“It is difficult, if not impossible, to imagine an individual life or a specific culture for which [Mary] is not an appropriate — and treasured — symbol. Her devotees are a remarkably kaleidoscopic group, from Dante and Mozart to Juan Diego of Guadalupe, from empresses and queens to illiterate girls to whom she appeared at Fatima and Lourdes. She fits everywhere and offers something to everyone.”
– Jaroslav Pelikan, Mary Through the Centures: Her Place in the History of Culture
Yesterday was one of those days where I felt like a spectacular failure at the job of motherhood.
It was, in my defense, hotter than heck. At one point I looked at the thermometer in the hall and it said 91. That’s inside the house, mind. It is very hard to keep one’s patience in such infernal heat. And when you have a toddler who wants to do everything himself, and who throws a fit if you don’t let him, and then who takes forever to wash his hands or climb onto the toilet — you know, deliberately moving in slo-mo, just because he’s two and that’s his job — well, one finds oneself being horribly snappish and borderline mean. And then when the toddler in question does not inform you that he needs to use the potty, and you end up with a disgusting mess which I won’t even attempt to describe because it would totally repulse even me , and I’ve already been repulsed once today– well, that doesn’t help either.
Add the fact that your husband is in the garage all day with the neighbor across the street and with a huge snake rented from Home Depot so the two of them can clear out the pipes that have been causing the washing machine to leak and the toilet to bubble ominously every time someone showers. This project, totally neccessary though it may be, means that you can’t flush the toilet, not even when you have the contents of a disgusting diaper to get rid of. It also means that you must use water sparingly so that the open pipe does not back up and flow all over the floor of the garage, which has already happened once today. And, of course, your toddler, not realizing the gravity of the plumbing repairwork going on, is washing his hands as if he will never again get another chance, lovingly and slowly, until you snappishly turn the water off — which, naturally, causes him to yell and turn it back on.
So yeah, it was that kind of day.
But you know what I’m learning about bad mothering days like this? You can survive them if you have your antennae tuned to the little slivers of grace that are there, even in the midst of the desert heat and the unflushed toilet and the mound of laundry that is starting to reek. If you can see the little bits of beauty in your kids, even on days when those little creatures seem destined to drive you to an early grave — well, you can make it through the uglies.
For me, this sliver of grace came at the end of the day. There was some buildup to it: my heroic husband and our heroic neighbor managed to clear the pipe, and said neighbor’s wonderful wife came and watched the boys for a hour while I had to run an errand. After showers and cleanup, we bundled the boys into the car and drove to the air-conditioned bliss of a local burger joint .
And after dinner, each of the boys got a balloon. Matthew, who loves them, was in heaven with his. And Lukey — who has managed to get through eleven months of life without ever interacting with a balloon — was a treat to watch. Scott held the string, and jerked it up and down so it bobbed right near Lukey’s highchair, and he threw his head back and stared at it, this floating green thing, this amazing object that he could pull down only to see it sail up again. It was pure poetry, that little face staring up at the balloon in unabashed wonder that such things could exist.
Welcome, Faith & Family readers! Feel free to poke around the blog and see what I write about (take a look at the sidebar down on your right for all the major topics that inspire me).
And happy Saturday! We’ll be spending our Saturday playing with the kids and dealing with a plumbing problem (and, perhaps, showering at the YMCA.) Anyone know the patron saint of plumbing??
My husband, who recently bought a new cell phone, set up a special ringtone just for calls from me.
It’s the first few bars of this song:
This has been my unofficial theme song ever since the first day of college, way back in 1991. I was checking into the dorm and the R.A. (resident assistant), a senior, saw that my name was Virginia. “Come out, Virginia, don’t let me wait,” he started to sing. I stared at him, suspicious and perplexed; I’d never heard the song before.
But really, when you’re a Catholic girl named Virginia, you just sort of own this song, you know?
Summer is over and I am back at work with a vengeance. And with coffee. My success at weathering this transition is owed entirely to Peet’s Sumatra, tempered with half-and-half. I drink it greedily on the commute, and then curse it midway through my first class, when the restroom calls and I cannot answer. Such is the life of a teacher.
So yes, it’s hard to get back into the work routine. That makes it important to reflect on some blessings.
1. I’m grateful for the time-honored game of peek-a-boo. My baby figured out how it works a few weeks ago and it never fails to make him laugh. Me neither.
2. I’m thankful for hot days that turn into mild perfect evenings. I was outside watering at dusk and the temperature was just right. It was tranquil and lovely, as if Nature herself were winding down for the night.
3. I’m thankful that our public library has so many CDs of Broadway musicals. Currently in my car: Kiss Me, Kate, Guys and Dolls, and the recent revival of The Pajama Game. They’re perfect commute music because they are just so darn singable. When I’m propped up by nothing more than coffee and willpower, it is great to have some catchy perky music to help me get excited about the day. So thank you, public library! I owe you one.
Before having kids, I predicted that reading bedtime stories to them would be one of the highlights of parenting.
I was right: it’s ridiculously fun. It’s a chance to indulge my English teacher/writer/closet actress sides while snuggling next to a very sweet little boy who smells of soap and who is getting progressively better at turning those thin non-boardbook pages.
After many many bedtime stories, though, I’ve learned that not all are created equal. There are a few truisms about children’s literature that I’d like to share with you, if you will indulge me. To wit:
1) Any book based on a TV show is going to be beyond dull. I mean, I pretty much love any and all books, but I’d rather empty the diaper pail than read something featuring Dora the Explorer or Bob the Builder. Alas, there are evenings when my son is in the mood for TV spinoff literature with vapid dialogue and no narrative arc. Sigh.
2) Rhyming = good. Do you know Chicka Chicka ABC? FABULOUS book. It’s quick and lively and my son adores it. It’s got a terrific meter and great rhyme. I’m always happy when he chooses that one.
3) Thanks to technology, some books nowadays are all flash and no substance. I offer Little Lost Alien, one of my son’s current faves, as Exhibit A. You push very hard on the button on the front cover and cool blue lights flash on each page. Alas, the story — about an alien who gets lost because his spaceship runs out of gas and who refills it and goes on his way — is one of the lamest I’ve ever read. The book has great special effects and zero plot. It’s the summer blockbuster of children’s literature.
4) When it comes to sheer reading fun, nobody — and I mean NOBODY — beats Dr. Seuss. He reigns supreme, now and forever.
So what are your thoughts about bedtime stories? Are there stories your kids love to read, or that you love to read them? Did you have a favorite night-time book when you were a kid? Any titles you’d recommend?
So a friend tagged me with this on Facebook, and I simply had to try. The idea is to answer each of these questions in one word — and ONLY one word.
As you have probably noticed, I’m kind of a verbose gal. Why say it in one plain word if you can say it in ten utterly delicious and descriptive ones?
But I do love a challenge, especially if involves writing. So here I go!
Where is your cell phone?Purse. Your hair? Flat. Your father?Tall. Your favorite thing? Family. Spouse? Fabulous. Your dream last night? Forgettable. Your favorite drink? Tea. The room you are in?Office. Your dream/goal? Balance. Your fear? Despair. Where do you want to be in six years? Here. Muffins? Spice. One of your wish list items? Ireland. Where you grew up? California. The last thing you did? Surfed. What are you wearing? Pajamas. Your TV? Flaky. Your pets? Nonexistent. Your computer? Dependable. Your life? Overstuffed. Missing someone? Rachel. Your car? Red. Favorite store? Bookstore. Your summer? Short. Your favorite color? Green. When is the last time you laughed?Recently. When is the last time you cried? Recently. Text or talk? Talk. Favorite food? Carbs. Family drama? Minimal. Friend you hope to see again? Celeste.
So are you up to the challenge? Give it a whirl! At the very least, it’s fun … at the very most, it’s revealing (there were a few possibilities for the “fear” question, but I think the answer I gave comes closest.)
We used to sing that hymn every May, when my Catholic school honored Mary with the May Procession. I loved (and still love!) that song. Good memories.
Along with the spirit of that hymn, today — August 22 — is the Feast of the Queenship of Mary. If you are wondering what the heck that means, check out a nice little explanation here.
Credit Where it’s Due: Velazquez, Crowning of the Virgin
I like cooking. Truly, I do. And I’ve learned a lot about it in the seven years since I got married.
See, the kitchen is pretty much my domain. In those misty days before our wedding, when Scott and I talked about how our household would run, we had these airy fantastic plans: we’d share the meal planning, the cooking, the grocery shopping. We’d alternate dinner duty, so neither one of us novice cooks got stuck in the kitchen every night.
Wild little fantasy, wasn’t it?
It took about a week for me to become the official chef in the Moyer household. This was largely because of my schedule: being a teacher, I get home earlier than Scott does. It just made sense for me to handle dinner. (In fairness, Scott does grill quite a lot. I often think of the comedian Rita Rudner wondering why men love to grill, and deciding that it’s because grilling involves DANGER). And, honestly, I don’t mind. My growing repertoire of recipes actually makes me kind of proud. I’m hardly a gourmet cook, but I am a solid, respectable one: somewhere between Chef Boyardee and Julia Child, say.
Still, over the years I’ve had enough epic failures to be able to appreciate this quotation.
“What does cooking mean?”
It means the patience of Job and the persistence of the Pilgrim Fathers.
It means the endurance, the long-suffering, and the martyrdom of Joan of Arc.
It means the steaming and the stewing and the baking and the broiling, thrice daily, spring and summers and autumns and winters, year after year, decade after decade.
It means perspirations and desperations and resignation.
It means a crown and a harp and a clear title to an estate in heaven.
I'm a formerly lapsed Catholic who likes to write about faith, real life, and how the two intersect. Oh, and I love Mary -- check out my book Mary and Me below!
Yesterday was one of those days where I felt like a spectacular failure at the job of motherhood.
weeks ago and it never fails to make him laugh. Me neither.
Before having kids, I predicted that reading bedtime stories to them would be one of the highlights of parenting.
I like cooking. Truly, I do. And I’ve learned a lot about it in the seven years since I got married.
