Trust Yourself

Do you trust yourself? It may sound like a silly question, but do you? Chances are if you have found, and keep coming back, to this Web site you just may be a mom like me who has raised her children and is looking for more for her life. Searching. That was me several years ago. Lost. Another apt adjective to describe me. When moms’ children grow up and walk out the door so goes the mom’s primary function out the door too. Alone. A third word to describe this time of a mother’s life. It is not a pretty time. We think back to our own mothers and others who would warn, “Enjoy this time. It will go by so quickly.”
Yeah, yeah, sure, sure. I wished the diaper phase and the no-sleep phase would speed right along. But then, just as the wise ones knew, the time was quickly gone. Over. Kaput. The bad parts are gone, but so are the good ones. And a mom is left alone – alone physically as well as mentally much of the time. If you’re like me you forged such a bond with your young ones that you find yourself missing their company around the dinner table, at church, around the living room.

But we go on. We moms are a resilient sort, aren’t we? Back to my original question: Do you trust yourself? Do you trust yourself to forge ahead? Do you trust yourself enough to let go of the past knowing that there is a future not only for your children, but for you? Years ago I didn’t have a clue what my life would be like now. My purpose had grown up…and left. Only in the past year or so have I begun to get a handle on this new phase of my life. Before that, there was constant soul-searching with many tears of sadness, frustration and anger.

So if you are in the time of life I just described, take heart, because a different life awaits you. My different life has all to do with words – my writing. Yours may go in that direction or in another direction. Take the time to trust yourself, to begin to figure out your new place in God’s world. Because we all have a purpose in every stage of our lives. Take the time to question and listen. Do lots of knocking on God’s door. Beat it down if you must until you get an answer. Be patient. Don’t give up.

A Favor, Please

If you have found this Web site and like what you've discovered in my daily writing, I have a favor to ask of you: Tell one friend. That's it, just one. Maybe it's another mom who can also see the light at the end of the mom tunnel like me - someone who has raised her kids and may be wondering, "What now?"

I hope to grow my readership in several ways, but word-of-mouth is powerful, so if you would...just one friend, please. Thank you.

Enjoying the Sabbath

This day, this Sunday, I think I am experiencing the meaning of a Sabbath day. I don’t always feel this way on Sundays, but I have a friend who always remembers “to keep holy the Lord’s day.” She tells me how she begins her day with Mass and reads and works on a puzzle and takes a nap. Sounds heavenly, doesn’t it? She doesn’t do chores on Sunday. The resemblance to my Sundays and my friend’s Sundays end after morning Mass.

But today was different. It has felt Sabbath-like. All of my sons are home, which is a rarity, so I stopped at the grocery store after Mass and bought some ingredients for an extra-special dinner. I watched one of my favorite all-time movies, I Remember Mama, amid the voices of my family, but for once I wasn’t bothered by their chattering. We were all in one room enjoying each others’ company. Again, a rarity, as all my boys experience more and more of their own lives away from the old homestead. We even discussed our upcoming summer vacation. Who knows how many will go? But they all know they are welcome.

And that’s a major life shift in the past several years. The birdies are flying out of the nest. I’m adjusting; all moms do. But I savor a day like today when all birds are roosting here. And what speaks to my five men more eloquently than a good dinner? So…time to go. Time to cook and maybe read or watch another movie or…the Sabbath possibilities are endless.

Fun Can Happen in Lent

In today’s “Little Black Book” (see yesterday’s post) I received a much-needed little pat on the back – a confirmation, of sorts. The passage has to do with giving things away – realizing that all things we have come from God anyway, so it is our job to be sure they are distributed properly.

Of course, as is the case with any and every project attempted in this house, cleaning up our upstairs and giving what we’ve discovered to those who could use the stuff is an on-going process. In my reading this morning I received affirmation for my efforts. And I sorely need that in my life.

This is not a good time with my parents. They are 89 and 90 with all the accompanying problems associated with such a ripe old age. Yesterday I had a mini-meltdown. Not major like at Christmas, but about a 4 on the Richter scale of meltdowns. I hate what is happening to my parents. But it’s better than the alternate of not having them. However, God has been slowly walking me down the realization path preparing me for the inevitable. But I still hate it.

So today is a day of fun. I am forgetting sadness – casting it aside for lunch and wandering through some junk a.k.a. antique shops. My husband and I walked through an antique show last weekend and I’d forgotten how much fun it could be. And happily, I spent only a meager $10.00. My purchases? Two items each two inches tall: a Planter’s Peanut red whistle and a Coke bottle that’s really a lighter. My tastes are simple…and juvenile, but it’s better than expensive and flamboyant, right?

I wish you some fun today. Spread some joy!

Who's in Your Little Black Book?

Have you ever read the “Little Black Book,” a Lenten booklet based on the writings of Bishop Ken Untener? I wish I had the time to explore all facets of the Bible; I don’t, not at this stage of my life. While it is true I call more time my own than I had when raising my sons, I cannot yet devote the chunk of time needed to dive deeply into Scripture. That’s where this wonderful little book comes into play.

As the introductory page states, the book is divided into “240 ‘six minute’ packages.” It is so very easy to read each morning. It takes longer for my laptop to turn on than it takes me to read these short insightful passages. The “Little Black Book” begins the Sunday before Ash Wednesday and continues through Easter Sunday.

It’s one of those books I think my boys may actually take the time to read, and whether they do or not, I know I will. I really should get another copy and I know right where I should put it for the best chance of reading: in the bathroom! Sounds a bit crude perhaps, but that’s where men do their reading much of the time. I tried this tact with another Bible-type book, and it worked. I go with what works even though it may sound silly.

I highly recommend this book for busy people who may need a little Lenten jumpstart every morning. It’s a great way to focus on the season of Lent. Happy six-minute reading!

Here's the Web site: www.littlebooks.org.

A Joyful Lent

Lent: a joyful season of the Church. But fasting and giving things up that you like doesn’t seem too joyful to me. So I am making these next 40 days joyful. Just making it happen. I can’t tell you how many Lents I’ve struggled through in the past several years questioning most every choice I’ve ever made – wanting those “do-overs” about which I’ve written so often.

But here I am: mom of four sons; wife to one husband. I’m not struggling through another Lent. I’m not allowing it to happen. I’m smarter than that. And I credit God with my mini-conversion because He has done something inside of me; He has enlightened me to the joy of the life I have right now, this very minute. So I’m going with it – not fighting it any longer.

Wherever you are right now on your journey, I wish you the strength to emerge on the other side a stronger, more joyful person. Good luck to us both!

Peace and Quiet

What I wish for you this Lent:

Peace and quiet far away
No distractions - only time
Time to think
Time to feel
Time to do what God deems Real

Where smiles meet eyes
Before a warm embrace
Where love kindles hearts
Like sunshine warms the face
As we fulfill His plan
Doing all we should
To care for one another well
If we but only would

The Friendship that Is Life

I wrote a column two years ago that I have tweaked a little bit for today. It’s timely for the start of Lent.

Will you feel the crunchy ashes glide across and down your forehead tomorrow? Will you be a visible reminder to all you meet that we Catholics have begun a very special time of reflection for the next 40-something days? Will you be giving up things this Lent or giving more?

When I look at the many and varied people in my life I can be in their presence for a very short time before knowing precisely for whom they are living at any particular moment – themselves or others. I look at my own children. There is a life I want for each of them. But I can't force it on them. They must choose it. They are all old enough to choose. I hope that tomorrow they will all receive those crunchy ashes, but will they? I’m not sure. I can’t troop them to Mass anymore. It’s their choice.

Ash Wednesday is so much more than being smeared with the burnt palms. It's a solid beginning to a time of reflection. In today's non-stop pace I wish for my sons and for all you readers to take the time to slow down. If one doesn't avidly seek a slowdown it will never come. Unless perhaps God decides to intervene to seriously slow us down, and in my experience that's usually a little scary – until we fully realize God's purpose for our lives.

So what is God's purpose for our lives right now? Do you think you have a pretty good handle on it, or are you clueless? Well, everybody must start somewhere, so clueless is OK right now, if that's where you truly are. Sadly, I think that way too many people don't have any notion as to what God wants to do with their lives. And many more simply do not care. They don't ask Him. I sincerely hope that during these next 40 days we all may find that quiet time to reflect with God. A few minutes are better than no minutes.

Ask God what He wants you to do, and look and listen all day long for His answers. You will be amazed at the ways in which He replies, and how frequently, if you’re really paying attention to the details of your life. It's scary and freaky and fun and awesome all at the same time. Do it and you'll begin a friendship for life – the Friendship that is life.

Goodnight :)

What a day! Up at 5:15, took my mom to surgery, all went well - thank God! - spent day at hospital, took my mom back home, finally getting back to my own home a little while ago. Too tired to write. Goodnight!

Going, Going, Soon-to-be Gone!

I am simply amazed at how most everything happens around this house at a snail’s pace. Yesterday I related my long overdue errand experience as well as the happiness I felt when finally accomplishing it all. Why is it that certain chores take us so long to do? Why can’t we be better motivated?

I always blame it on my five men. I do. I know I do. In one way or another I can pawn most responsibility off onto one or more of them:

If they would only pick up the house as they should, I would have more time and inclination to accomplish more meaningful projects around here. I wouldn’t be cleaning up the same messes over and over again, day after day, decade after decade.

If they would take a sledge hammer and smash to smithereens the Call of Duty video game, the stress level in our house would drop by at least half. An abundance of time would be freed up to…study, build those closets, hang that drywall.

If the most technologically advanced of my five men would help me with my Web site, I could accomplish so much more toward the advancement of my writing.

My life of ifs.

Guess what? I’m done with other people’s ifs.

It’s been a slow, tedious and oftentimes, disappointing process, but I am beginning to realize I must stand on my own two foot to do the things I want to do – and not let anything or anyone get in my way. Today I called the local high school my sons attended, and where I substitute taught for many years. I have a call in to the guidance counselor asking for a smart computer-literate girl to tutor me of the ways of Web sites and all things computer. Everything I have learned up until now has been mostly self-taught. And I get so frustrated! Those closest to me hear my pleas, and when they don’t help me I want to clobber them. Really hard! So far, I have not. Last night, however, I did have a major blow-up. I had had it! When the dust cleared I knew nothing would change. Definition of insanity: Doing the same things over and over expecting different results.

For years we followed this insanity plan when it came to handling our weekly trash. Every week the critters would get into the trash. I would buy new, better, stronger, smarter-than-raccoons locking lids, but my dear darlings would never consistently attach the lids. Most times “taking the trash out” was somehow heard as “throw the bags next to the cans.” It is an embarrassment to admit how long this ritual continued, until one day the good old insanity definition entered my mind. That day I called the trash company, and the next day two mega huge trashcans were delivered to our door. Everything fit easily. No cramming. Lids swing down. Problem solved. And easy to roll to the street to boot!

Weeks ago my family and I began the Great American Clean Up of our upstairs. The hallway is a hideous sight, but the bedrooms have greatly improved. Why? Because I think my sons finally realized that if they didn’t clean it up nobody would. Doing the same thing over and over netted the same results: living in squalor. It is true we have no closets in our 1823 home, but cleaning up the mess was the first step. My sons have way too many clothes, many of which they never wear. Time to give them away. Get rid of the stuff. Free up the floor space and let’s get busy on those closets.

But that’s mom talking. Not a teenager or young adult. It’s the weekend! Must go out. Can’t stay home. Must have fun, fun, fun. I know it’s slow-going, but it is going.

And living as a computer-challenged adult is another situation that is going away, maybe slowly, but it’s going bye-bye…eventually.

P.S. Happy St. Valentine's Day to all!

Check!

Today was a day when instead of merely writing a “to do” list, I actually checked off all items on my list. And it feels good. That simply never happens. After getting some things in order here at home I was ready to head out into the big world. But hubby wanted to go lunch. Hubby LOVES restaurants. Instead of fighting it anymore, I go with the flow. It was noon. Food sounded good, so OK, we can go.

Mooch son #2 just happened to call exactly at noon. What a coincidence! Then Mooch son #4 also wanted to go. But in the meantime hubby realized he must be here at home at 1:00 to participate in a conference call. I didn’t want to eat out in the first place; I said yes to be nice to him. And now two sons were counting on it. We three met at Pizza Hut and did had a lot of fun. Mooches talked. Always enlightening to glimpse their worlds.

Then I was off on my own. I have been driving around with bags for Goodwill in the back of my Jeep for over a month. Throwing grocery bags on top of and around them has been quite a challenge each week. But now they’re gone! Check. Wandered through Wally World next, picking up some trinkets for Valentine’s Day as well as several much-needed household items. Check. Check. Then I finally went to the cable store. My son bought me a TV for my bedroom at Christmas and it has taken me this long to get the cable box. Added bonus: I get to pay $18.00 more every single month just for the privilege of having the DVR box. How special! Triple check.

Next I came home and checked off some phone calls from my “to do” list, e-mailed a few people, and the laundry is whrring away. Chalk up a good day.

Just Stuff

A son returns from work at 11 p.m. Knock, knock. A mom is .567% away from Dreamland. As much as mom wants to say, “Be gone with you!” the words do not form.

“Sure, you can come in. How was your work?”

“Crappy.” Now there’s a shock – a young guy complaining about his job!

“Oh, that’s too bad,” says mom.

Little by little mom wakes up as “stuff” is shared. Mother/son things. Nothing monumental. No earth-shattering revelations. Just stuff. The stuff that lives are made of.

Baby cries; mom feeds.

Toddler trips; mom rescues.

Youngster questions; mom answers.

Teenager rebels; mom waits.

Son talks; mom listens.

No matter the hour.

And it ever will be so.

Me - Plain...and Simple?

What makes us like (or not like) something?

As Valentine’s Day approaches why do I sincerely hope I don’t receive red roses on the big day? Because I don’t like red roses, that’s why. Why don’t I? No deep set trauma associated with them, so why do I prefer yellow or peach or pink? Why isn’t the gift of the roses enough? Why am I so persnickety about the color?

Why do I hate the taste of dark chocolate, but enjoy milk chocolate? Why does the raspberry flourish swirled on a dessert plate to complement the sweet treat make my mouth pucker in a repulsive reflex?

Why would I rather sit around all night long drinking iced teas until my bladder busts, rather than try the latest exotic martini? Why do I adore kittens, but not cats?

Why do I despise nearly every single perfume on the market, yet prefer lilac-scented candles? Why do I smile at the sight of a lawn brimming with dandelions when most others despise the yellow beauties?

Why do I think that adding vegetables to Jell-o is the stupidest thing ever? Doesn’t everyone know that Jell-o was made for fruit and Cool Whip – not veggies? Why do I love cocktail sauce, but wince to the point of holding my breath around horseradish? Horseradish is a main ingredient of cocktail sauce. I know this, yet still feel as I do.

Why? Why? Why?

Perhaps I am just weird – plain and simple. Well, plain maybe, but not so simple. Never simple with me. Yet even my explanation is a paradox because I think in my heart of hearts I am quite a simple girl.

P.S. I’ll keep you posted about those roses!

Snowy Domino Effect

Where’s the snow? The new snow? The foot of additional fluffy white stuff expected last night to join the already fallen 18 inches on the ground? No snow, but the dominoes have surely fallen…

1. “The snow is falling. The snow is falling,” Chicken Little forecasters predict.
2. Around noon yesterday the snow begins its chilly and persistent descent.
3. Exhibiting prudence, schools close for today – big kids as well as the little kids (meaning my dear darlings are home from college).
4. Weighing the daunting prospect of engineering my 90-year-old mother to the hospital for possible surgery at 9:00 a.m. this morning, I call the doctor yesterday afternoon. We postpone.
5. Which necessitated five more phone calls and two e-mails.
6. One of which was the caregiver for my parents. I had cancelled her for today. We wouldn’t be at home, so wouldn’t need her services.
7. Tried to get her back.
8. Schools are closed. Snow is coming. Her kids home. She can’t come.
9. Agency attempts replacements.
10. Schools are closed – snow is coming – no one can come.

So, it appears that everyone is home with their children today. Not a bad thing, I guess. This “hump day” is quite the “rest day” for many. Moral of the story: Some days you just go with the flow – or lack of snow flow.

Snow Ice Cream Anyone?

Last week we had 18 inches of snow, and tonight through tomorrow weather forecasters are predicting another foot or more. Perfect day to post my recipe for snow ice cream! My sister made this ice cream for me when I was younger, and I’ve continued the tradition for my boys. They love it! If you think the atmosphere has too many contaminants filtering through making it down to us here on earth, then you shouldn’t venture this recipe. Personally, I’ve never seen the harm in it. But I also lick beaters with or without raw egg!

Here goes:

Snow Ice Cream

½ cup heavy cream
¼ cup granulated sugar
½ teaspoon vanilla
1 quart fluffy white snow – Best to set out a chilled tray to catch the snow as it’s falling.

Stir cream, sugar and vanilla together. Pour mixture over snow and stir.

I always double or triple the recipe! Yum!

Here We Go Again

Well, I wasn’t too impressed with the commercials – how about you? The e*trade babies are always cute and Doritos continued their funny offerings. I enjoyed the ad where the men all talked funny like they were using a synthesizer. But is that a commercial where the product sticks out in my mind? Nope. Can’t remember what the ad was for. And what’s the deal with the commercial for the 2010 census? Really??? The United States government felt the need to spend all that money for a cutesy ad…for what? Are more people actually going to respond because they saw a few actors tell them to? Highly doubtful. OK, there, I’m done – off my soapbox.

Back to the reality of my life, my upcoming week. It’s going to be a busy one. That’s why I got up extra early. I thought if I got into the proper frame of mind to tackle the week that’d be half the battle. So here I am bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, ready to face whatever is thrown my way in the next seven days.

How’s your week shaping up? Anything important? Same old same old? Or a combination there of? Whatever comes your way this week I wish you the energy and inspiration to face it, tackle it, endure it – whatever you may need. Happy Monday!

When Enough is Enough

Are you ready for some football? How ‘bout some commercials? That’s more my speed. I don’t care who wins today at all, but I will be disappointed if the commercials aren’t great. We’re having just a few people over. Super Bowl Sunday is a big excuse to eat a lot of fun food, I think, and we will do our share. I tell you, I am so tired right now I think I could lie down and sleep until morning. But that’s not possible.

I have, however, discovered the luxury in doing less, taking time to smell the roses, so to speak. That’s why I’m up here typing away to you right now instead of starting something else downstairs. The food that’s prepared is enough. My house is clean enough. Recognizing when enough is enough is important. And that’s much easier now than it once was. I used to run around like a chicken with its head cut off before parties in the past. I’m happy those years are behind me. Nobody is coming to visit my house; they are coming to visit me and my family.

Whatever you’re eating and drinking at your party, enjoy! And let’s all hope for some funny commercials.

Heavenly Solitude

My dad has so many favorite expressions I could fill a book with them. Here’s one: “Youth is wasted on the young.” Sounds silly at first hearing, but think about it. All that energy and exuberance. Wow! My 22-year-old son shoveled a foot of snow off our porch, steps and down our long walk – in record time. I’d have a heart attack just thinking about doing it. I would never attempt it. But there he went, did it and is no worse for the wear.

Harnessing that energy at my age would be remarkable. But would I really want to go back and do it all again? I used to think I wanted to. I longed for a life do-over. To be able to go back with the knowledge that I have now. As youth diminishes, wisdom increases. That’s not a coincidence. And with the wisdom I have been accumulating of late I am sure I don’t want to go back. I don’t want to start over. I’m smarter than I was. A lot smarter. I can step back from situations and not get broiled into circumstances that don’t concern me. I can walk away in my mind – just disassociate. It’s a pretty neat trick actually.

I wouldn’t want to be a young adult these days. And I have four such creatures living under my roof! Lately though I truly have been able to step back to give my sons the needed space to succeed or fail. And I understand why I am able to do that: because I have a life of my own separate from theirs. I’m not “Mommy.” I’m Mom. I’m Maureen. I’m me without four little ones hanging on.

I like it. I’ve written about the niche I’ve carved for myself – my home within my home – my Happy Place upstairs away from the video game fighting and juvenile banter. Maybe this would have occurred earlier had I had girls. I’ve missed that side of life. But I’m not crying over spilled milk; I’m happy for what I am discovering these days.

Every week I buy myself a new bouquet of flowers and choose a vase from my extensive and dusty collection which for years has lain dormant 99.999% of the time. And I put those flowers right in front of me on my desk. They are mine. I’m big into mine right now. I really am. Maybe that sounds selfish, but that’s how I feel. For how many years had my primary concern been my children? 25. That’s right, 25.

Yesterday is a prime example of extracting some time for myself. My day had revolved around my mom and the pre-testing she needed done at the hospital. Returning home my sister-in-law and I noticed my dad’s dilemma. He had had something frozen off his forehead two days earlier. His eyes were red and swollen and he looked miserable. We got him squared away and we left, she to her house and me to mine. But mine is 45 minutes away on a sunny day.

We were just beginning to get the forecasted foot of snow. The temperature hovered right at 32 degrees. All that water on the road was about to turn to ice; it was just a matter of when. “When” happened to be at the exact time I was driving…crawling…toward home. I am not a wimp in the snow. I’ve lived in the Midwest my whole life. I have four-wheel drive. Nothing seemed to matter, except for the fact that I was smart enough to know I had to go 30 MPH if I wanted to get my Jeep and me home in one piece. Oh what a hideous drive! But I arrived safe and sound. Had to spend some time with my hubby even though all I wanted to do was climb to the solitude of my Happy Place.

At 8:30 I finally came up here and I must have subconsciously breathed a huge sigh of relief. I could finally do what I wanted to do, and that was write. I have a column due tomorrow. After about half an hour my son came home with his girlfriend. I went downstairs. I said hi. And I ran right back up for hours. I’m sure hubby thought me crazy and possibly rude. Too bad. Would I have wanted my parents hanging around my boyfriend and me when I was 24? I don’t think so!

I wrote and wrote and wrote. And writing makes me happy. I wish you the courage, because sometimes that’s what it takes, to do something that makes you happy today. The heck with everybody else. Make the time…for you.

The Hurrieder I Go the Behinder I Get

Just time enough for a quick hi today. Hi! Very busy - too busy - and much yet to do tonight. If the snow is coming your way I hope you are warm and cozy with a marshmallowy cup of hot chocolate to sip. Cheers!

With God All Things Are Possible

A poem for you which I wrote a few years ago. I hope you like it. Sometimes friends really do the trick!

With God all things are possible
In dreams that’s also true
We close our eyes and float away
To all those loved ones who
Know just the words to make our day
As our hearts’ wishes soar
Above the ordinary everyday
Where we are so much more
Because we have each other

God put us here for one another
To do what we must do
To ease the burden, share the joy
To build a life that’s true
With ups and downs and turnarounds
And times we’ve had enough
For as we hold on tight
Our road seems not so rough
Because we have each other

So hold on tight and don’t let go
Of all those you hold dear
Treasuring the love you feel
Whenever they are near
Wish for them their heart’s desire
And God’s protection, too
As all the time that we do share
Becomes that life that’s true
Because we have each other

A Run-of-the-mill Wednesday

First I burned my finger on the hot wooden spoon I haphazardly let lay across the pan. Next I cut my thumb opening a can of kidney beans. Once the profuse bleeding subsided and I was bandaged by my helpful fellows who happened to be home today, I began stirring the chili again, dropped the spoon and spotted the floor with onions. Is God trying to tell me something? Like get-the-heck-out-of-the-kitchen?

Wouldn’t it be great if God’s signs were so simple? I’ve often lamented the need for a neon billboard with specific directions addressed solely to me. Kind of like that big Jumbo Tron screen we’ve heard so much about in Texas this football season. But I’d settle for a message directly from God on the screen at the Super Bowl in Miami this weekend. Dear Maureen, Divine blah, blah, blah… Love, God. No, I haven’t lost all my marbles. Not yet, anyway. Perhaps some are jumping overboard though.

Hasn’t God given us a book chock full of words of wisdom, history, parables and eye witness accounts? Yet still we long for the tailored-just-for-me answers. Maybe it’s because we’ve gotten lazy. Too lazy to read the Bible. To lazy to search for the meaning behind the words in our own lives. We want to be spoon fed like babies. Yet we don’t want to be treated like babies. We are plain never satisfied, are we? I suppose I should speak for myself.

I’m trying to unplug these days. To realize that I can only do so much. I go with the flow hoping the current doesn’t wash me and my marbles downstream. Believe it or not, it’s another learning time for me. I’ve graduated from little boys with little troubles to big boys with bigger, more life-altering concerns. And I have to grow up accordingly. I can’t do this thing called life for my sons. I’m not sure I’m doing such a great job of it for myself! However I have stepped back to let my dear ones sink or swim many times in the past year. By now they all know I’m around with the life preserver if they really need saved, but for life’s little bumps my boys ride out whatever storms they encounter.

And I’m weathering my own storms. Life’s made up of the many little moments, don’t you think? It really isn’t lived on the peaks. Life’s lived in the valleys. Striving toward something or away from something. I’m not quite sure where I am yet. But I do know where I’m not. And that’s half the battle.

At this Sunday’s game I’ll catch a glimpse of the huge TV screen, but I won’t be seeking divine intervention. I’ll just be watching a football game with my five men. Building another little chunk onto my life.

Less is More

Last night my family and I had the rare occurrence of sitting down together around the dinner table. All six of us. Earlier in the day I had enticed them with the menu: roast chickens with stuffing, whipped potatoes, biscuits and glazed carrots. The carrots they could take or leave, but the rest…yum!

So as I shoveled the dishes onto the table I thought I’d been given the perfect opportunity to discuss serious pressing matters:

1. Tuesday’s trash night. We have so much junk to get rid of from our ongoing cleanup of our upstairs. We can’t all selectively “forget” to haul the trash to the street.

2. More words of wisdom concerning plans upstairs.

3. Why did no one do one single chore today?

And then I’d surely get on a roll!

I called my dear darlings to the table. We ate and talked and actually looked at each other for a whole 15 minutes. And I said none of my aforementioned thoughts.

Sometimes, less is more.

I'd Like to Thank...

Raise your hand if you are sick of awards shows. I know I am. Who really cares? The Golden Globes, The Screen Actors Guild Awards, The Academy Awards – all honoring basically the same actors in the same movies. Accolades are fine, but isn’t this overkill? I was perfectly content watching Oscars presented to deserving recipients. It was rather exciting to see the stars of the current flock of movies in their finery while listening to them accept their prizes with gratitude. Once a year.

Now it’s this red carpet and that red carpet and who is wearing the ugliest dress? Who’s snubbing whom? How much did the jewelry cost? Who cares? is what I ask. Isn’t this just a little too much back-slapping?

Sometimes I look at these shows through the eyes of a little child who doesn’t have enough to eat. What must she think? The sheer indulgence. The waste. I feel the same way when I watch certain commercials on TV. One year I remember a commercial where a woman basically demanded a diamond for Christmas from her husband. She didn’t even ask! She expected it. What does that say to the woman struggling to keep food on her family’s table? We live in a weird time. No two ways about it.

I suppose every age has those who take more than they give, who think of themselves before others. It’s moments like this when I am proud of families who sacrifice for one another. Where they make due with less. They aren’t me-oriented. They know what’s real, and don’t have to ask, “What would Jesus do?” because they just do it. Day after day. And nobody hands them statues of naked gold men. Well, OK, maybe Oscar’s not naked. But you get the idea.

Look what Jesus did. And look what happened to Him. He didn’t receive much praise in His day, just as we moms don’t receive much praise in our day, but we all know where Jesus is now. And isn’t that where we’d like to be at the end of our days? It’s where I hope to be. So let’s do as my dad says, and “keep plugging away.” No fancy dresses, no walks down the red carpet, no statuettes. Just grocery shopping, cooking, cleaning, tending, loving. God sees all that we do. When we think we can’t work another second at that job, remember that God is watching us, applauding us for our efforts to help others, and is writing our names down in that big book of His. Remember: It’s God’s opinion that counts. Better start rehearsing that acceptance speech!

I've Got to Change

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bubbles Burst

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

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

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

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

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

Inspiration

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

And it was great!

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

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

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

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

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

Comfort Food

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

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

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

Pockets of Joy

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

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

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

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

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

Prayers, Please

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

11 Months Until Christmas

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Time to Reboot

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

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

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

Like spring.

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

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

Mom to the Rescue!

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

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

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

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

“Turn it down!”

“Where are you going?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Other Woman

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

The other woman is me.

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

*****

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

TV Therapy

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

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

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

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

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

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

Good Intention Gone Awry

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Predictable Hope

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

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

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

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

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

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

We Are Our Choices

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

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

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

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

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

I Believe

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

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

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

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

And the Beat Goes On...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wish I May, Wish I Might

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

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

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

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

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

WELCOME TO MY HAPPY PLACE

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Whatcha doing?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*****

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

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

God's GPS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Which way is weird?”

“10.”

“11,” he says without missing a beat!

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

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

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

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

I'll Just Whisper It...Christmas

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy Wednesday, Superwoman!

Card-carrying Child of God

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hogging the Hospitality

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But I’m still shaving my legs!

Just Another Manic Momday

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Human Margarita

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mom laughs?”

“Mom smiles?”

“Really? Since when?”

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

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

God Won't Leave Us Hangin'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’d faint. I know. Me, too.

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

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

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

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

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

Wrong!

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

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