The Parable

Dedicated to all those who help, who love.

Once upon a time there was a little bitty boy born to very wealthy parents, whose wealth, in its entirety, was made up of love and their treasure of 8 children. This little boy was given a funny little name and welcomed into the numerous arms of his family members.

The baby was sweet and showed great promise of someday growing into his huge hands. But on the 14th day of his life, baby Finan struggled.

The doctor with the big smile and bigger shoulders said, "Oh how I love this baby. But we need to call for help." An ambulance whisked him from his doctor's little rural office to the hospital in the big city.

The sirens announced his arrival and the nurses scurried to prepare a room. The doctor with the serious eyebrows said, "I just don't know what to do for this little baby with the funny name. I am calling for help."

Help came with big propellers and a flight team. They scooped up the wires and monitors and gently placed the baby in a very special box that was like a car seat for the clouds. The mommy's tears tumbled down her cheeks when she had to say goodbye to her baby. The mommy and daddy held each other outside as they watched the helicopter hover above the hospital and then thrust into the skies.

The mommy and daddy thought the baby arrived all alone at the new bigger hospital. But, a Servant In Black with a fuzzy face was already waiting there. Together they asked The Father, "Please let Your Good be shown in all of this."

The hours turned into days turned into weeks. Many doctors and many nurses took care of baby Finan. They had expert hands and trained eyes, but few answers. There was no one else to ask for help. The pacing doctor with the thinking face and thick words said, "We wait. You pray." A sweet Cookie sang to the baby and cried with the mommy. In the dark and quiet of the hospital nights, nurse Priscilla the Cinderella prayed too.


"Take him home," said Dr. Cross. "There's nothing else we can do for him here."

One day a special package arrived in the mail. Inside was a big blue shirt with red letters. On a card with a picture of a helicopter was written "Sorry we didn't have a smaller size! We hope Finan is doing better. Best wishes, your Flight Crew."

Some of the mommy's tears fell on the blue shirt with red letters, for she held in her hands a reminder that her baby might never grow to wear this gift. But she was deeply touched by the kindness of these strangers, humbled by the all the Love that was coming from all over the world. So, the mommy carefully packed away that blue shirt, and then tended to the needs of the people in her busy home.

Time passed, but not without a few miracles.
That baby did get better, and he's still growing into his hands.
And the mommy has not forgotten.

"Remember where your treasure is,

there your heart is also."

Matthew 6:21

Update

Merryn had a very gratifying experience planting a pinto bean.

(Her mom learned a lot from that as well).

Merryn did indeed inspire her dad to landscape in the backyard.

(See DH's response in the comment section of earlier post entitled "Spirited Sprouts").

Merryn successfully managed to plant without incident involving the neighbor's cable line.

(Not so for Dad).

Sigh.

Easy Access

Rosie, 17 months, approached me today with a cucumber in her ear and the instructions, "Hiiiiiiiii Nanny!" And then she handed it to me so I could talk to Kel's mom.

Luckily, it was a plastic cucumber from the play kitchen, and not a real cucumber from my refrigerator. If it were a real cucumber from the real kitchen, then my life would have taken a truly awful turn: it's never good when babies help themselves to the contents of your large appliances.

I remember one summer day, when all the windows were open. If you can picture it, we live in a house that's about 150 years old, and these old pulley system windows run nearly floor to ceiling. In fact, a 17 month old can easily see out, and neighbors see in. Some might consider that a little too much exposure, but I was grateful when our dear "great aunt"-type neighbor Nancy calmly called over our adjacent yards: "Kelly, I think Ally has a few eggs in your windowsill". Sure enough, that 17 month old baby was making scrambled eggs for us, with real eggs, and she was nowhere near the kitchen. (However, I'm not convinced she didn't get some help opening the fridge from a few bigger brothers.) I was actually kind of impressed that she walked through the whole house before breaking them in the window sill.

I guess it's safe to report not much has changed for me in these 15 years, from my oldest daughter's antics and now to my youngest. Children watch everything you do and innocently make their own attempts to follow along, although I'm quite sure my kids never saw me make eggs in the toyroom or talk in a cucumber. What is different is that I am slightly more calm about these efforts at independence and don't nearly over-react as much as I did in the earlier years (which honestly isn't saying too much).

Maybe I'm more wise, maybe I'm just more numb. What I do know is this: eggs and cucumbers are easy. But, I do draw the line at anything involving a gallon of milk.

Fashionista...Not

Did you see that episode of Project Runway, in which the fashion designer Vincenzia had to create a contemporary cultural commentary using various fabrics and icons? The model's too short shorts had a "Bob the Builder" logo, the funky pajama top had a green T-Rex, the jacket tossed haughtily over the shoulder had a light-up Spiderman that blinked and pulsed with every shimmery movement down the catwalk, and the model wore brown with orange crocs... on the wrong feet.

Ok... That wasn't Project Runway. That was my 3 year old in the emergency room last night. (I don't even watch Project Runway, so my apologies if I might have misrepresented the show, a little.)

The emergency turned out okay (x-rays, no foreign objects, heavy hitter antibiotics), but sitting in that waiting room holding a child in that "get up" got me thinking about my own blue crocs at home, even though I wear them on the right feet.

I shouldn't be so misleading; I can appreciate beautiful fabrics and artful design. It's just that I've never been a slave to fashion. It's hard to care about quality clothing when a nice blouse is going to end up with jelly fingerprints on it, or blood. No, if I'm a slave to anything, it's laundry, and I actually don't even mind that.

Since I would not have picked this condition for myself, I'm convinced I've been wired for it since the beginning of time, prepared and genetically inclined to not fuss too much. What else could a Junior High girl evolve into when she wears a Women's size 10 shoe in the 6th grade? (I got a brief reprieve when the Unisex style of the late '70's was widely accepted, but even a Men's 8 shoe still made my big feet look, well, really big.) My mother's efforts to comfort, offered with an eye wink, were of little consolation: "Oh, you will have even greater under-standing!"

(Prophetic? I wear a 13 now. It is all her fault!... even if I do have greater understanding).

I can remember the angst of shoe shopping, needing to go to "special" stores that only carry "old lady" orthopedic styles. (Nothing against those shoes; I'll legitimately need them some day). I died a thousand deaths and suffered even more disappointments; I'm sure I made my mother suffer too, or at least I tried. As a result of never having anything trendy to wear on my feet, the rest of my closet naturally followed suit.

I never thought I would be thankful for it, but I am. My life would be immeasurably more difficult if I were too fussy about things, or attempted to keep up pretenses more than I already do, albeit futilely. The jelly on my shirt? It might come out, or not.

I think I'm a better mother for it, but my children are threatening to nominate me for What Not To Wear.

Spirited Sprouts

My daughter came home from school today, proud to share with me the contents of a crumpled up piece of Kleenex.

And I almost missed it...
I almost dismissed it...
the moment, the meaning.

I was actually a little too preoccupied to pay much attention. I'd spent much of the afternoon contemplating different blog ideas and none were clicking. It's not that I didn't have anything to write about; I've had some big themes this week of death and dying, dashed expectations, and family moving. I posted a Facebook status about my need for inspiration, and then mused for a while over the response from a friend who basically accused me of being up to my armpits in it, and he added "You're lucky" or something like that. He mentioned his own Italian children and said, "Well, it still seems to happen a lot more than I should allow, to lose my inspiration." Or something like that. Ispirazione. Our spirited children, should we pay attention, inspiring us, making us look again.

Where did she go?
"Merryn?"

Hmmm.
On the kitchen counter was a silly over sized 101 Dalmatians souvenir cup from about 8 years ago when I took Ally to see Disney on Ice. Why do we even still have this around? Probably because the snowcone it held was, like, $15 and I still haven't gotten my money's worth out of it.

I was ready to toss it into the sink when I looked at the bottom. Inside was a little pinto bean.
Now, where did that come from?

Merryn reentered the kitchen. "Mom! Look at this! The seed opens up and there's a seed coat and inside you can see part of this root and some of this black stuff and Look! It's growing! and see this little part here from the germination? And guess what! We can plant it!"

And I really marveled at this cool seed, the two symmetrical pieces, the tiny root, the bitty stem, the little leaf all growing inside. It's all there, waiting for the right mix of dirt and nurturing and attention and warmth... like ideas... like children...

I got all distracted again, by a phone call and strewn backpacks and a three year old driving a Jeep in reverse. And when I glanced out my kitchen window, I saw her.

I grabbed my camera and headed outside, because she really made me look, and now I really wanted to see.


It occurred to me that this child has a lot of confidence. First, she is excited about what she is learning and does a pretty nice job putting thoughts into words to explain it. Second, she has a "Can-Do" attitude that doesn't get distracted by protocol or phone calls. Third, she has the confidence that if she plants a seed, it will grow. Even if it's literally in the middle of a backyard that has a dozen children running through it and lawn maintenance guys who don't care if they plow over baseball mitts or bean sprouts.


I realized I've got a few bean sprouts myself.


So, tonight when I sat down at the computer and started writing again, it came a little easier, once I started paying attention to my inspiration.


Grow, little seed. Grow.

Potluck Pride

The best way to get someone to attend a meeting is to entice them with food. You want a big turnout? Advertise a family potluck, because everyone KNOWS the food will be bountiful and delicious. It's a matter of pride. What person with any sense of self-esteem would not care about what is going to be consumed out of her conspicuously name labeled crock pot? (I love when the really confident attendees bring along pre-printed recipe cards for those of us who inquire about their delectable dish). I know ladies who ponder for weeks what they are going to showcase. Entire parish cookbooks have been created to document and publicly record who can lay claim to the best chili recipe or tortellini salad.

We've been attending our elementary school's potlucks for about 15 years. For a few years there (back in the mid-90's or so), about 10% of the foods on the buffet had protein, and the other 90% had chocolate chips. No one ever complained about the inordinate amount of desserts on the dinner table, but we couldn't conduct a meeting for all the wild indians in the room.

Then a brilliant mom had the idea of assigning food categories to various grade levels, making sure the younger grades got the entrees, and the 8th graders got the desserts. And because every single kindergarten parent attends with their extended family (we're all excited about Little Andy at long last going to school, you know), there finally seemed to be enough main dishes to go around again.

One of the benefits of Potluck dinners is that you bring one dish but feast on 80. But, part of my dilemma is that when you have a big family, you're also going to have children in several grade levels. So, when Kindergarten through 2nd grade is assigned entrees, and 3-4th bring side dishes, and 5-6th bring fruits and salads, and 7-8th bring desserts, well, I'm basically bringing dinner.

When I posted this fact as a status on my Facebook, the responses were immediate. (Okay, most of them were all LOLOLOLOLs). But, there were many other people weighing in, also legitimately short on time, and who, in desperation, have actually pondered the drive-thru menu at McDonald's for their own Potluck dilemmas.

My sister who is literally always "on the fly" (she's a flight attendant for American Airlines) recommended stopping at Kentucky Fried Chicken: "Get the KFC Big Meal Deal... all your grade levels are covered!" My other sister recommended combining grade level requirements into one 9x13 casserole, "and bring some cookies." I love their ingenuity. I was also amused by a few other comments that included "Eat your own dinner at home and attend the book fair afterwards", and from one over-extended mom, "I would drop out of TPO".

I just couldn't consider not attending, even when my bean bake is not blue ribbon standard and my strawberry jello is only "special" because I put Cool Whip on top. Potlucks are informal, "nothing matches", and "anything goes" imperfection, which my family finds comforting. Where else can your children consume an 8 course meal while visiting friends at 6 different tables, even when the "meal" is a scoop of macaroni, Jello Jigglers in the shape of race cars, and a dozen cookies?

As for me, I love the endless food choices, but I love the sense of community more. Maybe that's where the pride comes from: togetherness, belonging. There's something intimate and special about sharing a meal. It bonds us, like a big family dinner table.

So, we won't be skipping out on too many Potlucks, even if it means ordering a pizza from a favorite local joint and picking it up on our way into town. The kids love pizza! (I may not even take my name off the outside of the pizza box.) Afterall, I figure we've got about 14 more years of grade school potlucks, and sometimes I get a little busy.

Thoughtful Gifts

Yesterday was my birthday.

I honestly did not take much notice in anticipation of the day. I hazily noted a Wednesday or so, nestled in around a few volleyball games, basketball and gymnastic practices, fast food work schedules, and some other weekly events. I don't need anyone to fuss over the day... but the kids sure do enjoy a party, and all you really need for that is something with a candle in it. I think that when "Potty Parties" are regular occurrences, kids just are wired for celebrations of any kind.

Then my mom shared with me that the date would be 09-09-09. How cool is that? And, I would be turning 45 (the sum of which is 9). To top it all off, I would be celebrating with my 9 children.

She encouraged me to buy a lottery ticket.

Well, I must share that I won, and big. No, not with a lottery ticket, but with an outpouring of love and good wishes all day long.

The day started with most of my family rushing out the door, but left behind was a beautiful card (which, Dear Reader, I delighted in... rather than fret over the money spent on it). The card was nestled amongst 10, yes TEN, lavender plants to spruce up my backyard. After I stuck my nose in them and took in the heavenly smell, I texted my husband, "wowowowowowowow!" He replied, "Any more surprises?"

A few hours later, my oldest son easily got out of bed (now THAT is a perfect gift for this mom), and said he would join me taking the kids on some errands. He helped me load them all up in car seats and boosters and seat belts, and we made sure everyone had on two shoes. He asked if I had CDs in the car, which I absolutely do not. The speakers are so awful that I actually CRINGE listening to any music on them. Besides, The Big White Van can't play CDs. It's ultra antiquated, outfitted with a cassette player that has a nickel in it and won't play anything except "clicking". Clicking, on bad speakers. I would rather have morning sickness.

I was a little amused that he hopped into the driver's seat of MY van, I guess intending to chauffeur me around. When he put the key in and turned the ignition, my ears, I knew, were playing tricks on me. Sting! (the musician). Booming! SOUNDING AWESOME! It took a moment to realize that not only did I have a cd playing stereo, there were new speakers installed as well!

We headed up Route 66. Over my left shoulder, all I could see were a few tossled hair inches of five little heads bobbing to the bass beat. Can you imagine being so deeply delighted that you were moved to tears? No, it wasn't just the music... it was the incredible thoughtfulness and efforts that went into celebrating me and the things that give me joy. Wow.

There was a feast of a dinner later, and angel food cake heaped in whipped cream and fresh raspberries. And then my children spilled the beans about the ways they were involved in the surprises of the day, including the flat tire, that wasn't. And there were phone calls and greeting cards and pop-in visits from friends. There were Facebook Birthday Wishes and text messages too. In fact, the whole day was just showered in thoughtful people who shared that they were thinking of me and went out of their way to tell me so.

Even better than winning mega-millions, by the day's end I felt like the richest woman on the face of the earth.
What a delight.

The Shape of My Heart

There was a time in the midst of my knee-deep childrearing years that I lost who I was. Like many other moms of small children, I would enter the survival mode, hunker down in the trenches, and wait out the storms. I didn't know I liked lavender.

I remember a specific turning point when I had come up for air and tried to number the things that gave me joy. In my stupor, I had to resort to asking the One Who Knows Me Best, "Kel, what do I like?" He actually came up with a decent list, which reminded me of a few other things, and this set me on the right path to being attentive again. And without my asking, he built me a really big swing in my backyard, because the height, and the pendulum, and the breeze, and the tickle give me joy. When he installed rock speakers outside and I could listen to Sting, well, that sent me over the moon.

The trick I've found to being open to joy is just being in the present. Children are especially skilled at this. The walk to the park is not just about getting to the park; it's about how many bugs can be found along the way. Children see alphabet letters in their macaroni, and they appreciate the dinosaur shaped clouds. They are excellent teachers about the importance of laughing out loud, dancing to music that moves you, and delighting in little clever surprises.

Delighting is a "no strings attached" gift which I make room to embrace. It allows me to appreciate the richness of my life and the depth of gratitude in my heart. My capacity to love, and be generous, is then increased. In fact, Delighting makes me light-hearted... all because I am willing to pay attention.

To this end, I've realized I like to have in my life a little awe, and cleverness, and music too. I like to watch the gifts of passionate and talented people. I like my heart to be shaped as a result. And that is why THIS delighted me:

Shape of my heart
(click here)

Enjoy!

"You should have your own show!"

You can't imagine the number of times people have remarked that our family should have its own TV show.

I guess they are referring to the popularity of numerous Big Family shows that pepper the TV Guide selections.... cute kids with matching outfits, nice parents, and perks in Disney World. A show about our family? I couldn't think of a WORSE idea.

For selfish reasons, I couldn't have a camera crew in here. They would be capturing hard evidence that I have a low tolerance for shoes littered at the door and garbage tossed lazily behind the couch, and even worse, that my children would actually do that! Producers would also expose to the world that my children learn to write their names on the dust that clings to the TV screen. There is no June Cleaver in pearls here... just a poorly dressed mom who is sorely lacking many answers to life's child rearing questions.

Of course there would be other characters on the show. But, tell me what could be so interesting about an Abe Lincoln sized man, the father of nine, who makes a living as the principal at a school with 360 children (all of whom are aged 6 and under). Hey! Maybe a few people would watch if it were shown during cold and flu season. It could be entitled "The Germinator", and sponsored by Clorox wipes and Kleenex. Now THAT'S reality TV. Still, would you really want to watch that?

My kids are performers though; just imagine what they would do with a Nielsen rated audience. They already love to entertain each other with their silly skits, funny jokes, amazing card tricks and karaoke. Our oldest could astound you with his abdominal muscles contorted to look like a skull. The 11 year old can do the splits AGAINST THE WALL. The 3 year old speaks Spanish, sort of. (At least that's what we think he speaks when he yells at the TV: "Dora, ciudado!" Really, her father is just not in that many episodes for a "See you Dad!" translation.) I wonder if shooting squirrels out of trees is considered entertainment?

We do have some cultured skills: The 13 year old can bring you to tears with her rendition of Les Miserables' "On My Own" or Phantom's "Think of Me". Her sister's just as good with contemporary Christian music. And the 8 year old can program the Casio for Bach's Minuet and can even follow along the lit keys. We also have a clarinet player, guitar strummer, and a couple trumpet tooters, but only one person ever practices. Every single family member dances, sometimes while not even waiting in line for the bathroom.

No, I'm convinced we should avoid more publicity. To the next person who says "You should have your own show," please don't take offense when I laugh out loud. Truly, I think we are on display enough (like, every Sunday when we're walking in late to Mass), and I already have enough Reality without having to do a show about it too.

I will, however, contemplate signing on for a cleverly scripted TV series about clean and well behaved children, and a mom who has dinner on the table every evening at 5, as dad waltzes through the front door and plops his briefcase on the dust-free coffee table.

Oh, never mind.
June already did that.

Optimum Disposition

I'm not a pill taker. It doesn't even occur to me to take a Tylenol for an ache, pain, or, if with codeine, vacation. If my eyebrows are furrowed, and one eye is a slit, Kel might say, "It looks like you have a headache. Do you want me to get you something?" But honestly, I'm just not aware enough to know it for myself.

That's why, I think, I can be a mom of nine. I just keep plowing through, not realizing that what I deal with in a single day is quadruple what some other moms might encounter. I guess if I did stop to notice, I might get a tad bit overwhelmed.

These last few days, however, I've been feeling a little run down. My nerves feel frayed. Nothing tastes good (now, there's a big flag). There's a pressure encompassing my entire head, and it's not because I'm wearing Andy's new Optimus Prime Transformers Helmet with Activated Voice Changer, even though I bet I would look better in it. Heck, maybe I would look exactly the same in it. That's just how I'm feeling.

This is nothing new. Many moms can empathize. Your needs are set aside for the Good of the Cause. You drag yourself out of bed because life must go on. Same old, same old. But it's the Quality of life for the family members which makes me pause. And really, who wants a grumpy mom? A snippy wife?


Enough already. This sounds like complaining. I'm going to go hunt down a Sudafed, and start playing.

Finan, can you take my picture?