I've Got to Change

As a mother of four sons, ages 19-24, I found Sean McVeigh’s book, I’ve Got to Change, invaluable. Moms always want to help their kids, but as those “kids” grow older and begin to think that they know it all, it is much harder to reach them, much harder to influence their actions. This becomes the time when most Catholic moms buff their rosary beads more diligently, praying more fervently to Mary, God and guardian angels to watch over their could-be-rebellious children. Praying often takes the place of doing.

Most of what teenagers and young adults see is mass marketed to them through the Internet and video games. The average young Joe does not watch EWTN. The average Joe listens to his peers. And we all know how scary that can be.

I first met Sean McVeigh at a Catholic marketing convention. Here was this young man with a mission: to see to it that others would learn from his mistakes and turn from their risky behavior, thus becoming closer to God.

His spiel sold me; I bought his book. I set it on the coffee table telling my four sons that I met the author, and would very much like them to read his book. The book sat there. A few ruffled its pages. It sat there some more. Then I put I’ve Got to Change on a shelf. I’d wanted to ram it down their throats, but they were having none of that. So I waited.

And then one day one of my sons’ world shattered. I knew he’d be fine, but he didn’t believe it. Why would he believe me, his mom? I couldn’t possibly know what he was going through.

But I knew someone who did! I trotted out I’ve Got to Change and put it on the table next to him. He sat on the couch all day long reading Sean’s book. I let Sean do the talking. I was thankful that his words did what I couldn’t do at the moment. I’ve never been a guy! How do I know what guys feel? Sean used a tragedy in his life to begin his conversion, and felt passionate enough about his changes to want other young people to know that they, too, could choose the right path.

Buy I’ve Got to Change by Sean McVeigh, available at www.catholicguestspeaker.com, read it and “carelessly” leave the book under your child’s cell phone, next to the gaming system or on his or her bed. Praying is great, but doing is better. Do this for your son or daughter. It’s another tool in your mom arsenal. You’ll be glad you did.

Bubbles Burst

Many years ago as a 14-year-old freshman in high school I played a part in our school’s production of Fiddler on the Roof. Oh, how I wanted to land the part of the youngest daughter. I sang “Matchmaker” over and over, practiced my pantomime and rehearsed a reading. And I got a part! As a lowly freshman I was not cast in a prime role, but I did get a role, that of Mirala. Thus began my love of musical productions.

This afternoon Fiddler played on TCM and I had the entire living room to myself. Not quite sure how that happened, but I loved it and took full advantage of it. I dusted everywhere and arranged my knickknacks that I’d hidden away since before Christmas putting them all back onto my shelves. As I was doing so I thought of another movie – The Quiet Man with John Wayne and Maureen O’Hara. Remember when Maureen O’Hara longs to have her things about her? I felt happiness as I looked around and saw mine. A woman needs pretty things about her. Living with these five men hasn’t exactly given me a frilly lifestyle, but some touches I do enjoy and, quite possibly, crave. I feel better knowing that my things are “about me” again.

Back to Fiddler. I adore the songs and found myself singing along to most. I remembered every word to "Matchmaker," feeling like a teenager once more. And then toward the end of the movie my teenaged bubble burst. Tevye and his wife began singing “Do You Love Me?” You know, old Tevye and old Golde singing about life together after 25 years. I’ve been married 26! Do I feel as old as they look? Yikes!

Where did the time go? Life seems to spin by. Why is that? What made it so? I have no answers – just questions.

Wuthering Heights is on in a couple of hours. I’ll fancy myself as Cathy pining over Heathcliff until I see some old maid or housekeeper who’ll be portrayed as so very old, you know, like 50, all wrinkled up with her hair in a bun, her life nearly over. Ugh! I want to be Cathy in the pretty ball gown. I do. I do. I do.

Inspiration

Webster’s New World Thesaurus defines “inspiration” as “a stimulant to creative activity.” I would have to agree. I just hung up from a CatholicMom.com Writers’ Roundtable – a conference call where Lisa Hendey, founder of CatholicMom, corralled her columnists for an hour. We introduced ourselves, and shared a little about our writing and future aspirations.

And it was great!

I have often sung the praises of the Internet’s ability to unite moms. Lisa informed us that CatholicMom.com reached mothers in 100 countries last year. How awesome is that?

Awesome and exciting! And I was a part of it.

Let’s face it, as moms we don’t exactly garner applause for our efforts. Our rewards usually come to us more subtly. Likewise for aspiring writers. A comment here, a review there. So when I had the chance to hear fellow Catholic writer moms (and one dad) voice their opinions I felt nestled among kindred spirits. Some of these writers are just beginning. One woman referred to herself as “just a mom.” CRINGE! But I know exactly how she feels; I’ve been there. But no matter where we all are we know we are among friends.

To end the call we voiced our special prayer intentions. And I got choked up! I really did. An hour earlier, most were total strangers. Suddenly I am praying for others' intentions, fervently hoping that God keeps each one safely in the palm of His hand. Now I continue down life’s continuum with not only the names and headshots of aspiring and established Catholic writers, but their voices as well, to inspire me along my own journey.

*A special thank you to Lisa Hendey for all her efforts.

Comfort Food

The snow is “falling” sideways, the temperatures inside the house attest to what’s coming in the forecast for the outside, and I have stuffed peppers simmering on the stove. Comfort food. Such desperate times call for comfort food. Stuffed peppers, whipped potatoes and corn – direct menu handed down from my mom all those years ago. Others of her favorites, consequently our whole family’s favorites, were beef stew, meatloaf, and apple pie. Yum! I think every bit of food my mom ever made was comfort food; it sure was comforting to my sister, my brothers and me – and I shouldn’t forget my dad! Oh, how we loved dinnertime.

A dinner “time” is lacking in too many families these days. To sit down and share the day’s activities is very important, but most don’t realize just how important until it’s gone. And those who’ve never had the pleasure of sitting down with family around a table don’t know what they’ve missed. I may lament the fact that we six rarely are home at the same time anymore, but that’s the direction life has taken us. We do remember and on occasion we are all together – on the best occasions.

Tonight around the Locher table it shall probably be only three or four, but that’s better than one or two. I count my blessings these days. I think I’ll set the table with cloth napkins (how very June Cleaver-like!) and set a pretty candle in the middle. We can be the warmth in the cold as we eat and tell each other all about our days. Time to stir the peppers or they’ll burn.

Pockets of Joy

Pockets of joy. Similar to silver linings, I suppose, but more prevalent in day-to-day living. Take yesterday. Really, please take it. Keep it. :) Yesterday did have its unexpectedly good moments – the pockets of joy sprinkled here and there.

Like the very fact that I didn’t have to take my 90-year-old mother to the doctor by myself. My mom can walk only a short distance without getting terribly out of breath. At home she’s on oxygen but can manage without it for a few hours. However, her legs have given out on her. We walk from seat to seat to get to our destinations.

So, how positively wonderful when my sister-in-law first offered to accompany us! Of course, the first mom-ingrained thought when offered the help was, Oh no, I can do it alone. You don’t have to miss work. But she persisted and I accepted. And thank God I did. It was just such an immense burden taken off my shoulders. A burden shared doesn’t seem so heavy.

My mom and I were dropped off at the doctor’s door rather then searching for a parking space and walking more than was necessary, and we were picked up afterward. All good. Having a second set of ears listening to the doctor was invaluable. My last pocket of joy was when we three enjoyed a much-needed lunch together. My mom ordered her favorite drink – an orange blossom – probably her sole pocket of joy of the day!

Today we repeat yesterday with different destinations – mammogram and ultrasound…and maybe lunch again. Who knows? Today, moms, I wish you all pockets of joy in your overly scheduled mom lives. Cheers! (An orange blossom is orange juice with gin, in case you’re wondering.)

Prayers, Please

Have you ever had one of those days when all you want to do is soak in a hot tub? Or fly somewhere warm and cozy? How about time traveling backward or forward? Today would be one of those days for me. An anywhere-but-here-and-now philosophy. Although there were good parts to this day the underlying fact is that I took my mom to the doctor and tomorrow they have scheduled her for a mammogram and ultrasound. Yeah, tomorrow. Definite urgency involved here. So we’ll see. Prayers, please.

11 Months Until Christmas

Christmas overwhelms. And by the time it does, it’s too late to do much about it. So we place a Band-Aid on the gushing wound, hope for the best and smile throughout December 25th. We unearth what happiness we can find falling to sleep exhausted. If this rings true, now is the time to do something about the Christmas chaos in our lives because in exactly 11 months we will be Merry Christmasing once more.

When I began writing this 365-day blog I had just endured Christmas. “Endured” is not the cheeriest word to characterize Christmas now, is it? But it’s honest, at least for me. (For more details see my January 13 blog entitled “I’ll Just Whisper It…Christmas.”) I did many things wrong last year, but a few things right. Something I need to remember next Christmas is that our basic family dynamic is not going to transform overnight on Christmas Eve. Pie-in-the-sky expectations hurt everyone. Overcompensating with presents is not the answer.

I feel that one answer to enjoying the holidays more fully is to begin enjoying every day now, working up slowly to experience the joy of Christmas. A more joyful family will bring more joy to the season. It’s not supposed to be about getting; Christmas should be about giving. I’ve said more than once in my writing that perhaps I haven’t taught my children the best ways to give. I’ve taught them how to receive by giving so much to them. Don’t get the wrong idea – my sons all have generous souls, but if I had it to do over, I would take my boys to the soup kitchen regularly instead of going alone. I would see that my sons chose a gift card from the giving tree at church and bought presents for someone in need instead of taking charge and doing it alone “in all our names.” I would give more to the needy and be sure that my kids did the same. Kids learn best hands-on – we all do.

A happy memory just popped into my head. For several years before Thanksgiving when my children were small, I would give them each $10.00 and we would walk around the grocery store searching for as much food as we could get for those less fortunate. Each boy was responsible for his own $10.00. And they loved that! I remember the careful thought each put into his choices. Then on Thanksgiving morning we would take the bags to morning Mass. I miss that time. But maybe by remembering I’ve hit on a clue. It’s never too late to give. We’re never too old to give. I think we just get lazy, complacent with our own lives forgetting that if we would share with others our own lives couldn’t help but be enriched.

Right now my boys have so many clothes they never wear it’s simply ridiculous. All over the place. I’ve surely lamented about lack of closets in our 1823 beauty of a house, right? I walk into their rooms and cringe. Yesterday I sorted through all kinds of junk in the space I’ve reclaimed for myself, and found that some of it wasn’t junk. Some of it could definitely be used by others which means that a Goodwill stop is in my future this week. Giving it away will make me feel good. Funny how that works, huh?

So for me, 11 months before Christmas I am not specifically thinking about the big day. I am thinking of all the little days that make up a life, that make up my family’s life. I am thinking of ways to make my family better, more giving. Today when my sons return from work and/or school they will be greeted with yet another chore list. But this one will have a two-fold purpose: Besides straightening a mess, let’s see how many clothes we can give to a person in need who would truly appreciate them.

My boys have already seen how I’ve cleaned up my bit of space upstairs, my Happy Place, as I jokingly refer to it. Leading by example seems to be a prerequisite for this mom job. I’ll talk it up at the dinner table, I’ll ask the boys to carry the bags to my car so they see and realize. I know my boys give. But I want them to give more, and not just around holidays. I’ll remind them of our pre-Thanksgiving shopping trips and go from there. It’s a good start. Wish me luck.

Time to Reboot

Why do I feel like spring is just around the corner? It’s not. It’s January in the Midwest. And it’s not just me. My friend who lives an hour away let her son play outside without a coat only realizing later it had been 36 degrees. I had to laugh when she told me. Are we kindred weather spirits? I couldn’t bear to don a coat today. A sweater did the trick; I wasn’t cold at all.

So what’s up? Mental global warming? A welcome optimism that my living room is back to its pre-Christmas state? Needles swept up, inch thick dust whisked away. Furniture re-arranged. I do love that real Christmas tree, but I also love it when the real tree goes bye-bye. Similar to owning a boat or a pool table. They serve a fun purpose, wear out their welcomes and sit in the yard, in the case of the boat, or hold piles of laundry, in the case of the pool table. We’ve had both boat and table.

As I’ve often said, I thrive on quiet, crave solitude. That Happy Place of mine upstairs (see January 15th Wish I May, Wish I Might post) is coming along. I have a definite maybe from my son to hang the drywall on Wednesday. Until then I must sort, sort, sort. The way I see it, everything I throw or give away leaves precious space for me, me, me. A little over a year ago, the roof was leaking terribly, hence the residual damage of recent falling plaster. After we replaced the roof I invoked eminent domain, and little by little this uninhabitable area exhibits more and more potential.

Like spring.

Mother Nature has cleared the snow. Tomorrow rain is forecast – a rejuvenating mask in the dead of winter. Come April we’ll all be sick of the rain, but now it’s a welcome diversion. As is my room upstairs.

Moms need time to reflect without distraction, to re-examine and refresh periodically. Otherwise, we’re always running on empty. And that’s bad for everyone concerned. This week I can be found enjoying the rain’s pitter patter above my head as I reclaim a bit of space and restore a bit of me.

Mom to the Rescue!

How many times have we moms been our children’s hero throughout his or her life? Kissing bruises, running forgotten lunches up to school, attending football games in monsoons? We feel special satisfaction when our children know exactly how much they mean to us and that we would do anything for them. What a feeling when our little one looks into our eyes with such love and gratitude. A definite perk of motherhood.

I haven’t kissed many bruises lately, my sons go to Subway now and sports are long gone. Do my boys still know I’d do anything for them? Do they know how deeply my love is rooted? Do they feel as attached to me as I to them? I wonder.
Or am I now simply the out-of-touch mom ready to be put out to pasture? The old-fashioned mom with the out-of-date values and beliefs? The disciplinarian who wrecks their fun?

“You’ve been playing that game for hours!”

“I don’t want to hear that word one more time!”

“Turn it down!”

“Where are you going?”

“Write down the phone number where you’ll be.”

Suffice it to say that none of them have registered a fan club in my honor. They love me. I know that, but at this time of our lives it’s more like ships passing in the night scraping hulls. And I have the loudest foghorn.

My son’s ship blew a gas line yesterday. He called to tell me what happened and that a co-worker had picked him up so he arrived at work on time. But his truck didn’t fair as well. I asked about towing which he said he could not afford. He’d “take care of it.” We hung up.

Hmmm…old Mom got to thinking…How? How are you going to take care of it? Are you going to fix the gas line lying in the road under your truck tonight after work when it’s dark? Maybe you can’t afford a tow, but I can!

I called three companies until I was quoted a reasonable price. I drove to my son’s work, grabbed his keys and met the tow truck guy who hooked up the truck and followed me home, depositing the broken down beauty in our driveway.

My ears nearly froze off, but I felt really happy. I like being needed. I liked giving more than was expected – surprising him. And my son truly appreciated it. This morning, in the light of day, in the safety of our driveway, my son fixed his truck and is good to go. And I got the chance to show him a fraction of how much I love him. I gave God to one whom God gave to me.

The Other Woman

The woman eager to meet the day. The woman who carefully selects her wardrobe and leisurely applies her make-up. The woman who curls her hair just so. The woman with light in her eyes anticipating the meeting. The woman singing along to her favorite songs in the car. The woman who smiles as she recognizes the familiar car in the parking lot. The woman who gives her hair one quick brush before entering the restaurant. The woman who welcomes with a kiss. Who talks and laughs and listens. Who is fully present in the moment never wishing the moment to end.

The other woman is me.

Clandestine rendezvous? Hardly! Just the hours every month when I forget me the mom to remember me the girl, me the woman, me the friend. I become the me I want to be once a month sitting across from my lifelong friend. No pretense. Nothing’s off limits. Shared tragedies elevate to comedies. Quandaries are solved. Hopeless drops the suffix. I smile all the way home knowing that I am loved by another human being unconditionally. And I start anticipating the next meeting in thirty days, a different restaurant, a different outfit, but the same friend.

*****

Yes, today was my Julie lunch – my human Margarita! If you missed my post of January 9th you may want to scroll down to take a look. I wish you all a Julie in your lives. :)

TV Therapy

I didn’t step out of my house all day long. Can’t remember the last time that happened. No make-up. No curling iron. Me à la naturelle. Hopefully, I didn’t scare my sons’ friends too badly this evening as they gathered here before going out. Oh, who cares?

What if “Who Cares?” were our mantra, ladies? I think I’d be happier. How about you?

I had but a few claims to fame today. I made dinner for no one. That sounds like I didn’t make dinner. I made dinner. For no one. Just me. No one was here. I knew it ahead of time, but I was hungry. Tuna Helper it was. Such a culinary masterpiece. I washed dishes and baked chicken for tomorrow. And I defrosted ground beef. Oh the exciting life I lead! However, my washer never stopped for 10 hours. Believe it or not, I do count the laundry as a major accomplishment. There was just so much of it.

By and large, I enjoyed a peaceful day (minus the blow-up and poison pen letter to my dear darlings). Ah the joys of motherhood. And at night all the men were gone. Do you comprehend the significance of that last statement? All the men were gone. Hip Hip Hooray! So I enjoyed all remaining recorded episodes of Being Erica and Gilmore Girls, culminating with the grand finale of the second season's premiere of Being Erica.

At one point in my night I sat at the computer thinking I really should be doing something constructive. “But what should it be?” I asked myself. Myself had no reasonable reply. I was chilly and beginning to think too much, which is a familiar trap of mine. Time to say, “Who cares?” When do I ever get the living room all to myself? Never.

I quickly abandoned the computer, cuddled under the afghan, and soaked in the wise words of Dr. Tom and Lorelai. I’m good to go for another day. TV therapy. Don’t knock it if you haven’t tried it.

Good Intention Gone Awry

Good intentions gone awry leave a person feeling kind of stupid. Such was the case this morning. First of all, waking up early was impossible as my son and I had stayed up playing the new Beatles Monopoly game last night. So I missed morning Mass. But I didn’t miss Bible Study, and in the course of our morning discussion our fearless leader told us all that he would have to cut our session short to fill in last minute for another priest at a funeral. I think “funeral” and I think “Mass.” First mistake of many. Our priest was concerned that this may be a sparsely-attended service, wondering if there’d be more than one person there. How sad. I kept thinking of that throughout Bible Study – to die with only one mourner. My friend Martha thought the same thing. So we hatched a plan.

After Father left Bible Study to get ready for the service, Martha and I decided we’d go to the church to fill up the cavernous space. This would take some of the sadness out of such a small showing as well as give our friend a bigger “audience” to address with his remarks. Now tell me, doesn’t that sound like a good idea?

Martha wanted to change her coat to look more presentable. No problem. Her house was nearby. I was wearing a sweatshirt under my coat so I borrowed a scarf to camouflage my casual attire. Neither of us had attended Mass that morning, and were looking forward to our little adventure together. We were off!

Since I wasn’t exactly sure where the church was I called one of my sons. He gave me directions. We arrived in plenty of time, but there were absolutely no cars in the church parking lot. Not a one. Not even Father's van which meant we were in the wrong place. Mistake #2. Is there another Catholic church in this small city? I didn’t know. Martha didn’t know. Back on the phone. Good old Google told us that yes, in fact, there was. But how to get there from where we were? My son talked me through the directions until we found church #2. With five minutes to spare.

No cars in this parking lot either. Oh geez! Mistake #3. What to do? What more could we do? We had tried. We’d tried our best. Sally would have only that one mourner. We headed toward home.

Why, oh why, did I have to recognize our priest’s van? Why didn’t I just keep my mouth shut and keep driving? But there it was - big as life. So we drove into the parking lot of a funeral home – not a church – which meant – not a Mass.

At a little past noon we ruminated in the parking lot. We were late. I didn't want to go in, because, let me tell you, there were many cars in this parking lot. Sally had friends and family. Plenty of them. So I began to drive out of the lot. An iced tea at a nearby restaurant sounded good to me. We'd found the wild goose at the end of our chase and she had a gaggle of geese about her. But nooooo, Martha said we may as well go in since we were already there. May as well go in since we were already there? To a funeral service in a small room, not a big church, for someone we don’t know at all? At that moment a root canal sounded more appealing.

But Martha is older than I. And she really thought it best to go in. Refusing would have been like saying no to my mom. Reluctantly, and I mean extremely reluctantly, we walked in. I made Martha go first. Ever the chicken am I!

We were late, our friend was eulogizing, and in we walked to a gathering of total strangers. What must Father have thought? Thank God there were two seats in the back right as we entered the room. I plunked down seeking invisibility. Short and sweet and soon it was over. But not completely over. Can you guess what’s coming? The last goodbye walk past the casket. There was no way I was doing it. I was not risking a mistake #4. As it was right then, no one else but the two funeral directors really noticed our untimely entrance. What would we say if family or friends stopped to inquire as to who we were? “Oh, we’re just funeral crashers. We were afraid no one would be here so we came.” Lame. Lame. Lame.

Of course, the final procession began from the last row, but as dignified as possible, we ducked out the door. Martha wanted to wait to speak to our friend, but I wanted to run out of there as quickly as possible. And I won this one. We left and headed to the restaurant to drown the day's memory with that iced tea.

Oh, my gosh, what did those funeral directors think? We came late and refused to walk by the casket. What great friends of Sally we must have been! I hear that hell is paved with good intentions. Finally, the cherry on the sundae of this day was when I called our priest friend, feeling the need to explain the circumstances of our unlikely presence at a funeral for someone we had never before seen. If “stupider” is a word that, my dear friends, is how I felt as I rapid-fired my explanation.

Live and learn. As God as my witness, I will never crash another funeral, no matter how well-intentioned.

Predictable Hope

Isn’t the beauty of nature phenomenal? Mother Nature surely wreaks havoc as headlines proclaim, but luckily the beauty trumps the destruction most days. God must have had a blast creating the world, don’t you think? From little baby hummingbirds to big fat ostriches. How fun! Elephants have been a favorite of mine since I was a child. They fascinate me.

The oceans, the stars, the flowers and trees. We take so much for granted. We believe the sun will rise tomorrow and tomorrow’s tomorrow. We count on it. We expect it. Spring shall follow winter in my corner of the world with rain showering away the dirty clumps of snow pushed from roadways. Birds begin to sing, start feathering their nests.

I know I’m thinking spring a little early. We’re not out of January yet, but it’s a hopeful notion. Something better is coming. I think it says something about how good our God is when we remember that the lovely, the awe-inspiring facets of nature are the ones that are predictable. What if every single day we had an earthquake, a forest fire, a flood? Who would want to wake up knowing destruction was coming?

But that isn’t how our world is. The good is predictable; the bad is sporadic. And the bad always brings out the good in God’s people. Relief efforts to Haiti are overwhelming. People open their generous hearts when faced with such an in-your-face catastrophe. I wonder if these earthquakes, hurricanes and tsunami aren’t a wake-up call from God. The press is all over them. Our eyes are opened to the urgent need. We send money. We pray.

I think that God may set these larger than life tragedies before us because we have become numb to the child who goes to sleep hungry each and every night with an empty belly. One hungry child is no less tragic than thousands of hurricane victims. God wasn’t kidding when He said, “Feed My lambs.”

The reality of people on this great earth going to sleep hungry each night has been increasingly disturbing to me. I know I must do more to help. God is nudging me. Volunteering at a soup kitchen or filling food baskets at church alleviate some of the hurt, but the need is so great. I want to make a difference. I want to be part of an answer. I want to be a source of hope for a hungry person. The “mom thing” was my first calling. Maybe helping those less fortunate than I will be part of my second calling – my writing. I hope so.

We Are Our Choices

Are you a list maker? Or do you fly by the seat of your pants? Do you dot all your i’s and cross your t’s or do you dance to the beat of a different drummer?

A week or so ago I told you how much I enjoyed the TV show, Being Erica. Lucky for me the network ran a marathon and I recorded the first season’s offerings. We are the sum of our choices. How true. Words of wisdom from episode one. We sure are the sum of our choices. Good, bad or somewhere in between our lives are formed by the big and small choices we make every day.

I wonder if we realize how important our choices are. What was cannot be changed. But tomorrow can be! We can alter our perceptions. We can serpentine. Granted, many of the dots of our lives are already drawn, but it’s up to us how we connect them.

The biggest and most positive realization for me is that the only person I can change is me. My windows of opportunity with my sons closed years ago. They are who they will be. I have never been able to change another person – and not for lack of trying! Not children or husband or anyone else. Because that is not my job. My job is me and only me.

And so I work on me. If no one in my house understands me at times, that’s just too bad. I don’t understand them either. Life goes on. I do my best. I try. And that’s going to have to be enough. Sometimes I wing it while at other times I’m a stickler. It just depends. Maybe I am hard to understand by those closest to me in proximity. I don’t know. But I do know I just don’t care anymore. And that’s a freeing feeling. After all, there’s really only one Guy I’m trying to impress. And He seems to like me just fine most days.

I Believe

Here I sit in my Happy Place. Writing about it made me miss it terribly. I thought, A messed up Happy Place is better than no Happy Place at all. So I began to resurrect my space once more. Even more fallen chunks of plaster didn’t daunt my spirit. “If I don’t do it, nobody will” was my motto. I cranked the radio and an hour later the smell of orange-scented Pledge and lilac candles filled the air. Believe it or not, it’s a good combo. Better than plaster dust, that’s for sure. I still have much to do as half of the room is home to piles of junk, but it’s do-able. And I am definitely in the mood to get rid of stuff that others could use.

Happily, the electrician has come and gone so I won’t freeze to death once the cold snap hits; I’ll plug my handy dandy heater in and be warm as toast. Rain tapping on the roof above me right now is much more pleasant than listening to squabbling boys. I bought a lovely little bouquet of purple flowers for my lovely little space today.

Today was a day for the record books as far as the men in the house go. Sometimes I just look up and ask God why. I don’t get it. I really don’t understand. Maybe I’m not supposed to understand but supposed to keep going on in faith. Faith that God won’t let me completely lose my mind. Faith that my sons really have learned more from me in the past 20 years than they’re letting on. Faith that one day they too shall grow up and act like adults in front of me. I have seen them do it; I know they are capable. If nothing else, I am happy that in about five hours sleep will come. I’ll latch my faith onto that hopeful morsel. And will stay as far away from the men in this house as it humanly possible tonight…in my own place.

Remember, moms, in Cinderella (the real one with Leslie Ann Warren) when she had her own corner where she could be whatever she wanted to be? She dreamed. She had hope and faith in something greater, something better. I do too.

And the Beat Goes On...

In the words of Sonny and Cher, “And the beat goes on…yeah the beat goes on.” My distractions of yesterday continued through the remainder of the day. I think we moms live our lives between distractions. Before we have children our time is mostly our own. Our thoughts. Our dreams. But as soon as we know we are pregnant life suddenly is not about us anymore. That’s when we truly begin to live for the other. And it never stops. Once a mom always a mom.

Before I had children, which in the grand scheme of things was about one second in relation to the zillions of seconds with children, my dad asked me a question one day: “Do you know how to relax?” To do nothing. To unplug. And at the time I answered yes because it was true. And that was about the last time that statement was true.

Yesterday I so wanted the day to be a no-makeup-Who-cares-what-my-hair-looks-like kind of day, but then my son called wondering what his parents were doing for lunch. Translation: He wanted us to take him to lunch. One-on-one time with a child still remains precious – no matter how old they are or how weird they act. My son lived up to his reputation. Has he ever matured past 5? I picked him. I wasn’t doing what I wanted to be doing, but I’m not complaining. It is what it is. Choosing for the other.

Once back home I tore into my bedroom which has needed significant attention since Christmas. Made good progress. Happy with my efforts. And then the nagging thought which has plagued me since my oldest popped out, reared its ugly head once more (not ugly head of child – head of child lovely!): Am I doing enough?

Why do I always wonder if I am doing enough? Especially after such a day? Why? It is stupid. I am quite sure that no other person in my house has ever in their lives asked themselves that question or even had the feeling.

Being a mom broadens one’s horizons in a special way as our capacities to give are increased exponentially. We give ourselves completely to our children. In one way or another we are always giving. And that’s good. But it’s also good to know when, in any given day, to say that enough is enough. Tomorrow is another day to give. We can hang a closed sign on the giving tree knowing full well we will resume the practice bright and early the next morning.

Can we do this? Can I do this? I will try. To unplug. Every night. To retake the living room. The gunslinging gamers’ scores on Call of Duty are high enough already! To read a magazine just for fun. A friend bought me four subscriptions for Christmas. Four! Can you imagine! I never read magazines for fun. I will start. Or to do what I did last night and go out to a movie with my husband.

Close up shop tonight, moms. And have some fun!

LIVE FROM YOUR OWN CITY…IT'S SATURDAY NIGHT!

Wish I May, Wish I Might

I must remember my own words of only one day ago. I must. I can’t see all the turns in my life – little ones or big ones. I woke up with a plan. A good plan. Not selfish. Not me-oriented at all. I wanted to make this weekend count for something. My house needs attention, the decorations haven’t walked their own selves up the steps yet, and I awoke with a firm commitment to begin eating right again.

First derailment: As the last bite of oatmeal slid down, a son laid a bombshell on me. OK, maybe not exactly a bombshell. Too dramatic. Let’s just say that his school plans for him and my plans for him didn’t jive. Now, how politically correct is that? Not too much info to be a blabbermouth but enough to get my point across to other moms.

How can children not see what is best for them? It’s perfectly clear to me. So I put my whole soul into our “discussion” this morning. My bright and sunny energy of the day completely zapped…by 9:30.

I hauled myself back up onto the track beginning with the battle of the dishes. Good thing we have Corelle. Like Timex, “It takes a licking and keeps on ticking." No broken casualties so I soaked another sinkful. Son apologized. All was good. My mood had improved; I decided to write a little bit.

Hubby comes home! Second derailment. Oh joy! Walks into the bedroom and starts talking. Pen and paper mean nothing. I barely answer thinking he’ll get the hint. Can you spell “clueless”? I leave. Back to my friends the dishes. And my thoughts wander to my Happy Place – my unoccupied, yet beckoning Happy Place upstairs. In the interest of full disclosure I shall cut and paste a copy of a column I wrote a while ago for my magazine. And perhaps you will understand my intense need for my own space among the males of the Locher species. Here goes:

WELCOME TO MY HAPPY PLACE

Here I am needing to write again. And it is a need for me, like breathing, food and love – it’s one of the must-haves in my life. When I pick up my pen I am transported out.

Out of: bickering boys, work-at-home husband, endless laundry, mountains of dishes, book revisions, Web site updates, copy editing. I am gone from all these places to my mythical Happy Place. If only for a little while, I tune everybody out. But soon the sheer unadulterated pleasure of peace and quiet is obliterated.

“Mom, he’s been playing that game all day. I want to pick on TV.”

“I’m not bringing Max in. I took him out.”

“Don’t hang up. This is not a sales call.” Yeah, right. Click.

And the ever-present husband who simply can’t, or won’t, see my laptop when he enters the room. I see myself. I am there sitting on my bed, fingers flying, eyes fixed, brain concentrating. But my computer must have a cloak of invisibility to it. I do not look up. I do not speak. But it’s coming. I know it’s coming.

“Whatcha doing?”

“Brain surgery, Sweetie. That’s what I’m doing. Want a free lobotomy? I can fit you right in.”

Concentration wrecked. Constant replay of this broken record is not healthy as I am not exactly sweet-as-sugar when interrupted. Atmosphere tense, tempers erupt. I just want to scream, “This is my new life. Sons grown. Maid gig over. Writer-life emerging. Get used to it!”

A huge contributing factor to the inner turmoil is that I have no place to call my own in this 1823 farmhouse. We had a little pantry; our dog, Max, woofed his way into that. We had a small room upstairs; my youngest son settled there. No livable space left. Full up. Except…one spot – our red room. Ridiculous name. It’s not even red. Plaster chunks hang from the ceiling, no electrical outlets, one rickety hanging light fixture, no heat, and piles of useless junk crammed from floor to crumbling ceiling. Dismal to most, but lovely to me because it is the absolute last vestige of possible sanity without mailing change-of-address cards.

My years of idealistic home improvement aspirations have deteriorated worse than my ceiling into a resigned realism. Cold, stark, in-your-face realism. This space is my only option – my final frontier. Either claim it or check into the looney bin sooner or later, most likely sooner. This large Federal style home has only two closets, next-to-no cupboards, and few drawers. But six people’s junk has to go somewhere, so everything was thrown into the red room.

Last week I couldn’t safely walk into the room. Couldn’t actually see a glimpse of the floor. Just junk upon junk. But basket by basket, bin by bin, beginning at the doorway, I hauled our discarded treasures into the hallway to sort. Very little made the Keep Me cut. One quick glance told me all I needed to know. If someone else could use it, I white-bagged it; otherwise, black-bagged for the dump. No vacillation. No, Maybe someday somehow someone may want this Bingo game. Highly unlikely my sons, ages 18-23, will ever become so mind-numbingly bored as to ask the question, “Where is that Bingo game Mom bought years ago that we’ve never even opened? We have a sudden urge to play.” Whoville-opoly as well as Hunting and Fishing Trivia white-bagged with Bingo.

In a matter of an hour and a half, I sorted down to the floor clearing a skinny path to the window – source of light, heat and hope. I charted my week’s progress with photographs. I want to remember how horrid it looked. Not sure why. But I do. Our grand sum of purged clutter stuffed the bed of a pick truck; Goodwill loves me.

What mom out there isn’t familiar with the childhood favorite, If You Give a Mouse a Cookie? Such was my encounter one gloriously fun day, only I dub it, “If You Give a Mom a Refund Check.” What a pretty desk. Pretty desk needs comfortable chair. Desk and chair must sit atop plush rug. Let there be light – once electrician comes – shining on this writer’s trio. Enter charming lamp. Spare twin bed stolen from son aches for frilly, girly sheets. Sheet set screams for pastel quilt as the lilac scent of candles begs to fill the air.

Now for my hopeful decorations – Picture, if you will: a brightly colored pillow adorned with the words, “Believe. Create. Inspire;” a plaque aptly summing up my life, “Yesterday a beautiful reflection. Today a new beginning. Tomorrow a limitless possibility;” a six-inch diameter ball, “Believe in Miracles;” and by far, my favorite acquisition is “Welcome to My Happy Place,” painted simply on a small piece of wood.

Ironically, this cheery open-arms greeting is for one woman and one woman alone, and that would be me! No one else in the house is going to be welcome. Welcome to my Happy Place, writer mom. All others keep out. Beware. No trespassing. Offenders will be shot with a volley of dirty looks and “About face” commands. I have set up writer’s shop away from the clueless. Boys lugged furniture upstairs. Floor washed. Rug laid. Sheets fluffed. Candle lit. Mom happy.

I’m making my dreams come true one lovely thought at a time. If I can do it, you can too. Make the space. Take the time. And keep the rest of the world out!

*****

Optimistic thoughts, huh? I thought so. and I was happy there until the ceiling fell down splatting all over my pretty things. It was more a blow to my spirit than anything. Eventually I cleaned it up but then the frigid temperatures hit. I hauled up a heater and blew a fuse. Electrician encountered a problem: our big fat super thick oak beams used in 1823. Supposedly he is returning this weekend. I hope so. My gosh, I hope so. So I wait. Down here where everyone and anyone mills about not at all concerned with peace and quiet.

Calgon, take me away. Pretty, pretty, pretty, pretty please?

God's GPS

I am in one hellaciously bad mood. Is hellaciously a word? Who knows? The people in my house seem happy; I am not. Why aren’t I? And why do I care so much? I feel like I’ve been on this journey for years and I don’t feel any closer to where I’m supposed to be. Where am I supposed to be? Where do I belong?

A revelation of sorts happened to me earlier: There is no prize. No brass ring. No gold star or coveted blue ribbon. It’s all illusion. You can’t get there from here. I told you I was in a bad mood. This life just keeps us humans occupied. We are supposed to belong to God. He didn’t have to make us. He didn’t need us; we need Him. So why did He make us? What’s the purpose of people? What’s the big plan? I opened the Bible to find an answer, being a firm believer in the open-it-to-a-random-page philosophy, expecting God to speak to me. He never disappoints.

There I was reading along. Knock. Knock. Knock. In came my son with his usual sixth sense when it comes to yours truly. I warned him of the volcano brewing inside – enter at your own risk kind of thing. A lesser man would have retreated. He shut the door and lay down on the bed. And listened.

I don’t know where I fit anymore. I joke about being the lone woman in a world of men, but most times it really sucks. I love these guys. They’re my guys. I’ll always think of them as mine. But they drive me nuts. Not all of them all of the time, but, truthfully, at any given moment if one of my four sons is here at home, chances are, he’s bugging me in some way.

It’s the trash, the dishes, the messes. It’s “You’re never here anymore” or “You’re here too much and I’m never alone.” I understand the paradox; I do. And the cell phones! C’mon. Every waking second?

Am I a fuddy duddy? I’m only 50. But am I? I’m out of the loop. I remember the loop. The invisible barrier between parent and child. I remember it well. There were just certain things that were best left unsaid. Best for all concerned. And now I’m out of the loop. This is their time.

However, I’m not one to sink slowly into the sunset. This evening I asked my dear one, “So, on a scale of 1-10, how weird do you think I am?”

“Which way is weird?”

“10.”

“11,” he says without missing a beat!

And then he says, “You’re not the same as everybody, but you don’t want to be. That’d be boring.”

Oh my gosh. The insight. It’s uncanny. He gets the essence of me. I love him. Thank You, God for turning him to my page.

Yes, life’s a journey. But maybe the prizes serve a purpose after all. Hope. Plain and simple. We human beings need doses of hope along the journey if we’re going to make it to the end. And at the right end of the scale is God.

When we think we can’t get there from here maybe it’s because there’s a turn in the road we can’t see. But God sees the complete picture. He’s holding the roadmap. He knows where we’ve been and where we’re headed. I guess I better put a little more faith in God’s GPS. Look Ma, no hands. God’s at the wheel.

I'll Just Whisper It...Christmas

Enough time has elapsed since my Christmas meltdown to share it with you. I think if the Grinch had slunked down my chimney I would have been relieved. Take it all away. I’m sick of it, had been my thoughts before Christmas. I felt as if I couldn’t do one more thing for one more person; I’d hit overload. And it wasn’t pretty. I felt like Atlas with the crushing weight of Christmas on my shoulders. Crazy Christmas mania barreling down on me and I had nowhere to go. I couldn’t run away. I’d drop Christmas World!

One morning before leaving my house for yet another errand, I cried. “Why do I have to MAKE Christmas for everyone? Make it for us. Make it for my parents. Make it for friends.” I was in a bad way. But happily, I gained a bit of perspective after I’d survived yet another December 25th.

Earth to Maureen! God made Christmas – not I. But I was exhausted, as most moms are at Christmas. I let the hype get to me. I let it dictate my mood. No one “makes” me do what I do. If I bite off more than I should chew, that’s my fault. I have set the expectations; I can modify them to preserve peace and sanity. I’m a big proponent of sanity for moms, in case you hadn’t noticed.

My biggest and most stealthy thief of holiday cheer has always been the dreaded Christmas cookie. This may sound quite silly to a non-baker, but I know many of you are nodding your heads right now in agreement. I just know it.

Long years ago I baked a certain type of apricot cookie which one of my brothers absolutely adored. It became a tradition. I swear, everyone who’s ever eaten this cookie is smitten with it. And oh how the cookie circle has widened! Of course, it’s a labor-intensive cookie. Or so I thought until I learned how to make Lebkuchen and Springerle – German recipes from my husband’s grandma. These are killers! So much time. And now that Grandma’s only baking for the angels guess who’s the only person here on earth who makes the cookies? Oh the guilt! The ridiculous self-inflicted guilt. This year I didn’t make either kind. And instead of baking six batches of the favorite apricot cookie, I made two. And the sun didn’t fall out of the sky. Remarkable! I said no to several kinds of cookies this year, and we are all the thinner for it. So next year I either start baking early or reduce the quantity. Simple.

Believe it or not, I did a few things right this year. My Christmas cards were mailed early which left me the time to address cards for my parents’ friends. This second batch got a little hairy as the holiday edged closer, but then I thought, Who’s ever going to know? If someone’s changed address was difficult to find – oh well – no card this year. The earth didn’t open up and swallow me.

Here is a public shout-out of thanks to my husband who wrapped every single gift to our boys this year. Another load off.

As Christmas ended and New Year’s Eve preparations began, I felt the same tugs. Everyone expects the familiar treats around here: sausage rounds, stinky feet, spinach dip, cheeseball, on and on. New Year’s Day brings similar concerns as my in-laws visit for the traditional good luck pork and sauerkraut dinner. Tradition! Tevye started something in Fiddler on the Roof. Something that drives women crazy. How about pizza next year?

Rethinking a few ideas right now while Christmas is fresh in our minds is a good way to ensure a little less lunacy 11 months from now. What worked? What didn’t? And what are we going to do about it? Let’s start a new tradition, ladies. Let’s get rid of the guilt, and let’s start now. Let's practice throughout this upcoming year. Trial runs for the big event, shall we say. Anything on the horizon that is making you needlessly nervous? Super Bowl celebration at your house? Birthday party for someone? Set realistic expectations for yourself. You are not Superwoman. (Well, really you are, but let's keep that our little secret, OK?)

Happy Wednesday, Superwoman!

Card-carrying Child of God

If my teenybopper memory serves, “When Jupiter aligns with Mars then peace will guide the planet.” Mars must be playing hard-to-get with Jupiter today because many goofy things kept happening to me. I dropped papers repeatedly, miscounted money, and the food on my fork jumped off before connecting with my mouth, all before my morning hit noon. This did not bode well for the remaining hours. But onward I drove to my parents.

Weirdness there too. Not so much with me as with my mom. At 90, I’m accustomed to my mom forgetting more than she remembers, but she was remembering things that haven’t happened. Now that’s freaky.

Have you ever felt like you’ve hit an invisible brick wall? One minute you’re OK, but the next your energy’s zapped. Struggling deep down all afternoon long, wishing that my mom were the mom she always was, I worked at a snail’s pace. Finally all was accomplished.

Driving down the long plowed driveway toward home, all of a sudden my Jeep slid to the right as if dancing to a whole other song than the one I was playing. Nearer and nearer to the big ditch alongside the busy road my Jeep and I went.

I couldn’t believe it. The drive was plowed. I wasn’t even in 4-wheel drive. Hadn’t needed to be. Tried 4-wheel drive after the big slide. No go. Into lo. No go again. I tried to rock it. Wouldn’t budge. Tires spun. And there I sat stuck to my axles in the fluffy white crap.

Who’s going to help me, as cars whizzed by? My 89- and 90-year-old parents? Or my family who’re an hour away? Gee, I think I’ll toss a coin! I was feeling more and more like little Ralphie in A Christmas Story when all the lug nuts went a-flying into the air as I thought of Someone else. Actually, He and I had had a running commentary since the big slide began.

One last plea, feeling pretty darn alone, I said, “Please, God, get me out of here.”

And He did. Just like that! God pushed my car out of the snow. More like lifted it out. I hit the gas and drove nice-as-nice-can-be toward the road, not the ditch. It felt as if I weren’t in snow. For all I know, maybe I wasn’t. Maybe I was riding on air.

What a rush! I talked to God, and He answered me right away. None of this, “I’ll get back to you when the time is right.” The time WAS right. Jupiter aligned with Mars. How great is that? Better watch out, AAA. Looks like God’s moonlighting – cutting in on your action. Good thing I’m a card-carrying child of God! And no yearly fees to boot!

Hogging the Hospitality

I can talk the talk, but can I walk the walk? The close quarters of living in the midst of five men has definitely set me on edge in the past couple days. Where did those little boys go? Who are these large-bodied creatures making peculiar sounds around the dinner table? I’ve often wondered what it’d be like to be a missionary among foreign people. I think I get it now.

I feel it’s me against them which is probably not the welcoming face I should offer. In olden times when you offered hospitality to a guest, you also needed to be gracious enough to accept whatever they gave you in return. One of the questions I used to hate to hear when inviting someone for dinner was, “What can I bring?” Nothing! Really. Nothing. I wanted them to bring nothing. I planned dinner, made dinner, and knew where every dish would fit on the table.

Very persistent guests would grudgingly wrangle an “OK, how about dessert?” from me. Thank goodness, I’ve mellowed with age for my former attitude was hindering the flow of hospitality. Hospitality is give and take, but I was hogging it all to myself. To give God also means to be willing to receive God – whatever God that is given which may not necessarily be the God that’s expected.

From unlikely sources such as…loud, obnoxious, teasing competitors comparing body hair around a table laden with turkey, stuffing, gravy, noodles, potatoes, rolls and cranberry sauce. I am so outnumbered. What survival techniques do I choose? Do I sink to their level and not shave my legs for a week to join in the fun? Where is our common ground now? What are these “guests” bringing to our table? Enthusiasm. That’s a better word than stupidity. Loudness. I sure don’t have to strain my ears to hear them. Love, I suppose, in their own warped ways.

Maybe that’s a clue for now: their own ways. They are coming to the table as separate, distinct individuals. Not little boy clones. They really do seem as if they come from a foreign land at times. Manland. Utterly inhospitable to woman. And in Manland I live like I have no hope of surviving, of enjoying, my men anymore. I feel like Bugs Bunny sitting in the pot of boiling water atop the roaring fire.

I’m just waiting. For what? To be swallowed whole? Or carved bit by bit? When put in those terms, neither outlook appeals to me. But that’s what I’m doing as the temperature around me soars. Bugs talked himself out of the pot. I need to talk some hope into myself regarding my dear darlings.

I was a good mom of babies. I was a good mom of little boys. I was a great football mom. And then life went kerflooey. I suppose I could try laughing at their stupidity…I mean “enthusiasm.” I do realize they are not purposely trying to ruin dinner…or life in general. They are simply being their own unique selves – unique with a capital “u.”

But as my dad says, "They’re good eggs.” They are. I know it. They’re great eggs. I want to feel like a great mom again. Although it may be more blessed to give than to receive, I think I better tune in my radar to receive what is being given. The kiss goodbye. The hug. The “Be careful, Mom.” And the accompanying “enthusiasm.”

It may not be easy being a mom right now, but I do remember that it wasn’t very easy being 19-24 either. Pretty confusing as I recall. And I’ve never been a man, so that is all foreign territory – their own perspectives about which I know nothing. I shall attempt to put myself in their shoes, and go with the flow for a while to see what happens.

But I’m still shaving my legs!

Just Another Manic Momday

Get ready for a ramble. A rant. A fervent thank You to God that all of the men in my house have left. And peace reigns.

I miss quiet more than anything. I am never alone. Someone is always here. Gone are the days when the four little darlings trooped up the school bus steps at 7:20 not to be seen again until they descended same steps at 2:20.

And hubby left for work to an office every day as God intended. Now dear darlings work while attending college. Some days some boys go to school; some days some boys go to work. No rhyme. No reason. No sanity for Mom. Zero. Zilch.

And hubby’s worked from home for a year now – the final crushing blow.

I miss my house. I miss an empty living room. No one playing Call of Duty. No one watching football or basketball or f-bomb infested violent movies.

What happened to Lifetime movies? Gilmore Girls? My new favorite, Being Erica? To be able to just watch these show whenever I wanted rather than parceling out the time between the macho crap. I would love to blare Bobby Sherman but instead it’s country; it’s more man-friendly. It’s compromise. Everything seems to be a compromise these days.

So now here I sit scribbling to you. I’ve removed cups and other dishes, used napkins and Kleenex from my coffee table. I’ve picked up dirty socks from the floor. Folded afghans. Another laundry load is whrrring away. For some moronic reason, I decided it’d be fun to have a turkey so I bought one. We are eating it tomorrow so this morning I chopped onions and celery, sautéed sausage, baked cornbread and cubed bread. All in preparation for our most favorite stuffing.

My sink is overflowing with pots and pans. I don’t have a dishwasher. Did I ever tell you that? No dishwasher. Just me. Oh I go through my screaming phases of delegating, but when all is said and done, I wash every dish 99.9% of the time.

This past week a friend of mine sent me a lovely card from American Greetings. It begins: “We all know there comes a day when our houses will stay clean for more than a few hours” (Really? Do I know this?) “and we’ll no longer be tripping over childhood toys and teenagers’ sneakers” (Gosh, that sounds wonderful.) The card goes on to sing the praises of being a good mom. And it’s not even near Mother’s Day. How did my friend know I needed this right now? That messes, or lack of them, don’t make the mom. That I’m not the first woman on earth to be going through this inner turmoil. Somehow my friend knew, and she gave me God via the United States Postal Service.

I suppose in years to come I’ll look back and miss the teasing, the horseplay, maybe even the messes. The house will feel too big, too empty. But, for now, Lifetime here I come. Bonbons ready. Feet up. Smile on. Heart, mind and soul at peace.

The Human Margarita

Right now I would love to be sitting in a booth at Red Lobster across from my friend, Julie. Julie understands me. We have been friends since forever – since grade school. Catholic grade school. Nuns with clickers. Mass every Friday. Reels of memories.

As special as those memories are, as much as I cherish the longevity of our friendship, what I treasure most is the mutual strength we have supplied to each other since we’ve become mothers. That’s when our friendship exploded (in a good way).

I don’t know where I’d be without Julie.

We go to lunch together once a month. Never fail. Many months our lunch was the highlight of my entire month – the hopeful morsel dangled in front of this up-to-the-eyeballs-in-men woman. Looking back I wonder how I survived. Have I survived? My name’s still on the casualty list, if truth be told.

I am by no means “done” or “there” or have it all together in any way, shape or form. I’m a muddler. I muddle through. Some days are better than others, and on the others there’s Julie. Mostly we e-mail. I pour my heart out to her, or scream in all caps. She takes it all in and writes back something which soothes.

Julie is like a balm or a tonic or – better yet – a Margarita. She makes me feel good again – no matter what. She takes the edge off. Julie makes the little tragedies of life a little easier to swallow. I have never left a Julie lunch in a bad mood. Ever. I actually smile and laugh and talk the whole time. If my dear darlings saw me at lunch with Julie they wouldn’t recognize me!

“Mom laughs?”

“Mom smiles?”

“Really? Since when?”

“Geez, Mom looks…what’s that word? Happy!”

No shi#! Give a mom something to smile at and she’ll smile. Not really rocket science, now, is it?

God Won't Leave Us Hangin'

Happy first week anniversary to us! One solid week of writing. A girl needs encouragement, dontcha know! One week. Seven days. More posts than all of December. And I’m staying pretty darn happy – truly remarkable. I feel a sense of satisfaction at the end of every day, like I have done what I am supposed to do. It’s a good feeling, a God feeling.

I haven’t set the world on fire. I haven’t changed my name to Pollyanna with the accompanying mood change. I still get mad and frustrated, but at the beginning of my days I feel a purpose and I am given the where-with-all to accomplish that purpose. At night I feel good.

On Monday morning I simply could not get out of bed until 8:00. Each subsequent day became easier. I was more motivated to awaken earlier. Much has to do with you. I post in the morning what I’ve written the day before. And then I go about my daily round – the daily round that has changed considerably from the woman, the mom, I once was.

Years ago I was on that mom treadmill of activity every waking moment. We all know that feeling. Although there are parts of the stages of my boys’ lives that I dearly miss, I do not miss the perpetual motion. Nobody needs to do that much. Nobody should push themselves that hard. I wonder exactly how early into momdom we all burned out but kept up the pretense. Oh my, what I would change if I could.

But we can’t. I can’t. And I don’t really care as much about reversing actions as I once had. My mom’s philosophy: if we do the best we can at the time, then we can’t look back and regret. We did our best. It’s that simple.

I think a good word to sum up this time of my life is “acceptance.” I accept what comes my way. I may not like it, agree with it, or even believe it, but I accept it. Acceptance brings peace. It’s similar to what I wrote earlier; it’s not giving up or giving in. When we accept our life we give ourselves a much-needed break.

And what mom doesn’t need a break? We’re harder on ourselves than we should be. We screw up the natural order when we try to do it all. God didn’t mean for us to do it all. So why do we?

We have to listen to God to see what He wants. Remember, He only wants what’s best for us. Just as we only desire what’s best for our own children. God is a good God, a good Parent.

What if every morning, first thing, your children walked into your bedroom and cheerily said, “Mom, you are great. What would you like me to do today”?

You’d faint. I know. Me, too.

But what if our days operated like that? Can you imagine the happiness? The give-and-take, the love, the peace? So much would be accomplished. I can see it now. Pretty soon the messes in my house would be gone, and with such concerted effort, they’d stay gone. Next, we’d venture out. The physical cleanup would net many unneeded items. We’d give them away. We’d be helping others. You know…clothe the naked.

With our own house in order we’d take the time to look to other houses. We’d see that father who still hasn’t found a job. We’d make dinners for his family. You know…feed the poor. Before long our family would be transformed into an “other-minded” way of life as God intended. We would be giving the gospel by our actions. And the giving would come back to us a zillion fold.

In this light, how are these words any different: “Our Father…hallowed be Thy name…Thy will be done”? Not too different, huh? But what a difference in the magnitude of change if we all asked God what He wanted us to do, and we did it. Just that portion asked of us. Not everything, moms. God is not asking us to do it all. We should let go of what doesn’t matter.

The Bible contains the names of so many people who were called by God. Abraham, Moses, Mary, to mention a few. And what about all the canonized saints? Volumes have been written about them. And Blessed Mother Teresa. Who doesn’t recognize the profound good she’s done? Bible greats and hall-of-famers etched in the annals of His-story.

So, there must be some great huge differences between them and us, right?

Wrong!

They’re dead, and we’re alive. Alive to answer God’s call. Alive to do His will. To be sure, those I’ve mentioned fulfilled God’s plan for their lives. But I guarantee that every one of them had their own issues with God. I bet they questioned, and many fought and yelled one-on-one with God. How could they possibly do what God asked of them? I mean, for heaven’s sake, just think of Mary. Talk about faith. As a virgin she would conceive a Child. C’mon!

Do you think it was any easier for Mary to tell her folks than it would be for a young girl today? God’s will is a leap of faith. It always has been. It’s a yes when we want to say no. Mary said yes although she couldn’t fathom how. We must do the same. God will give us whatever we need once we say our yes. God won’t leave us hangin’. He loves us too much.

Shhh...God's Talking

I met someone who characterizes people into two groups. Not white or purple, not smart or dumb, not male or female. My new friend says, “You are either a jerk or you’re not!” I find the simplicity of her thought dead-on.

Think about the people you know. Jerk? Not a jerk? Jerk? Not a jerk? Kind of like plucking petals off a daisy. He loves me. He loves me not. He’s a jerk. He’s not. It’s funny to think of another in such a way, but what if that “other” is sizing us up? He is plucking the daisies. She’s a jerk. She’s not. Would we make the cut?

I have another friend who routinely reminds, “When you point a finger at someone else, three more are pointing back at you.” Like the guy in the Bible scrutinizing so intently as to see the splinter in another’s eye while missing the plank in his own eye. We all have splinters and planks from time to time. If we’re smart, we don’t let them fester. We attend to them, digging them out if necessary.

As the merriment of the holidays is behind us and we settle back into our routines, we have a good opportunity to reflect about our lives. Do we want the same-old same-old? Or do we want something new? I think that wanting is healthy; it’s a step in the right direction.

I’ve vacillated so much in my own life after my children became more independent. It felt like what quicksand must feel like.

You just keep sinking.

In all the movies I’ve ever seen where characters are up to their armpits in the sandy mess, this advice is given: Don’t move! Flailing around makes you sink faster. Have you noticed you never really see people escape on their own? There’s usually a big strong branch that just happens to be nearby, and the brave companion of the sinking one urges the sinker to grab on tight. And voila: a rescue!

If only it were that simple. Like the jerk test. But it’s not.

Moms face real issues of uncertainty when their children grow up. Flailing really doesn’t help. Been there, done that. We need to take the time to be still. No one can tell us what’s best for us. We have to come to that realization on our own. And it’s not going to happen overnight. This time for moms is as painful as childbirth; it’s heart and head pain rather than further south. But it’s real.

After childbirth you get a baby.

After this…who knows? And that’s scary.

So take time to think, to be still. Listen to God. He’s the Companion carrying the big stick. He’s with us always. He’ll help us out if we do what He tells us to do. So let’s be quiet and listen.

Kudos to Hector

Did you know that I am copy editor and columnist for Mamazina, a magazine where women’s voices unite? Last week I was supposed to set up a new Internet account for the magazine. Immediately I thought: What a drag. No one here will help me. I’ll have to beg and it still won’t happen.

Then I simply procrastinated as if it would go away or, better yet, the account would miraculously appear on its own. If my children used this logic (or anti-logic) I’d think they were nuts. I’d roll my eyes. Kids! But it’s not kids; it’s me. And I am supposed to be smarter than this.

Today I took the bull by the horns. I dialed (Dialing! If that doesn’t date me!) Anyway, I dialed the cable company.

“What is your master e-mail account name?”

How the heck should I know?

They gave it to me, along with the goofiest password ever. So, OK, I’m still on the phone. I need technical support, and am put on hold. Oh my gosh, the music that assaulted my poor ear! What are people thinking? But, I digress.

Finally Hector answers. True name. Too good to change for such a great literary purpose as this. I tell Hector what I need. After clicking in and out of numerous screens to no avail, Hector realizes that I don’t want what I think I want at all.

About this time I hear hubby asking in the background if I’d like him to get on to speak with Hector. Now??? Now you want to talk to Hector? Now you’ll set it up for me? Not last week when I first asked you to do it for me, but now?

An unexpected, but welcome and quite fierce independence arose inside of me. Come hell or high water I was doing this. I was clicking. I was typing. I was tackling something that I hated to do.

Coincidence that on the most recent episode of Being Erica she did the same conquering fear thing? I think not! If a fictional TV character can do it, so can I. As long as it doesn’t involve cartoony characters dodging anvils!

We start over – Hector and I. Hector has much patience. Hector is my hero. Click this. See that? Go there. Do this. Do that. If I had a computer teacher like Hector at home I could accomplish so much more on this modern miracle.

And in the end I am almost where I need to be with my account. We encountered a password problem but I (on my own) know all the keys to push to get back to where I need to be to fix the problem once I’m supplied with the right password.

This is good. This is all good. I didn’t run away from the problem, or pawn it off on someone else. A jumped out of my mom box, and into the high tech world of computers. Where will I land tomorrow?

In the Blink of an Eye

In the blink of an eye a life can change. Luckily, this blink ended well.

7:00 Alarm goes off.
7:33 I really should get up. Rolled over instead.
8:00 It’s now or never.

20 minutes later I was driving to Mass. Small group – just five today.

I opened the church door to the news that while lighting the candles one of the faithful ladies had just caught her hair on fire! Then patted the flames out with her hand! We’re talking one tough bird here. And the sweetest little lady you’ve ever seen. In her 80s.

Everyone leaped into action – fetching ice and Neosporin, cleaning her poor singed hair and wounded hand. It happened so quickly and could have been so much worse. I thank God our friend I fine.

Surely there will be no end to the funny sayings and jokes shared at the Little Fireball’s expense tomorrow. Talk about the fire of the Holy Spirit! Perhaps a reenactment at Pentecost? I hope not!

It’s good we can laugh about it. It’s good my friend wasn’t wearing hairspray. It’s good she was so quick-acting as to extinguish the fire quickly before it had a chance to spread. Many “goods” came out of the bad.

Have you ever thought that good a.k.a. God is trying incredibly hard to triumph in all situations? Good comes from bad. Good begets good. A smile shown to one multiplies to many. Another case in point: Today I went grocery shopping. With the parking lot a snowy, slushy mess, I played the I-need-help card and asked for a bagger to take my groceries out. On the way out of the store I saw a sign at the florist, “Any bundle 99 cents.”

Any bundle? Really? Once the guy stashed my groceries I went back in the store. Sure enough – any bundle 99 cents. A huge assortment. Tulips caught my eye. I began to choose. Pink, white, red. I returned to the cashier’s line…waiting again.

When suddenly the couple in front of me asked if me and my tulips would like to go in front of them. Giving God. How simple. How generous.

And I thought, She need tulips! Giving God is fun. Tomorrow Little Miss Fireball gets some too, as well as the other angels of mercy.

Not a bad 99 cent investment!

Being Maureen

I am inexplicably happy right now – keyword inexplicably. I really don’t know why I feel happy. But I do. So I’m going with it.

Yesterday I discovered a TV show called Being Erica. I am now recording the series. Erica goes back in time throughout her life. She gets do-overs. Sometimes the do-overs end well and other times they do not. Erica is only 33. I must be a slow learner.

I enjoy hearing another woman say the things I am feeling. I’m watching the same episode I watched this morning. Pathetic? No. Kindred spirit-like.

My dear darlings left to watch football elsewhere. Yay! And I had my living room all to myself – a rarity around here. If I have learned anything in the past few years it is that I absolutely, positively crave time alone. Being stuck in a house filled with five men does not make for a happy me. This realization hit me some time ago and I take measures to recognize the “I am going crazy” signs, and then do something about it.

Case in point: This morning after Mass I wanted to accomplish something. I shut the door to my bedroom, cranked the radio and began cleaning my room. In walks hubby. It seems he was cold. I declare what I am doing in no uncertain terms. He lay on the bed. On the bed! I knew he’d be asleep in seconds. Solitude obliterated.

Smothering him with a pillow would have wrecked my day. A song played about going with the flow. I unplugged and grabbed the radio leaving the bedroom to the interloper. I washed dishes.

Then came the most happy news that my boys were leaving! God gave me my living room. A movie and another episode of Being Erica and I am happy. Dinner’s in the oven, I’m not facing a life sentence for smothering my husband, and I didn’t alienate my children by screaming at them; the kiddies simply left.

Life is good (for the moment).

Tick Tock Drip Drop

A carpet of snow blankets my part of the world. Unfortunately, my road was recently demoted from a state route which makes plowing nearly non-existent. Driving to my parents’ house (45 minutes away on a fair summer day) had me re-thinking my day’s plan.

A little background on my folks: Mom and Pop, as I affectionately call them, are 90 and 89 respectively. My mom robbed the cradle. Way-back-when my mom attended what she thought was my dad’s Sweet 16 party. She was quite excited after having just met him because my mom’s birthday is the exact same date as my dad’s. There they both sat, eons ago, as my mom asked, “So, are you 16 too?”

The story goes that my dad kind of nodded or evaded or something. He didn’t say, “No, I’m 15,” that’s for sure. Ignorance was bliss and by the time the truth came out my mom was hooked; they both were. No amount of years would have mattered. They were together and have been ever since ~ 68 years now.

My parents need me. They live in their home, not “a” home. The past couple of years have been quite the challenge, past months scary. Adjustments are hard. Watching the steady decline of two people who mean the world to me breaks my heart. But I do recognize the gift of longevity. I’ve witnessed a beautiful unveiling of two lives intricately intertwined like the blossoming of a rose bud to full blown rose. And now the rose’s head has drooped.

And it’s sad.

My mom’s pleasures are few; I am one of them. I need to be with her even though nearly every time I am she tells me she is ready to die. She sleeps 18 hours a day, winding down like a little clock.

And then there’s my dad – primary caregiver at 89 to his wife. These two have made a pact that they will stay in their own home for as long as they can. I can’t remember a time when my parents didn’t help me when I needed their help. They’ve never said no. How can I not be where I am needed most?

Thanks to 4-wheel drive I arrived to spread a little cheer. Every time I wake up my mom she responds like a kid seeing Santa Claus for the first time. How can someone love someone so much?

Because she’s a mom. And I’m her daughter.

We moms love and love and love. We give and give and give. Sometimes we think we can’t give another drop of ourselves to another. And then we squeeze out another drop.

Drop. Drop. Drop.

Maybe my mom can’t take me shopping or out to lunch like she once had. Maybe she can’t remember that I bought her the soft snowflake blanket that she loves so much. But even in her fragile state she beams like the sun when she sees me.

My mom’s giving her all.

It’s what moms do.

Super Duper Mom Compass

I’m b-a-a-a-ck! Two days strong!

How are you, ladies? Have you finished your holiday entertaining? Decorations in boxes or still adorning every square inch of your home?

I love Christmas…in theory. I believe all that stuff in the Bible. Baby Jesus. Mary. Joseph. Wisemen. Shepherds. What’s not to love about that story?

But then there’s my story, the modern mom story of Christmas. The Christmas that Charlie Brown knows and hates so well. Commercialism and exhaustion which is light years away from the true story which God intended to share.

Where have we gone so wrong? I know I don’t desire another Christmas like the one we just ushered out. I don’t think I could endure another year like 2009. On the surface all looks rosy: a mom, a wife, four healthy sons. Outward appearances can be so misleading.

For new arrivals to my site, I am smack dab between 0 and 100, a woman who thought she had all the answers for a while, raised four boys to men, staying married in the process. I now know I don’t have a clue. I’ve been up and down and all turned around in the last several years. I feel I’ve come a long way only to get to square one.

I suppose giving up isn’t acceptable.

Do I give in?

Or maybe, just give?

I used to give all the time. I could have been the proverbial poster child for giving. What mom doesn’t give of herself for her children? My four boys came fast and furious in five years. I couldn’t do anything but give. You moms know the routine, day after day, year after year, until you finally find yourself with a miniscule amount of breathing room.

So you breathe.

And you look. And you don’t like what you see. And you don’t like how you feel. You want a do-over. You realize 20-some years into your married-with-children stint that something is missing.

What is missing is you. You are gone. The girl is history in the blink of an eye. A “mom” stands in her place.

But you still have your dreams, your desires. They start stabbing at you, and you don’t know what to do. You feel like you’re 10 again rolling the dice to Mystery Date. Oh how you want the life that goes with the dream date in the tux or even the surfer dude, but we all know what shows up when we open the insightful white door: the dud’s life.

You’ve given your best years to your family, and you are tired of giving. It’s that simple. Your thinking is screwed up. You need a compass to get where you want to be. A super duper mom compass to the rescue to point you on your merry little way. This way to happiness. Do not pass GO. Do not collect $200.

And then you wake up. I’m awake now. I don’t particularly like being awake, but I am.

Years ago I named my site “To Give God” for a reason. If in 363 days I want to be able to say, “This was a great Christmas, a great year,” I better start to give God now. And not worry about the million other things I usually worry about. I need a plan.

Happy 2010!

December 31st is a horrible time to make resolutions. It’s cold, the days are short, night falls fast, and if you’re a mom you are bone-weary exhausted from pulling off yet another Christmas.

We moms gear up when the kiddies return to school every fall, muddling through buying school supplies, filling out medical forms and covering books. We settle back into a weekday routine: early rising, school, work-for-pay for many, work-for-zilch for all, dinner, homework and sports. Next come Halloween costumes and parties, Thanksgiving turkey and dirty dishes, and then Christmas nearly flattens most of us.

So by the time New Year’s rolls around, it is not the time to deprive ourselves, to join gyms and buy weight loss measures, swear off food or drink or cigarettes. It’s time to be kind to ourselves. Let’s not allow the calendar to dictate our lives more than it must. A woman is ready to commit to resolutions when a woman is ready – not before.

I cannot wholeheartedly profess to tackle weight issues, to be a better mom or better person doing all the noble things I do realize I should be doing. I want to do all those things; my heart is in the right place. However, as the big sparkly 2010 ball squashed 2009, I had but one realistic idea in my head. Dare I say “resolution”? I don’t think I shall actually use the “r” word. Too scary.

This is my thought: to write to you every day for the next 364 days. Pretty lofty considering my track record, but that’s what I want to do. If Julie of Julie and Julia movie fame can do it, why not I?

So that’s it, ladies. I will do my best. Tune in tomorrow. Same bat time, same bat channel.