A Comedy of Errors

Final Test, The (Restrike Etching)

I have written about all the pre-planning that goes into the spring sports season, with three children playing softball and baseball in three different divisions, at three different locations, and a husband that works late.

Certain things I can have control over: commitments outside of sports, meal-planning, and my attitude, to a certain degree. I don’t have control over: the weather, the game schedule, and school assignments.

I know some mothers of multiple children who don’t seem to plan ahead for anything. Their lives seem to be in constant chaos as they realize they are supposed to be somewhere and then run around like chickens without their heads, trying to get everyone together. I really don’t know how I could live like that. That kind of disorder would make my brain explode, but I do have a special admiration for those who can pull it all together at the last minute, on a daily basis.

I have a color-coded dry-erase board which I consult religiously, and refer all questions to the board. “Don’t ask me about the schedule,” I scold, “I can’t possibly keep it all in my head. That’s what the board is for.”

All day Monday I felt like something was gripping my heart. I was so nervous about how I was going to really handle this season, now that it really was upon me. We have a triple header every Saturday starting this weekend, I explained to my husband. “I can help out with that,” he said calmly. “Yeah, but what about the weeknight games? So far I only have our daughters’ schedules and already there are 3 conflicts. What if I have 3 in one night? I feel like I’m going to have a heart attack,” I whined.

“Do you ever hear about women your age having heart attacks? You probably just pulled a muscle. You’re over-thinking – and over-feeling,” my husband cautioned.

“No, I’m planning ahead,” I argued, “That is how I manage to get a nutritious meal on the table every night at 4:00 and keep a certain degree of order around here.” Really I was just trying to make him feel bad about his schedule, which he cannot completely control either.

“Maybe we should take them out of sports, so you don’t have to deal with it,” he said, with his poker face.

“You know that’s not an option. They get too much out of it to not do it.”

It’s too bad I hadn’t had my voice of reason around earlier in the day to calm me down, but at least he brought my blood pressure down before I lay myself down to sleep.

Last week went okay, with a few laughable errors on my part. None of them really mattered in the long run, although I did feel that I looked foolish. I was just glad to have everyone home in one piece at the end of each night.

It was cold and drizzly all week, and practices were (thankfully) spaced so that each child was playing on a different night. Monday morning I picked up the telephone when the manager of my eldest daughter’s softball team called. My throat was filled with flem, the way it is every morning during allergy season. “Ribbit?” I answered the phone. “Um, hello?” “Ahem, ribbit, I mean hello?” I felt like I had to explain myself when I met her. “I’m sorry I couldn’t talk the other morning, I had really bad allergies, you must have thought I was dumb or something,” I blurted out. (“Did I just say dumb? Now I feel even dumber,” I thought to myself.) “No, I didn’t think that at all,” she said, kindly. (“Oh yeah, she’s just being nice, now she really thinks it,” I thought, and ran off to the playground with the other kids.)

The next day it was my son’s turn to practice. There were about a dozen teams playing on the field, with first-come-first-take being the policy for obtaining a field. I asked my daughter to help her brother find his team, and brought my other two daughters to the playground. About ten minutes later, she was back. “Did he find the right team?” I asked. “Well, the coach said, ‘Hey big guy’, and he said it was his team,” she answered. A few minutes later I ran into another mother from the team, whom I had met on Saturday morning. I pointed to where the boys were playing, “No, they’re over there,” she said, pointing in another direction. Upon close inspection, I saw that she was right. So I hiked across the fields, found my son, and interrupted practice to explain to the coach that this was not his player. “You’ve been traded early,” the coach joked, good-naturedly. Then I brought him to the right team, late for the second time. (We’d also been late on Saturday morning because he couldn’t find his glove, and he wound up showing up with a t-ball glove, which the coach rightly explained to me was not safe to use in baseball.)

No mishaps in my middle daughter’s softball practice. I had been 0-for-3 last week and wound up batting a thousand this Thursday night, the first night with scheduling conflicts that I had been worrying about on Monday. I dropped one off at 5:55, the other two at 6:00, went to get the first one at 7:15, and was back at the second field at 7:20 for the other two, just as practice was closing out. And all with a sick toddler in tow. Phew! I was so glad to have them all together in one spot again! We all consumed massive quantities of chocolate bunnies and chocolate pudding pie that night, with extra whipped cream.

Reflections on the Little Flower: “The Story of a Soul” Chapters 1-4*

I have been reading “The Story of a Soul”, by St. Therese of Lisieux, which I borrowed from my friend Loren Christie (who has been posting her own thoughts on the book on her blog). It is well that I finally get around to reading the story of my own patron saint.

You see, when I received confirmation through RCIA at the age of 15, I had a very cursory introduction to the Catechism and no education in the lives of the saints. I am reluctant to admit that I picked my confirmation name Therese only because I thought it was pretty.

Therese would understand, I think. She too was constantly confessing to crimes of vanity, and was thankful to have been saved from her own weaknesses by being sheltered by the convent. Her virtues she never takes credit for, believing them to be either part of her soul or ingrained in her by her parents (who were canonized last year) and sisters.

After reading the first few chapters, I now understand thoroughly the concepts behind the formation of the Little Flower group, of which I was a teacher for two years. I used to research for a whole week in preparation for teaching about one of the saints and their respective virtue. I was afraid to admit my own ignorance, for fear the other mothers would not think me fit to teach their daughters. I should have known their hearts were much softer than this. I learned so much in this process. The fact that I am doing everything backwards I think is part of God’s plan for my own formation. The lessons in humility as I am shown my own ignorance just keep coming.

The first chapter talks much of people as flowers, a symbol to be used repeatedly and in many contexts throughout the book, and she offers herself as Jesus’ “little flower”.

“…I understood that if all the little flowers wanted to be roses, nature would lose its springtime adornment, and the fields would no longer be sprinkled with little flowers…”

Therese’s older sister Pauline, who became her second mother when their earthly mother passed away, and later would become her Mother at the convent, made her a book to help in her preparation for First Communion. “…Each day I did a great number of practices that yielded as many flowers. I fulfilled a still greater number of objectives that you had written in my little book for each day, and these acts of love formed the flower buds…” In the modern Little Flowers group, young girls try to check off as many actions as they can toward forming one of the virtues. Humility, of course, was one of them.

I had another lesson in humility this past Sunday. While I was in church on Palm Sunday, I was conscious that I was thinking about how pretty we all looked. “Stop it!” I told myself, “How can you be thinking vain thoughts right now!” And then I started thinking about a good act that I was planning on performing that afternoon. “Pay attention!” again I reprimanded myself.

Circumstance prevented my planned act of charity. It was so obvious to me then, that God was preventing my doing something good if I was going to do it out of vanity.

Therese recalls seeing the Blessed Virgin smile at her, and her sister convinces her to tell the Carmelite nuns about it. She knew in her heart she should keep her secret, and that the telling of it would take away the happiness of it. She suffered greatly from this and learned a valuable lesson from it. “Soon God let me feel that true glory is the one that will last forever, and that to obtain it, it isn’t necessary to do outstanding works, but to remain hidden and to practice virtue in such a way that the right hand doesn’t know what the left hand is doing [Mt. 6:3].”

Later I was thinking about my blog and of all the efforts a modern writer must go through to self-promote. Even good Catholics are not immune to these worldly necessities. It requires a constant self-reflection and prayer to be sure the motivation is a Godly one. For me, I want to utilize my God-given talent for his purpose. I also would like to be able to stay home forever, and be somewhat financially independent.

But in the past several years vanity has also played a part in how I define my role. Although I love being a stay-at-home mother, I am aware of the lowliness of my title in the eyes of many. I have often felt that I wanted to be seen as MORE than “just” a stay-at-home-mom. I wanted people to recognize me for all the other things I was doing.

All those things have been stripped away, as I have explained in past posts, with no book contract in sight, so I can’t even call myself a “writer” without explaining further. Now ALL I am doing is being “just” a stay-at-home-mom. St. Therese shows me that this is my calling at the moment, and what the world thinks of that is entirely beside the point. Thank you, St. Therese. As you wished, your being accepted into heaven has caused a continual shower of flowers to fall on those below.

*The chapter divisions differ from translation to translation. The one I am reading is translated and edited by Robert J. Edmonson, Paraclete Press, 2006. The writings that have come down as “Manuscript A” comprise the first eight chapters of this book.

Things That Should Not Be Attempted With Toddlers Around

I am able to write this afternoon because the project I had assigned myself during the baby’s nap time was done in ten minutes. The project was hanging a border in the second half of the laundry room. The first half I had hung two weeks ago, and it was such an ordeal that I had put off the second half this long, thinking I would need to allot myself an hour without the baby.

Well it went like a breeze. I had that thing up, with no mishaps, within ten minutes. So much easier than the first half. And why was that? I had done that with my toddler at my feet.

Foolish, you may think, stating what is now, to me, the obvious. My toddler was happily watching a Winnie-the-Pooh video in the living room and I had these rolls sitting there waiting to be hung. The instructions looked easy enough. I opened them, got out my two-foot ladder, wet them, and started rolling.

Two minutes later, I had six feet of it up, was rounding a corner, and my toddler started climbing up to join me. The water was dripping down the wall, I had a bubble to work out, and the first six-foot section was falling down. Having thumbtacks within reach, I hastily tacked up the portion I had done, and stepped onto the washing machine so I could get up the remainder of the roll.

So there goes another chore onto my list of Things That Should Not Be Attempted With Toddlers Around. (I have a friend, a homeschooling mother of four, who started to hang a border in her kitchen years ago, and never finished!) Another big one – which I discovered years ago – is Baking Things From Scratch.

When my first-born was little, I used to bake cake and cookies from scratch a few times a week. I was famous for them! Then my second daughter came along, and something happened. A hard, flat Hershey’s Cocoa cake came to my in-laws in place of the scrumptious temptation I was used to bringing.

What could have happened? I went through my mind, imagining myself putting the ingredients into the bowl. Cracking the eggs – no, that hadn’t happened. No eggs! No wonder!

Another time, I left out the sugar. Even worse, one time I forgot the flour. That was hardly fit for the birds. Yet another time, I doubled the sugar. Why don’t we just eat out of the sugar bowl, my husband joked.

I finally declared that I was unable to concentrate on a recipe from start to finish with two little ones running around, and gave it up for several years. Baking from scratch is one of those things I now only attempt when the kids are in school and the baby is napping.

“What is too sublime for you, seek not,
into things beyond your strength search not.
What is committed to you, attend to;
For what is hidden is not your concern.
With what is too much for you meddle not,
When shown things beyond human understanding.”
Sirach 3:20-22

Humility

“My son, conduct your affairs with humility,
And you will be loved more than a giver of gifts.
Humble yourself the more, the greater you are,
And you will find favor with God.
For great is the power of God;
By the humble he is glorified.”
Sirach 3:17-19

Today’s readings touched me on several levels. (The Gospel spoke of giving up the head-of-the-table seat to someone more important.)

I. The Humility of Motherhood

On this Earth, there is no job more humbling and more elevating than that of Mother. I think of the ten days last April when my older three children took turns with a four-day stomach virus. I was up day and night cleaning up vomit, consoling them, and giving the baby extra breastmilk to boost her immunity. On the opposite side of the spectrum, there was the day my firstborn read me her first book – and I knew I had taught it to her. Or, more recently, the day she confided in me her hopes and fears for the future. Tonight we finished reading aloud a wonderful book to all the children, and I knew I had planted fascinating seeds for thought. (As I write, I just got handed a tooth. Looks like I'll be playing the tooth fairy tonight.)

We honour Mary not for one specific thing she did, but for who she is – the Mother of the Son of God. She humbled herself to receive the gift of motherhood, and for that she is elevated. Everyday we can look to Mary as the ultimate model for who we should be as mothers. We can remember that it is not the great earthly things we do that matter, but that we just be spiritually present to our children.

II. The Humility of Writing

Writers are of an interesting breed, full of subtle ironies. Most of us tend toward introspection. Yet we seek publication, to set our mark on the world. The Christian writer may earnestly work toward getting an important message out to the world. Yet he must ultimately self-promote in order to further that end.

In the movie, “The Singing Nun”, a sister with a guitar, the only vestige left of her family, becomes famous for her beautiful hymns. In the end, realizing that vanity has caught hold of her and kept her from her true ministry, she gives up her guitar completely.

For us, the battle with humility will likely be a lifelong one. We are called upon to use our gifts to help others, yet must be sure the glory goes to our Maker, not ourselves.

III. The Humility of Volunteerism

I have taken a hiatus from volunteering in both church and school, while caring for an infant. I remember those who said, “Volunteering is a thankless job,” and seemed to be put-out by all their efforts. We are called to “do all that we do with a cheerful countenance”. While recognizing that our job is important, we must not feel self-important.

Heavenly Father,
Help me to give of my gifts
Cheerfully,
Humbly,
And in a manner that will always glorify you.
Amen.

Pictured above: “Vanity”, by John George Brown