Barefoot and Pregnant

I Bow Before the Porcelain God...

noreply@blogger.com (Calah) — Wed, 22 Feb 2012 19:05:00 +0000

...pretty much every day now. In July of 2010, when I started this blog, I was indeed both pregnant and barefoot. But since August 11 of 2010, I haven't been.

I am now. Again.

And let me tell you, I don't know how I survive first trimesters. The first trimester, for me, is never a time of funny little cravings and mild nausea in the morning. No, my friends, the first trimester is a time of vomit. Day in, day out. This time, just for kicks, I've also gotten a hefty dose of "benign positional vertigo" to go along with it. Yay.

Minion the Fourth is due at the beginning of October, putting me nearly at 8 weeks. So just 6 more weeks, basically the duration of Lent, and I'll be crawling pathetically out of the wreckage of the first trimester and into the other, much more pleasant parts of pregnancy. I feel that the first trimester is quite enough to take on for Lent, don't you agree? (Please say yes.)

So if my posting is a bit spotty and less coherent than usual for these next few weeks, forgive me. It's probably because my mind is occupied with ginger, lemon and other sure-fire non-cures for "morning sickness."

(All those who'd like to join me in petitioning that the misleading term "morning sickness" be stricken from the pregnancy vocabulary and replaced with something more apt, like "all-day-sickness unto-death", please say "aye".)

Why?

noreply@blogger.com (Calah) — Mon, 20 Feb 2012 21:41:00 +0000

7 Quick Takes Friday!

noreply@blogger.com (Calah) — Fri, 17 Feb 2012 15:06:00 +0000

Errughh. (<--------- that noise is supposed to convey exhaustion, disgust and defeat after a difficult week. How'd I do? The creation of new interjections is not an exact science, you know.)

I am so happy that it's Friday. Or I would be, if I could muster up the energy to be happy. Mostly I'm feeling a sort of half-hearted, half-dead gratitude that the days of the week revolved like they always do and we're here, on Friday, instead of back to Monday.

So here we go. Quickish takes.

Our washing machine has been broken for two weeks now. TWO weeks. And we live an hour's drive from the nearest laundromat, so loading all the kids up to spend, oh, a whole day doing laundry if you add in driving time and traffic is simply not something I could work myself up to doing. So I've been doing about three small loads of laundry a night in the sink, after the spectacular failure I experienced after my one attempt to do laundry in the bathtub.

The part for the washer came in last Friday, and the company FINALLY got someone out to fix it last night.

It is not fixed. It is dead and must be buried.

The repairman said that the original service-man was wrong and the actual problem would cost several hundred dollars to fix, and that we might as well just buy a new one.

Yay.

Our wonderful neighbor across the street offered to let me do some laundry at their house, since (and I quote) "women stopped doing laundry in the sink 100 years ago. Bring the laundry over!"

This gives us time to see if our land-lady will decide to spring for a new washing machine, and to figure out how to build one ourselves out of spare parts if she doesn't.

As it turns out, money actually does not grow on trees, which means our retirement plans are going to have to be cancelled.

Our personal money tree has withered and died a horrible death, since this week UNLV decided that the Cost of Attendance which would cover the Ogre's massive out-of-state attendance tuition, and which they guaranteed him last semester, wasn't something they really felt like giving him anymore. Oh, and then they decided that we owed them extra money for some mysterious "mistake" on their part.

So now we have a steep monthly tuition to pay which we a) didn't budget for and b) can't afford.

Thank God that we're too poor to pay any taxes, huh? Yay, tax return!

The good news is that socially we are winning Ave Maria. Yesterday during Charlotte's ballet class Sienna, Liam and I took a walk around the piazza and the school campus. Sienna was on her Razor and I was pushing Liam in the stroller.

The Ave Maria campus seems to be under some sort of Biblical plague at the moment, as there are these creepy-looking cricket-like beetle/spider hybrids hopping and crawling around everywhere. They congregate in groups, so there will be patches of bare sidewalk and then the sidewalk will be completely blocked by hundreds of the little mutant nasties. I've never seen anything like it and sincerely hope I never do again, but yesterday we were forced to brave the plague on our way to visit the Ogre at his office.

Sienna would ride her Razor for a bit, come upon a school of mutants, then screech, steer sideways sharply, fall, scream, jump back up and on her scooter, and then repeat the performance. It was pretty funny and since we were outside I didn't see any point in trying to make her be quiet.

Until...until she let out a particularly large squeal and I heard a voice coming from above us.

"Excuse me, miss? We're trying to film something here and your daughter is being a little...loud."

Fortunately for us, it was only the President of the University, also known as the former legal representative to Mother Teresa, also known as the former adviser to President Bush, also known as one of the current prize fighters against the HHS mandate, also known as Mr. Jim Towey, who was probably just filming another call to arms for his series of Youtube battle-cries.

You know, no big deal.

#2

So this week has been totally spectacular. I'm so glad it's Friday.

Here's hoping your week was better than mine! Go see Hallie for more quick takes!

Dreadful Parenting

noreply@blogger.com (Calah) — Tue, 14 Feb 2012 15:41:00 +0000

It's 9:22 a.m. and I've already managed to neglect my children physically, give them negative disciplinary reinforcement, and lay down the foundation for a lifetime of spiritual confusion.

Someone should give me an award. These sorts of reprehensible mothering skills can't be learned or imitated. They only arise out of long years of non-practice.

The morning started out so well, too. I made one of those overnight-soaking oatmeal bakes last night for a Valentine's Day treat. I got up when the alarm actually went off (stop the presses, people) and turned the oven on and put the oatmeal in. So I didn't actually wait for the oven to heat up because I really wanted to crawl back into bed for the 45 minutes of baking time, but in my defense, it was 6 a.m. (That's totally a valid defense.)

I ended up crawling back in bed with a snotty, hacking Charlotte instead of my snoring Ogre because when Charlotte is sick her world comes to a wailing end. But it was nice, in spite of the snot, to cuddle with Charlotte and Sienna for a little while. When the timer went off in the kitchen Sienna raised her head like a hound catching a scent and said, "What's in the oven?" I told her it was a Valentine's Day breakfast, and Charlotte and I trudged after a sprinting Sienna into the kitchen to pull it out of the oven. I even got really crafty and made a little heart on top of the oatmeal out of raisins. (Okay, I stole the idea from Catholic Cuisine.)

Usually I try to get up early enough to fry some eggs for the Ogre to eat on his way out the door in the mornings, and the kids and I eat after he leaves. So it was really nice to sit down and eat breakfast together as a family. I was feeling like such an organized, accomplished little housewife, too, sending my husband off to work with a stomach full of hearty oatmeal and the bright-eyed smiles of well-fed children.

Then the kids went into the girls' room to play on the bed and I decided the dishes could wait. I joined them, laying down with Charlotte while Liam and Sienna giggled.

Then I fell asleep.

I woke up about a half-hour later to an empty room and Charlotte banging and crying on the outside of the closed door. As it turned out, they had all left the room and Charlotte had locked the door behind her. Now Charlotte was frantically trying to get back into the room to wake me up because Sienna was stuck on the toilet with no toilet paper.

To make reparations for my gross parental neglect, I played with the kids in the living room for a little while. For some reason, I decided that today was the day to teach Liam "pop-pop-bang."

In case you're unfamiliar with the wonder that is Cinderella Man, this is what I'm talking about.

Cinderella Man came out when Sienna was little. It's just the kind of movie the Ogre's brother, Sienna's godfather, loves. After he saw it he taught his 18-month-old goddaughter to "pop, pop, bang." Obviously he didn't actually teach her to hit anyone, just to jab at the air or his hands while saying, "pop pop bang." It's become a bit of a family tradition since then. So today, I decided to teach Liam.

I don't know what I was thinking. With my girls, it was just a fun thing to do and say. When I showed Liam, his whole face lit up. His eyes glittered. He laughed, elated, and then proceeded to "pop, pop, bang" me right in the face.

Who knew an 18-month-old could hit so hard? Not me. I thought he had broken my nose, or my glasses at the very least. He, of course, was delighted. His mother had just given him carte blanche to punch everyone in the face! He turned on his sisters, his chubby fists flying in a fury of "pop-pop-bangs", and I was forced to hastily intervene. I stopped him and said, "No, Liam, no hitting" while his little face went from exhilarated to confused to finally devastated and he began wailing.

After I calmed him down I tried to show him to "pop pop bang" the air, but he went back to hitting me, then I had to say no again, he wailed again, and finally I just filed the whole concept under "things we will not mention again until he has reached the age of reason."

A few minutes later Charlotte went into one of her "I want to be a baby again" tantrums (she's been in a state of permanent regression since Liam was born and usurped her place in my lap). I explained wearily that she could never be a baby again but I would always hold her and love her. Then Sienna said, "Mom, when we die, do we become new babies and get born again?"

I've never heard of a child stumbling on the idea of reincarnation independently, so I wasn't wholly prepared for this. I started to talk about how Eastern religions believe in the concept of reincarnation before realizing that 1) she's six and 2) she's six. So I said, "well, never mind about all that. No, we don't become babies and get born again. We go to heaven to be with God."

Then she asked, "In heaven, can we go to Mars?"

I didn't actually think through my answer before saying, "Ooooh, I hope so! I like to think that heaven will be kind of like Doctor Who. When we get there, God will give us all Tardises and we can go explore the whole universe!"

Her face lit up, her eyes glittered, and she proceeded to have an imaginary adventure in her imaginary pink Tardis wherein God gets stuck in the Pandorica and she has to rescue Him.

I have a feeling she's going to spend the rest of her life working out her salvation in fear and trembling not so that she can be with God, but so that she can have her own Tardis.

Heaven in a box

The Thorny Question of Freedom of Religion

noreply@blogger.com (Calah) — Mon, 13 Feb 2012 18:13:00 +0000

I haven't been around much this weekend since my fellow bloggers and I have been drafting and re-drafting chapters for Undoing Babel . But when I haven't been writing, deleting, staring at the computer and crying into my tea about the cruelty that is Writer's Block, I've been following the unfolding HHS mandate altercation with great interest.

Here are some great articles on it (and my two personal favorites). I agree with the Bishops. The HHS is still violating the the essential religions liberty of Catholics and those Protestants, Jews, Muslims, Mormons and others who find the use of contraception and/or abortifacient drugs immoral. Obama's "accommodation" is nothing more than magical thinking. The core issue of the government intruding on religious liberty is still present, still very real.

I could go on at length about the HHS mandate and why it's terrible and why I am truly frightened by this mandate. Lest any of you think that this is simply a rule without consequences, my husband is employed by Ave Maria, a solid organization whose president has denounced the mandate and stated unequivocally that Ave Maria will not comply. If the mandate is not rescinded, that means we will not have health insurance. Neither will all of my friends here in Ave Maria, nor their many children. It's highly likely that Ave Maria and other small Catholic schools who stand firm would cease to exist under the heavy fines the government would level at them for refusing to offer insurance. Private insurance would not be an option for us either, as buying into a private insurance company would be an equal violation of conscience since we would know that the insurance company was required to provide free contraceptive services. They'd accomplish this the only way possible -- cost sharing. Our money would indirectly fund abortifacient drugs and contraceptives, which we could not do in good conscience.

This rule could, and will, fundamentally alter the lives of many Catholics in this country for the worse. It will be a very real time of oppression for us.

But all of this is still to come. Those are bridges we will cross if they must be crossed. What I've been thinking about over the weekend is the fundamental difficulty of a country which guarantees freedom of religion.

In most of western Europe, the socialization that has taken place over the last 40 years has engendered just these types of changes. Free healthcare for all, including contraception, abortion, and sterilization. "Freedom of religion" still exists in Europe in one sense: the people are free to practice their religion privately, to attend whichever church they like, and to speak freely about what they believe. They are not allowed to allow their religious beliefs to interfere with matters of the state, and the state has control over most aspects of European life.

But that's only true for certain religions. Last year the French government banned Muslim women from wearing the burqa anywhere in public. I'll admit that I was pleased when this ban went through. After all, the Muslim religion is hideously oppressive to women! Even if they wear the burqa voluntarily, it's because their religion has brainwashed them into thinking they are worth less than men and shouldn't show their faces! How horrific!

Now I'm feeling fairly squeamish about that reaction. It's the same argument many liberals are using against the Catholic Church...that the Church is oppressive to women, that it forces women to do nothing but bear children. It is no doubt the reason why Catholics' freedom of conscience was so easily dismissed by Kathleen Sebellius. I believe she is very wrong, but her motives are doubtless seen by her and the Obama administration as well-intentioned. They are trying to bring women freedom from oppression by giving them access to contraceptives, just as Sarkozy and the French parliament banned the burqa because it "contradicted France's values of dignity and equality."

France is not a nation known for a commitment to freedom of religion the way America is. The ban on the burqa is less problematic there than it would be here. Here it would be met with outrage on a much greater scale, I believe, than the HHS mandate was. It just isn't socially or politically correct these days to extend freedom of religion to people who disapprove of contraceptives. It's an almost barbaric mindset to most Americans. Yet the burqa, while not exactly squaring with most Americans' belief in the equality of men and women, is seen as a curiosity that doesn't really hurt anyone. It isn't as if, God forbid, a baby comes out of it.

But I think this leads us to a tricky question about the fundamental nature of freedom of religion. I used to think it was a simple thing to uphold. No longer. Now I think guaranteeing an entire country of people total freedom of religion is well-nigh impossible. It was one thing when the majority of the religions in the country shared core values and common beliefs, and when government was quite small and questions like, "who will pay for my government-guaranteed contraception" were never dreamed of. Now things are trickier.

Look at the Mormons. After the Civil War, the state governments began requiring couples who wished to marry to apply for a marriage license from the state. This was unprecedented in American history. It wasn't long after that when the Mormon church officially announced that it had abandoned the policy of polygamy after a period of intense political and social outrage against them. I'm not advocating polygamy; on the contrary, if the Ogre took another wife I'd probably be jailed for a double homicide. But the fact remains that the Mormons certainly did not enjoy the same freedom of religion that the Constitution guaranteed for, say, mainline Protestants.

Same with the Muslims. Their religion calls for justice to be dispensed by Sharia law. In this country, the fight about Sharia law is playing itself out in the courts. But in the meantime, how do we uphold the freedom of religion that our Constitution guarantees to Muslims? It's no argument at all, in my opinion, to claim that Islam isn't really a religion. It is. It's a well-established religion. A religion which requires that its members adhere to Sharia law. Also, it's worth noting that Sharia law is not something that is implemented in the secular laws and which is applied to non-Muslims; Sharia law is the private, internal system of justice for Muslims. Right now, the courts are debating whether or not Sharia law should be recognized as a licit form of justice for Muslims.

I'm not a fan of Sharia law. I think it would be nearly disastrous to allow it to be recognized by US courts, because some Muslim women come to the US to seek escape from Sharia law and to take refuge here, where we acknowledge the right to "life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness". Yet our Constitution also protects freedom of religion, so what do we tell those who feel morally bound to Sharia law but are unable to practice it in the US? "Tough luck, your religious freedom isn't the kind we'd like to protect?" I guess you could also say that this falls under the "separation of Church and state" banner, as the laws and justice fall under the authority of the state, but in the new health-care plan so does contraceptive coverage. Which leaves us Catholics out in the cold with the Muslims and the Mormons.

Maybe I'm fundamentally misunderstanding the Constitution and the first amendment. It's possible. But even if I am, I can't help but wonder how long our much-cherished freedom of religion can last as the government rapidly expands its hold in all areas of public and private life.

This is The Best Day of My Life!

noreply@blogger.com (Calah) — Fri, 10 Feb 2012 13:35:00 +0000

Trader Joe's has opened. Just one minute ago. It may be an hour drive away, sure, but y'all must be crazy if you think I'm not going. TODAY.

I'm already dreaming about all the wonderful things Trader Joe's brought to my life that I have been bereft of in the past six months. The best yellow curry sauce in existence. Whole-wheat naan. Garlic hummus. Pita crackers. Blueberry creme yogurt. Kerrygold butter. (Yeah I can get that at Publix but it's not the same thing.) Nitrate and nitrite-free bacon. Eggplant parmesan. Tiny frozen pizzas, the perfect size for the minions. Frozen pizza topped with feta, olives and tomatoes. Reasonably-priced sustainably-caught frozen seafood. The most perfectly sized bread rolls for making poor boys. Chariot wine. Dark-chocolate-covered pomegranate seeds. Dark-chocolate peanut butter cups. Mini peanut butter cups. That unbelievably perfect stir-fry sauce. The frozen vegetable blend that makes stir-fries swoon-worthy since it's loaded with water chestnuts. Cheap sparkling water. Cheap coconut water. Aluminum-free baking powder. 5-seed almond bars (oh, these are so amazing.) Almond windmill cookies.

I think I'm going to cry. Trader Joe's is proof positive that God loves me wherever I go. He even allowed one to follow me here.

Seriously, thank you, God.

And now I'm off to make a shopping list. And yeah, everything I've already typed here is totally going on it. Wish me luck facing the opening day crowds! Actually you better wish them luck, because ain't nobody standing between me and those almond windmill cookies. But nobody.

3 1/2 Time Outs Tuesday!

noreply@blogger.com (Calah) — Wed, 08 Feb 2012 01:37:00 +0000

I've been meaning to do this for ages, since Larry D first invited me to, but I always forget.

Not today. Today I remembered. This is pretty handy for those of us who don't/didn't have much (read: any) time to blog today. Larry says that this is the "testosterone version of 7 Quick Takes" and that I'll get my man card punched for joining, for which I cannot wait.

And just for fun, and maybe to take the testosterone down an octave or twelve, I'm numbering mine in French, mostly to see if I can remember how to count to three in French. Oh fine, I swear I won't check it on google. What you see is what is in my brain, or lack thereof.

Remember how I am a total hypochondriac? I have a dry, slightly darkened patch of skin (that's very tiny, even though it looms large in my imagination) on my ankle that developed in the last week. Since I am prone to eczema, I've been putting cream on in, but just for kicks I googled it yesterday and the internet told me that I have venous stasis.

Then I googled venous stasis. Then I clicked on the images to compare.

Oh holy hell, that was a major mistake. First of all, this is not venous stasis, because it's eczema, and second of all, I feel incredibly sorry for every person who has to suffer venous stasis.

But these pictures. Oh, vomit. Don't you google it! It would be the worst mistake you've ever made. I'm not kidding. I literally feel like I'm going to puke. I might, actually. If anything I've ever seen in my life has convinced me to get my butt back to running and away from sugar and excessive carbs for the foreseeable EVER, it was those pictures.

Due (I know that can't be right)

I'm currently doing laundry in our kitchen sink because our washing machine is broken, has been broken since last week, and will be broken until next week when the appliance company light-years away in Naples finally "gets out this way" to fix it.

This weekend I decided to do a large load in the bathtub. That was a mistake, since I didn't really manage to get them very clean. The clothes all still smell faintly musty and worn. But I insisted that we were going to wear them anyway since I put a lot of effort into that load of laundry and I wasn't about to wash it all again, in smaller loads, in the sink.

I'm pretty much regretting that decision now as they were mostly my clothes. And I keep having to smell myself.

Trois

We had tomato soup and sweet potato fries for dinner tonight. Kind of a nasty combination, maybe, but I needed to use up things in the pantry.

And Liam devoured it. I'm so happy to have a child who will reject anything in favor of tomatoes and who will steal all the olives off my pizza. At last, a child after my own heart.

Trois pont Cinq (I have no clue how to say "one-half")

I gave in and googled French numbers. I really ought to brush up on my lack of French. That's shameful.

Go read the other time-outs at Acts of the Apostasy!

Parenting Francophilia

noreply@blogger.com (Calah) — Mon, 06 Feb 2012 19:08:00 +0000

Several people on facebook linked to this article yesterday, and then Sally blogged about it, and I read it and have found my world shifting utterly beneath my feet.

I'm thinking of doing a series of posts on it, actually. It's all stuff that's been brewing in my head for a while but the article finally brought everything into focus in a way that made sense. It's even causing me to partially dismiss my well-publicized hatred of almost all things French. I'll never be reconciled with their dreadful cinema, but perhaps I'll become a francophile in my parenting philosophy.

So go read the article, and then tell me, would you be interested in reading posts about parenting philosophies and how mine has changed from a "spare the rod, spoil the child" mentality into a "screw discipline, let's educate them!" mindset? I mean, it hasn't entirely, but I'm getting there. With caveats. And shameless fascination with the idea of the "cadre".

7 Quick Takes Friday

noreply@blogger.com (Calah) — Fri, 03 Feb 2012 16:41:00 +0000

These really do have to be quick, because no matter how clean the house is every night, by 10 am it's a disaster and we have to start the process of picking up all over again. And it's 11 am, so we're already an hour behind schedule.

I'm so glad it's Friday. I get to watch The Big Bang Theory tonight.

Sienna has ballet at 9 am on Saturday morning. That depresses me. We can't ever sleep in while ignoring the rampaging children anymore, not even on Sundays, since we've decided that we should really go to a morning mass like mature adults instead of frequenting the 7 pm Snoozers, Boozers and Losers mass.

It also means that even though I'd like to watch The Big Bang Theory from 7 pm until 2 am tonight, I'm going to be forced into responsibly going to bed at 10 so I can get up, get the girl ready for ballet, and take her there.

I will probably have to shower and get dressed as well, because these people I will see are my neighbors, not vaguely familiar strangers who could give a rat's behind about the relative cleanliness of my hair.

Having friendly neighbors is so nice, and yet I have not re-adjusted my personal grooming skills to match that reality, leading to many an embarrassed encounter with me, bra-less, make-up-less, greasy-haired and generally rocking some combination of overly large t-shirts, shorts and slippers. I'm gonna have to start getting up and getting dressed before noon. Which seems like a lot to ask from someone who basically spent the last three years in pajamas. I distinctly remember weeks in Vegas when I couldn't even remember the last time I had worn a bra.

Those were the unwashed, lonely days.

Liam has started this new thing where when he gets scolded or told "no", he puts his chin on his chest, pokes his lower lip out, crosses his arms across his chest and goes and sits in a corner.

It's adorable. Last night the Ogre and I kept telling him "no" just to see him do it.

We're stellar parents.

At dinner last night, Sienna was complaining that it's hard for her to have a little brother and sister to pick up after. After about five minutes of continuous whining, I finally said, "Well, Sienna, it's hard for me to have a husband and three children to pick up after, but I do it anyway because I love you guys."

She considered for a moment, then said, "How could I possibly be hard?"

In the spirit of Groundhog Day (I miss you, alma mater), I want one of these for each of my children. And one for me. Not the Ogre, though, because he's...well, he's an Ogre. People might read the shirt and confuse him for someone friendly and/or social, talk to him, and get eaten.

Happy Weekend, everyone! Please make sure you watch at least one hour of television this weekend. It's good for you, I promise.

Quick takes are being hosted over at Betty Beguiles' place this week, so go check them out!

Mercy

noreply@blogger.com (Calah) — Thu, 02 Feb 2012 14:03:00 +0000

If y'all feel so inclined, go check out my post at Ignitum Today. It's mostly about, you know, crying. Both Charlotte's and my own. But at midnight last night I was patting myself on the back for wrapping it up so nicely, so do let me know what you think. I'm not so sure in the light of day. Too vague? Too obvious? Too "it's midnight and I'm basically typing while sleeping?"

I've been spotty with the posting over at Ignitum Today while we were moving, and the wonderful editors were very understanding, but things are back on track now. When you're done reading mine stay and click around! There's tons of great stuff.

Happy Thursday!

Wordless Wednesday

noreply@blogger.com (Calah) — Wed, 01 Feb 2012 14:28:00 +0000

Since I feel kind of cheesy just posting gratuitous shots of my kids, here. Here's this.

I know! He's so cute!

Oh, and this:

Hysterical. Seriously, I was crying. I love Catherine Tate.

Oh, and I really have to show you these, since I've become so fond of Matt Smith and Karen Gillan and I just absolutely LOVE Rory.

Those are my favorite. They are hysterical.

Okay. This is no longer a Wordless Wednesday. I should change the title to "Doctor Who Wednesday, Plus Gratuitous Pictures of My Children at the Breakfast Table" but I'm not going to because then this sentence wouldn't make any sense.

Happy Wednesday! The week's half-way over, and you know what that means! I get to watch TV in two nights!

Fresh Bread

noreply@blogger.com (Calah) — Tue, 31 Jan 2012 17:19:00 +0000

Beaucoup apologies for my amateur food photography/camera phone skills

I have to preface this post by saying that my husband is SUCH a freaking Ogre. But really.

He's made this unbelievable new "rule-ish type thing" where we can't watch TV or movies during the week. We don't actually own a TV, but we (and by we I mean me) do our fair share of silver-screening on our computer, and I was right in the middle of the Big Bang Theory! Can you believe it? He's so unfair.

Oh yeah, and the reason I called it a "rule-ish type thing" is because he brought it up months ago and I agreed with it wholeheartedly. Because, theoretically, I think it would be really good for our family. But then he actually expected me to go through with it! And he even got mad when I tried to make excuses for why I only agreed theoretically and not practically, and how it's really his fault in the first place because I was just trying to please him and keep his stress level down by agreeing while he was mid-comps. And how I can't fold laundry unless I'm watching TV, because otherwise I get too bored. See? He's a tyrant. A tyrant, I tell you.

I will not be moved by your pathetic whining

Anyway, one of the results of this hideous new development in my life is that I'm actually doing things at night that I would normally put off until *tomorrow* (read: never). One of those things is baking my own bread. I've always wanted to be one of those housewives who bakes her own gorgeous loaves of bread, but as my husband forgot to bring my mixer with us to Florida, and as I don't own a bread machine, I kind of figured that the toll it would take on my arms and temper wouldn't be worth it.

But last night we were out of bread, as we have been for the past few days, and I'm trying to be a very frugal housewife and only go to the store when it is UTTERLY necessary. And I couldn't bring myself to waste half a tank of gas to run to the nearest open store a forty-five minute drive away when I possessed all the ingredients needed for bread-making at home. I figured that since spending the evening with Leonard and Sheldon was not in the cards I might as well dust off my biceps and knead some bread.

And knead some bread I did. Forever. And ever. And then for ever. It was like Groundhog Day. And not the fun UD kegger-in-the-woods-with-awesome T-shirts kind of Groundhog Day, either. The Bill Murray kind.

Does anyone else make bread? Has anyone else figured out that when those stupid online housewives write "knead for 8-10 minutes or until smooth, soft and no longer sticky" what they really mean is "knead for a half-hour until your arms go numb, then cry, wipe the sweat off your face, and keep kneading until your fingers break and you figure that better damn well be good enough"? Because I have.

The bread-making was long, involved, and I didn't go to bed until nearly midnight after starting the bread at 6:30. Then I had to wake up at 2 to put the fully cooled loaves in plastic bags so the evil little armies of Florida ants wouldn't make ant-hills inside them. Then I woke up at 7 to make the Ogre breakfast. And then I cried into my coffee.

But it was all worth it when my kids got their first look at those gorgeous tall, fluffy, golden-brown loaves of goodness this morning. I pulled one down to show Liam, who promptly took a giant bite out of the side.

The damage done

Worth it

There really is something about homemade bread that makes everyone feel so wholesome. Or, well, me at least. Mostly the kids felt hungry. Also, I figure if I make this evil recipe once a week, I'll be doing my part to combat the lunch-lady-arm-epidemic on behalf of housewives everywhere. Right? Right?

Add caption

To Veil or Not to Veil

noreply@blogger.com (Calah) — Mon, 30 Jan 2012 15:11:00 +0000

Not too long ago, Fr. Longnecker put up a hilarious guest post on his blog. Mantilla Amontillado wrote about why she thinks American women should wear the mantilla:

Sometime I visit in America and when I go to Mass I can't believe my eyes. Girls coming to Mass wearing shorts and flippy floppies or what you call them? Sometime they are wearing tops with little thin straps over the shoulder and you can see their underwear. Hon. This is not good. Sure, it is not too modest, but to tell you the truth, usually the girl who wear these clothes is not too sexy anyway. You know what I mean? So it's not only no modest, it's not nice to look at anyway. They should cover up. Then sometime they are chewing gum as well! Madre de Dios! They are looking like cows chewing the cud you know?

So I think maybe if some girls wear the veil, then they dress the right way in those other clothes too you know? You never see girls in veils wearing halter tops...(read the rest here)

The "to veil or not to veil" debate was something I was wholly unaware of upon entering the Church. Like the "skirts are for sinners" argument, it's one of those things that, pre-conversion, might have made me call the whole lot of Catholicism crazycakes and run for the nearest Unitarian hill. (Just kidding. Unitarians actually are crazycakes.)

Luckily, the only hugely insane Catholic hurdle I had to jump was the ban on birth control. And that was a big one. There was also the whole "we eat God" thing and the "Mary was without sin and bodily assumed into heaven and oh yeah YOU CAN PRAY TO HER" shocker, but those were more a matter of faith and less a matter of my fear of many children.

So on the day of my baptism, confirmation and first communion I showed up at the church in a white, high-necked, sleeveless dress with my hair all uncovered and not a one of my friends, nor my godparents, nor my in-laws, nor my priest mentioned that my shoulders and my hair should be covered if I wanted to show God proper respect.

I had encountered the veil from a distance, as a few girls at UD wore one, and when I asked why most of my friends said that it was a pre-Vatican II thing that some people still hung on to. When we moved to Vegas our friends from UD had lots of traditionalist friends who wore the veil, and she and I talked about it quite a bit. Mostly our conversations revolved around horrifying reasons she had heard people give for wearing the veil. One mother had chosen to "give it a try" one Sunday, and stuck to it after her five-year-old told her she looked "beautiful, like the Blessed Mother." Her reasoning was that anything that made her look more beautiful like the Blessed Mother was something she should always do.

Even then, though, I mostly discounted the "veil" thing as a fringe Catholic movement. But since entering the blogosphere, I've come to realize that it's actually still a very prominent subject among the faithful.And while I've totally come around to the "don't show your shoulders in Church" thing, the veil debate still mystifies me.

It isn't that I don't understand why some women chose to wear the veil. I do. It's just that I've never come across an argument for the veil that convinces me personally that it's either necessary or prudent.

Let's start with the above argument that wearing the veil makes one look like the Blessed Mother. This isn't something I've ever come across in the blogosphere, but it was so bizarre to hear about that I feel I must address it. It's a very odd reason to wear the veil. Personally, I would like to be more like Our Lady. I'm pretty sure that looking like Our Lady is utterly out of anyone in contemporary America's reach, given that A) we're not pre-Christian Jews from the Holy Land and B) I read somewhere that people are like, two feet taller now than they used to be 2000 years ago. So unless you are an extremely petite Palestinian/Israeli with a face that conveys your utter purity, my guess is you're not going to look like Our Lady, regardless of your veiled or unveiled status.

But that's not a serious argument for the veil. The one that Mantilla gives on Fr. Longnecker's blog is much more common. That's the "if you wear a veil you'll be less likely to wear a tank top and stripper shorts" argument.

That argument makes sense to me...sort of. I think that yes, if you wear a veil you would probably hesitate to put it on over a shelf-bra tank top and some daisy dukes. But honestly, anyone who would wear a shelf-bra tank top and daisy dukes to Mass probably doesn't even know what a veil is, or where to get one. And they probably don't care. So unless the veil is made compulsory again, which I don't see happening, that argument seems to me to be circular and pointless.

Then there's the "I wear a veil because the Bible tells me to" argument.

Oh man. As a recovering Protestant, any argument that begins with, ends with, or contains the phrase "the Bible said so" is automatically viewed with suspicion, distrust and loads of eye-rolling. The Bible also says, in the same passage, that it is shameful for men to wear their hair long. My husband has long hair. I'm not seeing anyone pulling him aside to chastise him for being a disgrace to himself. In the same passage the Bible says that if it is a disgrace for women to have their hair shorn, they should cover it. I haven't seen any arguments since the 20's about the bob being a moral sin. But perhaps someone out there does think that having long hair for a man is disgraceful, and women cutting their hair is shameful. Well, how about this. Three chapters later, in Corinthians, Paul commands the people of Corinth that, "If anyone speaks in a tongue, two, or at the most three, should speak, one at a time, and someone must interpret."

Er. Well, that's awkward. I haven't met many Catholics lately who advocate the speaking of tongues, let alone any who insist that only three people at the most may speak in tongues during Mass. Also, have you met many "tongues translators" among the faithful lately?

Much of the Bible, I have found, must be read as it was written. That is, Corinthians was written for a specific audience at a specific time. It was a letter. To the Corinthians. Not to the postmodern Americans. That doesn't mean that we can summarily ignore the whole of the New Testament, but it does mean that we ought to keep in mind the culture of those to whom Paul was writing, and how vastly it differed from our own.

The last two arguments I've heard are the ones that I find the most convincing and also the most esoteric. (For the uninitiated into English-major-speak masses, esoteric basically means that I don't completely understand them.) These are the arguments that head coverings should be worn by women A) as an outward sign of an inward humility before the Blessed Sacrament and B) as a symbol that there is something holy within women (the potential to bear life) and women ought to cover their heads just as other holy things are veiled during the Mass. Cam's wonderful blog does a great job explaining the first one here, and this blog which I have never read before but which is totally going in my reader explains the second one wonderfully here.

Here are my thoughts on the first argument. While I understand, theoretically, the idea that a veil shows that you are submitting oneself before Christ, when I see a woman with a veil on I mostly can't stop looking at her. Not because I think she's purposefully drawing attention to herself, but because at every parish I have attended, veiling is quite out of the norm. And so attention is drawn. And even if it isn't intentional, which I'm sure it never is, what I get out of seeing someone wear a veil in a predominantly non-veiled parish is less "that person is humbling herself before the Blessed Sacrament" and more "I'm extremely distracted by the pretty lace on her head and also keep wondering if that veil makes God like her more." Now I realize that this is my own failure to focus and is not the fault of the veiled woman in any way, but having been on the receiving end of the distraction, I would feel very awkward indeed putting a veil on.

As far as the second one goes, I also understand that, theoretically. And theoretically I think it's lovely. Practically, though, my own potential to bear life makes me feel less like the bearer of holy potential and more like I suck at Creighton. I hate to say that, but that's where I'm at. I do pray often that I will have a more gracious attitude toward my apparent super-fertility, but so far that's not forthcoming. So basically, if I put on a veil as a symbol of my life-giving potential, I would feel like a giant fraud.

I think that last sentence sums up the reason I choose not to veil, actually. All of the reasons to veil make sense to me theoretically, but none of them spark any sort of inward understanding. If I put a veil on I would feel like I was pretending to understand something, or feel a certain way, or be a certain way that I'm simply not. And somehow I don't think that anyone would condone "veiling as a means to pretend your way into being more holy".

Also, please please please please please understand that these are my personal reactions to the veil. I have nothing but respect for women who, like Cam, choose to veil on Sundays or every day! I think their reasons are noble and that they have experienced some sort of inward understanding of the veil that I have not. Oh yes, and even when I was the most feminist-ey of feminists, I found the idea that a veil is oppressive to women both unconvincing and laughable. It's not a burqa.

Dare I check my combox now? I feel both fear and trembling.

Why I Don't Make My Kids Wash Their Hands

noreply@blogger.com (Calah) — Wed, 25 Jan 2012 15:31:00 +0000

I was going to write about the mantilla yesterday, but spent alllllll morning in Ave Maria's blessed Urgent Care facility. I am eternally, eternally grateful to the urgent care on Annunciation Circle. (Yes, the street names drip with Catholicism. It causes me both glee and the wigs. And perversely makes me want to put up a faux street sign with Sola Scriptura Blvd. on it, just to see what would happen.) If Ave Maria did not have said urgent care, I would have spent all day with a screaming Liam, a grumpy Charlotte, and a whiny Sienna in Naples, with an hour commute both ways. As it was, we still spent a good three hours there, but still. I got a diagnosis.

It was not what I expected. I expected strep, because the throats were so sore that popsicles and jello were the only thing being eaten in Chez Alexander over the weekend. Then I expected chicken pox, because Liam erupted in, well, pox yesterday morning. (He is very far behind on his vaccines. I blame 1) the crazy granola train I hopped on briefly last year and 2) our recent lack of insurance).

They have neither. They have hand, foot and mouth disease.

Obviously I need to frame this for our house

The cleanliness of my children has always been somewhat of a sore spot between the Ogre and I and...the rest of the world. The Ogre maintains that children need to be filthy and eat rocks and dirt and make and ingest mud pies in order to be healthy. I'm pretty sure this hypothesis was formed after a certain episode of House, MD. I agree, in theory, and up to a certain point. For example, I insist that they wash their hands after using the bathroom. And if they've actually been playing in mud and dirt, usually I have them wash their hands before eating. But not always. I also try not to isolate them too much from other sick kids. I always give other mothers fair warning if my kids are sick, but unless the child in question has had a stomach flu, I usually don't say, "let's wait for a better day." Mostly, this is because if we wait for a better day our kids will never, ever see each other. Children are sick! All the time! They are constantly dripping some sort of goo from their noses, they're always sneezing in each others faces, they cough and then shake hands, or, like my kids, they spit into their hands and then shake. (It's an important bond of trust, as evidenced by Newsies.) Children are foul. They are walking petri dishes of cold, flu, virus, and bacteria. There is no stopping the spread of illnesses by admonishing children to "cough into their elbows". (Have you actually tried this? It is a very odd and unnatural thing to do.) Because they'll cough into their elbows, and then five minutes later they'll lick another child's face. As my favorite confessor once told me, children are savages. They neither know nor understand the rules of society. Trying to explain to a three-year-old why it's disgusting to sneeze into her food and then eat it is an exercise in futility. This is why it is so frustrating to spend all of one's time among children. They are, for lack of a more descriptive word, yucky. But I've read enough articles over the last few years to convince me that sick children now will pay off in healthier adults later. So I let them get dirty, and shake spit hands, and sneeze wherever they damn well please. (Within reason, okay.) I'm no stranger to inexplicable rashes, bites, or dirt-filled scrapes. But this was new. Hand, foot and mouth disease was on the periphery of my radar.

I asked the PA, "Is that the one that kids get from playing with poop?"

He didn't answer, he just looked at me. Then Sienna said, "Because Liam plays with his poop all the time," after which the PA hastily excused himself to "get some paperwork on it" and ignored my cries of "No! No he doesn't! I swear he doesn't!" which followed him down the hallway.

My parents raised us to be much cleaner. We washed our hands after playing outside, before eating, and after going to the grocery store. We had baths every night. My sister played in the sandbox with socks on her hands. (That's because she's weird, not because my mom was obsessive about cleanliness.) As a result, my mother never had to deal with hand, foot and mouth disease. Which she told me yesterday, while also trying to reassure me that she's sure my children will be healthier in the end for all the poop they've gotten into.

I was not reassured. I felt horrible. I felt like the worst mother in the world. I felt that, at last, that my gross neglect of my children's cleanliness, regardless of what motivated it (because it's motivated at least equally by laziness as it is by ideology) had come around to bite me in the ass. Or them, more properly speaking, seeing as how their bums are the ones that are actually suffering at the moment. I felt that my dues would finally have to be paid, and the worst part is that everyone would be able to witness my poor, dirty children and the suffering my non-cleanliness had inflicted upon them, because giant spots around their mouths and on their hands and feet are not exactly easy to conceal. I began to concoct elaborate scenarios in my mind in which the other neighborhood children also developed hand, foot and mouth disease, and the mothers in the neighborhood whispered behind their hands as we passed, "they're the ones that started it. Those poor, dirty kids at the end of the block. Their mother must let them just get filthy!" And I wouldn't be able to respond because actually I do just let them get filthy. And then we would be exiled, chased out of Ave Maria with sticks and rocks like carriers of the plague were chased out of villages during the Black Death.

So I came home from the urgent care disgraced. And there, waiting for me, was a facebook message from my next-door neighbor. "So what's the verdict? Strep?"

I dithered for a little while, wondering if broad mental reservation could somehow be applied to this situation or if I would have to go to confession if I flat-out lied, and then just sucked it up and answered honestly, while virtually hanging my head in shame. (Virtual actions are connoted by asterisks, in case you didn't know. Like this: *hangs head in shame*)

And instead of repulsion, or worse, silence, she said, "Oh, that's been going around since November. Now you're a real Ave Maria mom! Congrats!"

I feel that my very existence has somehow come to mean more since moving to Ave Maria. Even if we don't settle here, I will always know that somewhere out there, in a sun-baked swamp, other mothers let their children get dirty enough to contract some filthy-yet-mild childhood illness and pass it along to the whole neighborhood, and nobody judges them. It's mothering the way it was meant to be, snot, spit and all.

Inappropriate Comments of the Week

noreply@blogger.com (Calah) — Sun, 22 Jan 2012 20:55:00 +0000

My kids waited three whole weeks before spiking collective (not very high) fevers and snotting all over the house, which I think was quite generous of them. I'm interrupting their Word World marathon to drink my afternoon tea and blog, while they drip popsicles all over the kitchen floor. All in all, this hardly qualifies as sickness compared to the last few months.

I promise I'm still going to write about the mantilla, since I've been thinking about it a lot lately, but I don't have time today. So instead I'm going to 1) thank you all for your wonderful, supportive and sweet comments on my hair post and my last post 2) promise you that I will respond tomorrow, when I have blocked off the entire morning for interneting, and 3) bring you this week's wildly inappropriate comments, courtesy of the Ogre.

Oh the occasion of me getting lost, in Ave Maria, the Ogre said, "Dear God, what must it be like in your funny little brain?" (This won't be nearly as funny if you haven't been watching BBC's Sherlock.)

The Ogre and I were arguing about some literary fact and we ended up googling it to see who was right. He was, of course, and he said, "Don't forget that I'm the brains in this marriage, babe." I protested, saying, "I bring a lot of things to this marriage too! Charity, levity, people skills--" "boobs," the Ogre interjected.

I never said I married him for his charm.

Now I have temperatures to take and chicken noodle soup to make. But actually I'm feeling so sorry for those of you who haven't been watching Sherlock that I'm going to leave you with a clip. Between Doctor Who, Downton Abbey and this, I'm beginning to think that the BBC should rule the world.

Resentment

noreply@blogger.com (Calah) — Fri, 20 Jan 2012 02:20:00 +0000

I was going to write about the mantilla, and then I read Simcha's post today at the Register and began crying into the oatmeal I was stirring.

The other night, the Ogre and I had one of those nasty fights which begin about something benign but then turn and start picking at the edges of the thing, that thing, that deep-down thing that's been eating at you for weeks, for months, for years.

Name it, he said. Name it. What it it? And it's not depression, so don't try that one (he said as my lips began to form the word) I've seen you depressed. You've seen you depressed. You're not depressed. What is this?

The same, the same, I said, nothing new, how it's always been, not as bad now as the beginning, it's better, getting better, every year getting better, I'm better now than I was before, in Vegas, in Dallas-

Name It! he broke in.

Anger. I said in a small voice. I'm angry.

No, he said, you're not. I thought so too, for years, but that's not it. You're not angry. You're not even unhappy. What is it?

I don't know! I wailed. I wish I knew! I wish I could be like (insert perfect mothering model of the week here) always happy, always cheerful, sun-up to sun-down, happy to clean up after the kids and happy to sing them songs as she mops the floor and never stopping or snapping or weeping or wishing she could leave, could run, not forever, never forever but just for a day, an hour, a minute. Just one minute with no one asking or begging or clinging or spilling or screaming or fighting or smiling or laughing or hugging! Just one minute alone!

You resent us, he said.

And then there was silence, because I could not deny it.

And I hated myself for it. I hated myself that night as I had hated myself since the first time my daughter cried at 2 a.m. and I found myself wanting to jump out the window rather than pick her up again. As I had hated myself for the envy, the sickening, gut-wrenching envy I felt when my husband walked out the door in the morning and I had to face a desert of a day in which I had to fill the hours until he would return and instead of welcoming him and telling him how dreadfully I had missed him I was bitter and hateful and spiteful and cruel. And I hated myself for that, too.

I used to think I resented my family because I was forced into this life. Because I didn't do things right. We didn't date right, we didn't get engaged right, we didn't get married right and we certainly didn't have our child at the right time. Basically we did everything backward. First the child, then the engagement, then the marriage, then years later, at long last, a semblance of dating came to us. A time when we learned to see each other anew, find things to feel tenderly about, and finally to love each other in a real way, the right way. I always thought that this resentment was my own particular evil to battle, my own punishment, to be carried out over the period of my life, to overshadow my family forever, the end result and final justice wrought upon me for the grievous offenses committed in my youth. No more than I deserved. No more than I had earned. To resent, always and forever, the ones I love the most. To always have that obstacle between my arms and theirs, to never be able to give them what I long to give them, only love, but instead to give them some poisonous mixture of love and resentment, so that when they go to bed they feel peace, secure in my love, but in the night their dreams brim with my resentment, bringing them back images of it during the day...in my anger, in my detachment, in my neglect, in my overscrupulosity. In the way I tie their hair so perfectly so that the world will see these children, well-clothed, and see their hair, well-kept, and think their mother must truly love them. In the way I smooth my husband's tie or his hair or carefully pick out our clothes on the days we go and visit him on campus so that students and faculty will think, she's a good wife. So that no one will ever guess at what lies buried in this house and in their eyes.

I used to think it was like a curse on our family, my resentment, something that would overshadow us forever so that everyone would think we were normal and fine and then when the children grew up and left people would come to the house and find the skeleton of resentment lying in an upstairs bed, and me lying next to it, never able to let it go. After I started blogging, I began to think that maybe it wasn't just my curse, some peculiar punishment wrought for me alone, but maybe others struggled with it too.

I hinted at it in earlier posts and got responses from mothers saying they felt something similar. I found other mothers' blogs that sometimes dealt with the same sort of feelings, but I don't think I ever actually understood what it was I was even grappling with. I might have abstractly, but mostly I thought that I felt anger. I responded in anger. I lacked temperance, patience, charity and compassion. I was selfish, getting annoyed when the needs or desires of my family interfered with my own needs and desires. I was unwilling to die to self so that my family could live. And hashing it out in the confessional, or with the Ogre, with friends, with sisters-in-law, none of helped really, in the end. It's true that things have improved over the early years of our marriage. I actually keep a clean enough house now, instead of putting off even the simple task of doing the laundry. And I don't feel subjugated and enslaved when my husband asks me for something. I don't insist that he do the dishes at night because I made dinner. I make the bed without wincing about the fact that making it means I can't crawl back into it in the afternoon, and once I even vacuumed in pearls and high heels and didn't want to find the highest tree in town to hang myself from. But it's still there underneath, and I didn't even realize what it really was until the Ogre told me.

So. I resent my family. I resent my family because their needs must come before mine. Not because they should, but because they must. The Ogre has a job to do and a family to support. He must sleep at night if he is to do that job well. He must have clean clothes if he is to look respectable, and he must have nutritious food, even if it means getting up half an hour earlier than I'd otherwise have to, if he is to think clearly in the classroom and in his writing. My children are children. They don't know that half an hour won't make much difference in the story they want me to read them. They don't know that they won't die of hunger if lunch isn't served right now. They don't understand that once I get the house fully unpacked we'll have more free time to play outside. They only know that they want me to read them a story, that they're hungry, and that the day is sunny and their friends are waiting. And ultimately, they're right, because a half-hour will turn into an hour which will turn into two, and then I'll have to make dinner and the story will be put off until tomorrow, and the next day, and the next.

But Simcha's post this morning was like a wall smashing down, letting sunlight into the dark little cave I had made for us in my imagination.

To become a mother, I had to learn how to care about someone more than I did about myself, and that was terrible. But who I am now is something more terrible: the protector who can’t always protect; the one with arms that are designed to hold, always having to let go.

Dear mother of only one child, don’t blame yourself for thinking that your life is hard. You’re suffering now because you’re turning into a new woman, a woman who is never allowed to be alone. For what? Only so that you can become strong enough to be a woman who will be left.

(Read the rest here)

I'm no longer a mother of only one child. And in the years that have passed since I was, I've changed. I've been worn in a little. I give of myself more, much more, for my husband and my children. And I have a very long way to go yet before I can be a woman strong enough to be left. Because how else could we send our children away, into the world, without our protection and love, unless we learn to love them more than we do ourselves? And not just a little bit more, but completely, utterly, wholly love them, so much so that when the house is empty and we have only ourselves to please again instead of being delighted with the silence and the peace at last we say, "Now, what shall I do? Now what do I live for?" And the days, then, will probably seem like deserts that we have to fill until they come back to visit us.

No, resentment is not something peculiar to me as a mother. It isn't something that's going to destroy our family from the inside out, as long as I keep it in the light, keep naming it, and keep chipping away at it with every "yes, now" instead of "no, later". It seems that resentment is part of the universal experience of motherhood, just as it must be part of the universal experience of fatherhood, and consecration, and any vocation in which you are asked to learn to love something, every minute of every day, more than you love yourself. And it's good that Simcha wrote about it. It's good for other mothers to read about it, so they won't smash their resentment down and stuff it away and let it fester until it becomes this monstrous thing in their minds. It's a little bit like confession; you say it out loud, and it loses it's power. It stops becoming a weight and shadow over your every step. It just becomes one more thing you have to work on, one more cross to carry, one more fire to burn in on your way to sanctification.

Hair Update, With Pictures, Regret, and a Little Nausea

noreply@blogger.com (Calah) — Thu, 19 Jan 2012 02:26:00 +0000

So. Last night I read your suggestions with avid interest. I obviously immediately put the ones which mentioned hair product on the back burner, as we're not yet due for our once-every-two-weeks trip into the Big City, and watched the clip that KT sent me. I found it fascinating but also somewhat frightening. Not the technique. The technique looked easy enough. It was the look itself, that 40's glam thing, that I just didn't feel comfortable trying to pull off for daily wear. I'm neither 40's nor glam, and my lips never wear red lipstick, just lots of coats of Blistex. Also, I live in yoga pants and jeans, y'all. It's a rare occasion that sees me outside my comfort zone. Today happened to devolve into just such an occasion, but more on that later.

But after I watched the clip, it reminded me of something I had re-pinned on Pinterest once. Here it is:

I quickly found it and decided that it looked A) easy enough for someone as hair-care challenged as me and B) like the perfect use for the Ogre's old shirt that he told me, and I quote, "to cut up and use for rags or something, jeez, woman."

So off I trotted to shower and rag roll my hair. And shower and rag roll it I did. The rolls were a little tricky to get the hang of, but in the end my whole head of hair took me about 25 minutes to roll. Then I slept in them and felt very vintage and adorable all night, even when I spent most of it laying awake in fear because the black bears were roaming about. (It was trash night. They love trash night, apparently.)

Morning came, and I fed the Ogre and the minions, threw on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, put on some perfunctory make-up and then began to pull my hair down.

Well, I guess I didn't place the rolls high enough, because the bottom half of my hair looked exactly like Shirley Temple's and the top half looked...exactly like I had slept on it all night.

I was afraid. So I panicked and brushed it.

Yeah.

It puffed and poodled and grew three sizes that day. It was HUGE. And kind of awesome, in a frizzy way.

I decided that I simply couldn't go my usual route and pull it into a ponytail, because it would look like I had glued a frizzy toy poodle to the back of my head. So I wet my hands and ran them over it to calm it down a wee bit. Then I pulled it half-back, which seemed to help. Then I went outside with the kids to a neighbors house, and melted in the sun.

We came back an hour later, mere puddles of the selves we once had been, and I put Liam down for a nap, left the girls on the couch with books for a much-needed quiet time, and promptly changed into a sundress I usually wear in the most hideous of August days. And then...well, then I decided to take pictures of my hair with my new camera phone.

I am deeply sorry about the following.


Front

Obviously, that's the back

This would be a pathetic attempt to get a side-shot

So. At this point, I began to feel extremely awkward about taking pictures of myself in the mirror. See, taking pictures of myself in the mirror with my phone while not actually pregnant is on my bucket list of "Things I Hope I Will Never Be Lame Enough To Do Before I Die."

Enter the lameness. If I, at that moment, had been in possession of a Myspace Account and a Justin Beiber CD, I would have fired myself from mommy blogging forever. And then life.

I decided that I had to break up the tension that was making things awkward between me, the mirror and my phone.

This is what I would look like if the Zombie Apocalypse were happening


This is what I would look like if the Zombie Apocalypse were underway, and I was on Team Zombie, and I was about to eat your brain

This is the expression that I imagine Queen Victoria would be wearing just before she said, "We Are Not Amused." Also, the expression I'm betting you're wearing right now.

This is the expression the Ogre will have on his face when he reads this blog post

This is how I feel after posting this series of pictures (yes, it actually is a trash can, but we had no dunce caps handy, though I can't imagine why not, seeing as how we seem to need them quite badly today)

Meanwhile, this is what the girls were doing while I was taking pictures of myself making faces in the mirror:

Thing One and...

Thing Two

After that, I hung some pictures. When Sienna woke up she happened to scroll through my pictures because she can work my phone better than I can, and said, "Mom, why do you have so many weird pictures of yourself?"

To which I maturely responded, "your mom has so many weird pictures of herself." And she said, "yeah I know. That's what I'm asking."

Then I distracted her by turning the camera in her direction.

This child feels no awkwardness between herself and the camera

See? It feels much more natural to take a picture with a child. Much less Myspacey. More Facebookey. Facebook for the win!

When Liam got up we went outside to take a walk and hang out with another neighbor (yeah, we read each others blogs before we moved here! Twilight zone, right?). I just stuck with the sundress, since it was still ten zillion degrees inside and out, put on flip-flops and earrings (I can't explain the earring decision, unless it was a nod to the fanciness of my curls) and we walked around the block.

And then the wind picked up and I spent most of the walk clutching my skirt and feeling like an imbecile.

Dear yoga pants, I will never forsake you again. No matter how sweltering it gets.

In summation, I like the rag-rolling thing. I think it will take some practice, but it's fun and the curls stayed in spite of my mid-day furniture re-arranging and picture hanging and subsequent sweating, and even though it takes time at night, it's worth it since it makes the morning so quick.

I'm still open to other ideas, though. And products! I'm like a blind squirrel seeking a nut when it comes to hair products, so please tell me which ones you love! (And maybe draw me a diagram so I know what they're for.)

I promise this is the last post about my hair. The next post I write is going to be less about hair and more about what goes on it. And hint hint, until a cradle Catholic friend just recently corrected me, I thought it rhymed with "sasparilla" instead of "tortilla."

First-World Hair Woes, Written Dramatically

noreply@blogger.com (Calah) — Tue, 17 Jan 2012 16:48:00 +0000

This is going to be a ridiculously vapid and shallow post.

Please brace yourselves.

I cannot reconcile this state and my hair. I have spent the better part of an hour each day we have been here doing battle with my hair, and almost every day I've given up and put it in a ponytail. And not a pretty ponytail, either. A half-wavy, half-straight frizzy ponytail.

When I was a child, and also when I was a grown up, I had stick-straight, unbelievably fine, extremely thin white-blond hair. My mother kept it cut very short because if it reached below my chin I started to look like the little match girl.

Less blue, though.

And then came the years of the Bearing of Children.

I had Sienna, and my feet shrunk a size (unrelated but odd detail). Then I had Charlotte, and my hair tripled in thickness. There was literally three times as much hair upon my head as there had been before Charlotte was born. Gone were the days when I could blow-dry my sopping wet hair in ten minutes flat. Upon me were the days when the drying of my hair became an epic thing, a black hole that absorbed all my time and caused no end of discontent between the Ogre and I. And the pain! Oh, the pain. Alas, the texture of my hair remained unchanged. Fine hair, in case you are not cursed with it, tangles extremely easily. And now I had three times as much hair, which meant three times as many tangles. I began to use three bottles of conditioner to every one I used of shampoo. I had to brush and de-snarl my hair constantly during the blow-drying period. I had to use hair products, for the first time in my life, because for the first time in my life I had hair that didn't hang on either side of my face like limp, diaphanous curtains on a sweltering August day.

At the time, we lived in Las Vegas, so the increase in volume was not accompanied by an increase of frizz. Actually, frizz is something I had only understood as an abstract concept, something that happened to other people and that seemed bothersome, much like spider veins or dark arm hair. Something I needn't concern myself with.

Shortly after Liam was born, I began to notice something a bit odd. My hair, when I didn't blow-dry it, had a wave in it. Just one. One wave, in the back, nearly bisecting the back side of my skull. Basically, it looked like I had just taken my hair down from a brief stint in a ponytail holder.

It didn't phase me because I only let my hair air-dry when I didn't go out in public, which was basically always.

Then we moved back to Dallas. And humidity.

The wave began to elongate and multiply, so that if I air-dried my hair it had enough ripples to make 1/3 of my hair actually qualify as Wavy. Not the sides, though, nor the ends. They were still stick-straight. Just the back portion, between my ears, beginning at the roots and extending within four inches of the bottom of my hair. Which remained straight as a broomstick.

I don't need to tell you how confused and slightly horrified I was. While it was an interesting phenomenon, considered abstractly, and while the waves themselves held some promise, it was actually happening to me, and it made me look like I had had a run-in with a bad home perm kit.

So I began to lather on the hair gel, dry my hair wet instead of letting it air-dry for a bit, and use the Chi, daily. It. Was. Exhausting.

Luckily the Chi did a pretty decent job. One or two quick passes would straighten out most of the unruly waves that remained post-blow-dryer. I also managed to compensate on time by figuring out how to apply daily make-up in seven and a half minutes.

Then we moved to Florida.

I don't even understand what is happening to my hair now. It's become someone else's hair entirely, not my familiar old hair. And whoever replaced my hair with theirs neglected to give me the owner's manual.

My hair, it frizzes. My hair, it waves and kinks. But not the front right side, and not the ends. Everywhere else, though. My hair, it will not straighten. No combination of straightening shampoos, conditioners and gels, no new and varied blow-drying and Chi-ing techniques will entirely smooth the odd kinks and random waves.

I. Do. Not. Know. What. To. Do.

I've tried to use "Tousled" shampoo and conditioner, followed by some sort of curl-enhancing, frizz-reducing gel, scrunch it, and air dry it. The back and left side look great. The front right side is still straight as a board. The ends are limp, lank and refuse to hold a single wave.

I've tried to use straightening shampoo, a hair mask/conditioner, and straightening gel. I've dried it nearly straight out of the shower, carefully smoothing each strand with a paddle brush before attacking it mercilessly with a Chi. And yet, the back ripples and will not stop.

Seriously, though, I don't know what to do. I'm not good at up-dos. A ponytail, a Picasso-inspired bun, and Pocahontas braids are pretty much the extent of my repertoire. But I figured some of you would know. Some of you even live here in southern Florida! Some of you have probably been battling hair issues for years! Some of you must know how to make stubbornly straight hair curl, or how to make stubbornly wavy hair straight. Please, share your wisdom?

Oh yeah, and yesterday I noticed that I have spider veins on my knees. I'm eagerly awaiting the appearance of dark arm hair on my arms so that Karma can be fulfilled.

Catholic Guilt

noreply@blogger.com (Calah) — Sun, 15 Jan 2012 17:28:00 +0000

I've been reading Brideshead Revisited lately. It's one of those ubiquitous novels that everyone carried around and fawned over at the university I attended, and that I consequently refused to read or even acknowledge as literature.

I wasn't Catholic then, after all, and even after I became Catholic it took me a while to realize that most Catholics actually have a true appreciation for art. At least at UD, it wasn't like being in Evangelical circles where the latest book written from a purely Evangelical perspective, or one of the million perspectives, is heralded as "the best achievement in the written word since the Bible." The Left Behind series, for example, were at the top of my "favorite works of literary genius" for most of middle school, second only to Twelfth Night, which I patently did not fully understand and loved primarily because none of my peers or teachers could understand a single sentence but thought I was brilliant for reading and re-reading.

I've come to realize that there is a bit of that "Catholic literature is the only literature even if it's horribly written because it's at least true and not smutty or worldly" attitude among some circles, but it's not prevalent among the circles I run in. There's this amazing thing about Catholicism where our highest calling is to the Truth. So if we find truth in, say, a smutty Shakespeareian play or a bawdy Chaucerian tale, we can still love it for the truth it carries instead of rejecting it wholly because it doesn't conform to our understanding of how life should be lived. Or, God help us, because the authors weren't "saved".

So after I got off my high horse about "Catholic novels" and actually considered that maybe some of my college friends who chose Brideshead Revisited for their senior novel weren't just narrow-eyed zealots, I picked the book up myself. It's been slow going, mostly because I've spent the last few years avidly soaking up the written equivalents of trashy soap operas, but also because we've been moving and stuff. And my reading of Brideshead was unfortunately interrupted by the intrusion of The Hunger Games. (I have no excuse for myself)

But this last week I've really gotten into the novel. I'm nearly finished with it, and last night read the passage where Julia has this religious crisis by the fountain after Brideshead candidly acknowledges that she and Charles are living in a state of mortal sin.

"Living in sin, with sin, by sin, for sin, every hour, every day, year in, year out. Waking up with sin in the morning, seeing the curtains drawn on sin, bathing it, dressing it, clipping diamonds to it, feeding it, showing it round, giving it a good time, putting it to sleep at night with a tablet of Dial if it's fretful. Always the same, like an idiot child carefully nursed, guarded from the world. 'Poor Julia,' they say, 'she can't go out. She's got to take care of her little sin. A pity it ever lived,' they say...Mummy carrying my sin with her to church, bowed under it and the black lace veil...Mummy dying with my sin eating at her, more cruelly than her own deadly illness. Mummy dying with it; Christ dying with it, nailed hand and foot..."

As I read that passage, something clicked. I suddenly understood what that phrase meant, Catholic guilt. Not just abstractly but deeply, personally.

I didn't know many Catholics growing up, and the few I did know were whispered about behind hands as they passed, always with the surprised cry of "But they seem so normal!" coming after. It wasn't until UD that I even heard the phrase Catholic guilt. Then, and for a long time afterward, I snickered at the idea. Catholic guilt, I thought, please. These people have no idea what true guilt is. There they go, off to confession, where they think a man in a box can wave a magic wand and make all their sin go away. How could they feel guilt? All they have to do is say some magic words to a magic man and feel better. No, I know what true guilt is. True guilt is knowing that you are a snow-covered dung hill. True guilt is knowing that nothing you do can take your sins away, or even stop you from sinning, or even accept grace. True guilt is knowing that you'll die in your miserable sin unless you've been predestined.

Oh, how wrong I was. That wasn't guilt, what I felt then. Not even remotely. It was despair, and elation, and absolute disconnect from responsibility for my actions. It was being bound, hand and foot; knowing that nothing I did or didn't do made the slightest bit of difference, eternally; that either I really meant it when I prayed the sinner's prayer or I didn't, and even if I did, it wouldn't have mattered unless I was chosen. It wasn't guilt, it was loss of freedom. Loss of autonomy. Loss of everything that God gave us as humans. Loss of human dignity.

Two years ago a chance conversation with some friends ended with me in something like a crisis of faith. Even though my confirmation was nearly five years ago, the conversion is ongoing. That conversation was the first conversation in which someone looked me in the eye and said, "Yes, you could go to hell for that. Even though you're generally a good person. Even though you don't use birth control. Even though you pray. Yes, if it's a mortal sin and you die in that state, you could go to hell. Mostly likely you will. We can't know the mind of God; we can only know the state of our own soul."

I had never before considered the possibility that I might go to hell because of my own failings. Growing up, and especially in college, I wavered between being certain of my own justification and terrified that God didn't want me. One part of my mind knew that my sins were too great and ran too deep for me to have truly been re-born, for the Holy Spirit to truly be dwelling in me and guiding my actions; after all, how could something holy dwell in someone so fallen? That part of my mind I usually managed to wall up and ignore; but occasionally when I fell into a kind of spiritual torment I would eventually end up at the inevitable conclusion that either God did not love me and did not want me, or He just hadn't saved me yet. Usually the latter was enough to allow me a few hours of sleep, but not always.

But now. Now, it became clear that while grace was offered to me, while salvation was within my grasp, I must reach out my hand. I must put away myself, my own desires, my own faults and failings and disordered loves and choose, minute by minute, to accept grace. And when I turned away, the fault was on my own soul. When I rejected God, He would let me. After all, one of the greatest gifts the Church has given me is the recognition of my own free will. What good is a will if one is locked into a choice? It doesn't follow. It isn't rational. It isn't true. No one is saved once and saved forever. God gave us a will, and out of His infinite and astounding love for us, allowed us to choose or reject Him. Not once, but forever. Every minute. And He will never, ever violate our choice, because to do so is to violate our essential human dignity. The very essence of who we are. If I live a good life, even a remarkable life and then turn away, today, shut my heart and soul away from God, and die tonight, then He will let my choice stand. How could He not? It's one of His many gifts to us.

After that night I spent a few weeks literally refusing to pray. I couldn't accept it. It took me a while to get my head around it, to understand it, and to see that it isn't cruelty on the part of God, but kindness. Love. Mercy. Justice.

But after those rough weeks, something new set in. Catholic guilt.

Now I understood the heaviness of the thing. The weight of the freedom to choose. The great responsibility that came with it. And the absolute necessity of leaning on the sacraments. Without those, without that grace, I would be lost. Who can bear up under the weight of their own sins without Christ standing beside them?

But I didn't understand it as such. I felt it, but didn't name it. I knew that things were different, that life was harder, that I was sad more often when my sins stacked up, that I dreaded confession like I never had before but also that I needed confession more than ever. Cleanness is something you can feel in your soul. Forgiveness is a heady thing. And the joy of the Eucharist is unparalleled.

It wasn't until I read that passage, though, that I got it. I got why Catholic guilt is legendary throughout the world. I understand now why even non-Catholics see it as something wholly different than the guilt of other religions, other systems of belief. I understand why the weight of Catholic guilt can literally wear a person down, why running from one's sins is utterly impossible after understanding truth, even understanding it a little more than one did a year ago, and why there is such a hatred for the Church from those who have left her folds.

Catholic guilt. The guilt that accompanies living a fully human life. That guilt that comes with knowing that those sins that Christ bore for us are not out of our control, that we aren't fallen and evil, that we have the choice, that we've always had the choice. The ability to choose good over evil. It isn't out of our control. It isn't the Spirit working through us. It is an act of the will...a wounded will, to be sure, but nevertheless an essentially free will.

And I understand why so many of my friends love Brideshead Revisited. After all, it is only through the uncomprehending eyes of Charles Ryder that Catholicism becomes clear in all it's facets. The wonder of it, the terror of it, the reality of working out one's salvation in fear and trembling or going mad trying to run away from it all. And a little, childish part of me feels sorry for us. Our cross is so much heavier to bear. But mostly I feel deeply grateful to have been brought into the folds of the Church, where there is such truth and goodness and beauty and yes, heaps and heaps of Catholic guilt.

7 Quick Takes Friday!

noreply@blogger.com (Calah) — Fri, 13 Jan 2012 15:08:00 +0000

Hello! Sorry for the silencio this week...it's remarkable how little I've gotten unpacked, for someone who's spent every day "unpacking". I suspect I've devoted a large portion of the day to "procrastination and staring out the window watching the alligators". Maybe.

Yeah, there really are alligators in the canal behind our house. RIGHT behind our house. Usually you can only see their little snouts raise up a tiny bit out of the water, but the other day I saw a scaly tail slithering back into the canal, and just now I saw a freaky-looking clawed arm disappear back into the deep. Cool, huh? Also, terrifying.

Of Course

I was going to try and make a loose connection about fairy tales coming true or something so that this picture would have a reason to be here, but let's be honest. It's gratuitous eye candy. You're welcome. Also, I love them.

being me, I decided that the best way to keep Charlotte and Sienna away from the canal (since alligators happen to prefer small children for snacking) (I'm serious) was to scare the ever-loving pants off of them.

So a few days ago I took the kids outside and described in detail just how an alligator would tear them limb from limb and carry them into the water and eat them.

I think Sienna thought that would be a grand adventure, but Charlotte was so terrified that she now clings to my legs anytime the screen door opens so much as an inch. Liam just kept making breaks for the canal, shouting, "Wa-wa! Ba!" (water, bath)

Obviously this is a work in progress, and until they get it the backyard is off-limits. Also, I'm going to go back on everything I ever said about leashes and buy some for Liam.

Here's My New Philosophy on Child-Rearing

Leashes: Better Than Being Eaten By An Alligator

Speaking Of Back Yards

we have neighbors in possession of some of the awesomest children in existence. Their mother just had a baby two days ago, and yesterday the oldest boy was out in his back yard. We came out and said hi and I asked him how he liked his new little sister.

He sort of sized me up and then said a little pugilistically, "She's the cutest of all the babies in the world."

I'm not sure if he was expecting disagreement, but I kept my laughter internal and told him that I was sure she is.

It was awesome.

Just to give you some perspective on how cool these kids are, the first day we moved in their oldest, a ten-year-old girl, came over and offered to read to the kids while I unpacked.

That in itself is amazing enough, but when I asked her her name and then complimented her on how lovely it was, she said, "It's Shakespeare."

Right? Right? There has never been greater neighbors than these. Their nerdiness might even equal our own. Maybe.

So Yesterday

I went to the doctor. It actually wasn't a trip to fulfill my latest hypochondriac delusions, which this week had me alternating between "heart attack" and "lung cancer" to explain the not-so-mysterious back pain I've been suffering after moving boxes and re-adjusting to our mattress, which the Ogre has had in his possession in Vegas.

Actually, I just needed my asthma medicine refilled.

But let me tell you what, I felt like Laura Ingalls taking the covered wagon to the big city. No lie.

The nearest proper city is a solid hour drive. It's a lovely drive, past orchards and weird spindly tall trees and unconquered forests and fields. But still, it's an hour drive. I was ever-so-slightly annoyed until I actually reached the big city.

It Seems

that I've really taken to the small town mentality, as I was actually surprised when people in Naples didn't wave and say hello.

I was. It was weird. After all, up until recently I lived in Las Vegas, where the friendliest people are the craps dealers. And here I was, being taken aback when the pharmacist walked away in the middle of my story about how long it took me to drive from Ave Maria to Naples.

I mean, I guess I shouldn't have been surprised, as it was a boring story, but still. That was mean, I thought to myself. No one would do that in Ave Maria.

And then, after waiting for an hour for the pharmacist to put my inhalor in a box due to the absolute swarm of octogenarians looking for the best -- no, the very best -- calcium supplement, I remembered that we had moved to Florida.

It's weird, but Ave Maria somehow seems to exist separately from the state of Sunshine, Oranges and Retirees. It's like its own little universe, suspended within a shining ball of sunshine, friendly neighbors, college students willing to babysit, and the best fish and chips on the planet.

And Then

right there in the pharmacy, I thought, there's no place like home.

We lived in Vegas for three years and I never felt at home there. There were things that I came to love, like the peculiar charm of the desert plants, or the spectacular sunsets framed by the mountains, but it wasn't home.

Ave Maria has worked its magic on me, that's for sure. I love this place, sticky horrible humidity, alligators, mosquitoes and all.

And now, because I feel kind of awkward waxing sentimental on Quick Take Friday, I leave you with this spectacular bit of hilarity.

Also, I'd like a Snuggie for my birthday. Really. I'm the only person on the planet that doesn't have one.

But I'd like mine to come with the Venetian mask and tea kettle.

Go see Jen for more quick takes!

Um, Ew?

noreply@blogger.com (Calah) — Wed, 11 Jan 2012 15:59:00 +0000

First things first. A while back someone asked me what I got the Ogre for Christmas, and since I made such a big deal over the choosing of it and all, I figured I'd tell you.

I got him this:

He's recently developed a taste for Scotch, so I decided to get him a nice one that he could enjoy and offer to guests. My sister-in-law coordinated with me and got him Scotch glasses. It went over pretty well. I was proud of myself.

*pats self on back*

So. This morning I had the misfortune to click over to Hot Air out of morbid curiosity to see who is winning the primary non-race (because no matter who wins, we're all losers in this one). And then I found this link.

First of all, the Occupy movement is still happening? Why? Gah, it's like the Coffee Party, only dirtier and with murkier aims. Actually, are there aims of the Occupy movement? I'm pretty sure at this point that it's devolved into Woodstock where the participants took so much acid that they think they're accomplishing something instead of just taking acid.

Second, gross. No, really, gross.

Look, I'm part of the whatever percent that these unshowered, unshaven miscreants claim to represent. And guess what? Even if the Ogre gets tenure at Yale (which will never, ever happen, unless he wins a Nobel prize or something) we'll still be part of the large and not-extremely-rich population. And I'm okay with that. I don't want wealth to be redistributed. At my alma mater, they taught me to think. And upon thinking for five whole minutes, I came to the obvious conclusion that Marxism failed and must always fail and furthermore made regular people awful people. Also, I'm not in favor of taking money from people, whether they earned it or not. It's theirs. I don't steal. Nor do I think Robin Hood was entirely on the moral up-and-up, even if he looked fantastic as Russel Crowe.

Why yes, that is my husband. Russell Crowe asked him to stand in because he looked manlier wielding a bow and arrow.

But more importantly, I sincerely do not wish to be represented by these people because they are so filthy.

Ew, ew, ew, ew, ew.

Dear Occupy Protestors: please, please stop "representing" me and take a shower. Preferably with a pressure washer.

Shudder.

New Money, New Low

noreply@blogger.com (Calah) — Mon, 09 Jan 2012 16:39:00 +0000

I'm just going to come out and say it: the French Revolution frakked everything up.

It's obvious that nothing good can come of this

I'm not saying the old aristocratic system was fair, nor am I saying that abuses didn't happen regularly. They did, I'm sure. But after watching so much Downton Abbey, I'm more convinced than ever that there was something to the idea of the "nobility" after all. People like the Earl of Grantham took their position seriously. They believed that there was something to this idea of being noble, and that to fulfill what was given to them they had to, you know, be noble. Even if it meant opening up their family home to injured and recovering soldiers. Even if it meant starting a soup kitchen for soldiers returning from the front out of their own funds. Even if it meant sacrificing the life they had carefully cultivated for their daughters because injured men needed care, and the girls were willing to help.

This morning one of my friends posted this little gem on facebook and well, I threw up in my mouth a little. In case you don't want to click on the link, I'll just tell you. Jay-Z and Beyonce, two of the most odiously-named celebrities in the world, had their daughter in a Manhattan hospital yesterday.

Pretty people, awful names

They rented out an entire floor for the festive C-section...the floor which also happened to contain the NICU.

The NICU, people. The place where newborn babies are fighting for their lives. Beyonce and her entourage allegedly rented out the floor where terrified, anxious parents pace the hallways, waiting for the precious minutes in which they will be allowed to see their sick and injured infants. As the article alleges, every time anyone from Beyonce's crew wanted to use the hallway, everyone else was ushered out and the floor went on lockdown.

Parents were apparently kept from seeing their babies in the NICU. Doctors were kept from seeing patients.

What. The. Hell?

No, seriously. This is appalling. I mean look, it may not be true. And yet I wouldn't be even a little surprised if it were true, which in itself says something about the character of these two asshats. Granted, the hospital should never have allowed this. And yet...and yet, what do these two think happens in a hospital? People are ill or in childbirth. They need access to doctors and OR's and medical equipment. What did they think would happen when they rented out an entire floor? And what for? Who needs a whole floor for a C-section? One room, people. Two at the most.

On the facebook thread, my friend mentioned that even the royal family doesn't do this. They rent out one corner of a hospital floor where they can come and go and keep their security intact without disrupting the other laboring women and their families. Someone said that this is the difference between old money and new.

There's something to that, although you can't boil it down quite that simply. There are plenty of people who are "new money" who would never dream of pulling the ridiculously selfish stunt that Beyonce and Jay-Z just pulled. And there are plenty of old money people who would.

But there's something to the idea that if one family inherits money, land and a title, that family owes everything to others. To the ancestors who built what they now have, to the people whose jobs provide for the family's daily needs, and to the people around them who have less than they do. Generosity wasn't always found in the aristocracy, it's true; but it was often found there.

How many of today's celebrities, America's aristocracy, would open up their homes and their wallets to soldiers returning from war? How many would use their position to help? And I don't mean to proselytize their opinions on just who's to blame for the war, but to actually, physically, help.

I don't think very many would. Certainly not in the way the British aristocracy opened up their country homes and let their daughters go off to drive ambulances and tend soldiers and man anti-aircraft guns while their sons fought at the front during the two world wars.

I really do think that the way the money comes about plays into this. After all, if you've made your own money, it's yours. You've done it. You don't owe anyone anything, and can do with it whatever you please. But if the money is given to you, well, then, you have someone you owe. Usually many people. You were entrusted with the money and you must honor that trust.

Right? What do you think? I'm not calling for a return to aristocracy...actually, I think that would be impossible in this day and age, and furthermore a democracy actually does hold the greatest potential for universal recognition of essential human dignity. But there's something so vulgar in the Hollywood elite. Many things, really. And since all people who have money don't behave that way, there has to be something about the way the money was made that makes the entertainment aristocracy particularly grotesque. I'm just not sure what it is.

Oh yeah, and I do realize that I'm painting with a broad brush here, but I can't split all the hairs that ought to be split in a blog post. Let me just put it this way: for every Bono there is a Jennifer Lopez.

So, theories? Why is it that the entertainment industry seems to have the corner on these kinds of tacky displays of wealth at the expense of those around them?

Ballet, Books and Bloody Mary

noreply@blogger.com (Calah) — Sat, 07 Jan 2012 18:18:00 +0000

I must unpack. I promised Sienna she could watch a movie in 8 minutes, and furthermore I must unpack. But I wanted to get a quick post up.

This is what we did this morning:

The female minions had their first ballet classes here in Ave Maria. They loved them! And were, I'm told, very respectful and obedient. Score 1 for this month's parenting tactics!

This is what we're doing tonight:

I really have to hand it to Ave Maria. They have their priorities in order. No gas station, no Target, no proper doctor's office....but they have a pub next to the coffee shop.

It's like they read my mind and then built a town around it.

Oh, though I think it's bloody weird (hehehe) that they named their pub after Bloody Mary, the historical disclaimer on their website notwithstanding. As far as I know, there's always some truth in rumors. Their version also doesn't seem too believable. Really? Only citing one source? In a college town? F for effort, guys. I wanna see an annotated bibliography before I'm convinced. Couldn't they have picked an actual good Catholic queen? Catherine of Aragon, Mary's mom, was pretty dang rockin'. They could have called it the "Cast-Off Queen". Hahaha.

I'm done amusing myself now. I apologize. Happy Saturday! I'm off to unpack the library, and because the Ogre is OCD about our books, I have to organize them by subject and author within that subject. (I balked when he asked me to do them chronologically within subjects, but mostly just because I wouldn't have been able to do it without Google.) Historical theory is giving me real trouble, too. History, or philosophy? Jeez.

Oh yeah, and speaking of the first of many wives, here you go. Watch it with the kids. Mine think the rolling heads are particularly hilarious. (Actually they really do. We're into factual history in this house. No sense white-washing the monarchy, after all. Especially since they're all werewolves now.)

Oh my gosh! I almost forgot! Melanie is doing something BRILLIANT. Please go bask in the awesomeness.

7 Quick Takes Friday!

noreply@blogger.com (Calah) — Fri, 06 Jan 2012 14:09:00 +0000

It's Friday. Glorious Friday. The Feast Day of the Epiphany. The sun is shining brightly outside, one of the definite benefits of living in Florida, the kids are fighting merrily, the Ogre is snoring loudly, and I'm sipping strong, strong coffee gratefully, thanks to a certain neighbor who took pity on us in our coffee-pot-less state.

Unpacking


Why yes, I do unpack in black and white

is coming along much more slowly than I remember it happening in the past. As I told the Ogre last night, I think it's because we have so many more children and so much more room. Also, it's one thing to unpack things in an apartment; you just put things out, willy-nilly, and rearrange them later, or not.

But now we have an actual house with curtains and things and I'd like it to look nice. I'd like our second-hand things to look their second-hand best within it. So I'm unpacking carefully, arranging and rearranging, and also having to stop every few hours when the kids drag me out to watch them play with the nieghbors.

(Have I mentioned that we have real neighbors with real children?)

Also

some of the lag in unpacking is due to my utter confusion concerning what I'm to do with proportions I've never encountered before.

For instance, it took me nearly two days to unpack and organize our closet. Normally, the closet is an hour-long task. Because the closet is usually the size of an airplane toilet. But we have a...a...a walk-in closet.

And you can actually walk inside it. Hell, you could do a workout video inside it if you wanted. It's the exact same width as the closet in the picture above, but longer. The shelving is the same type, but longer.

The first time I saw it I actually laughed out loud. I'm not exactly a fashionista, in case you hadn't guessed. I would have preferred a monstrosity of a kitchen to a monstrosity of a closet (and actually the kitchen is about the dreamiest of kitchens I could have dreamed up). Originally I figured we'd just have to have another baby and turn the closet into a nursery. I mean, what else would I put in there?

But Then

This picture has absolutely nothing to do with my quick takes, but I couldn't find a good picture and then I stumbled upon this one and it's way too awesome not to share with you

I began to unpack my clothes. I assumed most of the boxes that said "Calah's clothes" were mislabeled since there were so many of them.

They weren't.

Once my clothes were unpacked I was actually pretty horrified. The hanging clothes took up two halves of two racks, the sweaters and sweatshirts took up one entire length of the closet, and my workout pants, yoga pants, t-shirts, and unmentionables took up an entire bureau.

#4
The Thing Is

3/4 of those clothes don't fit me. A very, very small number are too big. Those make up my "Postpartum Chic" wardrobe, which also doubles as the "Post-Holiday Shame" wardrobe.

About a quarter of them fit quite well, some slightly too loose, some slightly too snug, right now. Another quarter are between one and two sizes too small. This is my "Where I Should Be, or Close Enough" wardrobe, which I know I actually have the physical capability to get to, since that has been my primary wardrobe for exactly one six-month period post-Sienna and exactly one six-month period post-Charlotte.

And then there's my small stockpile of "Post-Mono" clothes, on the off chance that I'm lucky enough to get that particular ailment. Most of these happen to be leftover favorites from high school or clothes that once fit which I shrunk with my spectacular laundry skills, but which looked so cute in miniature that I couldn't bear to part with them.

You can't say I'm not prepared for everything.

#3
Actually, Though,

Aren't we all?

I felt pretty ashamed once it was all put away. I kept thinking of Betty Duffy's post about having things for a live she doesn't lead. That isn't really true of me anywhere but the closet. My kitchen things are carefully chosen and well-worn. We have too many books, but that's not a bad thing, and anyway I might remember how to read soon. Otherwise, we don't have much in the way of possessions. No TV, flatscreen or otherwise. No Wii, though I'd love one if the Ogre wasn't such a curmudgeon. No stereo system, no blu-ray player, not even a couch or a coffee table. (Cause we're poor, not because we're particularly ascetic.)

But my closet is shameful. And I am ashamed of it. So I've decided to give myself one year to lose some weight, provided no new little minion takes root, and at the end of the year, whatever doesn't fit, I'll get rid of.

(Um, I mean whatever is too small. The Postpartum Chic wardrobe is essential to my mental health and well-being. You know what I mean.)

I feel good about this resolution.

#2
If You Recall, Though,

Last year I resolved to be more temperate, but by November I was a raging alcoholic. So we'll see what happens. Maybe I'll end up adding a whole new section to my wardrobe. I could go even fatter and get a "Dunlap Wardrobe"

for when my stomach dun laps over my jeans

or I could swing the stick the other way and purchase a "Post-Tapeworm Wardrobe"

for when desperation drives me to a new low.

Or not. Anyone wanna take bets?

#1
Speaking of Resolutions, Though,

I have a blogging resolution that I simply must keep because it's driving me to distraction.

I have got to organize my blog.

It is a hot mess. The tags, where they exist, are way too specific and random. You can't search for anything, not even by tag, because 99% of my posts are unlabelled. I really get frustrated when I go to new blogs and want to learn more about the person by searching, say, "family" or "motherhood" or "janis joplin" (true story) and nothing is labelled or the labels are tangential at best. It doesn't make for good blog reading.

So I'm going to swallow the bitter pill and organize this here disaster of a blog. Maybe I'll give it a makeover in the process, too. You never know.

Happy Epiphany! Go and see Jen for more quick takes!

A Brave New World

noreply@blogger.com (Calah) — Wed, 04 Jan 2012 16:24:00 +0000

Hahaha! Guess what I'm not doing? I'm not organizing and unpacking the closet like I should be. Despite the fact that I can't find any of my clothes and neither can the Ogre and also despite the fact that all I have to wear is an oversized and extremely wrinkled Groundhog t-shirt and pajama pants, I cannot resist the siren song of the internet.

I guess you want to hear about the move. Here's the thing, though. I cannot relive it.

Truly, we are cursed in travel. Cursed. Every move we have ever made has been fraught with horror, and this one was no exception. My parents even joined us in order to try and make one move easy. My dad drove the Navigator while the Ogre drove the Penske truck. Sienna joined them and was pretty sure it was the greatest trip ever. My mom and I flew standby with the littles.

Okay, I'll do a quick re-cap. The Penske truck was, ahem, not terribly reliable. The Ogre spiked a fever whilst driving, a-freaking-gain. The flights were full up because we were flying on New Years Eve Eve, and we could only make the last flight of the day, the second leg of which was delayed so that we didn't get into Tampa until 2 a.m. Oh yes, and the closest we could get to our new home was Tampa, because the Ft. Myers and Ft. Lauderdale flights were overbooked and Southwest doesn't fly to Miami. Tampa is a three hour drive, y'all. So my dad broke off from the Ogre somewhere in the Florida and waited for several hours at the airport while we endured the Flight of Doom with the extremely overly tired and overly stimulated smallest children, plus the Layover of Horror in an airport where all the shops were closed because it was ludicrously late in the evening. (No, really. I spent one entire hour being hit in the face, bitten, pinched, kicked and screamed at by a one-year-old who had really had it with this moving stuff, and the following two chasing two hysterical minions through various terminals and trying to convince them to keep their shoes on.)

But we made it to Tampa. At 2 a.m. The Ogre had thought that he would reach Ave Maria by seven in the evening but, well, Florida is somewhat huger than we expected. He got to our new house right about the time we landed, only to discover that the house was, in fact, not unlocked as it was supposed to be, and neither were the keys in the mailbox. Or anywhere.

So after two solid days of driving with a fever, he was not happy. He muttered some very choice phrases and loaded Sienna into the truck and took her to a motel in Immokalee, the nearest approximation of a town-like-thing.

My dad, at this point, had also been driving for two days straight. And then he drove all night to get us to Ave Maria while my mom and I and the kids slept like the dead in the backseat. (I did offer to drive, but my father is what you might call stubborn.)

At about 5:30 a.m, I woke up as we entered Ave Maria. I was all excited, pointing out the Oratory in the distance, the campus, the piazza, and trying to ignore the palm trees. (Seriously, why am I haunted by palm trees? They are the creepiest trees in existence. And everywhere we move, there they are. Shudder.)

Even though we were approaching our new hometown in the dark, it was lit up enough to see it. I was so excited. Enchanted, even. As we drove closer, I pressed my face against the window like a small child, eager to get a closer glimpse of the town square and the beautiful church.

The church is so lovely! thought I. Look at it rising up in the midst of the town, the centerpiece of it all, the reason why we're here, the...wow, the church is really big. Closer up, it's really...really...oh my gosh, the Oratory is going to eat us all! It's HUGE! It's going to consume the town and all the houses and the people! We're all going to become stained-glass sacrifices in the Oratory's epic quest to become the LARGEST CHURCH IN THE UNIVERSE!

I'm HUNGRY!

Granted, by this point I was a little punch-drunk from lack of sleep and excess of exhausted children, but that was my thought process as we reached the main circle surrounding the Oratory. My parents and I started chatting, pointing out various things of interest (there's a coffee shop! said my dad) (there's a smoothie place! said my mom) (there's a PUB! said yours truly) and then Charlotte happened to glance out the window, notice a statue of Mary with a light shining on it, and said, "Oh look, there's God."

The laughter in the car was uproarious. You have to remember that my parents are Evangelicals who pretty much think we worship statues, even though I've tried to convince them otherwise, so Charlotte's comment, combined with the overt and obvious statue-lovin' Catholicism of the town, was just the icing on the cake. Even they thought it was hysterical.

When the sun finally came up we drove back to Immokalee, got breakfast, woke up the Ogre who had chosen the closest approximation of the Bates motel in which to stay with our eldest daughter, and returned to Ave Maria to get our keys and get into our new house.

That in itself is a whole other story which I'm way, way too tired to tell right now. Suffice it to say, we're here. The town is surreal. People say hello to one another. I have neighbors, and know their names, and they bring us things and entertain our children while we unpack. People in the town introduce themselves and remember our names. Kids bike and scooter and play football all over the street in the afternoon and no one steals them. The whole street is decorated with little garden statues of Mary, which totally creeped my mother out, much to my amusement.

I'm not going to lie, after Vegas it all feels a bit Stepford-ish. In a good way. In the way in which I keep thinking, this is too good to be true. Places like this don't exist anymore. The world is no longer this safe nor this good nor this comforting. People are no longer this friendly. Also, I sincerely hope the neighbors don't convince my husband to upgrade to a more perfect robotic model of me.

Because even robot me would balk at wearing an evening gown to the grocery store.