Another use for duct tape

Lest the other contributors to this blog raise the intellectual and cultural standards too high, I offer the following:

On our recent airport adventure, it became all too clear that the 3 yr. old needed to take care of some serious business before boarding the next flight. His fearless father set off with him in search of the necessary facilities.

Let it be duly noted that this child has previously encountered, and intensely disliked, automatic-flush toilets. (Really, who can blame him?)

Here's what transpired, as reported to me when they finally reappeared, exhausted but triumphant, 20 minutes later:

Dad: OK, time to go the bathroom before we get on the plane.
3 yr. old(noting the red, blinking "evil eye" and backing out of the stall): No No NOOOOOOO!

Dad: (Producing coveted, sugary snack food) Look, you get a special treat today for using this bathroom.
3 (completely uncharacteristically): NO! I don't want a special treat!

Dad: If you don't go now, your stomach might hurt.
3: I WANT my stomach to hurt!

Dad: Well, if you don't go now, you might go in your underwear. You really wouldn't like that.
3: I WANT to poop in my underwear!

Dad (checking his watch and getting desperate): Well, I might have to spank you if you don't get on that toilet!
3: I WANT YOU TO SPANK ME!!

(Meanwhile, due to all the frantic motion, the toilet is flushing repeatedly and furiously, adding to the panic.)

Now, what we parents all know but try desperately to keep from our children for as long as possible is that we really have limited options when it comes to achieving compliance from them. We've got bribes/rewards and threats/discipline. When those fail, we're kind of left out to dry. (I know, there's this whole "shepherding your child's heart" thing, but I have yet to figure out exactly how that applies to airport bathroom phobias).

So Dad moved on to the option 3: brute force, applied as reassuringly as possible, of course. He somehow managed to hold 40+ lbs of preschooler on the toilet while covering that red evil flushing eye with the other, and, peristalsis being on his side, the battle was finally won just in time to board the plane.

Our return trip went much more smoothly, as Dad cleverly packed duct tape to cover the sensor.

Moral of the story: Don't leave home without duct tape.

Rebekah blogs Bach; I blog bathrooms. Huh.

Lies of the Bradley Method Part I: the self-doubt phase

When I got pregnant with Baby the First, a friend who'd been in the mission field when her baby was born sent me a copy of Natural Childbirth the Bradley Way. This book and I have a combative relationship. It tells me something helpful, and I like it. Then it lies to me and I get REALLY, REALLY, REALLY angry. On balance, I'm glad I have it. But I'm an angry person and think the truth should be available, so here it begins.

One useful thing from Bradley is the "emotional signposts," which help your labor coach to know how far along you are (in our experience, they're very accurate). The third and final emotional signpost is the "self-doubt phase." For those of you who have been through this, it's that point of utter despair when you honestly think you can't do it and you're going to die. I really hate that part. This is the first lie of the Bradley method that requires exposure. They're right about your first baby: you reach the self-doubt phase shortly before you deliver. But on your second baby, the self-doubt phase actually begins when you're about two months pregnant and continues for the rest of the pregnancy. Then on your third and following babies, the self-doubt phase begins immediately after the birth of the previous baby.

The self-doubt phase is a lousy place to live. It makes sleeping at night awfully difficult. To see the precedent-based projection of my life stretching out into untold numbers of labors is terrifying. I (naturally, what with the Velveeta-based brain) can't remember if I've been this neurotic about it with every baby since the first, but it sure feels like it's been worse this time.

I know: who of you by worrying can subtract a single minute from your next L&D? And that precedent-based projection is also not ok. But there they are. Kyrie eleison.

And again with the footprints

I can't think of anyone more likely to appreciate the poignance of this than the parent of a 15-21 month old . . . which, come to think of it, Bach may well have been when he wrote it. Talk about CSPP! Anyway, translation included for anyone whose German is as nonexistent as mine.

Wir eilen mit schwachen, doch emsigen Schritten
O Jesu, o Meister, zu helfen du zir.
Du suchest die Kranken und Irrenden treulich.
Ach! höre, wie die Stimme erheben, um Hülfe zu bitten.
Es sei uns dein gnädiges Antlitz erfreulich.

We hasten with eager yet faltering footsteps,
O Jesus, O Master, for help unto Thee.
Thou faithfully seekest the ill and the erring.
Ah, hear us, we pray. Our voices exalt Thee, for succor we pray Thee.
Now grant us Thy gracious and merciful favor.

Ratatouille

What’s only slightly more repulsive than a mouse? A rat.

What’s only slightly less scary than a fluffy yellow newborn duck? A food critic.

What’s only slightly less awkward than a six-year-old asking, “Mommy, where do babies come from?” A six-year-old asking, “Mommy, what does ‘fooling around with the ring-master’s daughter’ mean?”

What happens when scriptwriters take all the above and try to make a movie about a food-loving rat cooking up fabulous in a gourmet kitchen peopled with risqué Frenchmen and one dorky American illegitimate? Ratatouille.

Can’t say we liked it. Though the animation is really, really good and fun to watch, the script and the concept ruin this movie as a little people-friendly gather-about.

Regarding the animation: I am consistently impressed with Pixar’s ability to make the most mundane objects (like kitchen floor tiles) look beautiful and REAL. I really enjoy watching their characters’ eyes nudge about and convey depth and thought. I am regularly impressed by the characters’ cheeks and mouths when they speak, and the HAIR Pixar manages to create is really quite amazing. Overall, the animation exceeds anything they’ve done before; it is more impressive than The Incredibles on this point alone.

But in every other way Ratatouille does not live up to The Incredibles, which is, in my opinion, a fantastic family movie. Where The Incredibles is about the individual being made strong and functional by a healthy family, Ratatouille is about the family being a hindrance to the creativity and power of the individual. Where The Incredibles is about healthy marriages and strong friendships, Ratatouille is about seeking after your own interests and developing apart from your roots. In short: The Incredibles manages to verge away from the boring, unhelpful Sesame Street message: “Be true to and love yourself; if anyone ever says you're less than perfect, why, just give yourself a big hug!” Ratatouille embraces that old message while taking unhelpful risks. And the strange absence of (and subtle hostility toward) all mothers (minus one nice, though short, scene toward the end) makes Ratatouille one big, well animated, mildly humorous disappointment. (Note to Pixar: You’re in the kids’ entertainment business; stick to dancing toys and super-hero families and leave the parenting to me.)

Regarding the risks: I am not opposed to children’s movies being a bit intense (Polar Express), neither am I opposed to a bit of grown-up humor (Toy Story). I am opposed to the insertion of mature concepts and themes when those concepts are central to the plot and completely exposed. For instance, the main human character, Linguini, is the illegitimate son of the dead restaurateur, Gusteau. Fine, fine, fine—but the movie centered a bit too heavily on the idea and raised too many questions in my little ones’ minds. I don’t mind being asked, “Mom? Where do babies come from?” as we’ve had the conversation hundreds of times and I have my answer ready: “Marriage.” I don’t like that a children’s movie, whose job it is to entertain for two mindless hours, provokes the question at all.

And there’s just too much steamy, awkward kissing and talk of naughty behavior for my tastes. We don’t need to know that one of the minor characters was fired from a previous job for getting it on with the boss’ daughter. And the scene where dorky, Napoleon Dynamite-like Linguini accidentally kisses his female mentor while she holds a can of mace at the ready is just . . . stupid.

Another thought: the antagonist really doesn't do much antagonizing. Which makes sense, I suppose. How scary and opposing is a food critic, really, even if he has a condescending British accent and an undertaker look. Anton Ego is fun to watch (they really get the mouth down on this guy; I could watch the scenes involving this character over and over just to enjoy the animation), but he’s almost pointless, an afterthought. It is as if the scriptwriters remembered a bit too late that all good movies have villains and got to the Supply-A-Bad-Guy shop before the quality shipment came in.

Thus, if I were you, I wouldn’t waste your Netflicks space on this one. Wait for it to come out on TV and watch it with the above-10 set when the little ones take their naps. Trust me on this: I know of what I speak.

One from the files

Found this in my bookmarks. Can't recall how I first came across it (maybe Rebekah pointed it out to me?), but if your umpteenth re-reading of your little darlings' well-thumbed favorites lacks enthusiasm, or if you're looking for an excuse to sit down and read with the kids instead of doing something silly like the dishes, click here.

She's not talking about church, but the part about how much sinks into the minds of the creatures whose little bodies are wriggling about surely sounded familiar for that context as well. We're amazed at how much theology (above and beyond what we've deliberately tried to pound in) has already seeped into the three-year-old's brain, oozing out in the most intriguing ways.

Meanwhile, I need to go finish packing for the return from our Great Kentuckiana Thanksgiving Adventure. Highlights of the trip here involved an hour on the tarmac with a toddler on my pregnant lap. (Why did I opt for the lap child when we couldn't get seats together? I can't answer that question, but I do know it won't be my lap on the way back!)

The way it should be: Us vs. Them

Summary: babies are hard on marriage (watch it here if you're really that interested in yet another pointless parenting feature from the MSM). This is true only if mother and father foolishly fail to see the baby as a common enemy and draw strength from that inherent unity. Whenever we've got a new one in the house demanding all our time and attention, we're that much more desperate for time together and have to combine forces to defeat the new foe and hang out with our favorite people, each other. Perspective, friends. Early bedtimes! Exhausting play! Sneaking into the kitchen for five minutes to eat the hidden brownies together while they fight over a toy! Don't let a baby outsmart you, they don't even know anything! This is how babies strengthen marriages.

Deep Thoughts

Wouldn't the world be a different place if squirrels were carnivorous?

The pitter-patter of little carbon footprints

We all amuse ourselves by saying that those of us who have babies are going to outbreed those who don't and take over. But this has been the case for all of history and the reality is that whatever crazy people have money end up in charge. So although this crazy person isn't going to have kids, I'm still scared about the world my kids are going to grow up in because of people like her. When people buy into faith-based initiatives like global warming, what's to stop them from, say, imposing penalties on couples who exceed environmentally-safe numbers of children a generation from now? Will we get a religious exemption, or will the "scientific" principles behind the religion of environmentalism be too urgent to allow for other beliefs? But I do get a kick out of her perceived persecution for the life she's chosen. Cute how she thinks she's in the minority and I think I am.

Book Review (Genre:Horror)

'Round here, we don't watch horror flicks. Even disregarding any possible theological, moral, or aesthetic objections, there's the simple fact that I'd be a basket case for months if ever I were to watch one. We do watch movies, though our wild Friday nights are more often spent catching up on some reading (seems safe enough, right?).

But after reading Boys adrift: The five factors driving the growing epidemic of unmotivated boys and underachieving young men, by Dr. Leonard Sax, I'm starting to think that nonfiction books might be close to slasher films on my taboo list. (And the fact that I'm pregnant with our 3rd boy has, of course, no relevance to any possible accusations of overreaction.)



Briefly, the 5 factors Sax identifies:

1)Changes at School (shift away from sensory learning experience, push for earlier reading/curriculum, emphasis on feelings rather than appropriate competition)

2)Video games (which provide a medium--unfortunately not a real one!--for the frustrated competitive urges)

3)ADHD Medications (as he sees it, overprescribed in order to compensate for the educational situations identified in factor 1. Some really scary research cited here.)

4)Endocrine Disruptors (particularly anything in a boy's environment that functions as an estrogen, like the phthalates in plastic. More on this in a minute)

5)Lack of clear, transitional manhood rituals in American culture (i.e. prolonged adolescence).

So these are all scary. But you can DO something about most of them. #1--Try homeschooling, changing schools/being a very involved parent, delaying your boys' start for a year or more. #2--Well, duh. Don't let them play so much (or at all). #3--Be sure the meds are absolutely necessary for your son. Try everything else first (Sax offers a lot of suggestions on this.) #5--Surround your boys with solid male role models (historical as well as present) and make expectations clear.

But #4--now, that's Really Scary.

Consider:
"...evidence that some characteristics of modern life--factors found literally in the food we eat and the water we drink--may have the net effect of emasculating boys."

"...the average young man today has a sperm count less than half of what his grandfather had at the same age."

"...a young boy today has bones that are significantly more brittle than a boy of the same age thirty years ago."

"Mothers with high levels of phthalates in their system were roughly ten times more likely to give birth to boys whose genitals showed subtle anomalies."

Now, we could go on about the excess hormones from birth control pills, patches, etc. being flushed into our water system. And that's a problem. But even scarier were the parts about pregnant women drinking bottled water or soft drinks and babies using pacifiers and bottles. I freaked since Boy #2 still sleeps with his pacifier (I know, I know...chastise me later) and tried to do a bit more research, finding that pacifiers and many teething toys are now PVC free. But some of Sax's solutions seem a bit impractical for a growing family, for a variety of reasons. Um, glass baby bottles? What about sippy cups? And would it really be a good idea for Mom's emergency water bottle in the diaper bag to be made of glass?

So here I am, in sleepless suspense. But instead of an ax murderer or vampire around every corner, it's an emasculating endocrine disruptor--and I don't think garlic can do much against those.

Anyone else heard about the evils of plastic? Any solutions?

(N.B.--Girls aren't off the hook either. Sax briefly referenced some really disturbing studies about the effect of these environmental estrogens on early puberty, etc.)

On living with a dude who kills things

Someone from church offered us a free turkey today. The catch is, it's alive. Dad is out looking for an ax to borrow so that he can do away with, pluck, and clean the doomed creature for us to eat the day after tomorrow.

There was a time when I would have gotten snotty about this kind of barbarian behavior. But since we moved here and hunting has become a major part of our lives, I've gotten a real education. Two years in a row now we've gotten 60 pounds of meat for the price of equipment (acquired on the cheap) and a hunting license. My husband goes out for a day or two and somehow turns a live deer into nice, neat, paper-wrapped roasts and tenderloins in my freezer, and over the course of the year grinds and seasons the rest of it into bulk Italian sausage. He does all the work himself; nothing goes through a locker (his dad is a meat cutter and taught him the trade). Frankly, I wish I had some skill that would impress him as much as all this impresses me. Needless to say, this saves us LOTS of money, and also helps keep the local deer population under control. It's much more humane than what happens to animals on a killing floor, and more energy efficient than commercial meat production. Liberals have no idea how green rednecks are.

This is icky, bloody, stinky work that most people in our antiseptic society don't have the stomach for, and thus get high and mighty about not doing. How ridiculous for anyone who isn't a vegetarian. It takes a lot more integrity to harvest your own meat than it does to pick it up off a shelf. Don't get me wrong, I still pick up my fair share off a shelf. But I'm glad that it's 60 pounds and a turkey or two less than I would normally be buying.

(Note: we don't feed game to guests, since we know a lot of people are squeamish about it. Eat here without fear.)

Does this sound familiar or what?

Father Paul actually says one of those things we're all thinking.

How I spent my weekend

1. Hosted a bridal shower at the parish hall (no lame games)
2. Hosted a deer carcass in the minivan (um)
3. Hosted a wedding in the living room (even washed the windows)
4. Hosted various overnight guests here to share the excitement (ignoring the pile of dirty linens staring at me accusingly)

I'm a little tired. My husband really wants me to post a pic of his deer, but it's bloodier than I like for a family blog. Rest assured that Dad is a fine and humane shot and he's kept us in sausage another year (wow—not sure how I would have reacted to that idea in my not-so-distant past). The wedding was my rockin' sister to our rockin' friend, and I just can't describe the joy it brought us to witness a beautiful wedding for two people who know what's right and have orchestrated their lives accordingly. In fact, this was probably the first one I've ever been to. But I'll spare you my sisterly emoting about how great it was and they are. May our gracious God bless me soon to be an aunt! :) :) :)

Look What I Got

Dear Friend:

Thank you for contacting me regarding the Alternative Minimum Tax (AMT). I appreciate hearing from you, and I agree with the notion that the AMT is broken and needs to be fixed.

The AMT has vastly outgrown its original purpose of preventing a handful of wealthy citizens from avoiding the income tax altogether. It has become a stealth tax, an unintended burden which surprises an increasing number of middle-class Americans each year, eroding the value of Nebraska families' deserved tax breaks. I agree that action must be taken to correct this unintended consequence of the AMT's legitimate policy objective of narrowing the tax gap by curbing abusive tax avoidance. As you know, in recent years, the Senate has enacted temporary patch legislation to increase the AMT exemption to prevent the tax from encroaching further on the middle class.

For a more permanent solution, Senators Max Baucus and Charles Grassley, Chairman and Ranking Member, respectively, of the Senate Finance Committee, have introduced the Individual Alternative Minimum Tax Repeal Act of 2007, S. 55, to totally repeal the AMT for individual taxpayers. S. 55 remains before the Finance Committee, of which I am not a member. Please know I will keep your thoughts in mind should S. 55 or similar legislation come before the full Senate for debate.

Thank you again for contacting me. The legislative process will only work with the input of concerned citizens, and I encourage you to continue sharing your views.


Sincerely,

Ben Nelson
United States Senator

So there's nothing he can do for the time being, but wasn't it nice of him to send an email? Shoot, I feel all fuzzy inside. Which I'm sure has nothing to do with the spiked eggnog I'm drinking. Mmmm. Eggnog.

Halftime Report: An Exclusive Interview

Q: So, now that you’re just past the halfway point in this pregnancy, would you say that the womb is half empty or half full?
A: We’ll say half full, if inverse bladder capacity is any indication.

Q: Is this pregnancy already half over or only half over?
A: Only half over, based on the fact that we’re really just beginning to eat like a semi-normal person. Drug-free (off the anti-nausea meds) for just over a fortnight and loving it! But gosh if those first 20 weeks don’t last forever. Hard to believe this kid is only half cooked; shouldn’t he be starting kindergarten soon?

Q: So you think that throwing up four times today and subsisting on animal crackers puts you in the “semi-normal” category?
A: Well, standards around here are low. Besides, we are hoping that history will show today to be a fluke. Before today, I hadn’t thrown up since my in-laws left two weeks ago (pure coincidence, of course).

Q: This being your third pregnancy gig, is the thought of another person inhabiting your inner regions any less strange?
A: Uh, no. We find the thought to be maybe even weirder, now that the first two who were in there are walking around and talking and acting just like little human beings (for better and usually for worse). Weirder, but no less amazing—may we take this opportunity to recommend again National Geographic’s “Biology of Prenatal Development” (referenced in our 11/11 post). We are no great fans of National Geographic’s usual evolutionary-propaganda-drivel, but we are willing to give credit where credit is due.

Q: You really make the most of the royal we, don’t you?
A: Yes, we do. Although we have been known to employ it at other times (rank has its privileges), we feel particularly justified in doing so while pregnant.

Something Sophomoric

Allow me to introduce myself: I am the smart Concordian Sisters’ dumb friend. And now it’s time for (cue echo) Something Sophomoric -ic -ic -ic. With me. Let’s begin:

One thing I have learned more or less from my children is the value of pretending. You know--the fun, fairyland-type pretending that makes us old folk feel young and blithe and makes the wee ones feel warm and fuzzy in the universe?

Yeah . . . doesn't that sound nice? I think I’ll try it sometime.

No, the type of pretending to which I refer is less . . . fun.

Consider the following from Anna Karenina:

". . . an incident had occurred which had utterly shattered the happiness she had been feeling that day, and her pride in her children. Grisha and Tanya [the children] had been fighting over a ball. Darya Aleksandrovna [the mother], hearing a scream in the nursery, ran in and saw a terrible sight. Tanya was pulling Grisha's hair, while he, with a face hideous with rage, was beating her with his fists wherever he could get at her. Something snapped in Darya Aleksandrovna's heart when she saw this. It was as if darkness had swooped down upon her life; she felt that these children of hers, that she was so proud of, were not merely most ordinary, but positively bad, ill-bred children, with coarse, brutal propensities--wicked children."

Isn't that the way it always goes? Well, maybe not for you, but nearly always for me. For instance:

In our house, days usually begin with plenty of warmth and kisses. I love to see my children at the opening of a new day, their skin fresh from sleep and their hair in little tufts. I like to hear them talk ever so seriously about their dreams. I really like their little footie pajama-ed snuggliness and that funny stumbliness that hits once gravity takes effect.

But it doesn’t last, neither their cuteness nor my ability to enjoy them. They don’t spend the early morning hours pummeling one another like those Aleksandrovnawackanawabo children (they save that for just-before-supper-time). But they are wicked in other ways, devious ways, deeply ingrained ways, and the wickedness has a way of flashing out too suddenly, well before we’re much done with those could-be charming “good mornings.”

In turn, I melt down into my selfish, whiny, lazy, slimy, and crazier-than-ever-before self. They had to learn their wickedness from someone, right? And when I forget myself (or rather, remember too well) and stop pretending to be good, loving, wise, fun, compassionate, and motherly, all bleep breaks loose.

See, we moms are privy to people at their worst almost all the time every day. Those who go to offices regularly have the lovely and enviable cushion of social mores to keep people’s wickedness at a relatively low din. Sure, the co-workers may be monsters, but they have to keep it down or they lose their jobs. And no one ever screams that high-pitched, blood-red scream while throwing punches just because the copier is out of toner. (Right?)

Here at home, not so much. These people let it all hang out. They hold no punches. They fear not the reaper. They tell it like their pea-sized little child brains see it. And we moms, sitting innocently or not, doing our work (or not) have to contend with their outbursts all. the. time. What is more, we can’t (shouldn’t) go bezerk and start telling it like our, let’s say, lima bean-sized brains see it; that is not good people-making. It’s our job to see that the outbursts wane, if not stop altogether. To be (Erch! Eck! Gak!) role models. Benevolent queens. Gentle hands, gentle voices, gentle eyes, gentle words.

Thus, I work hard at pretending, at putting on my happy face and repeating: 1. “These children are NOT anarchist, armed, rebel baboons;” and 2. “I am a good mother.” While I am pretending I use a script (and sometimes costume and props) which finds its origin, expectedly, in Proverbs 31.

More on that some other time.

His Holy Bride

Contraception fits somewhere onto the "unchastity" spectrum of sin. I'm still figuring out exactly where. As an adult convert to CSPP, I don't understand it implicitly like I do the sins I grew up with, and it's more insidious anyway.

Pastor Petersen says, "Sexual sins are [more] destructive than other sins because they are most against what God made us to be. They are most reflective of our depravity." I've spent some time pondering why adultery carries the scandal it does, such that (for example) Dorothy Sayers writes on "The Six Other Deadly Sins" and everyone knows exactly what she's getting at. No commandment makes us sit up straighter than the 6th, even though God puts it down toward the bottom of the page. I think this is what Pastor Petersen is getting at, and here is how I understand it: adultery is the most perfect, grotesque anti-icon; the truest picture of sin. Virtue is personified in the virgin, sin is personified in the harlot. The horror of sin is that the Bridegroom finds his beloved in leather and spikes at the trashiest truck stop in town, and she laughs at his anguish. The miracle of justification is that at the marriage feast of the Lamb, the bride wears white without deceit or guile. Her mother doesn't have to comfort her by saying, "It really doesn't mean that anyway." She doesn't think to herself in shame, "I don't deserve this."

I think this is also why female infidelity causes more scandal than male infidelity (historically at least--things have evened up, and even gone too far the other direction in these utterly depraved latter days). We don't have a spiritual schema for male infidelity, because the Bridegroom is always faithful. But how well the Bride knows, and deplores on some level, her own infidelity.

Where does contraception fit into the icon, or the anti-icon? Selfishness and all that, but I still have trouble pinning it down in my mind. I wonder if this is because the Scriptural eschatological icon ends with the marriage feast, the consummation. We don't see how the story continues. All we know is that God's love is by definition incarnational: he gives us his perfect material creation, his Son in the flesh, his Son's body and blood so that we eat and drink the forgiveness of our sins. We know that our Mother, the Church (aka the Bride of Christ), bears sons and daughters of God through Holy Baptism as often as she has opportunity. These things show us that true love naturally manifests itself in real, tangible ways outside of the Lover. But somehow chastity has been reduced to sex, and huge numbers of Christians who wouldn't dream of compromising on the extramarital sex front roll their eyes or get angry when somebody suggests that babies can't be removed from chastity equation.

Help me out here. Pregnant women shouldn't pretend to think (except Reb. Mary, whom we all know to be the brains of this operation, pregnant or otherwise).

Links for the day

First, email your senator and tell him or her to vote for the Saving Families First AMT Relief Act (S. 1851) (unless you really like paying taxes). (HT: National Review)

Then, listen to this with kids out of the room. Hee hee. (HT: my dear and loving husband)

First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes...a houseplant, then a dog?

Yes, I must admit, mindless Sulvans that we were, we actually followed this cute progression so often recommended by well-meaning people. You know: start out "parenting" a plant. If the plant lives, you can move on to a dog. If you do all right with the dog, then you can think about kids. We even joked about it when we moved into our very first tiny apartment and went out to buy our very first tiny houseplant together.

I guess that the whole "take some time to get to know each other and have fun before you have kids" is only the logical extension of the ridiculously prolonged adolescence our culture fosters.

Or is it the other way around: Does the Sulvan (contraceptive) mentality discourage us from growing up?

Really: We don't have to grow up and have mature relationships (married or not) if we don't have to be responsible for any brand-new, needy human beings that might come along. We don't need to learn about self-sacrifice if there's no choice between going out on Friday nights and buying shoes for the kids. We don't know how selfish we are until the baby's crying in the middle of the night, the poop has once again defied both gravity and the diaper, and people are constantly asking, What's for supper tonight?

I know there are those rare couples who, though intentionally childless for a time/at times, are nonetheless amazingly mature and focused not on themselves but on accomplishing good things, even God's things, in the world. But speaking for myself, children have been the wake-up call (an alarm clock that you just can't shut off, actually) out of the selfish immaturity I didn't even know I inhabited. (And I can't help thinking how extra-super-amazing those aforementioned couples would be if they were perhaps a bit more open to God's intentions for marriage and gift of kids!)

But I digress. Back to my furry firstborn: I have lived to repent of the contraception, but not of the plants or dog. Fact is, she's still my only girl! (Though anyone who's had a dog knows that dogs of either sex act more like guys...'nuff said.) Ain't she adorable, though?

And as a side note, this pup of ours is recycled (from the streets of St. Louis via the Humane Society), or, to use one of our favorite household adjectives, "crunchy" (See Rod Dreher's Crunchy Cons for a fuller explanation of that). And she in turn recycles--her favorite place to hang out, of course, is under the high chair.

Your kids are so good in church!

People tell me this fairly often. I'm glad if they think this, because most weeks, I disagree. But if it's someone my age saying it, it's usually followed by, "That's why we don't come very often. Ours just won't behave." I want to ask them why they think my kids are good in church. Could it be because I take them, without fail, at least twice every week (once on Sunday, once to the Wednesday night Low Mass which is of course shorter, but without any of those helpful musical breaks to drown out some shouting)? Furthermore, it takes some effort to get them to be good. Most days my "Thanks be to God" is in reference to the wrestling match ending almost as much as it is for all that salvific business. It is tiring to keep a very little person happy enough to be quiet for an hour, and trying at the same time to make it really be church for the older ones (helping them sing, say the Creed, fold their hands, etc.).

Our church doesn't have a nursery, and I don't miss it. I've never understood the parents who perfunctorily bring in their two-year-old for the first 10 minutes and then reward the kid's screaming by taking him to a room full of toys. When we were at a church that had a nursery, I had to leave a lot, but I stood with the offender(s) in the narthex and kept enforcing quietness and church-appropriate behavior. Perhaps this is another reason my kids at least know what's expected of them at church, even if the little sinners can't pull it off all the time. We also sing the liturgical canticles and (if we have our act together enough) the hymn of the day for the upcoming Sunday at bedtime. Yes, my kids are better in church than a lot of kids their age, and it takes work.

Incidentally, this is one thing the big family papists don't get. They've always got a nice pious dad to share the weight on Sunday mornings. My kids' nice pious dad is always delivering a nice pious sermon, so I count on God to provide me with some other nice pious person to help me with the wrangling (which, thankfully, almost always happens on Sunday). Getting a houseful of kids and oneself ready for church with no assistance is a real chore, and then you have act like you're not already completely exhausted at 9 am, and get through the standing and the singing and the shushing. I guess I can't think of a better time to receive the Blessed Sacrament.

A Must-See

National Geographic's The Biology of Prenatal Development DVD is an absolute must-see.

None of that silly stuff about embryos "losing their tails and gill slits."
Just 42 minutes of solid, scientific facts and amazing images from in-utero cameras as well as 3-D ultrasounds.

Get it.
Watch it.
Share it with your friends, your family, your Bible class.
Put a copy in your church library.

This would be an awesome Christmas present, especially for someone who's expecting.

The LCMS inferiority complex WRT its women

In my mailbox yesterday was the Fall issue of Lutheran Forum. I've recovered from the initial ire which one of its articles aroused in me, or at least enough to share my thoughts with an eye toward charity. This article was written by a person with whom I overlapped a bit while I was working on my MA at the seminary. As it happens, this person is female. The article, in my opinion, would be a passable piece of undergraduate work for one of those students who gets A's by working hard without being a great mind--a commendable position, I think, even if it isn't glorious. It contains the kind of puerile pedantry you'd expect from such a student: shallow argumentation, unnecessary information, disregard for well-established counter-positions, and some just plain stupid statements that might have sounded good when you first thought them and arranged them into grown-up sounding words. The article is not something that I would expect to read in Lutheran Forum unless the writer fit a certain profile: an LCMS woman whose paper carries a faint but clear undercurrent of We all know the LCMS is so parochial and silly, and one of these years we'll get women's ordination yet! The reason I'm so annoyed by this is that in another LF issue of recent memory, there was an article which also fit this profile: academically mediocre by discernibly angry LCMS female (who also, as it happens, briefly overlapped with me at the seminary. In all fairness, that issue featured articles by students and the piece I'm talking about ran as such).

The really funny thing is that the current LF issue also contains a note about "Editorial and Confessional Standards," which states among other things, "articles in LF will not contain: pot-shots, thinly veiled contempt, messy thinking . . .". Sorry, friends, but both of the articles described above contained at least two of the things on that list. LF, as a human endeavor, has an agenda. It's edited by a female ELCA pastor. So when they get a submission from a woman in the LCMS who has some academic credentials, however feeble (such as mine), and she's willing to take some subtle little jabs, somehow their high standards for fairness and erudition slip a bit.

The thing is, I know why these two women sent in articles that I pridefully wouldn't want my name on. The seminary would love to put out some really great female academics to help its own political credibility--after all, what kind of academic institution only produces male intellectuals in this day and age? So any female student who can keep from drooling on herself gets treated like royalty (thus being led to believe that she's really as smart as the seminary wants her to be). I know I got this treatment, and I know I didn't deserve it. I'm the person I described up there who can get A's if she works hard, but my time at the seminary accomplished what education should and showed me exactly where I stand: I am not a great mind, and acting like I am makes me look that much stupider. Maybe I could submit a middling article to a periodical that would accept it for political reasons rather than on its theological merits, but then everyone who's actually intelligent would know precisely how middling I am as a scholar. Frankly, I'd rather keep my mouth shut and have them keep thinking I'm smart.

But the LF and the LCMS don't get this, and in their desperation to prove that there are, in fact, female academics in the LCMS (and in the case of LF, that they are as progressive as true intelligence dictates they must be), they keep handing microphones to whatever moderately intelligent female is willing to take them and shout about the undergrad-level insight she's just had (and strangely, it's always that the LCMS needs to let women do more, or some piece of eisegesis on a stale text about women to that effect). In doing so, they make their women look that much stupider since they're always saying something redundant, banal, and totally predictable.

There are veritable female intellectuals and academics in the LCMS. It's just that none of them seem to be interested in arguing for the feminist theological agenda right now. Most of them are too busy working in labs or professing other disciplines. Maybe if the powers that be looked somewhere other than the liberal perimeter for their theology queen, they'd find she's already in their midst. But I wish they wouldn't keep damaging our beloved Synod's own scholarly credibility, and the credibility of their precious female scholars, in their embarrassed meantime.

National Adoption Month

Now, I'm no great fan of the proliferation of National Whatever Month/Week/Day. I didn't even know how many such national "holidays" there were, til our eldest son hit story hour age and suddenly we're learning about National Dental Hygiene Month, National Fire Prevention Week, National Children's Book Week, National Underwater Basketweaving Day. OK, so there never was a story hour on that last one, but I wouldn't be surprised if it's on an official calendar somewhere.

But the fact that November is Adoption Awareness Month brings again to the fore of my mind and heart a topic that's never too far in the background. A strange topic, perhaps, for a blog dedicated to matters relating to personal perpetual parturition, but here it is anyway.

What about adoption?

I'm not talking about the healthy white babies here--there are waiting lists for those, and as God has graciously been pleased to bless us with our own offspring of this variety, I feel no need to stand in those lines.

But what about the babies whose skin or features are different? the kids who have been tossed around U.S. foster care or overseas orphanages for a few years? the ones with health problems? the sibling groups?

Adoption is a beautiful Biblical image of and witness to God's covenantal love for us. Then too, we have the commands to care for the poor, the orphans, the fatherless...

Do we just continue as we are, remaining prayerfully open to God's gift of children whether they be biological or adopted, and assume that He will make clear His intentions for our family?

Just seems like it's hard to be open to adopting when one is in the midst of a young-and-coming family. (Can't you just see the disbelief on the faces of the people at the adoption agencies if my pregnant self marched in, looking not to place a child for adoption but to adopt one?)

As this post is becoming rather long, I'll end it, and hope someone else can step in and add some sense here.

Seven sisters for seven brothers?

Of course, no one knows what will happen. This baby could be my last. But if things keep up for us the way they've been going, we could end up on what I consider the VERY large end of the big family spectrum. Not Duggar-worthy, but possibly Stuckwisch- or even Preus-worthy. I turn 29 this week, which means I could still have a lot of good years in me before I dry up. This seems very funny to me, because when we first tossed our pills and told our families that the number of grandkids was now up to God (my husband's in-church-twice-a-year family shrugged; my extremely pious LCMS relations sucked in their breath sharply and haven't let it out yet), we joked that we were going to have seven kids. Impossible, right? Who has seven kids? Well, me, maybe. Or even a lot more.

The "seven kids" thing has stuck so much with some of my confounded family members that I'm regretting ever saying it. I should have told them 25 so that they wouldn't be fretfully counting down my years of earthly purgatory on their fingers every time I have another one, or advising me to pray for twins so that I'll be done sooner. There is no upper limit here, get it?

My sister (CSPP but not married yet, and my only family member breathing freely since our big announcement) has an explanation I like for when people ask her how many kids she wants: she tells them she'll take as many as God gives her. When the frowning begins immediately thereafter, she says that everyone knows you shouldn't give God a minimum (as if he owes every couple at least one or two kids), so she doesn't see why it would be ok to impose a maximum on him either. So: four, seven, twelve--whatev, man. Time will tell.

Studies in Gender Identity, Part 2

A few observations from our church's recent Beef Supper.

Our 19-month old (boy) was at a highchair opposite a 21-month old (girl).

She: Had food on a large plate on her tray. Food stayed on plate or was consumed, plate stayed on tray. Was not wearing a bib, and finished the meal with nary a spot on her pink-striped sweater.

He: Was, with trepidation, allowed to have a small paper plate, which was promptly dumped, used as a hat, and waved about wildly until confiscated. Was wearing a huge bib, and finished the meal with spots not only on himself but on everything and everyone within throwing radius.

Just different personalities? Or is there some other factor at work here too?

The Things That Are Not

"But God chose the foolish things of the world to shame the wise; God chose the weak things of the world to shame the strong. He chose the lowly things of this world and the despised things--and the things that are not--to nullify the things that are, so that no one may boast before him" (1 Cor. 1:27-29).

Anyone else here ever think these words are about us?

The world deems us foolish indeed for using our advanced degrees to spend our days dealing with poop emergencies, negotiating with 3-foot-tall tyrants, and reading "Frog and Toad" books ad nauseum.

Hard to think of many things that seem lowlier, at times, than the relentless daily requirements of perpetual motherhood.

What could be weaker than our helpless newborns?

And I'd venture to say that the vocation of parenthood, and yes, even children themselves (or more than 2.5 of them) are despised in our culture--in deed if not in word.

Not to mention that there are quite a few days when I personally feel like a thing that is not.

All excellent reminders of how God designed this great adventure to "Let him [her!] who boasts boast in the Lord." In Christ alone is "our righteousness, holiness and redemption" (v.31, 30). This foolish, lowly, despised path daily--hourly--humbles me, strips me of my silly pretensions to self-sufficiencey, reminds me that my life is quite simply not about me.

A sigh of relief from Unstructured Play Central

As someone who is too cheap to fork over the cash for a LeapPad and incurably nonplussed whenever someone tells me how well their three-year-old reads/figures/parses/welds/etc., I find this vindicating.

Well?

So where's that World Relief and Human Care study on contraception we've all been so eagerly awaiting? Not that I hold out any hope for it, but I'm still curious. Is it really just taking them this long to say the same smarmy thing they always say ("As for catholic precedent: hey, I think I hear your mom calling. Who's the bioethicist here, mortal? Oh, and Christian Freedom!")? RM, weren't you pestering some of these people for a while? I thought it was supposed to be out by now.