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.

Grinch or Grace?

How many times have we, as moms, waited for our children? Waiting nine long months, waiting through labor, waiting until our bundles of joy sleep through the night, enduring cries of teething, suffering through potty training. (Oh, I hated that last one!)

Once our children hit school we were placed on the schools’ schedules and later the sports’ schedules. Waiting for athletes to finally emerge from practice…night after night. Remember the bittersweetness of our teenagers learning to drive? Waiting outside schools and other functions was merely replaced by waiting up late at night worrying while our independent (ha ha!) ones were out having fun with their friends. Always waiting.

Now, as Catholics, we are in the official time of waiting: Advent. Saturday night I did something at which I usually procrastinate – I made the Advent wreath. Do my boys care? Quite doubtful at 19-24 years of age, but hopefully, seeing the familiar purple and pink candles surrounding Baby Jesus tugs my sons back a little from their me-oriented lives, realizing Someone is watching over us all “as we wait in joyful hope for the coming of our Savior.”

Jesus will be coming back. And we are supposed to be living in such a way as to be ready when He comes. We are supposed to be using this time of waiting for something good. We have four weeks. And I’m not talking shopping days ‘til Christmas. I’m talking four weeks to prepare our hearts – to take whatever we have right now and make it better. It’s pretty simple.

As moms, we must fight what Charlie Brown calls the “commercialism” of Christmas. When my boys were school-aged, the TV was never allowed to be turned on in the mornings before school. This habit began the month before one Christmas. I nearly lost my mind hearing the never-ending toy commercials. Until I realized I could control it with the click of a button. No more TV. Much calmer, quieter mornings. How simple.

It’s horrendous how toy manufacturers seduce young viewers. Moms of youngsters today are assaulted on so many fronts as Christmas approaches. This Advent turn off the TV spending quality Advent time waiting, not for the presents, but creating an atmosphere where the Presence that IS Christmas will be welcomed.

In the coming weeks, as we face the inevitable Christmas tug-of-wars, let’s ask ourselves a question: Is it worth it? Is it worth the money? Is it worth the time involved? Is it worth the effort? Answer honestly and act accordingly.

These next four weeks of waiting could be very good or very bad. For the most part, it’s up to us moms to steer our families in the right direction. We can wait nervously on edge, or we can trust God, assuming the demeanor of one serenely waiting and ready for whatever may happen. We can be the Grinch or we can be Grace Kelly. Personally, I’ve always been partial to crowns!

~ Maureen :)

Happy Thanksgiving!

Thank goodness for those pilgrims and Indians! What a great tradition they started. The turkey's in the oven - it's 6 a.m. - and I am wide awake. I wish you all the very best. Hopefully you'll have a breath today to pause to remember the people and things for which you are most grateful.

Bring on the turkey and pumpkin pie! Have a great holiday!

~ Maureen :)

Good Luck Ladies

So, tomorrow's the big day. Are you thoroughly exhausted yet? I've often said that moms give the holidays and men receive them. Of course, coming from a houseful of men I am definitely biased. And not in a good way!

For once, I'm in great shape for tomorrow. Just shove the bird in the oven and wait 'til it's done. Table's set, pies are made, sausage cornbread stuffing makings are ready and waiting to be assembled. Tomorrow it's whipped potatoes and sweet potatoes, open the cranberry can and we are good to go.

I'm glad we have our own Thanksgiving. I insisted years ago. I bucked the well-established family system and our young family stayed home for our own dinner. We visit everybody later in the day, but there's just something so wrong about not having your own Thanksgiving Day leftovers, you know?

Hopefully you are not working too hard preparing your own feast. The funniest thing about writing this blog is that I doubt if one single lady will read it. You're all too busy!

Gobble! Gobble! :)

Pumpkin Cheesecake Tarts

You will need:

12 oz. cream cheese – softened
¾ cup sugar
1 T. cornstarch
1 t. pumpkin pie spice
2 eggs
1 cup canned pumpkin
1/3 cup light corn syrup
Gingersnaps
~*~*~*~*
Line muffin pans with cupcake liners. Put one gingersnap in each cup. Beat first 4 ingredients until mixed. Add next 3 one at a time and beat on high for 1 minute. Pour batter into cups. Bake at 325 degrees for 30-35 minutes until just set. Chill 1 hour. Makes 24.
~*~*~*~*
Easy decoration – sprinkle a very small amount of green colored sugar after baking. My disclaimer: When you can’t stop eating these, don’t blame me!

Enjoy! :)

My Flak-jacketed Heart

I warn you, this is not your typical Thanksgiving column. If you are the kind of Catholic mom who truly smiles from within to all comers, who wakes each morning praising God for the wonders He has bestowed upon you, who exemplifies living life for the other – well, you may just think me an ungrateful wretch.

If, however, you are a tired mom, a mom searching for meaning in your day-to-day round, a mom desperate for an identity that fits like a glove rather than a gunnysack – then maybe you can relate to my Thanksgiving frame of mind.

A week ago, one of my editors asked her columnists for a list of thank yous to include in her blog on Turkey Day. I haven’t responded. I don’t know what to say.

Do I spout off the familiar litany: family, food, home, friends? That’s superficial, and I know it. I AM grateful for these things, but I guess I’m not jumping for joy over what I’ve grown to take for granted. I try to see the glass as half full, but relate most accurately to the half empty vessel. And I know that doesn’t make God happy.

I come with baggage which I can’t seem to shake. Certain times are better than others. Good stretches last a while, but I’ve never been able to latch onto the Pollyanna frame of mind for extended periods. Life happens. I’m in the midst of a trying time for which I’ve coined the phrase, “Tweeny Mom,” to label this time of my life. The really fun and heartwarming moments of young motherhood are long past, replaced by the It’s-time-to-let-them-make-their-own-mistakes phase. This phase sucks. I KNOW something is wrong. I KNOW it will hurt, but do they listen? Sometimes, but not nearly enough for my liking. And I hate it.

My parents aren’t getting any younger. And I hate that too.

I am pulled in so many directions. I do have the availability of more actual time, but how do I best fill my time? I haven’t figured that one out yet. We tweeny moms are surviving our second stint at paralyzing adolescence. “Older and wiser” doesn’t seem to matter much when the rules have changed so drastically. Add another item to the hate list.

Lovely column so far, don’t you think? I did warn you.

However, knowing that there is a God who loves me—warts and all—is something for which I am truly grateful. God is always there for us, no matter what we feel. No matter how far we sink into the pit He accompanies us. Too bad we drag Him down to our levels so often. Poor Guy! But we do, time and time again.

After much consideration, I think I’ll send this list to my editor:

1. Nobody loves me like my mom does. This love which springs straight from her soul is the nearest I will ever get to perfection until I die. Last week one of my brothers was visiting my parents when I arrived. After my mom’s greeting to me he remarked, “Gee, I never get that response.” No. No one does. Just me. And I love it.

2. For an instant each Sunday morning, a friend who sings in the church choir grabs my attention with a smile that bull’s eyes straight through to my flak-jacketed heart. And I smile back wholeheartedly.

3. In today’s e-mail from a friend – her last sentence, and I quote, “Hang in there with your family of men – that is why you are crazy, you know.” It is true. Undeniably true. Five men versus one me has affected me in more ways than I’ll ever fully understand. However, lately, one son in particular, can zero in on my mood, and give me exactly what I need. We are on the same wavelength. And if only for snippets, every so often, I crave that momentary soul mate.

4. And then there are my friends who never let me down. The constants to whom I may complain or brag, laugh or scream. It doesn’t matter. Like God, they love me—warts and all.

So, God, please don’t mistake my turmoil for ingratitude. I am grateful to You for all the blessings in my life – even the ones I may not readily recognize. Thank You from the bottom of my flak-jacketed heart.

Love,
Maureen :)

The Boy who Cried, "Jesus!"

Once upon a time there was a little blond blue-eyed baby boy who brought such delight to his parents by his very existence. As he grew older this boy warmed the hearts of all he saw with his prize-winning grin and smiling eyes. Each night he prayed, “Goodnight Baby Jesus. We love You, Baby Jesus. Amen.”

And God said, “I love you, too.”

This toddler soon fell in love with Barney, and had eyes for no other. He spent his days playing in the company of his brothers. “Thank you, Jesus, for my mom, dad, and brothers.”

And God said, “You’re welcome.”

Time passed and school began as the Barney infatuation waned. Besides plunking this child into a loving family, God also saw fit to give him a most precious friend in the boy’s first year of grade school. This friendship strengthened and flourished despite a rocky start. One day tiny punches were thrown over the charms of a pretty little girl. Both Galahads were suspended from school for three days. “Thank you, God, for not letting me really hurt my friend today.”

And God said, “Take care of that friendship throughout your life.”

God blessed this boy with speed. Running, running, always running – just like Forest Gump. Breaking records, earning medals, this boy sped through his high school years. “Please help me race my fastest today, Jesus.”

And God said, “I’ll be waiting for you at the finish line.”

One Sunday at Mass this college boy knelt with his family and prayed, “Please, God, help me this semester. I want a 4.0.”

And God said, “I’ll give you plenty of time to study.”

God heard this boy’s voice whenever the boy spoke.

One afternoon the boy engaged in a fierce battle with an opponent while playing Madden football on TV. “Jesus Christ! How’d he miss that pass!”

God heard the most familiar voice and dropped what He was doing to help the boy who sounded so urgent in his cry. And God said, “Oh, I guess he doesn’t really need My help after all.”

That night – “Jesus Christ! Why am I the only one who ever has to do the dishes around here?”

And God said, “There’s that voice again. What should I do? He called My name. Does he need My help this time? Let Me see. Oh…no…he doesn’t.”

Next morning – “God damn it!”

And God said, “What now? He wants me to damn something? This friend of Barney? I think I hear another of My children calling. I better leave here and see what she needs.”

“Jesus! Can’t somebody else get the phone? Hang on. Jesus Christ!”

“Jesus Christ!”

“Jesus Christ!”

“Jesus Christ!”

One day this young man received a package, heaven sent, you might say. Puzzled, he unwrapped the gift and stared at a coverless copy of what appeared to be a worn children’s story book. He began to read:

Once upon a time there was a blond blue-eyed baby boy whose job it was to watch over his father’s sheep. It was such a boring job day after uneventful day. The youngster was lonely and wanted someone to talk to besides sheep, so he hatched an idea.

“Wolf! Wolf! Help! Wolf!”

And his father raced to his son’s aid. But there was no wolf. The boy said he’d made a mistake.

A few weeks later, the little shepherd remembered how exciting it had been to see his father drop everything for him, and come running. So the boy did it again.

“Wolf! Wolf!” And his father came again. No wolf…again.

A third time this foolish child cried, “Wolf,” with no wolf in sight.

Months passed until one day the boy heard a ruckus among the sheep, and there it was – for real this time – a huge scary black wolf about to pounce.

“Wolf! Wolf!”

No one came.

“Father! Wolf! Help! Wolf!”

Still, no one came. The flock was desecrated in moments, fluffy white devoured to a lifeless, mangled red.

With nothing left to tend, the dazed boy stumbled into town. Where could his father be that he had not heard him? Had not come? In disbelief the boy ran right into his father.

“Why did you not come? I called and called. There was a wolf. The sheep – they’re all dead!”

And the boy’s father said, “I’m not falling for that one again, my son. Aren’t you a bit too old for such nonsense? You have called me needlessly time and time again. ‘Father, Father,’ you’d cry. I came to realize that my time was better spent elsewhere. I truly did not hear you today. I am sorry. Little by little I must have tuned you out.”

And the boy walked away, utterly crushed.

Shutting the book, our young man wondered who would send him such a story. And why? He spied an envelope, tore it open and read the note:

Hey! What’s up? Can ya take a look at this story for Me? The ending’s not quite right. Can ya help Me change it?
Later,
Jesus Christ

*****

Definite food for thought, don't you think, moms? This story was my CatholicMom column last week, and as a happy little postscript, I haven't heard, "Jesus Christ," around here in a week! Not that this could possibly be autobiographical or anything!!! Writer-mom scores one!

~ Maureen :)

Semper Fi

I wish to commend the honor, courage and commitment of the men and women who selflessly serve to defend our country. The following was written to honor a Marine who has been a best friend to one of my sons since they were in third grade together. This Marine has already come home safely from Iraq, but deploys to Afghanistan on Tuesday – the day before Veteran’s Day. Please keep him and another young man from the same high school, who is also headed to Afghanistan, in your prayers:

Infinite, Always Faithful, Love

You’re pregnant. You’re ecstatic. You call everyone you know. No one in the history of the world has ever had more urgent news.

You wait nine long months. Your baby boy arrives home and your infinite love overtakes him. No one in the history of the world has ever had a more beautiful baby boy.

He is yours, all yours. Oh sure, you must pretend to share him with the rest of the family, but in your core of cores you know he is all yours. You care for his every need. You are his entire world. What did you ever do to deserve such a love? You can’t recall, but you gratefully accept the gift. And you nurture the son.

From midnight feedings and bedtime stories to all that’s in between, you care for your son. You protect him. You shelter him from harm. You watch with astonishment as he grows and takes his first steps.

Years pass, memories etch. Your little boy is no longer a baby; he must go to that place called school with those children called friends. And you must do the grownup thing and let him go. You watch with apprehension as he boards the school bus.

As every season unfolds, your little boy unearths more of the world. He discovers basketball. No one in the history of the world has ever steered the ball down the court better. You watch with excitement as he swishes his first three-pointer.

And then come the girls. Ups and downs and turnarounds lead his heart to places where you can no longer protect him. You want to protect him, to keep him from harm, but now you must only advise, knowing he must do these things on his own. You watch with helplessness as his heart breaks; you send up thanks when his heart mends.

You consider yourself most lucky as you observe the circle of friends he has chosen. You feel the tug on your heartstring stretching a bit more as he embarks further away from you, but you trust his friends and you trust him. So it’s OK.

High school years fly by. You sit on bleachers in high school gyms, football stadiums, baseball diamonds and around quarter mile tracks. You hold your breath, you cheer, you live and die in the seconds it takes for him to catch that pass or to score that 1000th point. You are his biggest fan. No one in the history of the world is as special as your son.

You watch with pride as your boy-turned-man walks across the stage to accept his diploma. You step aside as he drives off to college. You understand when his choice detours and he returns home because no one in the history of the world has ever loved a son more faithfully.

And then he decides to become a Marine. A Marine. Your mind has a difficult time surrendering to this. Your baby, your son, turned soldier? It was one thing when he played soldier, but to be a soldier?

Ups and downs and turnarounds lead him to places where you can no longer protect him. You want to protect him, to keep him from harm, but now you must only watch knowing he must do these things on his own. He must go to that place called Afghanistan with those friends called Marines. And you must do the grownup thing and let him go. You watch with apprehension as he boards the plane.

Before you know it, the heartstring stretches across an ocean. You eagerly anticipate your Marine’s phone calls, letters and e-mails, for you know that beneath those dog tags beats the same heart of the baby you carried beneath your heart for nine months – the best heart in the history of the world.

You must step back. You have protected him and sheltered him from harm for as long as you could. It’s your son’s turn now to protect and to shelter a nation. It’s your turn to wait again…and to pray…until the day your baby boy arrives home and his infinite love overtakes you.

Semper Fi! Godspeed to all.

~ Maureen :)

Happy Birth-day, Mamazina!

I am very pleased to announce that Paula Schmitt of Mom Writer's Literary Magazine, for which I am copy editor and columnist, has joined forces with Joy Rose of Mamapalooza to create a new publication - Mamazina! The Fall/Winter 2009 transitional issue launched online last night: www.momwriterslitmag.com. Next Spring we will offer both a print and online issue for all you moms to enjoy.

Mamazina encompasses so much of motherhood. It's not just a magazine for moms of young children - it runs the gamut. It grows as we moms grow. We've had essays, columns, profiles, reviews and poetry about adoption, miscarriages, home improvements, empty nesters - funny stuff and tragic tales. In other words: It's true to a mom's life.

Personally, I target those searching moms who, like myself, may have forgotten what it's like to be a woman - those who have raised their children, and are in the time of their lives when minute-by-minute care for their children is no longer needed. So what do we do, we tweeny moms? We're stuck in the middle, and it's no less difficult than adolescence.

Join us at Mamazina to see how other women cope. And if you've a flair for writing, send your thoughts to us. Information is available on our site. We are a publication where "Women's Voices Unite." You are not the only one who has ever had the thoughts you are having. You are not crazy. You are not losing your mind. You are tired. You need insight as well as sleep.

Check out my column, Just Another Manic Momday, in this current issue: That's M-a-u-r-e-e-e-n! And search the archives to read my past columns dealing with this phenomenon of tweeny momhood.

Enjoy!

~ Maureen :)

The Candle Stays

Tonight my family of men and I sat down to dinner. What was commonplace for years has become a rarity. For the past week and a half I have been bitten by the flu bug. Although I haven’t yet let loose with a swine-like oink, I have been feeling pretty bad. Yesterday my only claim to fame was making dinner in a kitchen with more dirty dishes than clean before I began.

I kept it together. I didn’t get too mad. I’m resourceful. Certain utensils can double for others in a pinch. At the end we ate in the living room watching Notre Dame trounce their opponent. And dinner was appreciated by four.

But four isn’t six; four is not all.

Tonight I pieced together the last halfway simple ingredients for an edible meal. Mother Hubbard’s cupboards are bare. And tonight we were six; tonight we were all. I don’t know why, but I lit a candle and placed it in the middle of the table. I think somewhere in my psyche candles mean love.

We ate. We talked. Nothing special. I purposely brought up nothing disagreeable. Looking around the table at my five men I could have spouted plenty, and I’m sure they all could have reciprocated. But it’s difficult to be grumpy in candlelight.

When the first son started to bolt, I asked him to stay, saying simply, “Humor me. Pretend it’s Thanksgiving, and let’s hold hands.” My kids aren’t kids anymore; they are grown men aged 19-24. And they humored me – we all held hands.

A powerful strength lies in the family. Sometimes I wonder why none of my boys have gone off to college. What’s the draw to stay here to work and attend classes? God knows we certainly have our share of flaws. We know each and every button to push to bring out the worst in each other.

But when one is in need, another zeroes in on the cure. We try.

I can hold the fiercest feeling in my heart to walk out that door – Ooh, they’d miss me! – and someone will hug me or make me laugh or just be plain stupid, and thoughts of flight fly out the window. I survive another day among the men.

For good, bad or somewhere in between, I am one-sixth of this crazy pie called family. Our lives are intertwined. I’d like to think that the light that shone tonight was the Light – God’s Light – shining up a family in need of a little buffing.

The candle stays on the table.

Maureen :)

1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9,10 - That's it!

It’s 1:30 in the morning. I have been sitting in what I refer to as my Happy Place for hours. It is amazing how time flies when I am writing – doing what I love to do. Do you have something you simply love to do? If you don’t, why don’t you? Really – why don’t you?

Being a mom means your time is not yours. You give of yourself to everyone else all day long. Am I right again? Am I two for two? How many things have you done for other people today? Perhaps it’s impossible to measure since there have been so many. Now don’t get me wrong – I’m all for doing for the other. But with one critical exception: not to the total exclusion of oneself.

What have you done for yourself today? Can you think of anything? Are you racking your brain to come with one thing? Oh, I hope you’re not. Because that’s not good. You’ll burn out. You’ll become grumpy. And probably angry. The holidays are rapidly approaching. Halloween costumes and classroom parties, Thanksgiving turkeys as the families gather, and then comes Christmas in all its exhaustive glory.

So…have you come up with anything yet? A bubble bath at the very least? An hour, half hour, OK - 10 minutes - to yourself to read a chapter of your favorite book? A shopping trip without the kiddies? A good old-fashioned date with your husband? Remember those?

We moms will soon be so busy thinking of a million details. Let’s stop now to take a moment to breathe, to prioritize our lives just a little bit more than we do. What’s working? What’s not? Because if it’s not working now you’ll hate it come December. Do something today to make your life simpler and happier. Take some time for yourself every single day. Begin with 10 minutes. You can find 10 minutes. You can. Quit mentally arguing – yes, you can! Then add another minute every day.

Pretend you are your best friend. Your best friend calls you every day. She has a problem, and you drop everything for her for 10 minutes because she means so much to you. She needs you so much. You know you’d do it for her, or for your child, or for your spouse. Do it for you. You are not seriously thinking that you are not worth 10 minutes a day, are you? You better not be!

Have some fun. Find some peace. Give it a try. What do you have to lose?

~ Maureen :)

The Great Gift

I have been given a great gift.

When I was little my parents owned a lumberyard, a fringe benefit being that when something was built around my house it was built to last. Case in point: my Little House. Built 60 years ago for older siblings, I inherited this child’s hideaway after its occupants had outgrown it. I adored my little retreat. All those years ago I sought quiet and solitude just as I do today.

Every spring I cleaned my Little House from floor to rafters. I re-painted as needed and decorated to my heart’s content. Little baby doll bed, table and chairs, knickknacks – all mine. My family moved from 311 East Archwood Avenue when I was 14. The Little House accompanied our family, but my dreams were no longer centered in it, taking a backseat to high school, college, teaching, marriage and children.

With the birth of each child I longed for that Little House: the embodiment of my childhood. Circumstances were never quite right, years turned to decades, and the elements battered my Little House in my parents’ backyard. But I never gave up on it, never stopped wanting it.

This morning my 21-year-old son came home from school. After chit-chatting a bit he says, “Hey, Mom, you want to see something I picked up for you yesterday?” Working in construction himself I thought perhaps he’d retrieved a treasure someone had discarded. We walk out onto our porch and he doesn’t say a word, just points to the trailer. And there it is – my Little House! The roof is next to it on the trailer, the house sits a teeny bit lopsided, the paint is peeling, and some of the floorboards have rotted. The rusty numbers, 311½, remain securely nailed as the address. It’s the most beautiful thing I have ever seen!

And you know what? I can’t stop crying. Big, blubbery tears. The more I think of the gift, the harder I cry. I may be 50 years old, but my heart’s still 5. And maybe that’s not such a bad thing.

I have such plans: scraping, painting, enlisting my son’s help for the more major aspects. I look at my Little House snugly sitting inside the trailer; I look at my real grown-up house needing so much work itself. In fact, I came home this morning with great visions of making a dent in merely the messes, but here I sit gazing at my Little House. A monarch butterfly landed on a dandelion next to the trailer. Bees are buzzing which I hadn’t noticed earlier. I’m hearing all kinds of critter sounds that I hadn’t heard before. The sun is warm, the breeze is light, and my heart is full to overflowing.

Soon I shall strip the wooden walls of the curling paint flakes, but already my heart feels stripped of some of life’s anxieties. This colossal gift of love has kicked out built-up negativity. As I paint my Little House I’ll also paint my own interior sunnier, happier. I’ll paint my world pretty once more, from my Little House to my real home, to my heart and mind and soul.

I have been given a great gift.

~ Maureen :)

Wow-What-a-Mom!

Do you work? Three words. Simple enough question. Do you work? Words asked of me as I introduced myself to the only woman I did not know in a group of friends. Do you work?

“No.” I said no! One short and sweet syllable: no. What an idiot! I sat there like a bump-on-a-log and said no. A mother of four young men still living at home while they attend a local college and work through school should have said, “I’ve worked every single second for 25 years, performing endless jobs which no one happened to pay me for!” But did I say all that? Heck no!

To my no, this woman said, “That’s great.”

That’s great? What does that mean? That it is really great, or that I am being placated? Not sure. And I didn’t care to pursue the matter. I failed Everymom. I did not speak up for her; I did not speak up for me.

Next time, here’s what I’m going to say: “Yes. Yes, I do – have for 25 years, raising four sons, and now those sons, those gold stars on my mom resume, are working their ways through college while I, their mom, carve out a newer, improved life for myself. I attend daily Mass each morning, and ask God what He wants me to do, and I try to do it.

“I also happen to be copy editor and columnist for a magazine written by moms for moms. And I recently joined CatholicMom.com as a weekly columnist. I write two blogs at my own Web site, and try to give God to those who cross my path.

“I have written three books, and two of them are under consideration with a publisher right now.”

Wouldn’t my imagined soliloquy have gone over like a you-know-what in a punchbowl?

But really, ladies, let’s become a little more evolved, shall we? Let’s not ask that question of other women. Don’t all of us know what a mom does – how incredibly much she does? Instead of, “Do you work?” how about, “Do you work outside the home?” And if asked the dreaded question yourself, politely reply, “I sure do!”

Make no excuses for being “just a mom.” Just-a-Mom is a mythical creature anyhow; none exist on this planet. Think more along the lines of Wow-What-a-Mom! God’s multi-faceted prism of darkness-conquering light. How’s that for a job description?

~ Maureen
First published at CatholicMom.com.

A happy little P.S. - A week ago I attended a bridal shower for my niece-to-be, and was, of course, asked THE question. I was ready! I sounded good! :)

Here's to the Future Me (and You!)

Was just over at www.faithandfamily.com and heard of a Web site that allows you to write an e-mail to yourself in the future. You write it, and it flies around in cyberspace until whatever date you specify. Awfully neat idea, I think. Try it. Might be fun! Heeeeere's the site: www.FutureMe.org.

~ Maureen :)

The Invisible Mom Bond

How to describe the feeling in a mother’s heart as she watches her child carted off to parts unknown behind restricted hospital doors? His name is called, and off my son walks…alone. Doesn’t seem to matter if the child is 8 months or 18 years old, the mom feeling is the same and the body involuntarily reacts as tears well, watching him dutifully follow the technician.

I felt an acute sense of physical connection to this child who was once inside of me, a part of me for nine special months. Do we ever truly separate from our children? My son had to swallow the nasty chalky liquid, and lie on the metal table to be scanned, but he wasn’t alone; I was with him. Did he feel me?

I recall the familiar helplessness as my 2-year-old walked down a similar corridor years ago, in his teeny hospital gown, trustingly clutching the nurse’s hand. The same feeling re-occurred later as two more sons needed surgery. Double the dread.

Throughout these last 25 years my sons were hospitalized for a couple three-day stints. There was absolutely no question that I would spend all nights with them – that I was not leaving the hospital until I took them home with me. We were one. I couldn’t have broken that invisible mom bond had I tried; it held me tight.

What must Mary have felt as she watched her Son being carted off to parts unknown? “Helpless” can’t come remotely close, just as stitches and surgeries can’t hold a candle to crucifixion and death. Yet Jesus’ mother stood firm; she stayed with her Son until the end witnessing…feeling…the indescribable abuse.

The invisible mom bond held her close, kept her one with her Child. Jesus felt her strength, and surely was comforted by her presence. This time the Son went Home before the mother, but the mother/Son bond remained unbroken. Each was with the other.

Hopefully, the next time we moms gaze up at Jesus on the crucifix we will no longer see him as being all alone. We’ll see a mother’s love surrounding Him.

~ Maureen :)
Column first published at CatholicMom.com

Faith and Family Small Successes

Why oh why, can something so simple two weeks ago frustrate the heck out of me this week? I cannot make the "button" of Small Successes magically appear on my site, but here are my successes anyway with an added bonus:
1. Went to the gym three times so far this week.
2. Sought the solitude of the beach four times.
3. Began writing a new book.
Bonus*****Didn't throw my laptop out the window in frustration over the difficulties of the Small Successes button!
~ Maureen :)
P.S. Hope you all had many successes of your own this week. Maybe by next week I'll conquer the button once and for all.

The Beach is Mine Again

The beach is mine again. Sand-throwing little kiddies gone to school. Texting teenagers gone to school. Three cheers for school – Hip Hip Hooray! It’s me and the seagulls now. Peaceful. Soothing. Restorative. My summer’s not over – not by a long shot. As long as the sun and the surf show up, I will too. To write. To pray. To be. To be alone.

Maybe this next phase of my life has possibilities after all. I really do not miss school shopping for four sons: clothes, shoes, backpacks, outrageously expensive required calculators. This year I went all-out when I saw notebooks for a quarter. I bought 20. And a few days before college began I bought each of my sons a pen – one pen. That’s it – notebooks and a pen. I think at their ages they are perfectly capable of purchasing the rest. Funny how when parents don’t foot the bill the child suddenly gets along with much less.

I remember when I drove my first car years ago; my parents bought the gas. They gave me a credit card. At about that time self-serve gas stations began popping up. Why on earth would I consider leaving the comfort of my car to pump my own gas? So it was a few pennies less, who cared? Me, that’s who, when the credit card went away. I hauled my cookies out of the car every time! I still do.

It’s a parent/child dance. Was then ~ ever will be.

My children and I “dance” together less frequently these days, but that’s all a part of the game, right? Love ‘em. Teach ‘em. Give ‘em space. Let ‘em grow. Love ‘em. Always love ‘em.

Even the seagulls are more content without hoards of people taking over their turf. Every creature needs space to live as God intended. Moms are no different. Find some space. Take some time for yourself. You’ve survived summer. You deserve it.

~ Maureen :)

Reach for the Heavens

I sat in the theatre knowing I was sitting amidst a story I had to write; it was too special to keep it to myself.

Rewind 40 years: Do you see us – my sister and me screaming “Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious” at the top of our lungs as if nothing else in the entire world mattered? Singing “A Spoonful of Sugar” in such a strange way as to roll every single “r” in the song – “A spoonful of sugarrrrrrr.” Silly. Fun. I’m surprised I didn’t carve new grooves into my Mary Poppins album I played it so often.

Fast forward to Mother’s Day 2009: To my delight I opened my card to find two tickets staring back at me – two tickets to Mary Poppins the musical. And my oldest son, the giver, was accompanying me. We waited three long months until the date finally rolled around.

I was so excited. We dressed up, plugged in Mabel a.k.a. GPS and away we went. We were in the company of many groups of mothers and…daughters walking toward the theatre. Many, many girls all dressed up in their Sunday best in sweet little sundresses swinging sweet little purses. Mother/daughter outings. Never had one of those. I commented on the preponderance of females. Monotone voice replies, “I know, Mom.”

What a trooper!

We enter the theatre and I step back in time. I love theatres; of course, my son knows this. We find our seats and wait for the curtain to rise. The instant it does we hear the little voice directly behind my son, “I can’t see anything!”

Oh well. Get up on your knees Sweetie! We’re not moving.

How the songs took me back! I was the little girl again. But as the production continued, songs that I had to have heard as a child, but didn’t remember at all, rang with new meaning: “Being Mrs. Banks should be an easy role. And yet it’s one which I don’t seem too good at on the whole. I have a comfy home. I have a comfy life. I have a name which tells the world I’m someone else’s wife.”

Ladies??? I’d wager one or two of you can relate. Am I right?

So now I’m sitting there experiencing a gamut of emotions. Next, the first haunting strains of “Feed the Birds” plays, and the woman next to me sighs. A minute later the woman in my chair cries. What is it about that song? From child through woman it’s been my favorite. The music, the words, the whole package has always touched me to my core.

“Feed the birds. Tuppence a bag. Tuppence, tuppence, tuppence a bag…All around the cathedral the saints and apostles look down as she sells her wares. Although you can’t see them, you know they are smiling each time someone shows that he cares. Though her words are simple and few, listen, listen she’s calling to you.”

Oh, she’s calling to me alright. She’s been calling for over 40 years. You think just maybe the birds aren’t birds at all, but are the very people with whom we spend our lives – our children, spouses, parents and friends? Feed them. Help them. Love them.

So there I am surreptitiously crying all over the place.

And then Mary Poppins opens her umbrella and flies up, up, up. So cool! I know there are wires, but still, it’s soooo cool. The little girls are oohing and ahing. Just seeing the set of the Banks’ house, and the way the stagehands manipulate it is worth the price of admission, but there’s so much more.

When I saw Bert walk straight up the wall, across the ceiling and down the other side, again, wires, but this guy must be in such great shape to be able to do that. I have to go the gym more. However, even that, as spectacular as it was, cannot compare to the last scene.

Mary Poppins grabs hold of that magical umbrella (or is it Mary who’s magical?), and soars up once again. Only this time she floats up, up, out into the audience, above the audience, and UP TO THE BALCONY! Can you tell I’m just a little impressed! Can you imagine being a little girl and watching Mary Poppins fly above your head and disappear?

Well, I just had to have that souvenir umbrella, that’s all there was to that. And the purse and the CD and the pin.

In one heartfelt gift my son gave me my childhood, my present and my future. Mary and company sang, “Broaden your horizon, open different doors, you may find a you there that you never knew was yours…Anything can happen if you let it. If you reach for the stars all you get are the stars. But we’ve found a whole new spin – if you reach for the heavens, you get the stars thrown in.”

What a heavenly day! Thank you, my dear one.

~ Maureen :)

Queenship of Mary

The following is my favorite poem I've written about Mary. I've posted it before, but on this the Queenship of Mary, I thought I'd post it again. I hope you like it. It's called Tears of a Mother.

Drop by drop the tears spill out upon her cheek
Little spurts of sadness week after week
Quiet cries inflict the pain upon her heart
Until a new day begins and she must start
To do all that is expected of her
And say not a word

How will she watch Him day after day
Living and loving in that little boy way?
How will she do all for Him that she must
Instilling in Him faith, hope and trust
When all the while destiny draws near
And say not a word?

How will she steer Him on His clear course?
Who will be her unending source
Of wisdom and virtue and unending love
To teach her the values of God above?
For whom does she pray
Yet say not a word?

As her Boy grows into the Man
She can do more than anyone can
To ease His fear, to lift His eyes
To the Father above who also cries
In pain for the Son who must suffer
And still she says not a word

Why was she chosen to bear such a weight?
How will she live knowing His fate
Just waiting and watching until that day
When soldiers come to take Him away
To a death long foretold to save us all?
Yet all will watch and say not a word

by Maureen Locher

My Small Successes

My Small Successes This Week
They don’t seem so small to me – I’m really quite thrilled with them. They all have to do with my oldest son.
1. This week we had a heart-to-heart about many of his concerns. Being a young adult isn’t easy in this world. And for once, I listened more than I talked! I really listened to his concerns, and gave them thoughtful consideration rather than spouting the usual party line. We had a great dinner together, just the two of us, mother and son, friend to friend.
2. He took action on a key concern of his – real concrete action, and I feel very proud that I had something to do with his decision.
3. And my dear one signed up for one college class edging nearer his degree. I’m REALLY happy about this one!

So there you have it. Small successes of a mom in transition. I jokingly call myself a tweeny mom. Sons almost 19 through 24 don’t exactly come running for advice anymore; they need to make their fair share of mistakes so they will learn from them. However, taking a backseat in their lives is much harder than you may imagine, unless of course, you are also a mom in transition. If so, I welcome you to my Web site. Look around. You just may find something you like!

I encourage you to read Mom Moments and leave a message about your own children, as well as checking out My Take on 3.

~ Maureen :)

Change Your "To-Do's" into "Ta-Da's"

Yesterday I wrote about yesterday’s yesterday. Today I shall write about today’s yesterday. Got that?

For a brief, brainless moment yesterday while still lying in bed, I contemplated skipping Mass and Bible Study to instead: wash dishes, fold clothes, and generally whip my house into shape in preparation for my son’s birthday cookout on Saturday. And I also hoped to find the time to write something worth reading.

Sanity prevailed, no doubt by some heavenly mom writer nudge, and I dressed and went where I belong to begin my days. I could have washed those dishes, folded those clothes and written those words, among other ‘to-do’s.” Or I could have listened to God speak to me. I could have been nourished by His Body and His Blood, or I could have had a clean glass from which to drink.

I chose to follow the example of the enlightened woman at the well. She didn’t need a bucket; I don’t need a clean cup. I just need what’s in the Cup.

So, how did my day unfold? Mass, followed by Bible Study, writing, catching up with a friend, and writing some more. My kind of day! I filled up in the morning so I could empty myself the rest of the day, nourished from the Word, the Bread and the Cup. And among my scribbled notes at Bible Study, I happily reread: “My whole existence is in revealing God.”

Right now, I swear on a stack of bibles that I am looking at a little saying I’d ripped out of a magazine, and taped to my bedside table months ago: Change your “to-do’s” into “ta-da’s.”

I did that yesterday. I wish you the grace to change your to-do’s into ta-da’s today and all your tomorrows.

~ Maureen :)

Sanity Savers

Have you ever had so many words in your head you felt your brain would burst?

Last week I attended a Catholic Writers’ Conference in New Jersey. This “mom” interacted with total strangers all week long – such lovely memorable strangers. And all she wanted to do was write about her new experiences.

However, I drove home to my messy house with zero food that four men, called sons, occupied during said week. My first challenge: So-help-me-God, I was not washing one dish! And I haven’t; they have. It took the dear darlings two days of unconcentrated effort, but I didn’t cave. Score a very small victory for mom.

I’m lucky enough to visit my parents, ages 89 and 90, twice a week in their home. Every day they are able to remain in their own house is a blessing, so I shop and I help. Ours were not the only Mother Hubbard cupboards; two – count ‘em two – large grocery store trips punctuated my yesterday.

Second challenge: arrived home to no electricity. How special! And last night all I wanted to do was write, not buy many bags of ice, and borrow a generator. But as any mom writer feels resoundingly in her core, we cannot always write when we want to write. We steal our moments. We juggle. We make do.

Arriving home from Mass and Bible Study this morning, I faced the third challenge: How not to blow my top as one son was still asleep near noon and another was watching a movie. Movie son had straightened a bit, but only a bit. We had THE TALK again. They are working; I am writing…as God intended. I hear the melodious strains of the weed whip as I write – better than any celestial choir.

Moms’ lives are certainly fraught with endless challenges, but mom writers can write about them, and learn a little something from other moms along the way. I’m convinced we keep each other sane. Thank you for your part this day!

More tomorrow…

~ Maureen :)

I Remember Mrs. Reed

I remember Mrs. Reed, friend to a little girl who lived next door. With few children my age in the neighborhood, on any rainy day I could be found jumping through puddles in Mrs. Reed's blacktop driveway - only blacktop drive on the block. How I'd run up and down, squishing puddles, clutching my little umbrella having the time of my life.

Both Mr. and Mrs. Reed were most particular about their finely manicured lawn. We had grass; the Reeds had a lawn. By far the best grass in my little world, I skipped barefoot through it cutting across the putting green to points beyond. However, cutting through the Reeds' yard was a huge no-no for children of all ages in the neighborhood. All, that is, except for me. They both had a soft spot for me, and I for them. I never got yelled at, but I also kept a pretty good eye out when tromping across the sacred ground.

Every single evening from spring through fall, Mr. Reed meticulously watered every square inch of his front yard. Afterward, he lit up his big cigar, reclined halfway on his front porch swing, and swung with one foot dangling to the ground. Mr. Reed never swung back and forth; he swung sideways, slowly and methodically, until dusk descended and the lightning bugs twinkled the night. Spotting one, I'd race to catch it, then tuck it safely away inside the cleaned out mayonnaise jar with holes poked in the lid so the little buggers could breathe. On and on I ran through the damp lawn. Did life get any better for a 5-year-old?

Yes, it actually did...when the chimes of the approaching ice cream truck could be heard amid the squeals of laughter. All went silent. An exodus of children frantically fleeing to their homes in search of nickels and dimes before the ice cream man officially stopped. Banana and sky blue popsicles were my favorites. Added bonus to sky blue: blue lips, blue teeth, blue tongue. Just call me Baby Smurf.

On especially hot afternoons, a sprinkler twirled the coldest, finest spray all around the Reeds' backyard. Running through sprinklers was forbidden at my house. If I ran through a sprinkler I'd get polio. Oh my, what is it about that forbidden fruit to a child's young mind? I loved sprinklers, and I sneaked in under that cascading water as many times as possible, and I never got polio.

In the morning, Mrs. Reed and I would walk back to her old-fashioned red climbing rose bush which clung to a white arched trellis. And we'd pick roses together. Even taking the trash out was fun at Mrs. Reed's. I hated drying dishes at my own house across the blacktop drive, but doing dishes at Mrs. Reed's became magical. Perhaps it had something to do with the can opener-combination-ice crusher? This new-fangled contraption hung above the sink, and I thought it was the coolest thing I'd ever seen. Anytime I wanted to, I could walk over to the freezer, grab a few ice cubes and crush 'em to my heart's content.

Back in Mrs. Reed's bedroom she had every conceivable shade of Avon's tiny white lipstick samples with which to paint my face. Way neater than sky blue. Next I'd adorn myself with pieces from her extensive collection of costume jewelry. I was positively captivated by the fact that due to an accident when she was younger, Mrs. Reed was left without any eyebrows, and had to pencil them in each day. Remarkable!

Oftentimes Mrs. Reed would drag out her small phonograph and stack of children's 45s complete with accompanying color picture book, and we'd listen over and over to the same stories. One story, which was my absolute favorite, is so completely politically incorrect today that I dare not mention the title. But what did we know back then? It was a just a goofy story.

Back to the blacktop drive where I'd pirouette Mother May I? steps and Red Light/Green Light starts and stops with little friends. We'd have to move out of the way when Mrs. Reed needed to go somewhere. I mean, it was her drive, after all. And there she'd go in her little dark blue Corvair. Only person I ever knew who owned a Corvair. It simply added to her mystique.

We moved away when I was 14, keeping in touch with Christmas cards and the occasional visit. I missed her. But she never left my heart. A few weeks ago Mr. Reed passed away. He was 91. At the funeral home I first glimpsed Mrs. Reed's son who ushered me over to greet his mother. He asked me, "Do you remember my mom?"

Do I remember your mom?

"Yes, Dave, I remember your mom."

~ Maureen :)

You Break It ~ You Bought It

I hope you are enjoying reading posts of my recent vacation to Houghton Lake, Michigan with all of my five men. The following happened in one of the Indian gift shops:

Years ago when my boys were small we would eagerly await the dancing demonstration every Thursday by the local Indians. We'd huddle outside on the rickety bleachers listening to the locals spin their tales, watching them dance. We'd take video of my boys huddled in a tepee pretending to be Indians. And of course we visited all three of the city's Indian shops. Feather headdresses, coon skin caps, tom toms, rubber javelins and tomahawks all made their way back home to Ohio. My boys simply loved wandering around the gift shops. They had their souvenir money, and not one penny of that ever made it back to Ohio!

So there we were wandering around the very same gift shops a few weeks ago with much the same merchandise, when I picked up a small plastic hammer that looked like it was supposed to squeak when hit. So I hit it on the counter. And it broke right in two! I did not bang it down hard. Next, I did what any kid would do - I put it down...fast.

Hmmm...a dilemma. I actually was quite mad that the stupid thing broke. What to do? I walked over to someone who shall remain nameless, therefore blameless, and confessed. Nameless said, "Just leave it. Don't worry about it."

Hmmm...Didn't set well with me. What would Jesus do? Jesus would have had a nice sturdy toy hammer made out of wood. It wouldn't have broken. But I was stuck with a cheapy plastic piece of...well, you get the idea.

It cost $1.59 but it was the principle of the thing. I did not want to pay for a defective toy. I couldn't leave it in the bin for some poor unsuspecting child to cut herself on. No one but Nameless knew what happened - or so I thought. I grabbed the stupid hammer, marched up to the cashier, laid the hammer down and said, "This broke." Not too much information. Just enough. It did break.

The cashier said, "Oh." I walked away. Of course I spent a fair amount on other souvenirs I'd collected, and then went out to the car to my waiting family.

The instant the car door opened in rapid-fire succession:

"Did you really break it?"

"Did you tell them?"

"Did you buy it?"

To which I replied, "Yes, yes, and no."

Obviously, Nameless blabbed. Awfully glad I did the right thing. I always knew I would - it was just a matter of how.

Lesson taught - lesson learned. This mom thing is never really over, is it?

~ Maureen :)

The Princess and the Piece of Plywood

It has to be plywood, right? Or possibly cement? When I lie on the bed in our vacation cabin after a tiring day of travel, I think, You gotta be kiddin'!

No, not kidding. I stretch out expecting some sort of give in the mattress. Something. Anything. Nothing. N-o-t-h-i-n-g! How can a piece of furniture designed to bestow a good night's sleep be so unforgiving? The floor must be softer.

I try to sleep. I toss. I turn. My mood rapidly deteriorates. Why does the fan have to be whirling away? I'm freezing. Why can't my bedmate vanish into thin air so I don't have to suffer in silence?

And what is the crunching sound in my ears? Why is my hair soaked? Despicable thick plastic pillow protectors! Protection from what? Me from bugs? Them from slobber? I can't stand another second. I flee to another room. Same darn bed. This is just plain wrong. Whatever fraction of z's I catch are further fractured by nightmares.

On night #2 my son lifts the extremely thick and horrendously heavy futon pad to the bedroom for me. Now I really feel like the princess with her pea of a mattress resting beneath the cushioned barrier, the softness a definite improvement. It, however, subtracts from the overall sleeping space. Claustrophia of the mattress ensues coupled with the paranoid notion that I could quite certainly fall off!

No fan freezes me this night, but the uncirculating air feels stagnant, heavy. I can't open windows. Anyone walking by could see right in. Rational Mind realizes positively no one would ever walk by to peer in. Too bad Irrational Mind prevails.

Next, the pillow crunches one too many times. Me and my damp head storm out barely disturbing catatonic bedmate. He's enjoying the five inch thick futon pad all night long. I claim the 2X4 on the other side of the wall. Why, God, oh why?

I double every blanket I can find and zip off the plastic pillow protectors, feeling nearly as guilty as when tearing off the Do-not-remove-under-penalty-of-law pillow tags. What is that all about anyway? Have the pillow police ever arrested anyone? Intimidation, pure and simple. It worked on me for years.

But not tonight. Not in my cabin where the yellowy plastic bags are neatly folded in a corner of the room until I make next week's visitors miserable by re-zipping them around the soft, quiet pillows that never did anything to anyone to deserve such an incarcerated fate.

Quiet cabin, other occupant asleep, the minutes turn to hours. Where are those leaping little sheep when you need them?

~ Maureen :)

Fun in the Sun Minus the Sun

Some necessary background on me and water: first, I can't really swim. I say "really" because a very long time ago my mom took me to the YWCA to remedy that situation. I was about 10 years old. My most vivid memory is undressing with very many older naked ladies. I did not like that.

I wore glasses at the time but couldn't wear them in the pool so I couldn't see what was demonstrated. No pun intended, I felt like a fish out of water. I muddled through. My family moved to a house that had a pool when I was 14. My memories are of holding my breath, swimming one length, stopping, gulping for air and turning around to "swim" again. I used to think I could save myself if need be, but I highly doubt that anymore.

Next the whole vacation bathing suit dilemma. Ugh! Or beter yet, "Double Ugh!" as my dad likes to lament. I have never been a fan of swimsuits in any shape or form. May quite possibly have something to do with my shape and form. Oh well. What is, is.

A month before our vacation I began the online hunt for suits. Ordered one. It came. Ha ha ha! Ordered another. More laughter. More orders phoned in, knowing once I found an acceptable garment I'd send all others back. What a fortune temporarily spent. However, the horror of an actual dressing room experience kept me from all actual stores.

I finally didn't throw up when I tried on the last of the mail order suits, so that was the keeper. Vacation began in less than a week. I was ready. Me, my suit, my cover up and my floppy hat. I never wear hats but I thought, Why not? No one knows me up there but my family. It might be fun.

One more purchase necessary for fun in the sun: a float, a big huge 72 inch round float, and since I just wanted to lie on the float and not have to keep paddling myself around, I bought a small mushroom-shaped anchor, to anchor me in the middle of the lovely, calm, shallow lake I remembered so well.

We arrived - my five men and me. The place looked beautiful. Log cabins, same little play area where my young sons once played, same welcoming hosts. We were at Houghton Lake. We were back after an eight-year absence, and it felt great.

We blew up the float and although it was pretty windy we ventured out. The hilarious part of this trip into the lake is that my husband held the float for me at the dock. I didn't even have to get wet! Now that's my kind of swimming! Beginning to see a pattern? I like beer that doesn't taste like beer (previous post), I enjoy water if I'm not actually in it.

The waves got bigger and the water was mighty cold splashing up over my lake island. I lasted an hour tops, gracefully slipping off the back, into the water for maybe two seconds, and climbing the dock steps.

And that was the last time any of us were in the water all week long. The first day or two I encouraged, "Oh, this dreadful weather will never last. It came in fast; it will go away fast. The wind will slow, the lake will be calm, and we can swim and fish without upending on whitecaps." Didn't that sound like great advice? I thought so. My dear ones believed my optimism until about Wednesday. By then I didn't even believe it. It sucked! And we all felt the disappointment.

But my men did venture out to fish. It amazes me how two sons aged 20 and 21 can act like little infants when seated next to one another in the car on the shortest jaunts into town, hands all over one another. "Mom, tell him to leave me alone. I'm going to punch him if he doesn't leave me alone, Mom. I really am." (So punch him!)

How is it that these same two creatures can and did spend eight hours a day fishing together in a 14 foot aluminum boat? Remarkable! They had such fun. They reconnected; we all did. So we couldn't swim, or even lie in the sun. And you know that floppy hat I'd bought? I attempted wearing it only once when the wind nearly ripped it off my head. It joined the other misfits on the island of lost vacation toys: spray-on Coppertone, aloe for sunburn - now there's a hoot!, swimsuit, cover up, really expensive float, anchor, water cannons and big, soft, fluffy brand new beachtowels for six!

I now know it is possible to come back from a summer vacation whiter than when we left!

For more vacation memories tune in tomorrow.

~ Maureen :)

Don't Faint! New Post!

Yes, it's me. I'm here. I'm back. I realize the import-ance of many things as well as the profound insignificance of so much in the world. Key word - world. Worldly. Not of God. So much of what we do we think we are doing for noble reasons. But are we? We take care of our families, we earn a living, we enter and attempt to survive in the rat race. And somehow, little by little God gets shoved aside. Sometimes we hear His voice as the faintest whisper, so it is still audible, but when our children and spouses and bosses and obligations all speak at once they often drown out God's voice. The noise of others' demands and wants and wishes overtake us, and we succumb to what others think must be done in our lives. We listen to the world because it is so darn persistent and loud.

But I'm done.

My family and I have just returned from a family vacation - all six of us. Sons aged 18-23 came with mom and dad. Many thought that quite remarkable. "You mean all the boys are really going?"

"Yes, of course. It's a FAMILY vacation." Hence the cast of characters. But it got me thinking that it really is pretty remarkable and pretty wonderful. And somewhere somehow we've done a whole lot more good than bad, for all my boys realize the importance of family.

As vacations go, one could say our vacation sucked. That is if one were looking exclusively at the weather. The weather sucked - bigtime! We rented two cabins for a week. We go to Houghton Lake in Michigan. Began this tradition many moons ago when our sons were small. Hadn't been back in eight years what with stupid school sports practices which run all summer long and the rocky finances of a family of six.

Much anticipation and excitement built as we counted down the days. Lists were made. I'm a list maker for matters of importance. Provisions bought. Six people's stuff packed into our Suburban and away we went.

First stop: Frankenmuth, Michigan. We know this city by heart. Here is a glimpse into the extreme weirdness of me: Ever since our boys were young and had to use the restroom, of course, I took them into the ladies' room with me. Hubby wasn't exactly enlightened back then. I did the babies. Every single time we went to the very same larger stall because there was so much more room. It became "home" in Frankenmuth's Bavarian Inn. Many times the crowds would be pushy, we would be hot and sweaty, and we escaped, if only for five minutes into this little hide-away. And it refreshed us. Sound silly? Probably. But this year I visited my special little hide-away again. I didn't drag my young men in there with me - now THAT would have been weird! But I did enjoy the sameness, the familiar, the respite.

Frankenmuth was a huge success. We arrived for lunch at a brew haus, a micro-brewery which makes its own unique types of beer. I don't like beer at all. For me to drink a beer it must not taste anything like beer. And the menu offered one such flavor - raspberry beer. The beer flavor was nowhere to be tasted, so I drank with my over 21-ers. For some reason my sons get the biggest kick out of it when I drink anything alcoholic. I guess it's because it's such a rare occurence. Who knows? They're goofy, but I love 'em. Yes, that photo is three of them being silly in the brew haus. Ooh, don't they look scary! Not!

Next we checked into our hotel, rested a bit and went out to explore the street we know so very well. Same familiar haunts. We thoroughly enjoyed ourselves. At the Bavarian Inn we stuffed ourselves, but pleasantly so, on a family style smorgasboard of delicious fried chicken and German meats and the best noodles we've ever eaten. So much good food. Many other delectable side dishes. You know how sometimes when you build up something in your mind so much that the reality just cannot live up to the expectations? Well, this was not the case. We loved everything. It was as good, if not better, than we'd remembered. And to make the night even better we had the best waitress we have ever had - in any restaurant anywhere. Her name was Danielle and she'll probably never be reading this blog of mine, but she was so capable and friendly that I wrote her manager. I hope she realizes how much she added to our pleasure.

Life was good.

Next morning we drove up a bit north to our week's destination of Houghton Lake. The sky opened up, the wind blew and the waves crashed to shore.

To be continued - tomorrow - same bat time, same bat channel.

~ Maureen :)




Labels: Frankenmuth, Houghton Lake, Michigan, vacation

Welcome to My Happy Place

Hello Everyone or Simply One,
When I first began this Web site I operated on the assumption that if only one person read my words that was one person I was possibly bringing closer to God. Some"one" was hearing my story of God in my life. But then discouragement hit as I didn't think "enough" people were reading my words. But what is enough?

Yesterday I heard someone comment that when one simply stops writing on their Web site that is the same as saying to the readers, "I don't care about you anymore." That hit home with me. I do care about you. There is much I must do to ensure that more people read my blogs. But that's what I have to do. It's not your fault. So if you are but one or many I would like to share with you the column I wrote for Mom Writer's Literary Magazine in the Spring/Summer issue. I write the column Just Another Manic Momday for the magazine as well as serving as copy editor. Welcome to My Happy Place. I am writing to you from my happy place right now.

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, MWLM 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!

~ Maureen :)