Experts needed

Yes, someone cares what you think! Really!

Marie MacPherson, an at-home mom whose husband teaches at the lovely campus of Bethany Lutheran College, is conducting a study of moms with 4 or more kids and requests your assistance for the betterment of our noble office. If you are in the process of raising 4+ kids, or have completed that task (to whatever extent it's ever completed) and would like to share your wisdom, please email her at mmacpher AT blc DOT edu. Let her know whether your kids are still at home or if they're out of the house so that she can send you the applicable survey. Thanks to Marie for her work, and you for your participation!

God loves me dearly

Lofty words about parenthood being an icon of God the Father's love for us cut both ways. I fail frequently and deplorably, and in doing so remind myself how I profane this office.

The truth is, the babies' love is often a much better likeness of the Father's than mine. No matter how much I've ignored them, no matter how impatient I've been with them, they still want to be with me. Two minutes after I snap or growl or criticize they're proposing book reading and Memory games, making me "treats" and asking me to cuddle with them on the couch. They forgive me without even thinking about it, without even realizing they're doing it. They love me so much that no offense on my part is worth losing a hug or a puzzle or a song over.

I know they'll grow up and come to their senses and figure out that I don't treat them as well as I should. They'll get mad at me and hold grudges and struggle to forgive as much as I do. But in the meantime, their dogged love is, to understate, humbling.

Please excuse the potty humor

I've had some days lately that haven't been the best, and I've spent what I would consider to be more than my fair share of time in the bathroom, dealing with other people's bodily functions. But thankfully it hasn't gotten quite this bad.

Fill up that quiver!

I'd heard of an evangelical outfit called Quiverfull that falls generally into CSPP territory, but a reader has informed us that our similarities are very general indeed. Apparently these folks are opposed to fertility treatments that help people conceive. To each her own confession; maybe Quiverfillers don't believe in chemo either, and they probably wouldn't think much of our baptized babies (and do they have anything to say on the topic of mandrakes?). But I just wanted to clarify that CSPP has no problem with fertility treatments that are non-abortifacient and do not violate natural law (IVF, for example, fails on both counts; Clomid, to my knowledge, passes). Thanks to Christine for helping us define our terms. If it's broke, fix it!

Hermeneutics

15 She gets up while it is still dark; (the baby is crying)
she provides food for her family (it's the only way to get him quiet)
and portions for her servant girls. (where'd they get to, anyway?)

This is the song that never ends

Sometimes I have to resort to my secret weapon--badly made-up song lyrics set to much despised tunes--to convey important points around here. For instance:

Sing to tune for The Song That Never Ends

I have a family that will not clean up its own mess!
I'm not 100% why, but I think I can guess:
They do not bother to clean up because they know that I
Will get to it eventually, though it may make me cry.

Repeat as long as necessary. Results guaranteed.

Salmonella Roulette

My kitchen helpers assisted me with a new pumpkin/whole wheat/applesauce muffin recipe this morning. (In the oven as I type. If they turn out, I'll eventually post it over at CSPP cooks.)

As a reward for their labors, they get to lick the spoons when we're done. There are raw eggs in the batter. So how horrible of a mom does this make me? Helping and tasting in the kitchen are some of my favorite childhood memories and I want my kids to have those memories (and skills!) too. I know: I could just let them sample the ingredients, and the batter before the eggs are added. But it's just not the same.

I have had salmonella once--from the college cafeteria salad bar. Wasn't fun. And I don't mess with the raw stuff when I'm pregnant. But in nearly three decades of sampling cookie dough, I've never once gotten sick off it.

Anyone else willing to admit to gambling with salmonella? Or will you all castigate me so thoroughly that I am compelled to change my kitchen practices?

My letter to the world that never wrote to me

Everything is not ok and I'm tired of pretending that it is.

There, I've said it, so now I can move on. Thank you; that was cathartic.

Extra credit if you can identify the contrived literary allusion in this post's title.

We're not worthy!

Dad and I are always trying to get the kids to be polite when they meet grownups: to shake hands, speak clearly, look the person in the eye, etc. But when their big chance comes, of course they mumble, hide, and generally don't do any of the things we told them to.

I was thinking about this and it struck me how unnatural most of these conventional politenesses are to children. In fact, what made me think of it was how shy I feel when meeting new people, especially those who are particularly distinguished (whether by the world or in my mind). When I meet someone of a higher office or greater accomplishment, I have to fight to make eye contact because I know my place in the presence of comparative greatness: lower, down there where my eyes feel like they belong. Our culture's faux-democratic rituals of acquaintance are counterintuitive and uncomfortable for us lowly types.

So now what do I tell the babies?

CSPP: symptoms may include malaise

Consider this a letter from me four years ago. I don't get into this funk too often any more . . . but then again, I was moved to write this not all that long ago.

We went to college together. We went to grad school together. We had jobs and went places and talked about classes and books and the papers we were working on.

I don't know how things would have gone if nothing had made us drop our original plan, but when I thought of it then it was always something like, get our two kid thing out of the way, get them into school, and get me back into real life.

This is real life, but it doesn't feel like it. You did what everybody does, you went to school and had fun and thought you were smart and did what you wanted and everybody was even. And then you have kids and realize you've flown into a cage while he soars on past along with everybody else.

I hate being the awkward cipher-wife smiling boringly when the grownups get together since I don't know what they're talking about. I hate having nothing to say to him when he gets home besides who hasn't pooped yet today. I hate feeling so left out of such silly things as his saying good morning to other people who go to work and shooting the breeze and making dumb jokes and getting stuck in annoyingly endless conversations about stupid things and having responsibilities besides just living. When he leaves in the morning, my heart sinks. When an afternoon or evening that was supposed to be free suddenly isn't, my heart sinks. When his car needs an oil change, my heart sinks. The door closes behind him and the house feels darker.

My world is very small and out of the loop. I'm running out of energy to keep being angry about it, but it is a personally diminishing journey from there to here.