Can I squeeze in 7 bullet points during one nursing session? 1-handed? With a squirming, kicking 10-month-old? Here we go:

1. Lucia has been oh-so-self-consciously working on pronunciation. L’s, up to this point, have always been w’s (“Wucia!”) or just dropped, but we noticed she’d been practicing on Felix’s name. What was once a quick, happy “Fee-ix!” is now a long, drawled “Feeeawwwlllixxx.” She also is trying to make the “th” sound. An overheard snippet of a breakfast monologue this week: “Baff. Baffthhfhff. It’s HARD to say! Baff. I NEED to take a BAFFTHHF, Mom!”

2. Do you have any favorite mispronunciations and/or just plain weird words that your kid used to say? Lucia used to call coffee “foppee,” which I thought fell in the category of “so adorable it’s sad when she gets it right.” Then there was the mysterious phase (at about 1.5 years, I think) of her calling muffins “wawas.” :-/ Never figured that one out.

3. My favorite song discovery this week, via Noisetrade:

One might ask, have the babies and I been dancing to this song this week, blinds and windows open and all, with the sheer uninhibitedness that rolls around at 4 p.m. after being up for nearly 12 hours? Yes.

4. Another favorite to share:

That line, Go back to the ancient paths/Lash your heart to the ancient mast/And hold on, boy, whatever you do/To the hope that’s taking hold of you  — it grabs me every time.

To use the super sappy, subjective and eyeroll-inducing phrase “I feel”….I feel that this at its core is what authentic, totally-separate-from-the-context-of-modern-politics conservatism is supposed to be. I recently asked a friend to recommend some Russell Kirk reading that I can peruse before spending a week vacationing with devotees of THE Conservative Mind, apparently, in Northern Michigan. (I tried reading The Conservative Mind a couple years ago but wimped out/gave up a few chapters in, with the excuse that “I felt” he just came off as annoyingly pretentious. Where this prejudice came from, I don’t know, but it didn’t help that every other sentence was in the passive form.  BUT GUYS. I’m giving him a second chance, so please don’t hate/exile me to the wilds of rural, WiFi-less Michigan. Besides, I’m bringing the coffee.

5. Um…where was I? (Clearly, not wrestling with the baby anymore). Anyways. Michigan. I’m so excited to spend a week with our dear college friends and their families. I am also so scared of the prospect of seven kids under the age of 5, including my best friend’s newborn, under one roof, for a week. Like I said: coffee. And maybe an afternoon session of making these, if my trial run currently sitting out on the counter in dough form turns out well: http://www.kingarthurflour.com/recipes/animal-cookies-recipe

6. Luke and I are going on a date this weekend. We’re leaving the minions with the 15-year-old babysitter smack in the middle of Felix’s Angry Hour(s), pointing out the premade baked ziti and running away to Iron Man 3 and takeout on the green. I’m nervous :-/

7. So, if we ever move to New Jersey (…..), I would homeschool solely to get in on this action. 

The picture of the tableful of boxed wines under the Last Supper made me literally lol and think of these:

Using the empty Opici box as a purse. Naturally.

7 Late Takes

Joining Jen at Conversion Diary again….

1. This week has been full of triage moments, I’d say even more than usual. What to deal with first? Lucia’s bedroom floor, which has been crying out to heaven to be vacuumed all week? Setting up the new baby gate at the top of the stairs so I can vacuum? Preventing Felix from crawling over me and diving down the stairs while I’m wrestling with said gate? Hold that — mopping up the puddle of pee in front of the toilet? Scrounging together a decent load of laundry to go with the pee-soaked clothes into the washer? Spraying Lucia down in the tub for the second time since she’s woken up, while mournfully realizing that this is the closest I’ve gotten to the shower all day? Oh look, and now they’re hungry.

So yeah, I went out last night. For faith, fellowship and the only pizza in New Haven that matters.

Fancy schmany wedding rehearsal dinner? How about takeout from Modern on the beach? That’s what we thought, too.

We talked about the new pope, and when The Master of Hestviken will stop being so depressing, and Italian cooking and how Luke can’t stand Giada de Laurentis’ head,

“She looks like she’ll eat you alive.” — last night’s takeaway

and I came back way too late and was rewarded the next morning with a splitting headache (and I didn’t even drink! Why!) … but it was worth it.

2. Anyways. Back to the normal routine today. Baby vomit’s on the house (and the carpet, and my clothes, and his clothes, etc.) Before Felix decided to chuck up his snack, though, we’d been blissfully watching this episode of Lidia’s Italy. She had me in the first five minutes when describing her hands-off risotto as “perfect for busy mothers.”

3. Speaking of which, I’ve been reading this cookbook by Lidia Bastianich, which focuses on her home region of Istria in northeastern Italy. It’s fascinating — the region has been under the rule and influence of Austria, Italy and Yugoslavia, and the cuisine reflects that — and I really like her down-to-earth, improvisational, use-every-part-of-the-chicken and know-your-ingredients approach to cooking. That said, how can you not love a woman who spends an entire page describing how to care for live snails (this precedes a five-sentence recipe for snail and fennel salad.)

… Sprinkle bread crumbs over the bottom of a cardboard box or a tightly woven basket (either of which should be tightly covered; snails are prone to wanderlust and cover more ground more quickly than it’s generally supposed they can). Place the snails in the box and let them rest for 24 hours, during which time they will begin to cleanse their digestive tracts of undesirable substances. … allow the snails to purge themselves over an additional 5-day period, cleaning and sprinkling the container with fresh bread crumbs daily. (It’s advisable, incidentally, not to form any sentimental attachments with the critters, and to refrain from naming or otherwise individualizing them; you’re raising food, not pets.)

Sigh. Adorable. (I tried convincing Luke to join me in imagining the delightful image of the little Rick Steves of snails, “prone to wanderlust,” and wearing a backpack and whatever the snail equivalent of Bermuda shorts would be, but he would not.)

4. The spirit of Madeline, Laura Ingalls, Anne Shirley and all other small, tenacious fictional girls is alive and well in Connecticut, apparently. Love it.

5. I’ve yet to go to the Wadsworth Atheneum in Hartford, but during our last library trip I picked up a brochure for the current exhibition – Burst of Light: Caravaggio and His Legacy – and now I really want to go. (Date day, Luke? Hinthint). Closer to home, I’ve also been hearing about the Edwardian Opulence exhibit at the Yale Center for British Art. I love how they’re basically marketing the entire exhibit as, “HEY! This is just like Downton Abbey!!” You get them in any way you can, I guess.

6. Lucia’s been watching Daniel Tiger’s Neighborhood on PBS Kids and…I’m kinda in love. Daniel was always my favorite puppet on Mr. Roger’s Neighborhood, and now when I belt out the songs along with the adorable, little, animated tiger cub, Lucia gives me a weirded out look. I usually let her watch a show while I’m making dinner if she took a nap that afternoon (bribery at its finest), and today we had to convince her to give the original Mr. Roger’s Neighborhood a chance. Such problems, I know. As the Honest Toddler would say, “Is this homeschool?”

7. A benefit to waiting until Sunday to post these is that now I can link to this rendition of “Danny Boy” Luke shared with me today. Now, we like corned beef and cabbage as much as anyone, but we honestly don’t care that much about St. Patrick’s Day and celebrating our non-existent Irish heritage. However. This version’s sung by an astronaut in the International Space Station, so it’s inherently awesome.

 

Irreverent commentary in the Hansen household

From Luke, of course.

(during dinner)

“His name is Pope Francis, Lucia. Just like the badger.”

(while discussing how every profile of Cardinal Brogiglio mentioned how he’d ride the bus.)

“So he’s the Joe Biden of the cardinals’ conclave.”

(in an email to a friend wondering about Brogiglio’s stance on liturgy)

“My sources tell me that he’s going to make the [Traditional Latin Mass] the preferred form of the Mass, but only wymynpriests and muppetpriests will be able to celebrate it.”

7 Quick Takes…The Cooking with Kids Edition

1. I should maybe title this “Cooking Despite Kids,” because let’s be honest, this is what the 4 o’clock witching hour typically looks like:

Once, while I was preparing to butcher a whole chicken, I stepped away for a few seconds and told Lucia, who was eyeing the bird, not to touch it. So she put her hands behind her back, leaned forward and licked it. Is there an emoticon with eyes bugging out while screaming and simultaneously suppressing gags over the head of the now thrashing infant strapped in the baby carrier? Because that was pretty much my reaction.

So anyways, clearly I’m no wizard when it comes to keeping everyone happy, well-nourished and salmonella-free within that horrible hour of 4-5 6 7 p.m.  But I have noticed some things that make for somewhat smoother sailing, so, well, here we go:

Not going well.
Note the produce-covered, from-the-library cookbook; the still-frozen gallon bag of chicken stock; and the toddler sneaking muffins in the back.

2. A couple weeks ago, Lucia was playing with the plastic, toy gun that one of her friends had left at our house. I watched her, knowing she doesn’t really know what a gun is, so I was curious to see how she’d play with it. She placed it on the floor and started arranging a burp cloth over it while muttering something about “resting.” And how it would then start to “rise.” She had turned it into…bread dough?

So, yes, my toddler likes to help bake. Which brings me to my grand revelation of the past nine months or so: When baking with a very young toddler, quick breads are your friend. Mix it in one bowl, pour it in a loaf pan, and bam, in the oven, done. Bar cookies/brownies/anything else you can pour directly from the mixing bowl into the pan are also good. Muffins are your friend only in proportion to how much interest said toddler has in placing liners in the tins, as well as restraint for not snatching away those liners just as Mom’s dolloping a huge spoonful of This-Is-Healthy-Pinterest-Told-Me-So muffin batter into the hole. Cookies….I hate cookies. The shaping. The spooning. The approx. 17 extra steps past Lucia’s attention span it takes to deliver baked goods that don’t look like they’ve been mauled in the oven. (Granted, as she gets older, I’ve noticed her take a slight more interest in things like rolling out dough and cutting shapes, but even then, once the first batch of dough’s rolled out and attacked with cookie cutters, it’s all on me to do the rest. While fending off small fingers trying to steal raw dough).

3. Currently on our counter: This Moist Whole Wheat Banana Bread. Let a toddler peel  apart the bananas, toss them in the mixer and watch with maniacal glee as they get pulverized.

4. But if you really do like muffins, I’ve become a fan of my mini muffin pan. Portion-wise, they’re perfect for toddler snacks…no more large muffins abandoned and half-smashed into the kitchen table.

5. I agree with Hayley from Carrots for Michaelmas that slow-cookers can really make the difference between sanity and nuclear meltdowns, especially when everything can be prepped either in the “everyone’s fed and still happily cooing to each other on the rug” morning bliss of, say, 7:30-7:35, or during naptime. That said, I use my slow-cooker in spurts, having come to the realization that just because something can technically be made in a slow-cooker….doesn’t mean it should. These baked beans, however, were a winner a few weeks ago: Slow Cooked Boston Baked Beans.

6. Lesson learned this week: (to be shelved in the “Stop Killing Yourself” File) When deliberating dinner options on a day when everyone was up at 5:30 a.m., no one napped at the same time, the toddler is regressing with potty training (see Exhibit A, pee-filled rainboot), and the baby is clinging to your legs like his life depended on it, the answer is TAKE-OUT, not sweet potato gnocchi from scratch.

At the same time, there was something therapeutic about rolling out the ropes of dough and cutting out little uniform pillows of orange gnocchi. (Moaning baby swaying against my leg notwithstanding). And leftovers were heartily appreciated by myself and the piglets after coming in from the snow this morning.

7.

A miniature monk, mismatched sandals, a toddler butt dominating the view….typical.

Read more weekly exploits at ConversionDiary.com.

My .02 cents’ worth

I’ve managed to avoid almost all “professional” commentary on Benedict XVI’s resignation, which I think is just as well, considering that what I saw on both the left (Andrew Sullivan) and the right (a blogger from the National Catholic Register who was FREAKING OUT) just made me roll my eyes. But I’ve been mulling over his announcement, and, well, what are blogs for if not adding one more opinion to the Internet.

As proud as I was to be Catholic when John Paul II died; as much love as I felt for him in those final weeks, when the commentators retold the heroics of his life and it finally dawned on me just what a great man this frail, elderly pope had been – I felt like I’d come late to the party. I was a freshman in college and had been jogging with a friend when we heard there was white smoke at the Vatican — we literally ran into the nearest building with a TV just as the words habemus papam were announced. Yet we, and the cheering crowd of Catholic students with us, were the tail end of the JPII Generation — those who’d known only him as our Shepherd, but at the same time, barely knew him.

When he came to Toronto for his last World Youth Day, I was running around with my circle of evangelical friends, oblivious to why Pope John Paul II mattered, what he was saying to our generation, what he had done. In highschool, I’d seen him in person three or four times, once on Christmas Eve at his second-to-last Midnight Mass. We’d gotten amazing seats, just a few rows from the altar, yet even then as he rolled slowly through the basilica on his moving platform, it was hard for me to see past the bent-down, palsied state of a man whose multilingual prowess meant little when all his speech was slurred. I wondered at him — and I knew it was special to be in his presence — but I couldn’t tell you why.

But now with Benedict, it’s different. Since my first year at Franciscan, when I realized I had to relearn pretty much everything I knew about history and theology (thank you Protestant homeschool texts), I’ve “gotten to know” both John Paul II and his successor, especially through their writings. I’ve barely made a dent in either of their total works, but I think I can sum it up this way: John Paul II challenges me (and that’s when I can understand him). Benedict XVI gives me peace. Not that the two qualities are mutually exclusive, of course, but — when I read Benedict’s descriptions of the life of faith, they are my cure for doubt. When I read his gentle exhortations to live out one’s calling, they give me much-needed courage. I’ve never come across another writer — or pastor, at that — whose gentleness, humility, authority and understanding of what it is to be human so beautifully combine as if to take the reader by the hand and say, Come…let me show you Who has made all the difference for me. (If you feel unfamiliar with Pope Benedict’s main themes in his writing, Amy Welborn’s perfectly titled — but sadly out of print — book Come Meet Jesus is a fantastic introduction). (Oh hey — you can download it for free!)

I feel it’s like watching a beloved, old professor deliver his last lecture — he’ll still be around, somewhere, maybe quietly writing at a desk with a cat nearby, but it’ll be different, and he’ll stay in the background — in a monastery — and even there … who knows for how long.

One more story: A couple Thanksgivings ago, we were with some of my relatives in New Jersey, and one of the guests was a (second? third?) cousin by marriage, a young woman who’s a news producer for one of the major TV networks. As is probably inevitable at a Filipino get together, the topic turned to the Church, and finally to Pope Benedict, and this cousin offhandedly commented about Benedict the authoritarian, the out of touch German, etc. etc. I hadn’t been saying much beforehand (because she’d just finished talking about her latest trip to Afghanistan, and her cocktail party with the Clintons, and, well, I’ve got nothing to add to that), but I had just started reading Salt of the Earth, and all of a sudden my mouth was open and I started going on about his humility and gentleness and pleading that she give his writings a chance. And then I ran out of things to say, and there was an awkward silence for a couple seconds before my apparition-seeking aunt started the classic family story of how she literally threw herself at John Paul II when he came to the UN, and how she was SO CLOSE to touching him (I think she would’ve tackled him if she could) if only those security guards didn’t stop her. Not even exaggerating, folks.

In my long-neglected journal, I have a photocopied passage from Jesus of Nazareth, where Ratzinger discusses the Sermon on the Mount. It’s writing like this that I would point out to my cousin, or to anyone who ever doubts that Christianity is anything but an assent to Love:

In a word, the true morality of Christianity is love. And love does admittedly run counter to self-seeking — it is an exodus out of oneself, and yet this is precisely the way in which man comes to himself. Compared with the tempting luster of Nietzsche’s image of man, this way seems at first wretched, and thoroughly unreasonable. But it is the real high road of life; it is only on the way of love, whose paths are described in the Sermon on the Mount, that the richness of life and the greatness of man’s calling are opened up.

That’s why I love Benedict. Because I can feel, and am moved by, his conviction that Love is at the bottom of all the theology ever delved by even the greatest masters. I believe him when he says that that Love is a Person, and that whether we’re popes or stay-at-home moms, He is waiting for us all.

7 Quick Takes: Pretentious literary edition

Trying to get back into the groove (was there ever one? No..not really) of blogging, so how about a roundup of the best we’ve been reading lately?

1. Lots of Maite Roche

I had suggested to my mom that I was perusing Magnificat’s selection of children’s books, and that Lucia might like a couple for Christmas. I think she bought half their inventory. That said, Maite Roche’s Bible for Little Ones and various prayer books are lovely, and for once I feel like I can read a book of Bible stories or bedtime prayers without either a) rolling my eyes at syrupy “Jesus is my buddy!” lines or b) groaning inwardly at awkwardly pious and overly complicated attempts to pump little minds full of doctrine (St. Joseph picture books, I’m looking at you).* Roche’s vivid illustrations — pleasing to children’s eyes, yet not overly cartoonish — and succinct, young child-friendly texts somehow land in that middle ground between saccharine and, well, boring.

There is depth and doctrine there — the Bible for Little Ones is salvation history in a board book, bringing me back to chalkboard drawings in PBS I with Dr. Bergsma as it tells the story of God’s covenants with Man: The Garden of Eden, Noah, Abraham, Moses, David, the prophets, Jesus and finally Pentecost and the birth of the Church. Likewise, I was struck by the inclusion of a prayer for the deceased in My First Prayers for My Family: Lord, help us live and grow in your Spirit of love. Please welcome into the happiness of your kingdom all those who have left this life. You love us always. I entrust to you my family and all those I hold in my heart. Amen. The corresponding picture is of a young group of siblings looking at a family photo album with their grandparents. You can hardly find a children’s Bible that depicts the Crucifixion, much less prayers for deceased relatives — I think there’s something special here. I guess what I’m trying to say is, I’m realizing there’s a difference between simple and simplistic, and when you stumble across the hidden profundity of the former, you really don’t feel like reading anything else.**

*My apologies to any fans….to be fair, I’m not familiar with the particular books contained in this link, but as a former kid, I can attest that I.hated.every.single.one of the books in this series that I read.

** I should probably add here that one of Lucia’s all-time favorite books to bring to bed is “Disney Babies Go to the Circus.” :-/

2. Tomie de Paola! Oh how I love Tomie de Paola.

The Clown of God is a classic, but I’d forgotten the story until a friend gave us dePaola’s retelling of the legend when Felix was born. The mere fact that there’s a juggler on the cover is what brought it into our daily reading rotation this week, per the toddler’s excited demands, but I don’t think I’ve read through it once without having at least the tiniest catch in the back of my throat by the end. It is exquisite.

Over Christmas, we also discovered An Early American Christmas, which takes on the intriguing idea of a German family who brings their rich Christmas traditions to a small New England town that shuns any celebrations of the holiday (those killjoy Puritans!). While not as overtly religious as The Clown of God, I loved the build-up as “the Christmas family” prepares — from the grandparents to the baby in the highchair — to transform their home for Jesus’ coming. The ending, too, is beautiful, as the family’s candlelit windows slowly draw the rest of the village into their celebration, and adoration, of the Christ Child.

3. And now for one heck of an aside. So you know the question, “Who do you really want to meet before he/she/they die?” It’s interesting, because it’s not, “Who from any era in history would you want to yank from the grave (or heaven, or hell, or purgatory if you want to get theological about it) and invite for tea,” or, “Which historical/literary/etc. figures would comprise your idea of One Seriously Awesome Dinner Party?” We’re talking contemporary, real — no elves, you Tolkien nerds — people whom, odds are, you could actually meet if you tried (lunging at the pope while fighting off trying not to get trampled by hordes of Filipina nuns in St. Peter’s Square doesn’t count).

At the risk of coming off as a complete creeper, I confess that Tomie dePaola is on my list. Okay. He is kind of…my list.

But guys. His “favorite book for adults” is Kristen Lavransdatter. When I read that, everything else I love about his artwork, his storytelling, his themes….evaporated…and I just wanted to hug the computer screen, because TRULY this man is a soulmate. A kindred spirit. A bosom friend.

Duh.

Go ahead, laugh, I’m going to bed soon anyway, at 9 p.m. on a Friday, like the lame mom I am.

Luke, actually, was the one who raised the “who do you want to meet before they die” question. His answer? Alton Brown. Who is not exactly pushing old age, so the thought of Luke ending up at a book signing and saying, “Mr. Brown, I’ve always wanted to meet you before you die!” just made me giggle. At least my guy’s got a white beard.

P.S. — I just melted on the inside again.

[regain composure/dignity]

4.  Adèle and Simon, written and illustrated by Barbara McClintock

I’d seen this book several times while scouring the shelves in our library’s playroom, but never gave it a second look past the spine while thinking, “Huh, two names I kinda like but Luke will never let me use for our children.” Yeah, yeah, don’t judge a book and all that. I’m so glad I eventually picked it up.

This book is such a delight on three levels: first, the story is simply charming, about a young Parisian schoolgirl and her intrepid little brother as they tramp around early 20th-century Paris (like…ALL OVER), and he manages to lose all of his belongings in the process. Adele’s exasperation and Simon’s happy-go-lucky attitude are spot-on. Second, the illustrations are GORGEOUS. I can honestly say that I enjoyed pouring over the pages as much as Lucia (who literally squealed when I pointed out Madeline’s small cameo in one of the scenes). Third, this is a seek-and-find adventure, as you scour McClintock’s amazingly detailed drawings to find Simon’s lost items. Fun, fun, fun. I’m only about 70% sick of it after reading it every day for two weeks.

5. An Everlasting Meal, by Tamar Adler

Mommy’s bedtime, couch-time, and bathroom-time reading the past couple weeks, as Lucia so adroitly noted.

By the end, I liked it — maybe enough to buy it — but not without some significant eye-rolling and mental notes on how Adler’s approach to cooking “with economy and grace” would need to be modified for a busy family lifestyle. (I don’t know about you, but straight up bean broth — not bean soup, mind you, bean broth — served on its own in all it’s purity!and delicateness! and economy and grace! does not a meal make. Not unless you’re a Carthusian, or I guess a super serious Brooklynite.)

She also likes toast.

Also, I get that her prose is supposed to be recalling M.F.K. Fisher (whom I’ve never read), but as I told Luke, there’s a line between writing truly whimsical and memorable descriptions of simple ingredients, like eggs, and coming across as the type of person who, well — talks to eggs. “…Make an omelet but leave it unfilled and unfolded. Flat, round omelets are quiet, and a little serious.” Okay, Frances the Badger.

“Poached egg on toast, why do you shiver/With such a funny little quiver?”

Or, “The eggiest thing you can make is mayonnaise. The degrading of mayonnaise from a wonderful condiment for cooked vegetables or sandwiches to an indistinguishable layer of fat has been radical and violent.” (Whoooo, girl! Worked up much? How do you feel about tartar sauce? [Don't worry, she lets you know]).

She ends the egg chapter with a soaring ode to “their serenity, and the reassuring fact that so much privacy, cracked open, isn’t a fragile thing at all but ready for gusto, incubating euphoria.”

Apparently, she’ll be in Ann Arbor this spring, so, Michigan family, you can see for yourselves whether she gazes at her food as fondly as she writes about it.

6. I think I’m in an epic-reading mood next. Potentials include: The Bros K (if only it were named that), Les Mis (because this article in America on the novel was such a beautiful reminder of why I read in the first place), Sigrid Undset’s Master of Hestviken books, or, ahem, Harry Potter #7, whateveritscalled. (Hey — I never finished it.) I could maybe even touch LotR again. Any input/suggestions?

7. What we do when we’re not reading “Disney Babies” –

Whale kisses!!
And yes, random women who were ecstatic about adopting a toddler during the duration of their stay at the beluga tank.

Regarding the smooshy whale.

Don’t be fooled by the pensive pose; she’s screaming, “Mooo’ kisses!!!!”

“MOM. Either feed me, or bring me home; either way I am way more important to you than these stupid seals.”

Join the party with Jen – and say a prayer for her recovery and health of her unborn son!

Scenes from a Life with Lucia

As we pull out of the Kohls parking lot. (Context — as if there is ever any real context to anything that comes out of her mouth — is that in the store, she told me she had a “beeg booger.” And then dropped the subject as quickly as it came up.)

Lucia: Beeg booger.

Me: Oh yes. What happened to it?

Lucia: In the cart.

Me: Yes, you had a big booger when you were in the cart. Where is it now?

Lucia: In the cart.

[Realization dawns]

Me: You…left it in the cart?

Lucia: Yes!

Me: How did you put it in the cart?

Lucia: Wif mine finger!

So there you have it. This is why we all get sick every two weeks. If you really want to know, she also said it was “wet,” and that if other kids find her booger later, they will “wike it.”

***

Totally deadpan, while giving her 22-year-old Uncle Chris a skeptical glance as he hoisted her up by the armpits to carry her down three flights of stairs at the Peabody Natural History Museum: “Don’t drop me.”

***

Upon noticing, as if for the first time, our grocery store’s logo:

“A WABBIT!”

***

Being a smarty-pants:

“W! W says, ‘Wuh, wuh!’ Wike, ‘Wucia!’”

***

While guzzling her post-nap bottle (yes…yes…she is still stuck on the bottle…) and listening to the air escaping from the nipple:

Lucia: “My bottle’s screaming!”

Me: “Um…it’s squealing…?”

With a maniacal grin: “No it’s scweaming!”

***

After storming into the bathroom, where I had retreated to read this.

“Oh. Mommy making poo-poo. Mommy reading book! You reading your poo book?”

TMI? I thought so. And yet, so indicative of, of….everything.

***

In Which I Realize that Lumen Gentium is Pretty Awesome

Apparently the Catholic ladies of the blogosphere have been on a roll lately, going back and forth on the issue of community (and, more often than not, the lack thereof) in Catholic parishes. (Update: Hey look, another one! Man, how do I get this stuff going at our parish??) Especially as an extrovert, I always perk up when this topic’s broached; as far back as middle school I remember noticing and complaining to my parents about the lack of social outlets at whatever parish we’d be attending (a mix of military chapels, “civilian” parishes, and one English-speaking church run by Irish Franciscans outside Brussels). I wanted a vibrant youth group akin to what my Evangelical friends would attend at least once a week; what I got was a lackluster Confirmation class full of kids counting down the days until their moms got off their back over going to Sunday Mass. (I remember one girl in particular who just muttered over the teacher — who spent the whole class musing over the admirable qualities of Buddhism — while straightening out the metal wire of her spiralbound notebook, so she could use it to pierce her own earlobe when she got home. So, yeah, I felt slightly starved for spiritual community.) Anyways, whenever I’d complain and resort to the mature act of pulling out the Yellow Pages (pre-Google teen angst) and mournfully scan the inviting ads of Protestant churches that boasted small groups and ministries for every conceivable subgroup of their congregation, my dad would give me the same response: If you want something that badly, start it yourself. And I usually tried, with varying degrees of success — as much as a kid who can’t even drive can pull off, at least.

But I digress.

The conversation over how Catholic parishes can do a better job with outreach to its own parishioners usually comes down to two, not-necessarily-exclusive points:

• When it comes to nurturing actual, flesh-and-blood, pew-sharing, back-slapping (okay, we’ll settle for hand-shaking), smiling-ushers-at-the-door-greeting, church supper-attending community, Protestants have got us beat hands down. Of course, there are many Catholic churches that do have a vibrant parish life, but my hasty survey of the Internet reveals that, overall, most Mass-attending Catholics are missing out on this. As Steven Greydanus pointed out earlier this year, this can even lead to scandal: finding yourself in a cold, non-welcoming parish can be spiritually trying,  downright miserable and even a temptation to stop going to Mass, especially for converts used to actually being friends with their neighbors in the pews.
• And then, there’s the broader view: that wait, isn’t Communion just that — the root of any fellowship that takes place within the Body of Christ? (As Amy Welborn ponders, couldn’t you consider daily Mass the original small group?) A desultory coffee and doughnuts hour doesn’t excuse us from taking our very real connection in that Mystical Body for granted. One of my friends, a Catholic youth minister, was once bemoaning how the Protestant megachurches in his region had thriving youth programs because the congregation and pastoral staff gave it such a high priority, while youth ministry in Catholic parishes more often seems an afterthought. I thought he had a point, but … why are we defining our liturgy, the way we “do” church, our very ecclesiology, in Protestant terms? When it comes down to it, what are we going to Mass for? — for “ministries,” or the Sacraments? For friendship, or for grace?

I agree and empathize with Greydanus’s lament — it took three, rather lonely years of going to the same historic parish in New Haven before I felt I’d found community — but I agree with Heather King even more:

… membership in the Mystical Body of Christ does not depend on our feelings; it depends on our orientation of heart; on where we bring and put our bodies. To be a Catholic is to enter into a relationship with Christ that is at once intimate beyond imagining and entirely anonymous, hidden, and private. Flannery O’Connor once observed: ”I went to St. Mary’s as it was right around the corner and I could get there practically every morning. I went there three years and never knew a soul in that congregation or any of the priests, but it was not necessary. As soon as I went in the door I was at home.”

“To expect too much,” she wrote elsewhere, “is to have a sentimental view of life and this is a softness that ends in bitterness.” For my own part, if I trudged alone to Confession and a distracted, lackluster priest (not that my priest was) looked up from his smart phone, barely listened, and gave me two Our Fathers every time I went for the rest of my days, that would be fine. That would be brilliant. That would be the gift of my life. Meditating afterwards, in fact, I saw for the first time ever that the phrase “in heaven” occurs twice in the Lord’s Prayer: “On earth”–a tangible place that will someday disappear; “in heaven”–not a place, but a state of being…

We do not come to Mass to have a social, an aesthetic, or even a spiritual experience (though sometimes we do, and that’s beautiful); we come to beg for mercy. We come to stand in back of the church, beat our breasts, and realize it is a complete and utter miracle that we are allowed even to be in the same room with the Alpha and the Omega, the Lord of Lords, the King of Kings; the Great Physician, the Great Priest, the Savior of the World, our One, our Only, Friend. That is why it doesn’t matter whether we have any friends at church, whether we know the priest’s name, whether he even speaks our language.

It only matters that we come, in fear, in trembling, in as much purity of heart as we can muster.

It’s hard to hear, especially for us extroverted, gotta-be-involved!and engaged!and DOING SOMETHING! people in the pews, but I think it’s true — the same harsh truth behind Flannery O’Connor’s famous line, “If the Eucharist is just a symbol, then to hell with it.” I’d add only one caveat to Heather King’s post: We’re incarnational beings. We do need friendship. We do need the help that comes in the form of an actual smile, a physical hand. We do crave the conversation and companionship that nurtures the grace we receive through the Sacraments, and helps us kindle faith in our lives. (Though I definitely think its a matter of personal temperament that determines what that type and degree of friendship looks like). And, from the context of her post on the Mass itself, I don’t think she’s saying anything to the contrary.

It’s a fitting topic to think about in Advent — when all is said and done, when the extraneous is stripped away, what remains?* Our aching need. A Savior … a Friend … a Baby … who comes to fill it. “The Church … clasping sinners to her bosom … at once holy and always in need of purification,” is our home, our hospital, our ark of safety in this lifelong drama, even as it drops the ball over and over again on its “way of penance and renewal.” I’ll take my chances here. And maybe bring my own post-Mass doughnuts … enough to share.

Apparently this is an icon of “The Ship of Faith” … I’m going to go ahead and assume that’s right…

*I left this draft open for a couple hours, giving Luke the chance to supply the answer: “Butts, probably.” In case you wanted to elevate the discussion even further.

Things I Can’t Believe I’m Thinking

Do I flush the toilet and risk waking up the nap-averse baby, or leave it in all its glory and risk having the toddler stick her head in it?

7 Quick Takes: In which I question whether all 2-year-olds are this neurotic, or if it’s just mine

Joining Jen at the TGIF party.

1. Naptime: when Lucia maxes out the crazy. Almost every afternoon this week, I have looked at calm, easy Felix as he sleepily nursed before drifting off on his own (his own!!) in his bassinette and marveled at the difference between these two kids. (Oh, did I mention that our peaceful moment is set to the background noise of shrieks from the attic? She has really perfected the art of the sustained little girl roar.) We commiserate there, he and I: “She is insane.”

2. I’d been rereading sections of Healthy Sleep Habits, Happy Child, thinking, you know, maybe I could pick up tips to help the baby sleep even better – but who am I kidding … it’s the toddler who needs help

3. I mean, think of the Biblical scene where Jesus casts the demons into the herd of pigs, which then goes stampeding over the face of a cliff — and that’s maybe a glimpse of the rage that impelled my two-year-old to catapult herself over the side of her crib today. Because she didn’t have her Baby Mickey Mouse Goes to the Freaking Circus book in bed.

4. So, yeah, naptime over. Now that I know she can hurl herself out the crib and all. I was folding clothes on my bed when I heard the thud of her hitting the floor, then ran to the stairs just in time to see Her Pantslessness careening wildly towards the first step, eyes red, face still contorted in rage, and an orange pantie hanging lopsided around her waist (both legs sticking out of one leg hole). INSANE.

5. As I told Luke last night after relating some other crazy episodes from the day, I’d never realized how much I could want to laugh and pull my hair out at the same time.

6. Anyways. She’s “resting” on the couch behind me now. Three hours after naptime officially commenced. I hear rustling and much whispering as she “reads” her library books, plus the occasional, louder whisper of, “ANOTHER ONE” whenever she finishes a story. And I know it was time to graduate out of the crib anyway…we were just putting it off/enjoying the cell-like aspect of it for as long as possible. 

7. That said…Any tips on the transition, or toddler bed vs. twin mattress? (Or the wild card of Ikea children’s beds). We have an extra crib mattress, but it’s pretty old/beat up, and I was thinking of repurposing it for a reading/play nook in her room. Because I’m creative and craft-y like that.

This bed canopy would probably be destroyed in about two nights.