Briefly noted

I've had multiple moments lately where I think, "I should write a note about that on the blog," but when I have a moment to write, I forget about it or the issue is no longer interesting to me. So here I am with a moment to myself because something was cancelled, so I have some time for notes to self:

When next summer rolls around, I need to prod our second son who is a junior into thinking about his future. We are in the throes of the college application process with our oldest, who has been laboring over his essays for an early decision application to his number one school choice. He just turned them in with the deadline only a couple days away.  Writing is painful for him. And it was painful to me to try to help him.  First, he didn't want any help.  And secondly, I didn't really know what the admissions counselors want.  The prompts are ambiguous.  I have been trying to engage the teen-aged boy in conversation about them, but I'm his mom. He doesn't want to talk to me.  And the essays shouldn't sound like they weren't written by a 41 year old woman, but by a 17 year old boy.

Even more agonizing to me than trying to get him to write and revise is the fear that his heart will be broken.  This school is not just his first choice; right now it is his only love. He hasn't really even looked anywhere else.  He's a smart kid, a hard worker, active in extra-curriculars, a little weak in the creative writing area, but otherwise well-rounded.  He'll do well no matter where he goes.  He's earned an ROTC scholarship, which is not necessarily my first choice of ways to pay for school, but it opens doors that fiscally would be locked for us.  So I'm in knots hoping he'll be accepted and we can be done with college applications for a year.  And I want really badly to rewrite his essays for him...

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Note on future career: Over the past months of prepping for college applications, I have learned about the field of educational consulting.  People are getting paid to tell teenagers where to apply, what they need to do to apply, what they need to do to get financial aid, proofreading essays, and suggesting ways to make themselves interesting.  And the pay is good, as in $150/hour good.  It would be a pretty fun job.  By the time I get about half of my kids into college, I'll be an expert.

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On teaching - Back in the groove! After some speed bumps at the beginning of the school year, things are buzzing along (busier than "humming" but not "roaring") and we're in a routine of a schedule that is busy, busy, but not overwhelming.  My one night a week gig is rolling along, and I finally feel like I've got a handle on the rapport in the classroom.  I really like teaching older students. They want to learn, they want to talk about ideas, they see connections. They may not have very good grammar skills, but they participate in earnest. I should be grading papers right now, but I was inspired by Bearing's apology for blogging as a combination of classic diaries, letters and philosophical treatises to record a few thoughts.

I was again offered another class at a different school that would require getting a babysitter, although it would pay better than this evening job when the kids are with Dad.  I would be in a more traditional campus setting  and have colleagues to share ideas with, whereas now I'm at a little regional outpost.  I considered it. Planning wouldn't be as laborious after teaching this past semester, and only the baby would be left with a sitter, so my husband wouldn't have to take on as much in the evening. But the classes are bigger, the term is longer, and I'd have to recreate my syllabus and all the internet links and posts on their server. I'm going to stick with the smaller commitment.

I'm always wrestling with the conflict to find balance between doing something I really enjoy and keeping up with the responsibilities of home life.  I have always felt pulled between having one foot in the world and one foot in the home.  I found a prayer card for St. Gianna Molla my mom had given me when I found out I was pregnant this last time and took some comfort in the idea that she was a good mother and a professional and a saint.  I am hardly a professional, and my kids would debate my status as good mother, and I'm leagues away from sainthood, but she is a role model for integrating different roles.

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My mom's group at church is reading a Kimberly Hahn book for book study called Cherished and Chosen.  It is not very exciting.  I have a hard time reading it because nothing in it is new nor gracefully put.  It does make me think I should have a planner though. I love the idea of planners.  I just forget to use them.

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And Hahn's book is good for reminding me to stay focused on priorities.  I had a conversation with my sister the other day about relationships that are distractions.  They take time and energy away from the people we need to be caring for because they are usually more interesting than dishes and laundry. (read: Facebook and the Internet) Housework has been suffering anyway because of my coursework and having a baby who likes to be held.  My prayer life has also withered, except for all my pleas of intercession.  We have so many sick friends and friends with suffering marriages.  We also have a lot of pregnant friends.  Life and death. Cross and resurrection.

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The recent articles in favor of the right to die overlook the redemptive value of suffering.   But to see value in suffering requires a belief in redemption, I suppose. I worry about the world my kids will inherit that is so full of the gospel of feeling good. People are so afraid of pain.  I am, too.  But my mom once told me, in a conversation about giving birth, to focus on the idea that labor is productive pain. Something good will come out of it, like a jolly, fat baby.

A little Seabee with rabbit ears

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In addition to the mom's group book study, we've been going to the marriage group book study once a month.  Again the reading isn't anything new, but it provides a moment to revisit some of those ideas that inspire us to plow through the grunt work of marriage: the schedules, the chores, the finances are all secondary to the work of two souls teaching each other how to love. Keeping the house clean and everyone fed and clothed is easier when it's an act of love and not a duty.  Life requires undergoing a little pain for the good of others.

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We had 25 cross country runners over to dinner last week, and I had to do a thorough scouring in preparation. Of course, the house is a mess again, but for a minute it felt clean. And because the crowd was a bunch of kids I like, cooking 8 boxes of pasta and 5 gallons of sauce wasn't a chore.  Making 100 meatballs might not have been my husband's favorite way to spend an evening but he didn't complain.  We thought we might have leftovers, but those skinny runner kids can put away the carbs. And they entertained us in return.

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I've decided it's harder to keep small houses clean as opposed to big houses. Or maybe there is a golden mean. But clutter control is a constant battle in this little house.  Just a few things out of place makes it seem out of order, whereas in a bigger kitchen no one would notice a few extra dishes on the counter.  And surfaces get touched more when there aren't a lot of surfaces to touch.  Time for a garage sale this weekend! Although we gave away a truckload of stuff after our move from Guam, we've been amazed at how much clutter collects in a year.  Trying to practice detachment...

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Other than reading the Hahn book, I haven't done a lot of reading. I really enjoyed a book I got for the boys by Peter Kreeft about surfing and faith: I Surf, Therefore I am. And I read a book my daughter recommended called Found Things.  I've read through a lot of essays for my class, but I haven't read an adult novel in months. Checked out a Haruki Murakami book from the library but can't get into it.

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Excitement on the cross country course: a live wild tarantula! This is almost as exciting as the bear we saw in Yosemite.

Don't let it get the baby!

The cross country and football and soccer and volleyball seasons are winding down.  Fall sports have kept us running. But after the initial pain early in the season getting used to the schedule, it's been nice to have a routine and the events themselves are fun entertainment.  But holidays are around the corner...
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Now I've got to run: my to-do list awaits: need to make finishing touches on costumes, make some calls for a silent auction at the military base, dishes, laundry, get ready for the garage sale, and grade papers. I need another 24 hours in a day.

Oh, Yosemite!

Ah, nothing like a weekend at high altitude to clear the mind, to refresh the body, to air the soul!

When I was growing up in the midwest, the "mountains" were the Smokies, those rounded hills covered in deciduous trees which are absolutely stunning in October, probably right about now, and in the spring, when they are dotted with purple redbuds and the barest touch of the bright vernal green of new leaves, and then a week later, the fluttery white blossoms of the dogwoods.

Then one summer we went to the Colorado Rockies, and I realized that here were the Purple Mountain Majesties of song.  Snow capped and everything even in July.  It took two days of tortuous driving in a loaded station wagon to reach them, but the pain of sitting so close to siblings and stuff for so long made the glory of the Rockies even greater.

But if the Rockies were awe-inspiring, I knew from National Geographic that even farther away existed the magnificence of Yosemite, with its craggy cliffs and crashing waterfalls.  The west seemed full of great and powerful forces of nature. My elementary logic believed that the farther away the mountains were, the more grandeur they possessed.

Well, now we are only four hours from such grandeur, but it took us over a year to pack up and witness it firsthand. Perhaps I still suffer from an idea that those sites memorialized in Nat Geo and  adventure books are far, far away.

Is Yosemite every bit as majestic as I imagined? Yes and no.  The vistas are breathtaking, but the falls are dry from the drought.  The cliffs are immense. The night sky is brilliant.  The thin air is brisk.  The hikes are challenging.  But there is something a little commercial about the National Park experience.  Yosemite is not as crowded as the Grand Canyon, but we were there during the off season.  Because there are no campfires allowed in the area where we stayed, we ate dinner at the pizza place near one of the visitor's centers, where the Notre Dame game (robbed!) was playing, which thrilled (and baffled) my husband and sons.  And we stayed in Curry Village, in a heated permanent tent with beds - a style of camping I could get used to...  Our neighbors of 14 years ago set up the reservations. They now live in central California, also.  It is wonderful to meet up with old friends.

So we weren't really in the wilderness that John Muir writes so eloquently of.

But we did see a bear!

And I loved every minute of watching the kids scramble over lichen covered granite, compete to find the biggest pine cone, mug for the camera in front of gigantic sequoias, and cavort along the trails pretending to be porcupines, pumas, and lost explorers.

Definitely worth the lifelong wait.


From John Muir:

In every walk with Nature one receives far more than he seeks.

Everybody needs beauty as well as bread, places to play in and pray in, where nature may heal and give strength to body and soul.

The power of imagination makes us infinite.

There is a love of wild nature in everybody, an ancient mother-love showing itself whether recognized or no, and however covered by cares and duties.

My brother-in-law said it is easy for everyone to be an Ansel Adams in a place like Yosemite.
But it is not, even with digital cameras.
This photo was taken as we were leaving the park at daybreak. I took about 3000 others.

Knowing what I want

Last night, children, husband, and I converged at the house about 7:15 pm from different practices and events. We were all hot, tired, and hungry.  My husband grumbled because I didn't order pizza, even though I thought about it. I grouched back because I had been listening to a screaming baby for the last half hour and couldn't make a phone call in the car.

Then he pulled lobster out of the refrigerator.

Ah, fresh lobster for dinner! Elegant, refined, succulent and delicious! I'm supposed to be thrilled.

But all I saw was a fishy mess ready to be made, complaints from the kids ready to be heard, and my own hunger unsatisfied.

I wanted a nice soft-boiled egg on toast, not lobster.

But then another kid called because he couldn't get a ride home, and I volunteered to go get him. I'd make my egg when I got home.

On the way to the pick-up, I applauded myself for 1. Walking away from a ticking time bomb of an argument.  2. Knowing what I want.

Being decisive is a victory for me.  I am now mature enough to admit that I don't really like shellfish.  It's chewy and unsatisfying.  I do like shrimp, and I have had scallops perfectly prepared once.  But although I love a good piece of salmon or trout, I do not prefer crustaceans and shellfood.  Perhaps it is a cultivated taste that I haven't indulged in enough, but I like to think I have given shellfish a try over and over, on the East Coast, on the West Coast, in the midwest, in Europe, in Japan, and on Guam.  And I am still halfhearted about it.

I'd rather have a tasty, filling egg over lobster caught the night before by my resourceful, lobster-trap-loving brother-in-law.

But when I got home, the lobster was cooked with some fusilli in olive oil and rosemary, so I lined up behind the kids with my plate and was served my portion, joined them at the back patio table illuminated by the full moon and ate it. And it was good. A little chewy, yes, but the rosemary cut the fishiness. My husband, his good spirits and blood sugar restored with protein and pasta and a pumpkin ale, delighted in the compliments from the kids.  I didn't withhold my thanks and admiration, although I didn't pitch in on the clean-up. (The baby!)

So now I add a third lesson: 3.Let the person most concerned decide.  And 4. Eat what you are given. And 5. Give thanks for a husband who likes to cook, and kids who can do the dishes.

Meanwhile, my decision making faculties remained moderately impaired.  An article in the WSJ last week perfectly described my husband and me - he the satisficer, me the maximizer.  He can make a decision on the fly, without regrets or thinking twice.  I usually have to investigate all the options, compare prices from several providers, look into alternative solutions, etc.  Together we balance each other out.  We have some big decisions looming that are tougher than what's for dinner, but if the past 18 years are any indication, we'll make them eventually and all will be well.  Sometimes at the end of the day, our hard edges are exposed and our faculty for understanding is weakened by hunger and exhaustion, but a good meal and a moment on the back patio with a bright night sky and a full stomach (and sometimes full glasses) does a great deal to restore that balance.

A little bit of everything

The daylight hours are growing shorter but the days are no less full nor any cooler here in Southern California.  The trees and hills are brown, but from the drought, not the change in seasons.  Yesterday I watched from the corner of our street as helicopters doused a brush fire in the hills on the other side of the highway. It was contained and didn't threaten any homes, but the sirens, choppers, smoke, and flames were intimidating - and exhilarating: drama in the 'hood!

Though the days are shorter, they are no less full. The past week was full of sporting events.  In the past all the kids did the same sports at the same time, mostly soccer, although they tried swimming and baseball. Then the girls did gymnastics. Now they've begun to differentiate: everyone has a different activity.  It's interesting to observe the parent culture that surrounds each of these sports.  I have to admit to preferring the Cross Country crowd because that was my own beloved sport of choice (it's co-ed! No other teams get to ride buses with boys), but it's also a sport that encourages friendly conversation, because you only get to watch about 20 seconds and the rest of the time you stand around and wait for your runner to come by.

Soccer is also conducive to friendly conversation if you come to all the games and your kid isn't overly competitive. I sometimes want to remain anonymous among the soccer parents because my son is a bit of a ball hog.  He's working on it, but he really doesn't like to lose, and he really is a pretty good soccer player, so when the team falls behind, he acts on a driving urge to dribble the ball down the field and score.  If he does score, then he backs down and lets the other kids play forward, but it can be a little embarrassing when you hear other parents yell "Pass it!" at your kid.  I also got in trouble this weekend for harassing a ref - he DID make a bad call, though. He told my husband, the coach, to ask the parents on the left of him (me) to respect his calls. Oops.

On the other hand, football parents are known for being involved, loud, and obnoxious. Since my son on the football team plays benchwarmer, I go to the games looking for conversation, but everyone else watches the game, even my husband. So I watch our third son play in the band.  This is a new pursuit, and I'm just realizing that band parents are pretty fun.  They cheer "Go Band!" during the moments when play is stopped on the field, and applaud and shout whenever the band plays the theme to Ironman. Since the group is small, the kids don't march and don't wear uncomfortable uniforms which we don't have to fundraise for. This makes me happy.  Another good thing about Friday night football games is that the younger kids, who complain about going to cross country meets and soccer games, are happy to come along and watch. They spend a couple hours strolling around the stadium with their friends and begging for dollars to spend at the concession stand.  A good time for all.

Our oldest daughter is playing middle school volleyball, which would be more fun to watch if they won sometimes.  It isn't too painful to watch, though, and this year I finally know some of the other moms to chitchat with, as opposed to last year, when I knew no one because it was the beginning of the year in a new school.  The school volleyball team is a mix of girls who just play after school and girls who play together on a club team. Fortunately, these club girls are not clubby and it's actually hard to tell who is getting coached for free and who is paying $$$ for coaching at the club.

The youngest two girls are purely spectators.  Baby is learning to clap. Her other exercise is rolling and sitting.  The 8 year old wants to do dance or gymnastics, but right now she's stuck doing cartwheels on the sidelines because the parks and rec gym class is only offered on Friday afternoons and Saturday mornings. Horrible times.  Fortunately, she's a good sport about getting left out.

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I was saddened to see that D. G. Myers died last week.  I enjoyed reading his blog A Commonplace Blog for his book reviews that were both scholarly and personal.  He often examined the treatment of faith in literature and seems to have been an influential teacher and a voice of reason on the internet.  He will be missed, as the Image blog indicates. RIP.

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I myself have done little reading the last month. I did finish a couple read-alouds with the two younger elementary kids, Stuart Little, Matilda, and now Ella Enchanted. Favorite of those three is Matilda, the reading genius. She was also the kids' favorite. We also finished listening to some James Herriott stories on CD. James Herriott was a favorite author when I was younger.  Listening to his stories makes me still kind of wish I could be an Irish vet 50 years ago.

I finished reading Alan Sillitoe's The Loneliness of the Long Distance Runner, which I had never read.  It's about loneliness, not running, or perhaps I would have read it sooner. A collection of short stories about the slums of London in the 50's, it's very dark and depressing, but short, so I finished it.  It's been awhile since I read something so bleak.  Each story focuses on a lost soul, someone who has been downtrodden and can't quite get back up. Sometimes the narrator is like the voice of the author, who grew up in the slums but got an education and moved away, but the voice seems to have guilt about having left and criticizes his books as decorations. Why did I stick with this book? Perhaps because these lost souls are so human. Did I read with a sense of "Thank goodness, I'm not like that, except sometimes"? Or a sense of "Fascinating look at aberrant human nature"? A bit of both. I can't say I'll become a Sillitoe fan. I can only stomach so much of unrelenting human distress, without needing a little joy for balance.
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A tonic: I liked this quote below about small joys, because that is what our lives are all about in this season of busyness.  We have lately experienced the small joys of brownie fudge sundaes on a Saturday evening with the cousins, a lobster fishing escapade, small successes at school (A's in math for the 7th grader at last!), sports fan happiness, coffee in the morning with the WSJ, which was on sale recently for $5 for two months, (now this deal), and best of all, sweet, chubby baby kisses. Softest cheeks in the world are found right here.  Now that Baby is no longer in that fragile newborn stage and has begun to chortle at silly antics performed for her delight by brothers and sisters, I find myself wallowing in intense moments of mothering contentment in a way I didn't have confidence or time to experience very often with the other kids. A pleasure of being an older parent.

Do not ask your children to strive for extraordinary lives. 

Such striving may seem admirable, but it is the way of foolishness. 

Help them instead to find the wonder and the marvel of an ordinary life. 

Show them the joy of tasting tomatoes, apples, pears. 

Show them how to cry when pets and people die. 

Show them the infinite pleasure in the touch of a hand. 

And make the ordinary come alive for them. 

The extraordinary will take care of itself. 

- William Martin

linked at hopeinbrazil