He gets it

The two-year-old, an affectionate if exasperating little creature, spontaneously rushed over to embrace me: "I kiss-a you! I kiss-a you! You're bee-YOO-tiful 'cuz I LOVE you!"

Reminded me of Gauntlets' magnificent, fabulous, wondrous "Through the Looking Glass" post from last week: I am beautiful, not because I am lovely, but because I am loved.

What a marvelous model of the Heavenly Bridegroom is my own husband--and what a wonder, what a challenge, to see how early our children perceive and imitate the example of our lives.

Excuse me for being unsympathetic

Feed me...or else......


If you have neglected your ox--if you have not fed or watered your ox, if you in fact have not even made a minimal effort to educate yourself on the proper care and feeding of your ox, and have repeatedly refused others' offers of help--your ox will wander off through the fence you didn't bother to mend and fall into a deep, deep well. Why are you so surprised when this happens?

Inevitably, as has been previously noted on this blog, this "emergency" will occur on a Sunday afternoon.

Because he is a good shepherd, my husband will come to help you with your livestock issues. Because I'm trying to try to be a good shepherd's wife, I will do my best not to begrudge this preventable absence. But perhaps, once your ox is resuscitated, you will take a moment to consider why a wiser generation than ours was so insistent on the point that an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure.

Remember when

the children and their governess took their meals in the nursery until the little darlings were civilized enough to join the adults?

What--you don't believe this is, or ever was, or ever will be, my house?

Through the Looking Glass

In the history of this blog, there has been some talk about an issue dear to our hearts. There’s been a lot of talk about this very issue in my house lately. Conversations go a bit like this:

Me: Wow. I look very like a whale.

Him: You’re lovely.

Me: I’m HUGE! For crying out loud! I have, like, half a year left! And I’m already carrying a watermelon! (turning around) Two watermelons!

Him: You’re beautiful.

Me: I can’t believe this. What am I going to end up wearing?!?! I’ll stock up on tarps. Big tarps. I’ll cover the windows and doors of this room in tarps and stay under the covers all day.

Him: Darlin’, shut up.

Now, don’t misread me. I’m not looking for a forum to discuss my fabulous, gibbous beauty as, objectively, I was neither born with it nor is it Maybelline. What I do want to point out is my husband’s rather endearing habit of thinking of me as “lovely” in spite of my “never the same river twice” figure and in spite of the good view he gets of those swimsuit models in the diet ads that keep popping up on our homepage. He seems to like me, and God bless him, he is not about to let my constant self-hag sessions stop him from saying what he thinks. I am deeply grateful to have this man as my husband, and not only because he’s so nice.

More to the point: I’ve had some time (at 3 a.m.) to think about the impact of my words upon my marriage. And because I can, I’m going to share those thoughts with lucky, lucky you.

Most women I know naturally want to be admired and appreciated as beautiful. We do not wish to be leered at with those poor creatures on the Victoria’s Secret runway; we want to be genuinely appreciated—Venus rising from the sea foam, chaste, pure, lovely, and loved.

Such appreciation is not achievable in the minds of the general populace. The boys who looked upon us--who today look upon our daughters—as innocent girls fresh from the sea foam, thought: “Smoking hot, made to order with onion rings at Appleby’s.” Regardless of hair color, height, jean size, and modesty, there is no avoiding it. Shudder The general populace is such a vile thing.

The gods that feed the depreciation of feminine beauty are too numerous to be named. Their prophets are everywhere, from cosmetics counters to Super Bowl commercials, and their message is very, very loud: You do not measure up. You are old. You are just a baby. You are fat. You don’t fill out a swimming suit. You are in desperate need of this product, this outfit, this surgery, this diet, this pill, this technique, this shampoo. Buy it, do it, wear it, strut it, sister, or no one will ever, ever love you.

We then carry these prophecies into our homes and into our relationships with our husbands. We look in the mirror, stand on the scale, or accidentally fall into a triple-layer dark chocolate strawberry ice cream cake and we just can’t help but reiterate all we’ve heard: I’m old. I’m fat. I’m scarred. I’m ugly. I am not worthy of anyone’s appreciation. I cannot be loved.

On the other hand, the good, Christ fearing, long-suffering husband does not see what his wife has been taught to see. He sees the wife of his youth, the mother of his children, bone of his bone, flesh of his flesh. How frustrating, how infuriating it must be for him to hear his most precious possession wrongly called worthless, to hear the object of his love called not worthy of love. How devastating when those terrible words drop from the very mouth of his bride, her features twisted as she spits at her reflection.

I daresay Paul’s admonition to submit to one’s husband comes into play here. Note to self: shut up. When your husband dares speak his heart and tell you that you are beautiful swallow the bitter pill of your disagreement. What you think is not of any importance whatsoever, for it is the filthy residue of that first lie hissed into the ear of our mother, Eve. Your dear husband is your head, even as Christ is the head of the Church, and what he says is not only final, it is truth. You long to be loved, appreciated, seen as one who shares in the very image of God. Here is a man who sees your flaws, your scarred up flesh, and by the grace of God sees with eyes of faith that which you already are in Christ. What a great gift you have been given in this husband who, as a metaphor of the Bridegroom, declares that you are worthy, whom Christ in His mercy uses to communicate the fact that your not yet is now.

Marriage is great. Here’s to casting off the corset in favor of the crew neck. Come next brownie night, I’m really going to enjoy my half of the pan. ;)

More ground rules

5. Do not feed my kids.

6. DO NOT FEED MY KIDS ANYTHING.

7. Even that! Especially that!

8. Yes, I'm mean.

9. If you think you must feed my kid something, ASK ME FIRST.

Still confused? Allow me to explain. Some kids are picky. Mine are not. They will eat anything. They will eat everything. They will eat themselves sick. They will eat if their bellies already hurt. They will eat themselves explosive. Only one of them is beginning to develop an off switch. And the baby is a BABY FOR CRYING OUT LOUD DO NOT FEED HIM ANYTHING!!!!

(And although I cite non-pickiness as the reason my children must not be fed by anyone but me, I would guess that parents of picky children don't want you squandering their kids' limited willingness to participate in consumptive life on whatever schwat it amuses you to stuff into them.)

Furthermore. We have a house rule about treats and vegetables. So don't give my kid a treat if she hasn't met the requirements for it. I don't undermine your attempts at good parenting when your back is turned. Also, I'm sorry if you don't consider the treats we have around here treat-worthy. Feel free to eat all the treats you like at your own house. Please note that my children are quite happy and sturdily constructed without having Tootsie Rolls crammed down their gullets all day.

If you still don't get it, ask yourself, do I want someone feeding my precious Fluffy the chocolate bars and pork rinds she so enjoys when I love her too much to give her anything other than her Iams® Veterinary Formulas Weight Control D - Optimum Weight Control™?

Precious Fluffy

By the way: many kids have allergies, so you should never feed someone else's kid anything anyway.

Finally. If you feed my kid something messy behind my back and I'm still trying to get the stain out of what was a perfectly good article of clothing, please know that I am thinking mean thoughts about you every time I go at it with yet another stain remover.

Some ground rules

1. If I don't know you, don't try to touch my baby. Just because I occasionally look pleasant doesn't mean I won't bite you if you reach for my baby.

2. If I do know you and you would like to touch my baby, please confine yourself to playing with his feet. They are just as pudgily squeezable as his hands, and less likely to go directly into his mouth along with the germs from everyone whose hands you just shook. Stroking his punk-spiky hair is also a fun, acceptable alternative.

3. If I do let you hold my baby, don't interpret that as permission to offer him your fingers to suck. Do I know where your fingers have been? Do you even know? There's a reason I attach a pacifier to him when he gets passed around. (Exception clause: Grandparents With Clean Fingers.)

Need I add how immensely (albeit discreetly) gleeful I am when BabyGuy glurks on Scofflaw Babysnatchers?

Remember when

vacation included time for aimless relaxation and a few good books?

She who blogs crabs twice

Why can't we just smile and wish the gentlemen well when they say they're going to go do something they like this afternoon? This is so obvious. Because we never get to go do something we like.

Men can leave. The perpetually parturitional can't. They are always pregnant, and thus bringing a baby and the associated discomforts and restrictions along, or (more often) nursing, and thus unable to be absent for more than a few hours, and totally unable to be absent without thinking they shouldn't be.

I've been pregnant, nursing, or both since March 2002, which means I'm barely out of my rookie years on a CSPP scale. This is why I have something like absolutely no sympathy for the "I just need some down time" argument. Believe me, I need some down time. But there is no way for me to get it. So it turns out I don't need down time. And you're going to have a really hard time convincing me that anyone else does.

NB, guys: she can't complain as much if your hobbies are edible.

I get it that life isn't fair, so all this isn't to say that a certain man in my life doesn't get his afternoons, days, and weekends away. I try not to resent it, but that really hasn't started working out for me yet. So I try for the next noblest thing, which is not to ruin it for him by crying, screaming, throwing things with the conscious intention of breaking them, and shrieking about how sick I am of all this and how totally unfair it is that he gets to not only occupy himself with employment of his choosing, engage his mind in exercises both practical and academic, socialize with colleagues, and participate in adult life (including interaction with women who would not debase themselves by living as I do), but also casually announce that he'll be gone at these times for this number of days to do things that he enjoys doing. Right now I'm generously ruining it for him only with dark moods and snippy reminders of my endless sacrifices whenever I see opportunity to slot one into a conversation.

I'm sorry to say that I weigh each paternal absence with miserly precision in units of self-determined necessity and reciprocity, and the children suffer under the foul moods that result when the number I come up with is low.

Deposition

This is a weird time of year to say it, but I was thinking about it for whatever reason.

Of all the scenes of our Lord's Passion, one that has always struck me as singularly, achingly, pathetically terrible is the Deposition. It's a picture of something we've all felt, and it is so emptying and defeating: as if we haven't been through enough already. It's looking at the huge pile of dishes after Thanksgiving dinner while everyone else settles in for a nap, having to deal with insurance companies after a car accident, being told not to get comfortable after the baby is out because you have stitches coming. The feeling is realized in the extreme at the cross: the injustice incomparable and colored with pure horror and anguish rather than just fatigue and annoyance.

The world's greatest execration, and yet there's work to be done. As usual, those who undertake it are the ones who most deserve to be spared the awful burden. Even the banality of evil we see here proven great.

Job description

I'd appreciate being provided with one. What exactly am I supposed to be doing during these endless hours in my house?

1. Feed everyone.

Food prep and nursing take up several hours and cannot be put off for even one meal. I also get the impression that since I'm here I'm responsible for seeing to it that everyone eats sort of healthy things. Gardening and canning also fall into this category, so that's a lot of time in the summer. This is the only clear task on my list.

2. Make house livable.

The standards here are ambiguous. We're pretty much clear of outright filth, but I'm not exactly thrilled when someone drives up unannounced. Am I a bad interior minister if the bathroom sink looks gross? Or am I squandering my time and cleaning supplies on a vain pursuit if I go in there and spray it down after every toilet, food, or chalk event? I don't trust anyone who says not to worry what the house looks like, and I don't trust anyone who says my house should be clean. Also, decorating: merely pointless, or potentially criminal?

3. Rear children.

This is completely unhelpful language. What is the precise ratio of "actively engaged with mom" time to "supervised but self-entertaining" time that I should be engineering? If I spend an hour cleaning the kitchen after breakfast, and I go into the playroom and they're all getting along fine, am I permitted to take the baby upstairs and pack up the summer clothes? How many and what kind of activities should I be planning, or is that buying into the day care model rather than waiting for organic learning experiences to present themselves in our lives? Does it matter that I never read board books any more, even though we still have a toddler and a baby? How often can I just clean up the mess myself so it will actually get clean?

4. Am I missing something?

And could you tell me about the compensation package?