Raising Opie and his sister in the most wholesome town in America.
The second one is different and exactly the same.
The second one is harder and easier.
The second one is predictable and surprising.
The second one is more work and less work.
The second one is a thorn in the side of the first one, and a partner in crime.
The second one strains your family and strengthens it.
The second one is worth it, Mrs. Chicky, HBM, and Mrs. Chicken. I promise it is.
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After my mini-college reunion last month, our host gave all of us a CD which is a recreation of a mix tape he had made way back when. I’ve been listening to it all week and here’s one of my favorite songs from it.
*because it was so very popular last week
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Last night was my friend’s baptism and confirmation. I really don’t think I have ever been prouder of someone who isn’t a member of my immediate family. Her bravery and faith were breathtaking. She never wants to be the center of attention, but elected to do a full immersion baptism (betcha didn’t know we Catholics even did that… I didn’t!). It’s unusual enough that when Father invited her, me, her family and friends to proceed to the baptismal font, he also invited the entire congregation to gather around as well. (Then he joked that he’d try not to fall in with her.)
She wore a bathing suit covered by a short robe, which she kept on as she knelt in the font. Her family was there, including her two little boys, her in-laws, and her sister; as her sponsor, I stood by her side. The rest of the RCIA candidates and catechists watched, along with a few hundred other parishioners, a deacon, several altar servers. Can you imagine the strength it took, to decide to do this, to want to do this? It was a privilege to observe it, and even more so to have my own small role to play in it.
After it was over she beamed with the joy of it, and the relief; her four-year-old piped, “Mommy, I am so proud of you!” and we all smiled because we were too. The rest of the Mass passed by in a rush and afterward, it seemed that everyone who’d been in the pews stopped to congratulate her and to welcome her. It’s an Easter I won’t easily forget.
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I don’t normally post about religion, because holy lightning rod; and also, my feelings are nothing if not conflicted. I enjoy the ritual of it all and have found comfort there in times of grief. But if I am honest with myself, I haven’t nearly the faith to swallow everything I should to be a true believer. And as a leftie, feminist type, I have Issues with a capital I about many teachings and dictates of the Roman Catholic church.
And yet, you’ll find me at Mass nearly every Sunday, goosebumping up when the priest presents a newly baptized baby to the applauding congregation, beaming as if he bore that child himself. You’ll notice tears leaking from the corner of my eyes during a soaring hymn. You’ll see me volunteering to send valentines to homebound parishioners and organize the Sunday morning nursery co-op. You’ll realize I’m sitting alongside almost all of my close friends in this community, the ones who’ll watch one child while I chase the other or save a seat for us during coffee hour. On warm-weather days, the kids and I may be at church for two hours or more, including Mass, coffee talk, and a visit to the school’s playground.
This year I am sponsoring a good friend as she goes through the RCIA process. I was honored to be asked, but hesitant. Was it really right for me to hold myself up as an example for her? In the end I decided that all I could do was tell her the truth. That I have questions, questions that will probably never be answered; but if she wanted to, we could seek together. And so we have. This Easter she will be baptized and I know I’ll be proud to have been a part of this process with her.
I’m still out there wondering, but I know I have company. And that means a lot.
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Since I went ahead and confessed that I am a lousy cook, I thought now would be a good time to post a recipe. Right?
I am going to a Soup Swap on Monday. It’s like a cookie exchange, but for soup. Here’s what I’m going to bring (there is a contest for best soup name … if you can think of a better one, I am all ears). I’m making 40 cups of it tonight (8 cups x 5 recipient swappers).
I Think I Can-nellini Bean Soup
Makes: A lot. At least 8 servings depending on who’s eating. Probably about 35 servings if you are serving it to a small child.
3 cloves garlic, minced
1 Tbsp olive oil
2 16-oz cans cannellini (white) beans
1 28-oz can diced tomatoes
1 head escarole (or kale I think would also work), chopped
4-5 cups chicken broth (sub veggie broth to make this vegan)
S&P
Shaved parmesan cheese for garnish
1. Heat the olive oil in a big soup pot or dutch oven. Throw in the garlic and saute for a couple of minutes.
2. Dump in everything else.
3. Bring to a boil.
4. Simmer for 20-25 minutes (or whatever. Until you are ready to eat it).
5. Top with shaved parmesan and serve.
See? If you can open a can and boil water you can make this.
My only problem is that my husband doesn’t really like soup (weirdo). So I am going to have 40 cups of incoming soup to eat all by myself. Guess what I’ll be eating for lunch for the next 40 days!
(When I was a poor editorial assistant, I always brown-bagged except on Fridays. Then I’d treat myself to lunch out. If I was feeling really flush I’d go to the Soup Nazi. I think it cost about $7 a serving [this was way back before the Seinfeld show even aired] but it came with bread, fruit, and a piece of chocolate and damn, this soup was so. good. It was entirely worth the anxiety and abuse and the very very long line.)
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I’m still cold but I spent the better part of the weekend embracing the weather instead of fighting it. We took the kids sledding on Sunday. My friend Sheila is a class-A rounder-upper and event planner and she put together a cross-country ski outing on Saturday. I hauled out the skis that I haven’t used since my childfree days (they still fit! yeehaw) and we spent the afternoon gliding through a nature preserve. As we were setting out on the trail a fresh-mouthed 8-year-old asked me if I had ever been on skis before. I refrained from answering “Yeah, before you were born, ya little twerp” or from otherwise letting her comment crush my groove.
My best/worst ski outing (I’m still talking about cross-country here — all of my downhill outings have been “worst.” I am not cut out for that), mentioned briefly here, was in Moosehead Lake, Maine. The lodge we stayed at had yurt-to-yurt trails so the idea was, you ski around all day and then sleep in a yurt at night (your belongings having been magically transported there by snowmobile, about which more later). I soon learned that a canvas tent, even one equipped with a wood-burning stove, was not really ideal for a February night in Maine.
The trails, however, were amazing and so was the people-watching in the lodge. Snowy trails attract two diametrically opposed groups: the cross-country skiers and the snowmobilers. The skiers wear natural fibers (corduroy knickers and knee-high wool socks: hot!), eat granola, and probably listen to NPR. The snowmobilers wear space-age synthetics in space-age colors and I’m guessing they like the country music. Seeing these two groups mix (or at least occupy the same room) is a fascinating character study.
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Segue on the word “character”: my lovely cousin’s mother-in-law just died. Doesn’t she sound like a remarkable person? I’d never met her, and really hadn’t known much about her (Ozarkian jigs! Fishing! B29 bombers!). I’m sorry I’ll never get the chance now.
Photo from the Utah Ski Archives via fasterskier.com
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What with all the hoo-ha over the teeny weeny peenies, I missed observing a couple of other important events in the blogosphere and the world. Luckily, I can count on all of the rest of you to pick up the slack:
Jessica and Julie P. wrote movingly about Martin Luther King, Jr.
Alex wrote about Blogging for Choice Day.
Dozens of you wrote to support WhyMommy on her big day, and she came through with flying colors.
And that is worth celebrating — yesterday, today, and tomorrow.
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In honor of the impending arrival of mothergoosemouse‘s little boy blue: A story.
The minute you give birth to an infant of the male persuasion you learn (and you are informed about three dozen times a day, anyway) that their boy parts are to be covered at all times. Something about exposure to the open air makes their little firehoses want to perform.
During one of Opie’s very first diaper changes on his very first day home from the hospital, my mother was doing the honors while Jo and I looked on adoringly. Because, you know, it takes two adults and a preschooler to change one teeny weenie newborn. Of course, since it had been over 30 years since Grandma had unwrapped a boy diaper, she forgot the Take Cover rule. Opie sensed an opportunity and let fly with a targeted stream. He managed to hit:
So Julie, be sure to stock up on the cloth diapers and use them to cover the danger zone any time the little guy is mid-change. Tacy and CJ, I advise you to keep your distance.
xoxoxoxo from Jo, Opie, Jeff and me!
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It’s a baby shower and you are invited! Grab a button and post anytime today in honor of one of the blogosphere’s favorite writers … and the biggest surprise of her life.
(And there are prizes involved, to boot.)
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I’m ashamed to admit this. A few days ago, Jo announced that she wanted to have a playdate with a boy in her class. And for some reason, I was a little freaked out at the idea of a boy-girl playdate. I have no idea where this came from because she has at least three other pals, who happen to be boys, who she’s been playing with for years; I would never blink at a request to play with any of them.
Still, like a loser I tried to stall her a bit on this particular playdate request. I asked her what she and D. would play with if he came over. Right away she mentioned her telescope, her art supplies, and her puppet theatre. And almost as quickly I came to my senses and said “OK, I’ll call D’s mom.”
We haven’t had the playdate yet, but Jo’s idea to show off her telescope is perfect. We’ve loved playing with this toy (received for review via Parent Bloggers Network) and I’m sure D. will too. Get the full scoop at the Full Mommy.
And is anyone else as intimidated as I am about calling other parents for playdates? Instant transportation back to 4th grade and fearing that no one likes me. It didn’t help when one of the first kids we called this year didn’t respond for about three solid weeks. She finally did, but not before the damage had already been done to my psyche.
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