it.” I do.
We live in a world of utter immediacy, but to a fault. To my fault, really. Because I, personally, LOVE LOVE LOVE the immediacy of our modern communications era. I love being able to get hold of the person I want or need right away; by texting, emailing, calling. It’s immediate gratification. The blessing and/or curse of the impatient person. Me. My father used to tease me that I wanted immediate gratification on…everything. And so I did. And still, really, do. So, for me, one of the very most difficult things of Chris entering the Novitiate was his distance. Not his distance in miles but his distance, enforced, in simple communication. No longer could we call or email or text him. No tweeting (not that we did, but still, the possibity….). No facebook, no skype. It felt like we were “going dark.” That was a daunting prospect.
That very prospect, that ‘going dark;’ by which I mean no longer communicating by the glowing light of the electronic hubub net…is precisely what the novice needs. In order to hear God’s voice well, there must be more silence. The beeps and tweets and blips of our post modern clang has to be muted. I think it must be kind of like going out into the desert to escape the glare of the city lights, so you can really, finally, see the stars.
Now that is all quite apt for him. But, of course, on my end, that change in mode led to a possible void…of connection. A fear of a loss of connection. Perhaps a minor panic attack even, but I’m not saying…. We were expected and agreed to wait for his calls to us (unless there was an emergency) and we were encouraged to write.
To write! To actually, really, write….using real pens and pencils and paper. How quaint, no? Old fashioned! Daunting even….as my hands are older and cramp, literally, with the gripping of the pens. My scrawl is…well, a scrawl: practically unreadable. But I knew, it was the way to stay connected to my son. And so, I did.
In picking up the pen for the first time I discovered a few things:
First, my hands did ache and so I quickly switched to modern techno after all, but chose a lovely script font. Call me a slacker, I don’t care. I did write a few letters in my own hand, but I wrote more and easier by typing it out and printing, with goofy notes handwritten in the margins. Second, there IS an art to the letter. Sure, there is the format taught in grade school of how to structure a ‘proper letter.” But, as you write many letters, over time, to the same person that structure lifts and disappears and an art to it does take place. It is dependent upon the mood and the day, of course, but there is a space and place for, somehow….MORE. There is more “there” there.
I don’t mean to get too esoteric in writing about this, but I must say that there is such a gift to the continued correspondence of letters. There is an intimacy and a space for jokes and references that can be savored. To send a letter to my son is to send a piece of myself, complete with my own scrawled notes and signature, by doodles in the margines, and sometime the cookie crumbs from the accompanying goodies. It is a gift of self. The art of the letter I believe is in the gift of self that is folded into that envelope. It is the gift, ever, of connection and the time and care put into it. The intimacy that chosen words and stories are read in due time by far away eyes and tucked between those mom and kid hearts..or read aloud to other loved ones as well. When we receive a letter from Peter Joseph, we all read it to each other, with a smile and a hug of happiness.
That experience, that tangible joy and that pause of expectation when the letter is found in the mailbox is something that cannot be replicated in the warp speed bling of net communication. The instantaneous satisfaction is gone. But what is left is the anticipation and the lingering smile of a letter received, as well as one sent.
Now I know why so many artists have painted about letters. It is an art unto itself, truly. We have all grown up with that old adage in our heads, on every Hallmark sign. But, I have learned over this year that it is true. And so…. will I email Peter Joseph once his email is restored, perhaps in late August? Of course. My true impatient nature will out, always. But, I hope, I continue to write my son letters. I save all of his. This discipline of the novitiate was to allow the novices to step away from the hubub, to hear and think more clearly. In so doing, it has allowed me to embrace a new mode as well. The act of writing, sending and reading letters has become a new craft. I can see a few more stars, myself.
The Octave of Easter...glorious
Easter Greetings!
These are my favorite traditional greeting today:
“Jesus Christ is Risen, indeed! Indeed he is Risen!
Christ is Risen: The world below lies desolate
Christ is Risen: The spirits of evil are fallen
Christ is Risen: The angels of God are rejoicing
Christ is Risen: The tombs of the dead are empty
Christ is Risen indeed from the dead,
the first of the sleepers,
Glory and power are his forever and ever
St. Hippolytus (AD 190-236)
Grunewald, Risen Christ, from Isenheim Altarpiece
Happy Happy Easter to you all!
Painting by Mantengna, c 1490
We wait.
It is finished.
It is so silent, so sad.
It is a somber quiet day.
I think of his Mom.
And I ache for her.
And today is an achy day, all around.
It hurts.
It should.
It is too quiet, too somber.
And yet, of course, not.
And we wait, happily for us, in joyful knowledge and hope, for tomorrow.
But still, today, a pause. We wait.
It’s Good Friday.
Perhaps the hardest day of the year. And, as I try to keep my eyes on him today and prayerfully, quietly, walk through this hard hungry jangled day….I want to remember this:
What Our Savior Saw From the Cross
James Tissot, 1836-1902
He kept his eyes on us.
Yeah.
And, my hope and my joy is that he still does and will. Forever.
Blessed Good Friday to you on this High Holy Day.
Once again, it’s time for the Stations of the Cross.
Every Friday in Lent I’m putting up the link to the Stations of the Cross.
It’s an uber Catholic thing….but then again not.
Anyone can meditate on the Stations of the Cross, and lent is the perfect time to do so.
It is a rigorous walk, in prayer…and has it’s own hard beauty.
Take a look, read, pray if you are inclined.
This year I’m linking to Pope Benedict’s Stations, the meditations are great. Go here for the prayers.
And, for you techies out there, this app is a gorgeous thing, with beautiful paintings by Michael O’Brien. Totally worth the download!
Painting by Tissot
Holy Thursday.
Maundy Thursday.
Last Supper.
Washing Feet.
Beginning of the Passion.
Tenebrae.
A hard somber night, leading into a hard day.
Jangled, disjointed, stripping the altar, moving the Blessed Sacrament out of the tabernacle.
Empty.
I always feel like crying at this service, “Don’t take him!” my heart foolishly calls.
And then it is silent.
And we file out, in the sad silent dark from the now empty church.
He is gone.
It’s Holy Thursday…..so it begins.
*reposted from a years ago. Every year. It’s this.
It’s Palm Sunday.
Tissot, Christ's Procession into Jerusalem
It’s the day we commemorate Christ’s “joyful” entry into Jerusalem. This day he fulfills the prophecy and enters not only Jerusalem but the walk to his Passion.
It’s an odd day; joyful and hard too. It’s the day I face my not so hidden inner hypocrite, every year. That’s always uncomfortable, like getting snared in brambles. But these are of my own selfish thorns. It’s the day that we ALL enter into Holy Week. Lent is refined and the chaff of it burned off…into the high holy days of the year, the silent clanging shuffle of the Via Dolorosa.
Tissot, Christ's entry to Jerusalem
But, look more closely at that painting just above. See there, under Christ’s feet? Those heads don’t look so joyous, so awestruck. They are not waving to get his attention or autograph…there is an undercurrent of malevolence. And that, right there, is what Christ was really approaching. He knew it. We do too.
So, this morning, what sticks in my head are his words from that moment, right before he entered Jerusalem and kickstarted the week of his passion:
“O Jerusalem, Jerusalem, you who kill the prophets and stone those sent to you, how often I have longed to gather your children together, as a hen gathers her chicks under her wings, and you were not willing.” Matthew 23:37
So, as I stand in Mass this morning, juggling my palm and the palm swords of my distracted little boys….as I choke out the words of the gospel, “crucify him,” I will remember that he just wanted to gather us in. And we would not.
Have a blessed Holy Week….it begins…
The Hunger Games, they surround us.
The media blitz of this book/series/movie is inescapable. Most or all of you know of them, have read or seen or surely heard about these books and now, the movie. If not, go here (or just open your newspaper or peruse your news feed). I know of them too. I read them, the whole series, last summer when my eldest daughter grabbed onto them. I figured I’d better figure out what they were about. Happily I’m a faster reader than she is and so we could have quite a bit of discussion as she read through them. And, sure, they are a super fast read, a page turner, even as they make you feel kind of sick with the disturbing games… So, I have a lot of thoughts about them, but that would be a whole ‘nother book review post.
The primary topic, for me today, with these books, this movie is this: These books/movie are marketed, hard, to the teen and PREteen set. I understand that, as the main characters are kids themselves. But the storyline is so brutal that I have some serious reservations about that (My rant on the disturbing trends and actions in the advertising and marketing world would be a whole ‘nother post. I’ll spare you, today. You’re welcome.) I’ve read lots of different parental takes on these books/movie. I’ve dithered a bit too. On the one hand, I have support for this stance regarding the series. I respect this mom and her views and she has much parenting wisdom. I read her article and say, “Yup. Yup.” But on the other hand, I think that, as a mom, I can’t hide from it either (I am not saying she is, to be clear). I have to discuss it with my kids. I have to discuss either the actual content and story, and/or I have to discuss they why’s of why I’m blocking it.
When I do block a movie or book series, it is typically due to age appropriateness (ratings) or blatant lack of redeeming…anything. Horror movies, gore, terribly violent movies, overtly inappropriately sexual (these often have that R rating tho, helpfully). However, this series HAS some redeeming themes and actions. The movie is rated PG-13. I have heard the movie shows less on screen violence than the book; though you can still not dispute, the whole issue is kids killing kids. And that is irrefutably evil and disturbing to the core. However, it’s not as simplistic as a Freddy Krueger movie.
All this is to lead up to where I’m at now. After first blocking it, I finally decided to let my Emmy read the book. She knew the story, in detailed retelling from her classmates, anyhow. At that point, we were already having the necessary discussions. The natural evolution of having an informed discussion is to go to the source. So, I figured at this point it might be best to have her read the source. That way we can now have a fuller broader discussion of the good and the evil and disturbing; the “hows” and “whys” and “what about thats?” So. Maybe they will see the movie. Maybe not, I don’t know yet. Yes I will see it before that decision is made. But first, always, read the book….and have lots of conversation. Not lecture. Conversation. Because on a good day, that’s what books should engender: conversation.
And, my hope is that we can mine this media blitzkrieg and these stories for learning…..about the media hype machine, for starters. We can look at the uncomfortable parallels between those very Hunger Games in the dystopian future and wonder if that future is not here, almost, right now as we cheer and boo at the ridiculous and banal on much of reality tv, or on the multitude but yet attention-sucking compelling reality competition programs. And, yes, also about good and evil and sacrificial love and human spirit and even, as Fr. Barron points out, a LOT of historical connections. Fascinating, and cool!
Take a look:
Once again, it’s time for the Stations of the Cross.
Every Friday in Lent I’m putting up the link to the Stations of the Cross.
It’s an uber Catholic thing….but then again not.
Anyone can meditate on the Stations of the Cross, and lent is the perfect time to do so.
It is a rigorous walk, in prayer…and has it’s own hard beauty.
Take a look, read, pray if you are inclined.
This year I’m linking to Pope Benedict’s Stations, the meditations are great. Go here for the prayers.
And, for you techies out there, this app is a gorgeous thing, with beautiful paintings by Michael O’Brien. Totally worth the download!
Ruth Buzzi, that is….
Ruth Buzzi in her famous "Old Lady" character....
You see, last night Coffeedoc and I got all gussied up and drove downtown to a lovely fancy restaurant. We were celebrating our 25th Anniversary and we were just happy to be out of the house and be able to have an uninterrupted conversation and enjoy some a nice delish quiet dinner.
And so we did…we arrived a bit late, per usual, and we were escorted to a quiet corner table. As we perused the menu and wine list, it happened. The server said to me, upon pouring some water, “Here you are Young Lady.” Really. No big deal, right? Hmmm. But then, he brought my wine…and said it again! Now, I’ll let that go, if the speaker is older than me…say, someone around the age of my father (who is now 80). I immediately looked over at Tom, who was seemingly captivated by the menu. So, I shrugged it off. But, and this is the part where I must have unwittingly morphed into Ruth Buzzi… this waiter began to use that phrase with almost every turn of attention to us. Truly. And of course, only to me. Because somehow this young pup (I am now pulling out all of my old fogey lingo since I am old enough to have perfect strangers patronize me) thought that it was somehow charming to continue to refer to me as “young lady.”
Now, many of you might think, “Gee, what’s her problem? That’s not so bad, don’t get your panties in a knot…” But, if you are thinking that, I’d lay dollars to donuts (another fogey phrase…) that you’re YOUNG! And while I may very well be staring down the barrel of fifty (that’s the rumour at any rate…), I haven’t yet really started considering myself officially, really, OLD.
But now, thanks to this young waiter….I feel like a rickety old crone. I know it shouldn’t make me feel so, but, it does a little bit. Gee willikers. Maybe we old gals are touchy…. Now, we still had a really lovely romantic dinner. My sweet Tom helped distract me from the patronizing waiter. I only mentioned wanting to deck they guy once, I think. But I have to say, to all you servers out there (and I can say this because I DID wait tables for years in college) if you want to keep your customers in a good mood….don’t try out some faux debonair “young lady” comments on anyone older than you. It just doesn’t play like you think it does. Not suave, not cute. Really. Makes us old gals a little hostile, even…or at least THIS old gal. Ahem. He still got a good tip, because it was our anniversary. But if it wasn’t…… I’m not deft with the quick comeback. I so wish I was, because today I have a number of them. But, since I’m now officially an old doddering crone….I’ll probably forget them.
I’m off to buy a hairnet…..
Landing in Kona...we OLD GALS get around!
Forget that…I”m going back to Hawaii…
Twenty-Five Years! And it’s better than ever.
I love you for always.
Painting by Henry Tanner
It’s the Solemnity of the Annunciation. This is the day the church celebrates the feast of the Annunciation: the Archangel Gabriel coming to Mary and the most important “yes” ever in history. Fiat. “Yes, I will.” Her consent to become the Mother of God. Read more if you like here.
As an adoptive mom, and a mom of biological kids, I trembled (with that adrenaline rush of shocked thrill and joy, but also with the ‘bigness’ of it all) each time we were presented with a child, or even when the child was “announced.” I cannot imagine how she must have trembled. And yet, she said “let it be done.” It is an awesome and fearsome responsibility, to care for a child and give them what they need – this gift from God.
Now you all know that this feast just resonates with me. For me.
Really, I could and probably should, meditate on this feast, these images for a long time, oh…for the rest of my days.
Because this feast is all about the letting go. It’s about the letting go, in blind faith…the kind of faith I can only dream of, reach toward, and pray for a glimmer. It’s about a kind of trust I can only gape at and wonder.
That kind of faith, that kind of willingness to “let go” and accept challenging, don’t know the road ahead but I’ll keep on and do my best without whining endlessly and relentlessly nagging questioning sort of faith just astounds me. Humbles me. Blows my mind. Still. Ever.
But she did.
Mary was a girl, a mere girl. Not old, with decades of life to measure the probability of it turning out ok in the end, or to compare to another girl she heard of in the same spot. She had no measuring stick but faith. And she was able to hold her breath, think about it for a moment (Because she was not programmed like a robot, she could have said ‘no,’….Indeed, we are taught that all of creation held it’s breath.)…and say, “fiat.”
Fiat. Yes. “I say yes.”
Ok.
I’ll do it. “Thy will be done, not mine.”
On this special day I pray for the willingness and ability to be able to say the same.
I try to choke down the news, the nightmare, of Trayvon Martin this past week. This is such a big thing…..and I feel but a shadowy glance of what his mother must feel…but feel that mother heartbreak, I do.
How can I even begin with all this? I have wrestled with this all week; what happened, what is happening, how to process it, for myself, my prayers, my family, my kids. Wrestled with writing about it. Or not. As I have nothing profound to add, I keep thinking, “Don’t.” But, as I process by typing….I need to. So, onward type….
I am a white mom. I am a white mom to five kids of color. I am a white mom to eight kids in all. But, make no mistake, what is important today is that I am a mom to two black sons. I am a mom to one young black son who will grow into a rather large black man. This boy, my own sweet son, he is on my mind as I read the news, pray for his mom and family, and try to sort my furious whirlwind sorrow over this.
Trayvon Martin.
I knew. I have known. I have known and thought and considered how my own sweet young boy might be perceived as he grows into his height and build and ages up. And I have been trying to begin his instruction for that time: “Strong men are gentle.” “Strong men are kind and good.” “Strong men control their actions.” I knew I would have to give him more particular instructions as he became an older teen. Some of these instructions I gave to my two older sons, my white sons: “If you are pulled over, keep your hands on the steering wheel.” “Do not talk back, just say ‘Yes Sir, no sir. Be respectful and direct.” But now, I realize that soon, too soon, perhaps even now, I have to begin to introduce some different rules to my son. I have to train him to see another possibility: that he might be presumed to be criminal simply due to his deep beautiful brown skin. As many writers point out, he might be guilty of “walking while black.” And that makes my heart break, and it makes me churn with anger….no different from other moms. I might be a white mom. But I am a mom of black sons. And that makes me worry and pray in a special way for my children.
The death of Trayvon Martin makes me so angry; hurt for his family, hurt for the injustice, hurt for this innocent kid….. It’s unspeakable. And yet, of course, we must speak. I’m not adding anything to the dialogue spreading like wildfire around the net. The outrage over this story is building; it’s set in motion what we can only hope to be justice. And yet, even with that justice, the investigation, and yes, hopefully, the arrest of the Zimmerman…..I feel conflicted. I do not want to join any bloodlust chorus for revenge. Revenge is hollow, empty, nothing. Justice is needed. And so, I will unite my prayers with those across the world, for the repose of this innocent’s soul. I will unite my prayers with those across the world for the comfort and peace and courage for his family and friends and community. I will unite my prayers with those around the world for justice.
Because here is what I think. I think this was a racist act (the reported racist slurs make my blood boil). I think this was unconscionable and unspeakable senseless violence. I think an innocent kid was murdered. And the only way I can reconcile all this is to say…..Zimmerman, he is a broken man. How can he not be? That is not, even for a a moment, to dismiss what he did, or have that be an excuse. There is no excuse. But, he is a man seemingly filled with rage and paranoia and racist bile. But, even so, surely, now, surely…he must realize what he has done? I haven’t heard if he has. But surely, in his core, he knows. He knows. He must. Trayvon was a child. That alone, should shatter him. That, right there, is where I need to look in order to be able to choke back my own rage towards him and try, try to find a way to pray for him. I need to find – to beg for – the Grace to pray for his remorse. My husband points out that he needs our prayers too. And so, I pray for that grace…to be able pray for Zimmerman too…..for his justice, yes, but also for the mercy of deep true remorse and understanding in his soul.
The news on this keeps breaking through the cacophony of our busy days. And it should. We all should be outraged. We all should shout for justice. We all should be shocked. And we are. But, while we all weep and pray and should and do and will continue to pray for Trayvon and his parents and family…as the call for justice rings out ……I pray we find a way to change our nation and heal the rage and ignorance that simmers just below the surface. Because until it does heal and change….
my anthony
…all of our sons are at risk. Perhaps not of such precise shocking immediate violence. But certainly they are at risk – or indeed perhaps they are guaranteed – of a loss of their innocent hearts as they learn the hard lessons of being a black young man in America. As a mom of a young black boy in America, Trayvon is ‘my son.’ He is all of our son’s. God have mercy on us all.
Once again, it’s time for the Stations of the Cross.
Every Friday in Lent I’m putting up the link to the Stations of the Cross.
It’s an uber Catholic thing….but then again not.
Anyone can meditate on the Stations of the Cross, and lent is the perfect time to do so.
It is a rigorous walk, in prayer…and has it’s own hard beauty.
Take a look, read, pray if you are inclined.
This year I’m linking to Pope Benedict’s Stations, the meditations are great. Go here for the prayers.
And, for you techies out there, this app is a gorgeous thing, with beautiful paintings by Michael O’Brien. Totally worth the download!
Ah… Joseph. He’s the man. Really. He is the model of quiet strength. A doer.
Now, I have always been drawn closer to Mary, of course. You all know that, and I think St. Joseph would be ok with that, being a gallant spouse. But even so, I am gathering more and more connections to Joseph as I walk through this life. As you all know by now, my son is now a Dominican with the eastern province of St. Joseph. His religious name is now Brother Peter Joseph. Bricks on the head. I am being reeled into considering Joseph. So, in honor of this feast day I am buying myself a hard hat with the name Joseph across the top.
But, Joseph. What’s up with him anyhow? Many outside of the Catholic church rarely ever even think of him. Heck, many inside the Catholic church rarely ever think of him…except for that passing “foster father of Jesus” bit.
Permit me this: it just irks me every time I hear that particular phrasing. Maybe it’s my own chip on my own shoulder. But, “foster” father. Hmmm. Sure, Joseph nurtured Jesus…if that’s what is meant by ‘foster.’ Perhaps this is a holdover term from a different era, with different connotations. But in our modern day, it seems foster father get’s short shrift (and no disrespect to modern foster fathers, as it’s a heroic job). Somehow, that term feels rather “less than.” Don’t flame me now….
But, as an adoptive mom let me tell you that I don’t consider Joseph anything but Jesus’ dad – his earthly, human father. His place was, um, irreplaceable. Joseph was the dad in place, on earth, loving and caring and protecting and raising and teaching his son just like any dad of any era. He was the father. Not a stand-in or temp; he was Jesus’ father, hand picked by God to raise and love and care for his Son. For Joseph and Mary’s son. He was/is head of the Holy Family. So, I guess I want to make sure that Joseph get’s his cred…he’s all humble and everything so he wouldn’t push for it. But he did the work, his heart broke and worried and swelled with love over his family and that boy…just like any dad. In fact he did more, because he had to take the hit and the heat (from Mary even, I’m sure) upon fleeing to Egypt for safety, for bunking down in a stable, for obediently doing whatever it took to safely care for his wife and child. So, I’m just saying, let’s not diminish his role, ok? Thank you.
There is SO much to ponder when considering Joseph. He loved even when he didn’t understand it all, he was faithful to the core and to the end. He was humble; didn’t go around bragging on his amazing kid and trying to get the local papers or Nazarene media to scout his boy. He was a dutiful husband and dad. He is a model for us all in quiet steady faith and deep giving love. I tend to, as I said, look to Mary as a role model for how to do better and stop screwing up. But, I’ll tell ya, I look to Joseph in my heart and prayers, more and more, especially when I am fretful or worried. I look to Joseph when I yearn for a deep steady loving hand. I see him in my own husband and my sons. And, I’m grateful.
I’m grateful for dear Joseph.
Today is his feast day. Happy feast day Buddybug, Peter Joseph!
St. Joseph, pray for us!
It’s Saint Patricks Day!
And this is the gist of it, especially as we meet the midpoint of lent
(from the prayer “St Patrick’s breastplate”):
Christ be with me, Christ within me,
Christ behind me, Christ before me,
Christ beside me, Christ to win me,
Christ to comfort and restore me.
Christ beneath me, Christ above me,
Christ in quiet, Christ in danger,
Christ in hearts of all that love me,
Christ in mouth of friend and stranger.
More links for St Paddy's here, click pic
Happy St Patrick’s Day!
Once again, it’s time for the Stations of the Cross.
Every Friday in Lent I’m putting up the link to the Stations of the Cross.
It’s an uber Catholic thing….but then again not.
Anyone can meditate on the Stations of the Cross, and lent is the perfect time to do so.
It is a rigorous walk, in prayer…and has it’s own hard beauty.
Take a look, read, pray if you are inclined.
This year I’m linking to Pope Benedict’s Stations, the meditations are great. Go here for the prayers.
Painting by Michael O'Brien
And, for you techies out there, this app is a gorgeous thing, with beautiful paintings by Michael O’Brien. Totally worth the download!
What? A rite of passage? Which one? Graduation, marriage, birth, death, adoption finalization, first steps, first tooth….what?
The zoo, of course! Going to the zoo is a mini rite of passage for a kid, specifically an American kid. Some might argue this, but really, I think we can agree that it’s a kid marker, a kid commonality….more, it’s family bonding.
watercolor by m.mahan
The zoo. You go with your family when you’re little, with the school on the bus when you’re bigger, you’re dragged there on family vacations and outings when you’re a teen, and then you start the cycle all over again with your own new little family. Right? Well, maybe for a few zoophobics its not. But still. For most of us, the zoo is treasured memories and stories. It’s boxes and boxes of old kodak snapshots; all looking mostly identical – yellowing blurred shots of us near some big trees that have monkeys in them, somewhere, standing awkwardly waving with bad hair and ill fitting shorts (ok, maybe that’s just me).
So, for one reason or another fifty, we hadn’t yet made it to our local zoo for Gabey or Marta. Let’s rephrase that to be more shockingly precise: Gabe has been home almost four years and Marta is at two and half, and they had not been to the zoo. Mom fail. Yes. We are the slacker parents of all time. I know. My pitiful excuse defense: the weather is wonky here, either freaky freezing cold or hellishly sticky muggy humid hot AND we spend our days dealing with many kid behaviors and issues, not to mention juggling schedules like a circus clown.
Anyhow, if the weather is good (on those two to three days a year of weather perfection), I love going to our little zoo. It’s just the right size, not too big to be overwhelming, not so small as to be a joke. It’s a friendly little place, with a fantastic playground area to collapse and the let smalls get the last dregs of their energy out so that they will be happily exhausted for the rest of the day. And so, on Tuesday, all the planets aligned and the day was perfect. It was spring break, the weather was going to be in the high 70’s and sunny…it was the perfect day (In four years!) for the zoo. And so we went.
It was just me and the youngest five. I packed a picnic lunch and we all set off for the longish drive to the zoo. They were very excited. Marta wasn’t entirely clear on how it would be…but she was game to try (which is a huge deal for a hyper-vigilent kid). As we piled out of the car, grabbed the old stroller to carry our gear (and occasionally Gabe, who knows a good deal when he sees it) we could hear the whoops and hoots of both the Gibbons and the parrots and I’m not sure what all else…but it was a minor racket. I looked at the kids and grinned. Marta’s eyes were big, “What is that? Loud!”, she said. I laughed, the girls laughed. The little boys speculated about dinosaurs. I said, “You’ll see!” Gabey was just pulling us along as quick as he was able, in a rush to go see the monkeys.
We saw the monkeys. Marta was most impressed with their feet being like hands, we saw beautiful tigers and leopards, cool zebras, scary alligators, scary snakes, weird frogs, cool camels, pet a goat, pinched noses (my city boy) and laughed at the “wild” smells and marveled over the bizarro but beautifully pink flamingos. 
Best of all we saw the “Very big!” elephants and the “Very tall, so cute” giraffes. We even saw a few babies: with the leopards and the giraffes. We had an easy happy picnic lunch in the shade, we lifted our faces to the sun as we walked.
Then, for another classic thrill, we got tokens to ride the carousel. Oh the thrill of even picking out which animal to ride as they waited. Then the fun of scampering on to claim the chosen beast (Sweet dear Emmy sacrificing her choice of dolphin to stay close to help Gabe, even without being asked. What a girl!). The whirling ride got face splitting grins out of all, even our toughest customers. 
So, totally worth those pricey tokens.
After the twirling thrills of the carousel (Can you say double win?: Vestibular therapy motion too, score! It’s occupational therapy!) we headed to the playground to close the visit. I sat in the partial shade while I watched my kidletts run and rampage over and around, under and through the twists and turns of this huge crowded playground. There were ramps to ascend and tunnels to slide and rope bridges to climb, nooks and crannies to explore. Marta didn’t last long there, she ventured forth and then came back quickly to sit with me in the sun. Gabe ended up choosing to swing for a bit, helped again by my mamacita Em. We finally dragged Little Man out, sweating and happy. The sun was high, we are all getting hot and tired. Perfect. Time to go home.
But first, no premier trip to the zoo should be complete without that last final classic treat: the slurp of a soft serve swirly ice cream cone. And so, we did.
It was a very good day.
Once again, it’s time for the Stations of the Cross.
Every Friday in Lent I’m putting up the link to the Stations of the Cross.
It’s an uber Catholic thing….but then again not.
Anyone can meditate on the Stations of the Cross, and lent is the perfect time to do so.
It is a rigorous walk, in prayer…and has it’s own hard beauty.
Take a look, read, pray if you are inclined.
This year I’m linking to Pope Benedict’s Stations, the meditations are great. Go here for the prayers.
And, for you techies out there, this app is a gorgeous thing, with beautiful paintings by Michael O’Brien. Totally worth the download!
Ok, so this should be more precisely titled “Works for Us, Wednesday…” But then I’d miss the whole linky bit, here, so I’m keeping it as is. But, you get the point. This little tip is something we’ve honed to a very worthy custom in our household: it’s the “Kid Date.”
The kid date is not, as you might wonder, when just the kids go out together and run wild, going out on the town and boozing it up or sneaking into movies. No, no. The kid date is when the kids get a turn for their own, SOLO, date, with their dad. Sounds small, no big deal? Oh, no. Not at all. Especially when you have a family with many children, this is a really key thing to craft, if you can. Heck, I’ll go out on a limb and say even if you have a standard size or even small size family, this is a good thing. That time of undivided attention between the dad and kid? Priceless.
The Kid Date is a standing Wednesday night gig in our house. We protect it as much as possible. Yes, it means a Dad Date, really. The kids all get lots of time with me. But their dad, he is a hard working guy and he is busy…all the time. He’s around as much as he is able. But, his job stuff is, um, time consuming. It just is. So, a few years ago, we intentionally started carving out a protected night every week for Dad and one kid to go out, alone, to do whatever they thought sounded like a good idea.
This whole concept played off our standing date, Saturday night. That’s right, Tom and I have a standing Saturday night date. It’s all old fashioned, that standing mom/dad date, you betcha. But, oh boy, it’s priceless and we protect it like gold. Because it is. But I digress. We figured that our weekly date out was so important to our relationship and to staying connected that it would be great for each kid to get solo time w/ Dad too. They get it with me; I have to make an intentional effort to find that time to check in (and some days/weeks I do that better than others), but with Dad, the time constraints are much tighter. So, voila, the weekly kid date.
Now, the only way to do the kid date fairly is to make it a system. We put it on the calendar and we rotate down the troops in age. No randomness at all (because then there would be intertribal war, not good), though swapping due to homework deadlines is allowed (they work that out between themselves, mostly). And, just this past month, little Gabey was finally considered old enough to be allowed to go on his first kid date! Oh happy day, er, night! He was so excited!
It’s a little difficult some weeks to have the kid date, the weeks get eaten up with basketball practices or late meetings or tests…but we really try to make it happen. And it does mean that Tom has sat through multiple excruciating memorable viewings of the latest kiddie flick (Fly me to the Moon, anyone? Anyone?)…but that’s just what a dad does for his kids. It’s a tough duty but he’s the man for it.
And is it worth it? All those cheeseburgers, those cartoons, the crash of the bowling pins? Well, I’m not him, but I think he’d say, “You bet.” Because in between the skittles and the pasta, sometimes in the dark of the drive home…the kids talk. They chatter or they open up for a heart to heart or they ask the hard questions. Or sometimes they don’t. Sometimes they’ve been known to fall asleep in the movie. But almost every time, that kid comes home to about half the others already asleep. They come up and check in with me and hug me. And I ask them, “Did you have a good time?” And they give me an extra kiss or hug, and say, “Yeah.” Then they go find their dad and hug him goodnight and say thanks for going out with me. And then, he thanks them back for going out with him. And that, that is where the gold is. That connection. Little bits, along the way.
Kid date. Worth the time, the trouble, the juggling. It’s a bag of skittles, all gold.
Once again, it’s time for the Stations of the Cross.
Every Friday in Lent I’m putting up the link to the Stations of the Cross.
It’s an uber Catholic thing….but then again not.
Anyone can meditate on the Stations of the Cross, and lent is the perfect time to do so.
It is a rigorous walk, in prayer…and has it’s own hard beauty.
Take a look, read, pray if you are inclined.
This year I’m linking to Pope Benedict’s Stations, the meditations are great. Go here for the prayers.
And, for you techies out there, this app is a gorgeous thing, with beautiful paintings by Michael O’Brien. Totally worth the download!
Whew, so the week got away from me! We’ve had a fair lot of kid fallout this week, mostly with one dis-regulated, stressed out teen. So, the posting took a back seat to dealing with all that. However, I’m here now and so I want to post this quickly.
On this post, here, I wrote about ADHD for the first time in my blog. I wrote specifically about the stigma attached to the label. I did not write about all the many layers to ADHD and the different aspects that go hand in hand with consideration of it: the diagnosing of it, the approaches to it, how it works in school and the family and life in general. You see, if I was going to address all my thoughts on all those things, I’d have to write a book! But, happily for you all, there are many, many books out there already. Great resources abound! Not so great ones do too…so read wisely. But, do read. Do the homework. ADHD is worth a little effort. Whether you live with it yourself or love one who does, it helps so much to learn a bit about it. It makes it just a little easier to understand; and that understanding, every drop of it, is critical to overall quality of life.
To that end, I’m listing MY top three resource books on ADHD. This is MY personal list, my choices. There is NO official list, anywhere, of the best of the best of these. Believe me, I’ve looked. I’m a consumate researcher, perhaps even a compulsive one. That urge to research and find out all that I can about anything I’m dealing with is perhaps my own control freak urge…but it works for me. Thus, I now have a mini library on quite a few topics. ADHD has been a topic of research in our library for eight years. I’ve read many many theories and help books. I’ve even seen shifts in the theories. All told, it’s an overwhelming crop of resources. Check for yourself, google it.
So, for what it’s worth, these three books, below, are (IMHO) the best sources for getting a handle on ADHD: the good and the difficult, the whole bag. They have a breadth and an easy to understand way of explaining what ADHD is and why; but they don’t talk down to you or oversimplify either. They have a good scope – addressing ways that help and ways that hinder. No one has the time to read everything, facing that flood of information can instantly stop many in their tracks. So, for me, these three books are the top three, most helpful books I’ve read over eight years of dealing with ADHD in my family.
Check ’em out (and if you click on the picture it will take you to Amazon):
This book, ADHD, Living without Brakes, is a great concise overview of ADHD. It explains the behavior(s) of those with ADHD in an easy to grasp and remember kind of way. This book gives a great overview that pulls lots of research together and goes over it simply. It’s sort of the best primer on ADHD that I’ve found. It’s positive but not preachy; it’s realistic but not a stigmatized downer. It’s pricey for it’s size, but it packs a worthwhile punch in information. It’s sort of ADHD 101. (Also good for handing out to teachers and/or family members who cannot figure out why your kid does what he/she does).
Next:
This book, Scattered, by Gabor Mate kind of took me by surprise. A good friend had recommended it and I’d kind of stalled her on reading it. I was busy, I didn’t think it really was going to be anything I hadn’t read before, etc etc. Then she mentioned that the author also co-wrote this book, (which I also HIGHLY recommend for parenting kids as they grow, especially into teens, most excellent). So, with that, I figured it was worth a look.
Turns out, it was SO much worth that look that I ordered two more copies of it, gave one to my son’s teacher and also ordered it on audio download so my husband could listen to it in the car. Yeah. That good. And kind of radical in that this was an approach that jived up with my recent sea changes in parenting. This book goes into the physiological underpinnings of ADHD, in depth, but then it pulls out and explains (from the author’s first hand experience of having ADHD himself) the hows and why’s of many behaviors and also gives real suggestions on how to work to address the child/adult as a whole person with this way of functioning. Meaning, if you can understand some of the whys underlying the behaviors, it’s easier and more targeted to get to either working with them or through them; conversely it’s an eye opener to appreciate some of the remarkable traits common to ADHD as well. Instead of trying to parse out only the tough symptoms and treat each one, it takes the bigger view of what’s underneath and why. Because that, the source, is where a more comprehensive approach needs to start.
And, yup, a good part of it comes down to attachment. Go figure. Not in every aspect. But in more than has been discussed before. Which then leads me to my next book, one of my top parenting books, ever:
This book, The Connected Child, is one of the best parenting books I’ve got. And I’ve got a LOT of great parenting books. It is most commonly known, I believe, in adoption circles, and in the land of therapeutic parenting. Who knew that it also applied to ADHD? Well, it doesn’t list ADHD as it’s topic. So don’t be all confused if you get the book and look in the index for ADHD… But, if you have a child with ADHD, this book can make a huge difference in your understanding of that child. Whether biological or adopted, this book can help you connect to your child. Sounds simple…simplistic even? Au contraire! Not at all, and it is an intentional way of parenting that can do wonders for any child, biological, adopted, with needs or not. So, this is not officially an ADHD book. But it totally jives up w/ Mate’s book, Scattered, above, and it so IS an ADHD book. In fact, the two rather function as a set, in a way, they complement each other…particularly as applied to living with ADHD. So it’s on my short list.
Last note: None of these books advocate or oppose any one way of working with ADHD. There is no ONE approach to dealing with it. It is a complex thing, goods and toughs, and takes a multi-layered approach. And, {now stepping up on my own personal soapbox} anyone who says it’s “this way or the highway“? Run, don’t walk, from that. There is no one way to address this. No magic bullet. It’s an individual approach to dealing with things that need some help. Some things work, some don’t. In fact, it’s moving target…because things change. So, best to read as much as you can so you’re informed and know options and some whys and hows. Information is always better. Try the books!
Another Espresso, Please 