Lewis on the virtuous treatment of irrational creatures

["Kindness to animals"] is a virtue most easily practiced by those who have never, tired and hungry, had to work with animals for a bare living, and who inhabit a country where all dangerous wild beasts have been exterminated . . . . Heaven forbid, however, that I should be thought to slight it. I only mean that for those of us who meet beasts solely as pets it is not a costly virtue. We may be properly kicked if we lack it, but must not pat ourselves on the back for having it. When a hard-worked shepherd or carter remains kind to animals his back may well be patted; not ours." C.S. Lewis, Reflections On the Psalms.

Doubtless you clever people can see what I'm getting at here. No one should be a "social worker" who has not spent a number of years being the primary care provider for his or her own children. Kindness to the children with whom one spends every waking and often many sleeping hours is a difficult virtue.

Because I know your day needs a little Dickinson

A letter she wrote to her uncle; Summer, 1858:

Much has occurred, dear Uncle, since my writing you—so much—that I stagger as I write, in sharp remembrance…

Today has been so glad without, and yet so grieved within—so jolly, shone the sun—and now the moon comes stealing, and yet it makes none glad. I cannot always see the light—please tell me if it shines.

I hope you are well, these many days, and have much joy.

There is a smiling summer here, which causes birds to sing, and sets the bees in motion.
Strange blooms arise on many stalks, and trees receive their tenants.
I would you saw what I can see, and imbibed this music. The day went down, long time ago, and still a simple choir bear the canto on.
I dont know who it is that sings, nor did I, would I tell!

God gives us many cups. Perhaps you will come to Amherst, before the wassail’s done. Our man has mown today, and as he plied his scythe, I thought of other mowings, and garners far from here.
I wonder how long we shall wonder; how early we shall know…

I meet some octogenarians—but men and women seldomer, and at longer intervals—“little children,” of whom is the “Kingdom of Heaven.” How tiny some will have to grow, to gain admission there!

I hardly know what I have said—my words put all their feathers on—and fluttered here and there. Please give my warmest love to my aunts and cousins—and write me, should you please, some summer’s evening.

(This is also from Emily Dickinson: Selected Letters, ed. Thomas H. Johnson)

Divine Comedy

I pray that God would make me a good mother to all the children he would give us, and I never ask that we not have more children, but I haven't actively petitioned for more children since we reached a number of babies I won't mention.

But a confluence of circumstances a few months ago prompted me to crunch some numbers, at which point I realized I'd better start praying hard for a baby that month, because getting pregnant the next month would land my due date right in the middle of shotgun season. So, by golly, I prayed for a baby! I'm not big on "God must have wanted . . . " but I can't help suspecting a joke on me here.

As God would have it, I didn't get pregnant that month or the next. Quintus and I are well out of shotgun season range. Please make arrangements for my maternity leave in January.

I don't know whether to feel happy or hurt

about the two-year-old seeking comfort from her big sister over me. When the toddler bangs her big melon head or stumbles into the wall, she runs straight for the Big Girl, who administers the necessary kisses and coos. This isn't all bad: my new baby is really sad most of the time, making my one hand full and my other hand busy. The toddler needs her imaginary bumps magicked away by someone, and I'm glad my girls are close. But I'm also a bit jealous of my magic; it's hard to see someone else using it in my stead, even if that someone is my oldest child.

It's the burden of many babies, I guess. Some are shoved out of the lap before they're fully ready. Then again, my children will have each other a lot longer than they'll have me (DV). Better they learn to diversify their emotional portfolios young.

Memo to self (re-re-re-re-issued)

Everyone, including and especially me, is happier when I am happy—even if I’m only pretending to be happy. Hey, it’s contagious, and I am not immune.

We’re all clear on Dad’s head honchoship, but life also proves the truth of that eloquent old adage: If Mama ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy. (Confirmed here, and stated in the positive here.)

This isn't denial, folks;
it's the face of Christian resignation...

Is it OK to be sad sometimes? You betcha. But it is not OK to wallow, to daily don grouchiness, or to snarf ten chocolate cupcakes in a fit of self-pity.* I’ve searched for happiness in the bottom of a pan of turtle brownies often enough to know that it’s just not there.

The Apostle didn’t leave any loopholes. Besides, so numerous are the joys that I, all undeserving, have been granted, that I’m frankly embarrassed to think that there are days when thundershowers dominate the Doppler.

*Notice that nothing has been said about snarfing five or fewer chocolate cupcakes.

Why my kids can't touch the phone

Click to enlarge, or view original here.

Superfluous rant

I can’t help hating the ubiquity of the word ubiquitous, even though I can’t seem to help using it, ubiquitously.

On ministry of presence

which can, when circumstances prevent physical nearness, be accomplished even in absentia--especially within the family of believers.

Emily Dickinson sent the following letter to a friend (Mary Bowles) who had delivered a stillborn baby—her third stillborn baby:

Don’t cry, dear Mary. Let us do that for you, because you are too tired now. We don’t know how dark it is, but if you are at sea, perhaps when we say that we are there, you won’t be as afraid.

The waves are very big, but every one that covers you, covers us, too.

Dear Mary, you can’t see us, but we are close at your side. May we comfort you?

Lovingly,
Emily

Clean up good

Everybody tells moms to put on their makeup and do their hair and wear something other than sweatpants so that you feel good about yourself or keep your husband interested or whatever. I don't have anything to say about that. But I will say that I'm much more inclined to be nice to the kids when they look decent. When the boys' haircuts are up to date, when the girls are in well-managed ponytails, when faces are clean and no one looks like a scarecrow or has three inch fingernails, they're easier to be nice to. No one wants a houseful of grub-smeared Dickensian street urchins and waifs. This doesn't always work out, but to whatever extent I am able to get these things done, it is prudent for me to do so.

Doctors, midwives, and how I don't like any of them

Doctors are pretty much jerks, and I don't think anyone here needs me to expand on that. We all know. (I should say that I like my current doctor better than any other I've had--I think it helps that I've got four kids and she seems to consider me experienced and insane enough not to need micromanaging.)

But I'm not on the midwife bandwagon either. I've had four, since we made extensive rounds between vicarage and my husband's second call. There was only one who didn't make me want to smack her. She's the one who ended up getting a delivery payment from us. (I'm not even counting one midwife I tried, who was a conventional doctor's toady and not a midwife for any practical purpose.) What I learned in trying to find a midwife is that midwives are much more familiar than doctors, and I don't mean just friendly. Familiar like, "Wow, I can't believe you just said that to someone you don't know at all." Faux familiarity is not something I want in the person handling my own personal body on a professional basis.

I know I'm callous and cold, as evidenced by the fact that I wouldn't want, say, my children present when I give birth to their sibling. But not everybody has a midwife-tolerant personality. This may be one reason that weird friend of yours insists on jerk doctors even though you've told her how you love your midwife so, so, sooooooooooo much.

The midwife/homebirth model is unappealing to me as a matter of taste. Not that I like hospitals, either. If it were possible, I'd give birth in a cave, alone, and emerge five months later when my clothes fit again. Non est disputandum, folks.