I'll have to finish this later....

Well, the baby has started toddlin' about the house; at 11 months, she is my earliest walker.  And boy, she is getting the hang of it rather quickly -- moving around from one piece of furniture to the next and going into what we call "destructo mode".   I watch her little mind work when she sees something new to discover:  "Hmmm....what's this?  A drawer to open?  Oh wow, what fun!  Clothes that are all neatly folded.  Wouldn't it be fun to just take them each out one by one and throw them on the floor?  I love it!"

In the kitchen, she's a regular Dora the Explorer:  Her favorite cabinet is the corner one in which we store all the odd shaped cups that we all collect.  Each one has a specific memory attached to it, so it's hard to let go of some of these treasures.  There's the mongo-sized zoo cup with its companion sippy straw that costs us about $6.00 to buy (Who would part with a six dollar cup?).  The three huge water mugs are a favorite of mine -- you know, the ones you get from the maternity ward?  I'm not getting rid of those; they're my trophies from the hospital!  And, of course, there's all the water bottles; the odd shaped bowling pin water bottle from that super fun bowling party is a fave!

Well, little Dora explores this cabinet every single day, pulling out all the cups and bottles and banging them on the floor, creating a cacophony of noise.  At some point -- actually, at several points -- throughout the day, I pick it all up and put it back in the cabinet.  Yes, it would be easier to get some kind of latch on this corner cabinet, but I'm one of those gals who would rather say, "Curses, you bowling pin water bottle!" at least five times a day.  I don't know -- there's just something really cathartic about shaking one's fist at a water bottle!

So, I spend a lot time these days picking up, closing drawers and cabinets, and removing baby from potentially dangerous situations.  It's that time of baby-hood that I call the "I'll-have-to-finish-this-later" time of life.  Any project I undertake gets finished later...much later.  We're not talking a week later; we're talking months (maybe even a year later).  In fact, as I write this entry to my fledgling blog, I am realizing that the baby is actually almost 13 months old -- which means this entry has taken me over a month to compose!   Isn't that great?  I mean it.  No false sincerity here!

The reason I call this time of life "great" is because this baby -- with her cute little giggle and spunky little nature -- is keeping me humble and focused on what's really important.  She helps me continue to recognize the true hierarchy of values:  that having a picture perfect home is lovely, but is NOT the most important thing....that having all my photos perfectly organized is a nice thing, but NOT the most important thing....that having the garage organized would be awesome, but again, NOT the most important thing. And honestly, this is so hard for me.  I need a cute baby to remind me of these lessons.  Our Lord knows I would get caught up in making my home and its perfection an end in itself instead of the means to the end.

Given the fact that Advent awaits around the corner, I would say God's timing to remind of these things is well, perfect!   After all, it is union with the Incarnate God that we await.  His coming into the world and into our lives each Advent is just a foretaste of the joy of that union at the end of our lives.  Recognizing this keeps me motivated to make a good Advent.  I want to work harder to ground myself in faith and keep that proper perspective in place.  I pray that during this season, as God uses my vocation as wife and mother as a reality check, that I am "awake" and ready to hear him.

Are you pregnant?

There I was standing in the kitchen, arms folded, leaning back, shoulders in their "back pockets" as the trainers at our gym say, when my beautiful blond haired athlete of a daughter starts staring at me.  I look at her eyes and realize she isn't making eye contact.  Her eyes have planted their gaze under my folded arms, right at my midsection.  I see in her face a question forming.  Her mind is turning over, cranking out the data she sees in front of her and interpreting it in her little head, drawing her own eight year old conclusions.

Yes, you know what's coming:  it's that question, that one question that can be so wonderful and terrible all at the same time.  It's that one question we ladies ask only if we are sure of the answer.  It's that one question men don't ask at all for fear that they would be wrong and insult the lady in question.  But for a child, their innocent minds operate so "clean".  They observe, they process the information, and they output a conclusion in split seconds.  No complexities, no nuances, no subtleties over social norms about which to worry.  In short, there is no filter to remind them that what enters their mind may be better left unsaid.  

So, yes, my daughter asked that question, popping it out with all the candor and frank quality that would be expected from an older person:  "Mom," she says, as she points to my tummy, "are you pregnant?!"  

I am startled and look down to the place her finger is pointing, "No, Cici,"  I begin, chuckling along, "that's my pooch!  That's what's leftover after having six babies."  

"Really?  You aren't pregnant?" she reasons that the data she sees before her (a small -- well, pretty small pooch) must mean that mom is pregnant.  She must be pregnant, right?  Women don't just have little bumps on their tummies, do they?

"Really, Cici.  I'd tell you if I were pregnant.  Unfortunately, my tummy got really stretched out and so I've got this little bump."

"Well, ok, but you look pregnant."  And off she goes, tra-la-la-la-la, to make more observations in the household!

"Ummm, well, thanks, Cici."  Hmmm...I look down at that 'pretty small' pooch.  It isn't that big, is it?

"Really?  I really look pregnant?"  I mumble to myself.  "Gosh, I work out enough and watch my food intake pretty good.  Shouldn't that pooch be smaller?  OUCH!  That one stings a little."

Later that day, my husband arrives on the scene, trying to grab an afternoon snack.  I sidle up to him next to the kitchen island and innocently ask that one question.  Of course, I try to come off really natural:  "Hey, Hon, do I look pregnant?"  (Yeah, I know, I can work on the 'natural' part.)

"No, no, no...you're not getting me to answer this one.  Not a chance.  You look great!"

"A nice safe comeback, but you didn't answer the question."

"I'm not going to answer that one; it's like that other question:  'Does this outfit make me look fat?'"

"No really, I'm not going to get upset.  It's just that Cici asked me if I were pregnant and I was surprised, so I thought I'd get a second opinion."

"I've got some work to do.  I'll let her know not to ask that question anymore."  Alex exits quickly from the kitchen.

This comedic moment in my day did get me thinking (yes, it doesn't take much for a melancholic to get philosophical) about the emphasis our culture puts on our bodies and how much it rubs off on us in spite of our best attempts to keep our perspectives in check.

For example, on occasion I have been told that I "look great" and then the phrase "for having six kids" gets tacked on.  I smile and say thank you because I understand that the person means it as a compliment -- no disingenuous intent.  And I am really thankful because it feels good to hear the hard work at the gym is paying off.  But at times (maybe when I am in a grumpy, sleep deprived state), I do get the urge to say:  "What do you expect me to look like with six kids?  Is there is some stock image look of 'woman with six kids'.  Is she larger because the number of children she has?  Is she unkempt because she has such a brood to raise?  Is she proportionate everywhere except in the tummy?" Yes, on those grumpy, sleep deprived days, I can read more into a compliment, and it can get me feeling self-conscious about my body.

That's typically when I feel those interior nudges from heaven reminding me to shift my focus to my beautiful children.  I can hear all those saints and angels cheering me on reminding me:  "Your vision is too short sighted, Carla!  Open your eyes!!!  You know that it's not the girlish figure that makes a woman beautiful.  It's those sacrifices a woman makes to bear life.  She gains a beauty all her own because she has nurtured a new life into the world.  When that little person enters this world and looks to Mommy, those sweet eyes don't stare at the stretched tummy and disheveled hair; they just receive her love -- drinking it in and returning it back.  Drink in that love and enjoy it now because this time is so fleeting."

"Yes, I know," I answer back interiorly.  I think of that lil' baby girl that smiles brightly at me each day and brings such joy to our home.  I think of my bigger Cici and her unfiltered question that allowed me to reflect on the beauty of motherhood.  Isn't it so much like a child to teach us humility?  And isn't it so much like God to use them to draw us closer to the intangibles that last?  Sometimes I wonder who is growing up more:  me or them?  

Musings on gentleness

I have a meditation that has been posted on my desk for quite awhile from Magnificat.  It's a reflection on gentleness.  It is a much needed virtue in our rowdy household -- starting with Mom at the top of the list.  Gentleness is something with which I struggle on a regular basis.  I struggle to be gentle with myself, expecting myself to be and do things that often God himself doesn't expect of me.  You know, that little devil of perfectionism!  And, of course, if I'm doing that to myself, then you know it can be and is projected onto the family as well.  So...thinking about gentleness and trying to remember the gentleness of Jesus is key to my life and maintaining peace of heart and soul.  (A good work out, a good laugh, and a glass of wine can help, too! :)

But I love a few lines in this short meditation by Louis Lavelle.  I'm going to just share a few of them here:


"Gentleness is active good will towards other men, not for what they are only, but for what they might be."  

Gentleness is the active good will towards other men for what they might be...not for what they are already.  Hmm...I often have to remember this in reference to my children.  It's not so hard with the little people,  because well, they are just so little and so innocent (most of the time) about their mischief.  But as the children have gotten older and are reaching those middle school years,  I begin to expect more from them, and I find it harder to be gentle with them in their difficult moments.  I have to pause and think about the fact that I must guide their reasoning and thinking.  I see this the most with my daughters as they grow.  Talking with the girls has become much more important in the last year.  Talking, talking, and talking...there is a lot of talking to work out problems with siblings, problems with school, problems with friendships.  It seems like we talk a lot about how we feel and how to reign in on our feelings when they get out of whack, disproportionate, over-the-top, and IMPASSIONED!  It can be cumbersome at times, but I believe it is necessary in order to teach my daughters how to understand their feelings and how to manage them.  It's easy to just let ourselves indulge in moodiness and not recognize that we can really help ourselves.  It's a lesson I did not learn as a young person and the result is that I have to learn this as an adult, which unfortunately, is more difficult.  

"Gentleness enables us to accept all the laws of our human condition, and in so doing, to rise superior to them.  He who revolts against these laws shows how deeply he resents them and is their slave, but he who accepts them in a spirit of gentleness penetrates through them, and fills them with light."

I find this point an antidote for the perfectionism that can trip me up so easily.  Isn't it such a paradoxical truth:  In accepting the laws of our human condition, its weakness, its imperfection...then somehow in really allowing that truth to seep into the soul...we become gentler.  I often want to revolt against my own limitations and the limitations of others.  I want to be able to do it all and have it all and to have it all wrapped up in a Hallmark card.  But the Hallmark card is just an image...when the card gets opened isn't there the runny nose and the wrinkled shirt, the cranky kid, the tired husband, the moody teenager?  I want to revolt against this!  I want to yell out loud that it shouldn't be this way!  This is not fair!  I want to give my commands about how things "should" be.  But that just isn't reality.  And if in that moment I can, by the grace of Holy Spirit, reflect, take a deep breath and realize that by accepting this reality in all its limitations, then I can deal with it and actually begin to enjoy the ride.  The self imposed pressure to be some perfect image melts.  Of course, it doesn't mean everyone is magically cooperative and peaceful.  It just means my approach is more peaceful, even more playful, and with this I hope that a spirit of gentleness "penetrates through them, filling them with light."

And finally...my favorite part that I read and reread:


"True gentleness is so considerate, so tactful, and so active that, when we meet it, we are always astonished that it can do us so much good, while at the same time apparently giving us nothing."

Isn't this just so poignant and so TRUE?  I have a met a few souls in my life that radiate this type of gentleness (in fact, I am thinking of one particular woman right now that is in my life).  Anytime I have had a moral, spiritual, parenting dilemma, she has been an open ear to hear me out and mull over things with me.  She has this grace of being able to speak to me with such an active presence -- an active love -- that my heart expands and relaxes in her presence.  I am able to hear difficult truths from her (like maybe how to handle a hard situation) without feeling anxious or judged.  I go home, return to my world with a little more pep in my step, not realizing right away the reason why my heart is more light.  It seems like it's hours later in the middle of making dinner or folding laundry that I'll have this "a-ha" moment and recognize that I just encountered the gentleness of Jesus in her.  I find myself surprised by the beauty of God's goodness to me, how it slips up on me with such a quiet joy.

I suppose I should not be surprised by His goodness at this point in my faith journey, but it does.  It really does.  Sigh!

I have a chaotic life

I regularly think about my life with six children of a wide range of ages, living in the throes of contemporary society, engaging the culture while maintaining our Catholic identity.  But lately I've been really thinking about my life in terms of its chaos.  Of course, it didn't help that a doctor with whom we have been working has casually mentioned the chaos of our life in the last three visits to his office.  I mean, he doesn't say it in a derogatory way; it's barely a blip in the conversation.  In fact, the chaos of my life wasn't even the main point of the discussions we were having.  It was just a passing comment, no pause, no inflection to indicate he wished to make a point...just four little words that rolled off his tongue as he moved on to the main point:  "You know, the house is chaotic and blah, blah, blah....."

Isn't it poignant that those four words are the ones I remember in the conversation:  "...[T]he house is chaotic...."  These words struck a nerve, and I began to analyze, ruminate and wonder to myself and God:  "Is my house that chaotic with all these kids?  Did he mean that in a bad way, a reflection on me and my ability to organize or create a calm home for these children?  Or was he just stating a fact like anyone with six kids is going to have chaos?"  Clearly, it really didn't matter how this doctor meant his 4 little words; I was taking them as a springboard into the analysis of my life.  So I ruminated on:

"Is it just chaotic looking because he's secular and can't see beyond having 2.1 children?  Or do we really look like we're barely holding on when we come through the office?  What do other people see?  What does the check out girl in Sam's Club see?  Kids sitting in the basket with forgotten shoes because after dropping off the girls to piano, I didn't think ahead that I could use the time to go pick up swim diapers.  So I just go even though the boys jumped in the seats without shoes. Ouch!  Have I been living so chaotically that I don't even realize how chaotic it looks?"

And then all of a sudden I stop and realize how vulnerable I am feeling, how self-conscious I am about my "chaotic life" with my six children:  "Who do I think I am...this gal that grew up as an only child having six kids.  My neat, ordered childhood turned upside down as an adult?  I mean, really, Carla, were you nuts?"

At some point between the vulnerability and the recognition of my own history as an only child, the Holy Spirit seems to nudge me gently..."Yes, you...that only child that managed to overcome a lot of selfishness and open her heart to six beautiful children...yes, Carla, you.  Those precious children and all the "chaos" that goes with them are transforming you, expanding your heart in ways you can't always see..."  I felt the warmth of  the smile of the Heavenly Father and the corners of my mouth upturned.  In my heart I could see his gentle and supportive glance, and a peace rested my anxious mind.  My shoulders squared up a little more, and I felt a surge of pride in my beautiful family:  "Come on, Carla, you know who you are and what you are about."  I chuckled at myself and how four small words could entangle my heart into such a snare.

I do have a chaotic life.  What can I say?  Eight people living in a home, well, it gets nutty at times....but it comes with free kisses, hugs, pictures of flowers, bees, and rainbows, blankies, and binkies.  The beauty of the love that comes through each day outshines the chaos...in fact, I would even go so far to say that the chaos adds to the delight and charm of this beautiful life.

Another Tired Morning

Well, it's another tired morning in a house with a wee one:  We woke up to screams from a hungry baby, whom my beloved husband always gets from the crib down the hall and brings to me.  He's always done this since the first one -- saying, "Well, if she's going to nurse them, then I'll at least bring them to her."  (I know, he's really a wonderful guy.  Or maybe it's just that I sleep like a log and never hear them, so he figures they'll starve if he doesn't get them...Nah!  He's really just a great guy!) And once he picks her up, all goes quiet.  Her daddy has picked her up with his big strong arms.  She's secure and content.  Then he brings her to our bedroom.  In my raspy morning voice, I motion to him, saying, "Put her on this side, Hon..." and then Miss Pumpkin does it.  She lets out the biggest squeal of joy as if to say, "It's my MOMMY!"  The voice of my husband rescuing her from the jail, oops, I mean, crib, doesn't get this high pitched of a squeal.  My grumbling, gritty, morning voice gets this squeal!  What a joy!  I can't get over the fact that for the next few months, I will be a star (once again) in one of my children's lives all because I feed her.  It's a fleeting time, these baby months in which Mom is number 1 -- but I eat it up every time (no pun intended).  And it makes that tired, groggy feeling turn into one of those warm fuzzy moments that keep you going everytime.