Dirty Details

For almost three years I worked at an organization that is intensely detail oriented. This is an attention to detail that is, simply, beyond ordinary. It is tedious; it is maddening; and at times it is neurotic.  And I loved it.  I relished the information stored in concise records of interviews, in summaries, and in analytical spreadsheets; I reveled in my workpapers colored heavily with blue hyperlinks linking back to source documents; I championed the tracing and referencing procedures that ensured that every sentence, every word I wrote for a final report could be linked back to supporting documentation. At the end of each day my office was re-organized back into piles of paperwork and binders, my electronic documents stored neatly in appropriate electronic folders.  And it is this sense of satisfaction from an organized day that has, at times, made me think that staying at home full time with three small children will drive me absolutely mad.

I simply cannot keep the contents of my household from slipping and sliding all over the place. It would be as if someone were to sneak into my work computer at night and jumble my sentences or un-link my hyperlinks (gasp). No, here I have three little bandits cleverly watching and waiting for me to leave one tidied room and move to another so they can "play" in the "open space." There are no rules here about touching a person's work; this is the wild west, and I'm on their ground, now.

So what to do. I've tried pulling my hair out; I've tried running behind them and re-cleaning what was just cleaned. I've tried doing nothing at all and letting the contents of the insanity simply unfold. None of these have been satisfactory. I've settled for a grey middle ground of mostly messy or mostly clean depending on the eye of the beholder. This is yet another area of growth, of sharpening. I must learn to co-exist with people; not punctuation marks. I must learn to rub shoulders with little bodies that grin and giggle and shed tears and voice opinions and have so much energy that if only they could be harnessed they could do some seriously productive work. But they are children; not employees. And I am their mother; not their boss.

So I will get down on my hands and knees and play horse; I will let them paint in my freshly cleaned kitchen. I will leave them alone in the basement with a bag full of legos and try to stifle my horrified screams when I hear the contents of the bag being spread all over the floor.

I will do these things, because I am a mother, and I'm learning that to be a mother means to be scraped, to be pruned, to (sigh)... let go. And I sense that this one will be a lesson I will never, ever, fully learn.

Happy Valentines Day

I know that technically today is not St. Valentine's Day. In fact, our parish priest told us Friday that there now is now no feast day for St. Valentine at all, as he didn't make the cut with the 1969 Church calendar for feast days (Father assured us this was nothing personal, and St. Valentine is still holy and in heaven). And it is true that Valentines Day is most often a marketing gimmick for pink truffles and pink cards and pink roses and gooey chocolate with poems attached.  But... I can't help it; I love this day. I love a day dedicated to thinking about the people I love, to being intentional in the way that I love them, and celebrating the unique and wonderful ways that God has created each one.

Last Friday the kids and I made Valentine's Dots for my daughter's pre-school class-- a quick and entirely kid friendly recipe shared by a fellow northern Virginia blogger. (whose blog, by the way, I've now habitually read. She's great.)

We attached a poem to the back that told each of her classmates how she would pray for him and her. And this morning, when we packaged everything up, she actually did pray for each and every classmate. The joy on her face when I picked her up after giving out her Valentines cards, and yes, receiving some in return, filled my heart. And all day I have been making mental notes and storing heart-treasures of the uniqueness of each of my children, and of the blessing of my husband.

Today might be over commericalized, but it is still a great chance to be thankful, to be sacrificial, and to reflect on the joy that it is to truly love, and be loved.

Love and Lefse

Yesterday I labored with my mother-in-law to make lefse, a traditional soft, Norwegian flatbread that is, for lack of better word, sacred at extended family gatherings. Lefse is made with potatoes and cream and then cooked on a hot griddle and smeared with butter and sugar. What's not to love about that? Well, making it, for one thing. Five years ago I endeavored to make the culinary masterpiece for my then-fiance for his birthday. How hard could a Norwegian recipe be? Surely I could Google the recipe and whip something together, right? Wrong. There are special tools for lefse baking -- including long wooden turning sticks, specialized griddles, and rolling pins made with deep grooves.... There are also special recipes that go with the special tools, and one does not mess with special family recipes when cooking for soon-to-be husband. So I Googled "lefse in Denver" instead and drove out to someone else's house and bought it. He married me for my creative spirit, I'm sure.

But yesterday was different. 

Using my my mother-in-law's natural Norwegian instincts for lefse and improvisation, we swapped a bread knife for the fancy wooden rod, my rolling pin for the lefse pin, and a hot griddle for...a hot griddle. And we did it. 

We rolled. We flipped. We smeared the butter.

And after the rounds were cooked and stacked I served them.

I waited while my inlaws and husband took their bites. And based on the "this is good" Midwest nods, I think I met the Norwegian standards.  And my husband now assures me that he is glad that he married me. A new dawn has broken in our household.

Quickly

Yesterday on the way home from groceries my husband recommended I stop by our church, which was having a time of Eucharistic Adoration. It was already late, and the kids were surely hungry, but at the last minute I turned the car into the church parking lot. I walked in, and I kneeled.
Potent, I thought. That's what this is.
Eucharistic adoration: A potent, powerful time with Jesus. Like concentrate.
Adore.

Pre-Dawn Tradition

It's 5:00 and the day begins. I'm tired, but I pull my body into sweats and shoes and lurch out the door, willing my legs to run fast in the icy air. It's Monday, the day of high expectations (and therefore high losses), and I know the importance of the endorphins that will fuel this day. Back inside the house the kitchen is streamlined for early morning efficiency and silence. The coffee is made; my Bible and journal beckon. I know what awaits me on Mondays: the low after the weekend high combined with an untidy house, expectant kids, and all the carefully made plans for building up their little souls and minds that I must accomplish according to the detailed timeline that I made on Sunday. So I know this time in the morning is sacred. It's essential.  I light a candle, ready to begin. 

 

And then there it is: the pitter patter pitter patter of little feet. A pint-sized voice, and down the stairs he comes. "Mommy!" His grin is 100 watt and could light the darkest room.
He exults in his morning victory at the Finding Mommy Game. He points to my carefully laid Quiet Time accessories."Candle!" He shouts. And now the baby is awake, too.

I feel that inward twinge, that frustrated cry welling up inside me. This is my time! I want to pump my fist. Maybe I should form a union.

 

But there he is, standing in front of me: the focus of my day, the end to my prayers. He is warm, radiant, and ready for my love. So together we pray. We begin what is becoming a morning ritual of mommy/boy time, each of us reading in (periodic) silence beneath the morning candle, waiting for the sun to rise and light our day.  

 

I do long for those days of hour-long Scripture times and solo prayer in the morning. But this is sacred, too. So in the meantime, I'll continue to tiptoe in the pre-dawn dark, but chances are, someone else is tiptoeing with me, too.

Vocare - To Call

This morning I piled a wriggling heap of children and coats and scarves and blankets into the car and battled the snowy roads to attend our Church’s Mother’s Group. Oh goodness what a gasping breath of life-saving air. The children, who have been cooped up in snowy weather for several days, exulted in running laps around the room, crayons dangling from their hands and crackers crunching in their mouths and under their feet, jumping, giggling, and living life with their little disciple friends. Disciples – that’s what they are: souls on a journey toward their God. We watched them play and talked about how we, their mothers, have been entrusted with their care, their formation, their way.

Entrusted: to confer a trust upon; to put into the care or protection of someone.

We let the words of John Paul II sink into our hearts:

The moral and spiritual strength of a woman is joined to her awareness that God entrusts the human being to her in a special way. Of course, God entrusts every human being to each and every other human being. But this entrusting concerns women in a special way - precisely by reason of their femininity - and this in a particular way determines their vocation.

The moral force of women, which draws strength from this awareness and this entrusting, expresses itself in a great number of figures of the Old Testament, of the time of Christ, and of later ages right up to our own day.

A woman is strong because of her awareness of this entrusting, strong because of the fact that God "entrusts the human being to her", always and in every way, even in the situations of social discrimination in which she may find herself. This awareness and this fundamental vocation speak to women of the dignity which they receive from God himself, and this makes them "strong" and strengthens their vocation.

Thus the "perfect woman" (cf. Prov 31:10) becomes an irreplaceable support and source of spiritual strength for other people, who perceive the great energies of her spirit. These "perfect women" are owed much by their families, and sometimes by whole nations.

(John Paul II - Muleris Dignitatem, on the Dignity and Vocation of Women)

Two hours later, we packed the kids, crayons, crackers, scarves, and coats and we each headed home. Fortified. We are strong not because we are ourselves, but because we have been entrusted with His power, His strength, His vocation. Vocation: from the Latin vocare -- to call. We do not choose our vocation; no, we are called. We are beckoned. And if we echo Mary’s fiat and we say yes to life and yes to mother and yes to all the love and pain and joy and tears and triumph that wrestle in our hearts as we wrestle through each day… we say yes to a life of dignity, a life infused with His grace.

Yes, he even cooks.

Is there is nothing my husband will not do? Seriously.

Last month after working increasingly long hours downtown, he began running home from the metro station each night instead of taking the bus. Impressive enough – but this is summertime in D.C. We’re talking 90 degree heat plus humidity, and the run is uphill the whole way.

He does this just about nightly. And each night, after cresting the final hill of his run, he is ambushed by the 3-year old and the toddler, both of whom are in thick of their “witching hour” -- the time of day most fraught with whining and tantrums. “Pick me up, daddy!” “Daddy, read me a book!” “Dady, Waaaa,” (the baby). And remarkably, inexplicably… he does. He picks up the crying baby, he reads a story (or three), he walks to a park, and he changes several diapers. “I missed you guys,” he says.

And now on the weekends there is this:

“It's arugula with roasted beets and Gorgonzola,” he says, as we sit down to dinner. Or:

“It's wasabi hamburgers.” Or:
“Swiss-chard wrapped salmon with orange-chipotle salsa.”

Excuse me? My taste buds throw a party when he decides to cook. Who knew that I loved beets?! What a fantastic revelation!

Last night it was Mexican corn timbales with some kind of creamy sauce and a hint of thyme and my goodness it was good. It turns out that not I not only married the handsome runner of my childhood dreams, I also married a patient, sacrificial father; a devoted husband….

…and a Michelin 3-star chef ("exceptional cuisine worth a special journey").

Bon appetit.