Holy Saint Francis, what a change is here!

The best part of my job teaching high school English is that I am forced to reread a handful of classic books every year. Without this incentive, I would rarely re-read the old favorites–with so many new books on the must-read list, who has the time? Fortunately, it’s part of my job to make the time for revisiting a few. Recently, my 9th graders finished Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet. 

I first read this play in Mrs. Bye’s 8th grade English class. I still have my copy of the text from that unit, complete with mundane annotations in bright purple ink, but I’m afraid that the only instruction I can remember is an embarrassing conversation about how we mustn’t think that Romeo was up to no good when he wakes up in Juliet’s chamber in Act III scene v, because he did marry Juliet properly, even though that part happened off-stage. Overall, though, my first impression of this tragedy was dominated by a profound sense of doom. Those two kids had so much working against them: they didn’t stand a chance!

I encountered the play a second time just after the end of my sophomore year of high school. Taking the advice of a beloved history teacher, who swore by the mystical power of “Shakespeare Dates” to revive the magic in romantic relationships, my boyfriend and I went to a production of R&J performed in St. Louis’ Forest Park. The plan backfired, though. When faced with Juliet’s heart-rending display of devotion, I admitted to myself that I would NOT  commit suicide out of despair if my boyfriend died. Acknowledging that my feelings for him would never measure up to that tragic standard convinced me that the relationship was going nowhere. I dumped him after the show. (It would be some time before I understood that killing oneself is not, in fact, the ultimate display of affection.)

That was over ten years ago–(which means that my 10th high school reunion will be NEXT YEAR! So stressful!)–and I managed to avoid a serious rereading of the play until this recent unit. What a difference 10 years can make! My perspective on these characters has altered dramatically, as well as my understanding of Shakespeare’s overall message. Romeo and Juliet aren’t doomed:  they are agents of their own fates just as much as the rest of us. And the point isn’t that this tragedy was unavoidable and necessary for reconciliation between the Capulets and the Montagues; No, the point is that it COULD have and SHOULD have been prevented, and only a series of consciously wrong choices allowed it to happen.

Both Romeo and Juliet experience moments of foreboding and voice their concerns that “Gee, I get the feeling that if I crash this party/drink this sleeping potion, something really bad is going to happen.”  But they do it anyway! And did I mention that these star-crossed lovers spend a grand total of 20 minutes together before vowing eternal devotion and sneaking off to marry each other? An impulsive, rebellious  marriage smacking of a rebound (remember Rosaline, Romeo??) carefully orchestrated by the well-intentioned Friar who excuses multiple deceptions because he just wants everyone to get along: Can this be true love?

As an eighth grader, I found their declarations beautiful and inspiring. Ten years later, I find myself shaking my head and sighing “Oh, children…” as they cavalierly offer to strip themselves of their very names if only they can be together. Romeo and Juliet is a tragedy, all right, but for completely different reasons than I originally thought. I’d love to juxtapose this unit with The Crucible and assign a comparative essay on the significance of names.

How have your re-reading experiences altered your thinking about a certain novel or play?

In The Club

When I was chatting with an expectant friend recently, she said, “I knew that getting pregnant would introduce me to the ‘Mom Club’, but I was not prepared for how opinionated other mothers would be! About everything!”

I had a similar experience during my pregnancy: feeling overwhelmed by the polarized literature on everything from sleep schedules and diaper options to inoculations and comfort objects. But even though joining the Mom Club means participating in these great (and occasionally awkward or ridiculous) debates, it also provides a connection to a universal support group, full of empathy and good advice.

Lately, I’ve been thinking of all the girls I knew in my childhood and teenage years, and how our varied life choices have led so many of us to the common path of motherhood. My best friends from the DuBois years–whose news I get through their mother’s Christmas letters to my mother–both married young, and are now well on their way to growing big, Catholic families. The young ladies from my youth group in St. Louis are now scattered across the United States, but many of them have multiple children now or are starting families like I am. Bound by a common history and a common faith, we can still speak to one another’s hearts from time to time, even if we’ve given up on remembering each other’s birthdays.

I’ve also been thinking of my hallmates in Olds dormitory, my freshman year of college (over eight years ago, now!).  Four of the women on that hall are among my best friends today, but most of them have drifted out of my range of awareness. (Remember Melissa? Whatever happened to Melissa?) But despite several degrees of separation, I still hear news from time to time. Those twenty four girls are all 26 or 27 years old now, and many are married, though many are not.  At least one has suffered a miscarriage. At least two of them have had abortions. At least three are pregnant. Several already have children.

When we were unloading our suitcases and plastic storage bins in August 2003, struggling to stuff our belongings into 2 x 8 feet, motherhood was the farthest thing from our minds. We were desperate to find someone to walk to Saga with us and nervous about the “gentlemen” from Galloway who occasionally defecated in the courtyard.  Looking around at one another, we saw primarily the differences between us. It certainly didn’t occur to me then, or at all–if I’m honest–during my college years, that many of us would one day be part of this universal club. Yet here we are, raising up a new generation together.

That is why my own heart was wrung out when I heard the story of one of these women—Jennifer—who very recently endured one of the most harrowing experiences a mother could imagine. Her story, which she shares on her blog, is one of grief and loss, but also one of remarkable faith. Jennifer and I were merely acquaintances in college and we haven’t spoken in years, but because of the shared experience of carrying a child, I can imagine the devastation she must have felt when she learned that her baby wouldn’t live long. Please lift her up in prayer.

Jennifer’s situation is exceptional, but even the most ordinary of mothers in the most ordinary situations rely on the Mom Club for a boost from time to time. I’m grateful for the more experienced mothers, like Simcha Fisher (mother of nine. NINE) whose excellent article validates the common difficulties new mothers face, as well as assuaging the fear that each additional child will make life exponentially more challenging. Newbies like me live on this kind of reassurance.

Having motherhood in common isn’t necessarily a recipe for instant friendship, of course; every mother is different just like every child is different. But each mother’s heart has been shaped by her child and the infusion of love that accompanied it. I guess that’s where we recognize one another.

Nope.

I tried.

I really did.

But, as it turns out, doing One Thing At A Time does not agree with me, my lifestyle, or my hobbies. It’s an impossible mantra to adopt at work: managing a classroom, lecturing, supervising activities, grading, and keeping up with endless emails (all marked “urgent”) demands that I keep multiple trains of thought on the rails at once. However, it IS helpful to discipline my mind to concentrate on one task at a time during my office hours. The grading goes much more quickly when I’m not switching Pandora stations every ten minutes.

At home, I found that doing One Thing At A Time was, quite simply, too impractical. Sam doesn’t nap as much as he used to, and so I had to choose 2 out of 10 different chores on my list to complete during those precious hours of peace, leaving little time for things like yoga or writing. Last weekend, I caved and spent most of the morning on a multi-tasking-baby-food-making binge: steamed carrots, baked sweet potatoes, boiled green beans, and microwaved spinach. Cooked! Blended! Packaged! Frozen! Bam! It was exhilarating. (In a lame, Martha-Stewart kind of way).  But though efficient productivity had never tasted so sweet to me, it apparently left a bad taste in Sam’s mouth: he’s been fussy about eating his meals ever since. Go figure.

So though this experiment has proven that I’m not cut out for (or interested in) such a high degree of concentration all the time, it has helped me teach myself  to give my complete attention to Sam when we’re playing together. And there’s so much to attend to these days! He’s learning to use his arms to pull himself over the slippery wood floor now, and is slowly figuring out that his legs have something to do with mobility. He knows how to wave and will do so in response to every “Hi!” He’s nervous around machines, it’s true, but is slowly becoming reconciled to the CD player (yes, I still own “compact discs”. Shut up.) My favorite development is his new love of story time: we read at least a dozen of his little board books a day. And while I wouldn’t personally choose to learn the collected works of Sandra Boynton by heart, I love hearing him squeal out his little version of “bee-bo!” whenever we read The Belly Button Book.

Getting to know Sam, and watching him learn and grow, has give me more perspective on and greater grief over the unheeded holocaust of abortion in our country. Knowing that, while I was pregnant, millions of Americans regarded my son as a mere collection of cells and would have encouraged me to dispose of him if I didn’t want to be a mom, makes the horror of this practice infinitely more personal. I’m saddened even more to think of the toll this terrible blight is having on Sam’s generation: will his classmates, his best friends, his future wife survive? Today is the 39th anniversary of  the Supreme Court decision that declared abortion a “fundamental right” for all women. If you have a moment, I encourage you to take the time to read this article and say a prayer for the unborn, their mothers, and our government.

One Thing At A Time

Sometime in between the arrival of Yahoo Instant Messaging and my 11th grade statistics class, where I taught myself to write notes to Meg while looking intently at the instructor, multi-tasking developed from a skill into a way of life. Americans have always prided themselves on efficiency, so the prospect of getting more than one thing done at once is deeply attractive to us. As a stressed out high-school student with GPA-worries, musical rehearsal, basketball practice, and crushes on boys, the ability to do three things while thinking about seven other things was essential to surviving those harrowing years.

Lately, though, I’m starting to think that this is getting out of hand.

For example, my laptop is usually out and open on the kitchen table, so that on my way from the sink to the stove, I can see instantly if someone emailed, messaged, facebooked or commented on my blog (I LOVE THE COMMENTS!). Rarely does my browser contain only one tab. On my days home with Sam, you can often find me juggling a book, a cup of tea, a laundry basket and a water bottle (gotta stay hydrated) while attempting to pacify the baby at the same time. I’ve been known to answer the door while in the middle of a skype conversation and to make a phone call while changing Sam’s diaper (a distraction which he protested in the messiest of ways). As a result, my mind is rarely on what I’m doing. Plus, it’s impossible to get things DONE.

This is not efficiency. This isn’t even respectful. What’s worse, I’ve realized that I’m putting Sam in a situation wherein he must compete with my cell phone for my full attention. (Maybe that’s why he keeps trying to eat it when I’m not looking…) No baby, no BODY, should have to fight that battle.

So, today I begin an experiment: the One Thing At A Time Challenge. I’m going to resist the urge to do multiple tasks at once and will try to focus on one. thing. at. a. time. Obviously, this challenge allows for things like emptying the dishwasher while the water boils and having story time simultaneously with the running of the washing machine. Automated tasks don’t count.

I’ll let you know how it goes. At the moment, the only other tab open besides WordPress is my email, and that’s progress!

Out of the Mouths of Babes

One is Not Enough

For some reason, obvious truths always seem twice as profound when a small child points them out. You know what I mean: people collect books of pithy remarks delivered by five year olds and pastors routinely interpret a child’s childishness as revealing a deep spiritual truth. And kids CAN remind us of important truths or offer refreshing perspectives. I don’t doubt that. What I’m wondering, though, is what sort of take-away I ought to be gleaning from this:

What’s the message here? Gluttony will get you in the end? Multi-tasking is NOT such a great idea? Pursue simplicity?

How would YOU interpret this one?

And Just How Is This Supposed to Work?

One of the challenges I’m facing as a new mother (he’s 9 months old: can I still claim to be “new” at this?) is figuring out how to respond faithfully and responsibly to the What Ifs that Sam has introduced to my life. While he’s much more hardy and capable than he was last spring, Sam is still so physically vulnerable, and it seems like the world is a maze of dangerous situations and hazardous materials. And I know that children grow, and that some day he’ll have the walking thing down and the reason necessary to avoid most obvious perils. But what if someone bullies him? Or a girl breaks his heart? Or, God forbid, he starts driving?! It never ends.

Most days, I can keep the fear under control. But every now and then we’ll have a close call (none serious–yet) or a troubling incident (which was probably nothing) that shatters my illusions of control over his small, precious life. And then I wonder: Does this anxiety grow exponentially with each additional child? How do parents with large families handle the stress? How does Michelle Duggar set foot outside the house, not to mention deal with attention from the national media and its potential effects on her children?

As a teacher, I’ve seen the kind of damage caused by “helicopter parents”, the ones who hover in the background and swoop in to save their child from any difficult situations or negative consequences. Their children become habitual complainers who cannot handle criticism or deal effectively with disappointment or setbacks. Generally, they’re unpleasant and unhappy.

I don’t want that kind of life for my son: I want to teach my children to handle difficulties with wisdom instead of fear. I want to take the Love and Logic route. But I can’t do that as long as my own choices are based on the worried what-ifs. And, truthfully, I AM free from a lot of the worries that plague other mothers I know: I don’t sanitize Sam’s pacifier every time he drops it, and I don’t require people to wash their hands before touching him. Germ risks don’t bother me. (Much.) It’s the things you can’t calculate, random things like falls and SIDS and car accidents that make me catch my breath.

So, experienced parents out there, how do you handle the risks inherent in raising a child? How do you know when to follow the caution of our Just-In-Case culture and when to (responsibly) let go? More importantly, how do you handle the fear when you have so much to lose?

Daily Bread

Not exactly perfect, but definitely much more successful than other recipes I've tried at 6k feet!

My attempts at baking bread at 6000 feet have produced mixed results. All along, my goal has been to create a healthy, hearty sandwich bread that toasts well and doesn’t have the consistency of lead. While I’m not there yet, I think I’ve found a new path to pursue with this book: Artisan Bread In Five Minutes A Day.

Their premise is simple: wet dough keeps well in the refrigerator and, if you make a large batch, you can have it handy for baking fresh loaves every other day or so. I started yesterday with their basic recipe for a French boule. I only made a half-batch, enough for two small loaves, because of my deeply ingrained fear of failure. (No use in wasting even MORE flour.) Though I followed their directions perfectly, I was disappointed by how little rise I saw in the dough after three hours. But, trusting that my husband will eat anything I make for him, I kept going.

The baking process is a tiny bit more complicated than for regular loaf bread: it requires a pizza stone (finally giving this under-used wedding gift a job!) and a broiler rack with water (? I don’t know what this is, but I filled a cookie sheet with hot water and that seemed to work.) The book gives clear step-by-step instructions–including frequent reminders NOT TO WORRY, which I appreciate–and I was pleasantly surprised by how much it rose in the oven. The steam from the broiler rack (or cookie tray)  creates a great crisp crust, too.

The book includes recipes for sandwich breads and whole wheat breads, which I plan to try next. Colorado friends, check out these high altitude baking tips before you start–I wish I had! (By the way, the Colorado Springs public library has multiple copies of the book) Overall, the process is SIGNIFICANTLY easier than other yeast breads I’ve tried. Plus, the satisfaction of smelling your own bread baking is, of course, priceless.

New Friends and Strangers

I’ve never been what you might call “out-going.” It’s not that I don’t like meeting new people, exactly…it’s just that old friends are so much more comfortable. In fact, I can count on one hand the number of call-up-anytime-friends I’ve made in the four years I’ve lived in Colorado Springs. This is, of course, my own darn fault: There’s no shortage of wonderful people here, though nothing compares to the density of awesome minds and souls that one can find in a certain small town in south-central Michigan… I’ve just been lazy about pursuing deeper relationships, falling back on a sequence of easy excuses (I’m engaged! I’m planning a wedding! I’m pregnant! I’ve got a newborn!) to justify my lack of initiative.

Friend-dating is almost as stressful as real dating: I always feel that I have to try to seem smarter, holier, and more fashionable than I actually am, anxiously awaiting the inevitable moment of truth when they discover my myriad flaws. Plus, it’s hard to find women who are comfortable with the special kind of gross that comes with raising an infant (“Um…I think your son has some, uh, green stuff? On his head?”)

While I’m slowly taking steps to develop a few new friendships here in the Springs (watch out: you’re next!), I’ve recently noticed that this reluctance to make new friends is reflected in my reading choices, as well. A couple of weeks ago, Zach and I joined the mob of looters at our local Borders and even the prospect of trying out something new at 90% off wasn’t enough to lure me out of my comfort zone. I walked away with Alexander’s Bridge by Willa Cather (her earliest work, really depressing and doesn’t sound like her at all, but has a great introduction about finding one’s literary voice), a copy of The Pearl by John Steinbeck (which I didn’t finish, as a scorpion stings the baby in the first chapter and, frankly, John, I am just not willing to see where you’re gonna take that),  and–the kicker—a copy of a book that I ALREADY OWN because I might want to give it as a gift sometime.

Fortunately, my husband keeps an eye on reputable websites that recommend good books and the other day he brought home a copy of Father Elijah by Michael D. O’Brien. Now, Mike has a  few strikes against him from the start: he’s still alive (not that I begrudge him a healthy life span–I’m just accustomed to dead authors), he’s Canadian (kidding!) and he has spoken out against Harry Potter, who is quite dear to my heart. Nevertheless, I decided to give him a try after watching Zach devour his 500 pg novel in a matter of days.

In short, He’s phenomenal.

Father Elijah was a little too apocalyptic for my tastes, but I suppose that I’ll have to retract that criticism as it is, after all, about the apocalypse. But not at all like the Left Behind series, I promise!  I loved O’Brien’s depiction of the priest: so complex and human, while still maintaining a genuine respect. His descriptions of an unnamed Pope are uncanny, especially considering the book’s publication date.

But it was the second novel in O’Brien’s “Children of the Last Days” series that really hooked me. Strangers and Sojourners follows the life of an intelligent English woman named Anna as she discovers love, life, and God in the wilderness of British Columbia. The story expands to include her children and her grandchildren as well, showing how the sins and graces of an individual trickle down through the generations. O’Brien tells it beautifully, often using Anna to voice truths about marriage and motherhood that resonated with me for days. In fact, I identified so closely with Anna early on that I had to intentionally step back from the book for a little while when, later in her life, she makes some decisions that were a little emotionally traumatizing for me!

All said, I’m glad to have discovered this new writer, and am happy to insist that you read him, too. (And if you don’t have the time, feel free to send more of his books my way, and I’ll read them for you.)

Autumn in Colorado

You fill the hollow of my arm, child, bundled snug against the drafty night. Fingers no longer tiny, but still small, quiver delicately at your cheek. Your little hands are always the last part of you to feel the weight of sleep.

And just who are you, Samuel?

Son of mine with serious eyes, yet so often taken with inexplicable delight, what kind of man will you become? Tall–this much is certain–and observant, I suspect. Perhaps you’ll have a thoughtful face, the sort that surprises with a ready smile.

Small hands startle at the thunder, and eyebrows lift but cannot raise the lids of your sleepy baby eyes:  rain has been falling all day, and the chill of autumn seeps into this old house. Your first winter is coming, Sam, and what are we going to do if you won’t keep your socks on?

Tonight I can pretend you are mine, cuddled close and warm. But in truth, you are you own self, and have been from the start. To think I was so eager for your birth, for you to be out in the world so I could meet you, see you. And then to realize that once outside of me, you must continue to remove until we are separate. Is this, then, the curse of Eve?

These are the days of holding on, of a blessed but too-short dependency. You feel no discomfort that I cannot soothe, my darling child. When you wake at night, afraid or lonely, you know I will attend to your cry. As relieved as I am to put you to bed at the end of a busy day, I miss you while you’re sleeping.

Women write of letting go. To me, the phrase has always evoked the image of a grasping clutch relaxed, a controlling vise released: a grudging, reluctant bestowal of freedom. Now I know that we grip our children close not to persist in an illusion of ownership, but because the heart breaks to send them from the security of our arms to face danger and pain unprotected. Because, Samuel, no matter how strong and tall you become, I know it is this image of you sleeping, peaceful, fragile, that will hover in my mind when you set out to conquer the world.

Limited

This past  weekend, Zach and I spent an evening watching a Bradley Cooper movie called Limitless. It wasn’t a spectacular film and the ending was all wrong, so don’t take this as a recommendation. Nevertheless, the premise is worth a mention.

The story line follows a fellow named Eddie as a new mind-enhancing drug allows him to transform himself from a greasy-haired sci-fi writer who never writes to a charming, brilliant Wall Street sensation in a matter of days. This renewing of his mind is depicted nicely in the film: his grey, dismal New York City suddenly glows as he becomes able to see, synthesize, and explain everything he glimpses. This drug affects his memory, as well: every latent, subconscious fact becomes available and organized. A word he encountered once twenty years ago is now part of his working vocabulary. He can quote passages from a book he flipped through in a waiting room. If he plays a Rosetta Stone program while he sleeps, he wakes up fluent in Mandarin. Every particle of his brain is active. He assimilates information instantly; he solves the trickiest problems in a matter of seconds.

Watching this character gain such a degree of mental illumination was strangely moving for me. As Eddie realized his intellectual potential by writing a book in 48 hours and making millions in the stock market, all I could think was “Ohh…that’s how it was before I got pregnant!”

And, yes, that’s an exaggeration, but compared with the fog that presently clouds my mind, I was pretty much a genius two years ago. These days, I feel so dull, so slow. It’s a challenge to come up with conversation over dinner. Even planning dinner is a challenge: I have to read through a recipe 4 or 5 times in the process of making a loaf of bread. I had to look up Limitless online because I had already forgotten the main character’s name. Nothing sticks.

This fog and frustration are no doubt caused / exacerbated by the fact that at five and a half months, Sam is still not sleeping through the night. Sure, there have been half a dozen miraculous nights when he didn’t wake up howling, but even then Zach and I would lie in bed wondering if he was still breathing.  He was so close at four months, but things have gone downhill lately. This morning, over breakfast a 5am, Zach said he felt like he didn’t get more than 20 minutes of rest together all night. I don’t know how he can handle five preps this year: even teaching part time is a struggle for me.

Naturally, I find myself wondering if I’m ever going to be the sort of calm, confident, capable mother who patiently listens to her infant wail for hours on end. I can’t let Sam cry it out. What’s more, I don’t want to. I hate the idea of my baby alone and unhappy in the dark. But we both need more rest and I don’t know what to do.

Motherhood is wonderful in so many ways, but I long for the energy and mental wherewithal that I’ve lost. Will I ever find it again?