Monthly Archives: August 2007

08.11.07
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More on Kitchen Madonnas

Several people asked where I got my Kitchen Madonna. My husband bought it for me for Christmas several years ago, and he likely found it at the local Catholic goods store.

Kasia pointed put that there are some on eBay. Just type Kitchen Madonna in the search box, and you’ll see some pretty ones.

Here‘s one at the Leaflet Missal that is similar to mine. They also sell this statue, which is quite nice.

I found some really beautiful alabaster statues on a marble base. They are so expensive, I won’t even bother with a link. This one, sold at EWTN, is pricey, too (not as expensive as the alabaster ones), but I think it’s gorgeous and somewhat reasonably priced. This would make a great gift, especially a group gift where everyone chips in $5 to get that special ministry leader a thank you present.

I found this cute clock for your kitschy kitchen. It’s only $3!

On the opposite extreme, if you are remodeling your kitchen and would like an interesting tile backsplash, this one is 30″ x 36″ and only $1,170. I’m sure by the time I ever get around to having a permanent home, I will have long forgotten about these hand-painted Portuguese tiles.

That’s all the time I have for browsing the internet. If anyone else provides a link in the com box, I’ll update this post. I know I’ve seen tons more in catalogs, including mine, I just don’t know where.

** Update: Elizabeth Marietti kindly sent the link to Discount Catholic Products which carries the exact Kitchen Madonna I have. They also have one in pewter and this pretty statue. Thanks, Elizabeth!

08.10.07
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Thank you, Lord, for…

…air conditioning…

…refrigerators (take nothing for granted)…

…cold lemonade in ice-filled glasses…

…air conditioning…

…summer-times clothes that don’t take up much room in the washing machine (meaning I can skip a day or two and it won’t overwhelm me)…

…pool memberships…

…summer-time agendas that permit propping up one’s feet and drinking cold drinks…

…naturally cool basements…

…and, did I mention…air conditioning?

08.09.07
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My Kitchen Madonna

Matilda is looking for pictures of Kitchen Madonnas or other images that help us “find a little Heaven amidst the saucepans and broomsticks.”

Here’s my kitchen counter just to the right of the sink. My KM is on the window sill.

It’s a dark picture, especially small. If you click on it, it looks better.

Here’s a closer look at my dinged (from multiple moves) and (eek) dirty KM. I just love the image of the Child Jesus asking his mother for some bread.

And I tell you, ask and you will receive; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you. For everyone who asks, receives; and the one who seeks, finds; and to the one who knocks, the door will be opened. What father among you would hand his son a snake when he asks for a fish? Or hand him a scorpion when he asks for an egg? If you then, who are wicked, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will the Father in heaven give the Holy Spirit to those who ask him? (Luke 11:9-13)

If you have a Kitchen Madonna to post, let Matilda know. And me too!

08.09.07
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How could I have forgotten that?

In the pre-dawn hours as I lie in bed still mostly asleep but starting to float to consciousness, I often remember important things that I have forgotten to take care of and require attention. This morning, it was:

Baby mill…I haven’t seen the baby mill…I’ve unpacked everything, but haven’t seen the baby mill…I’ve got to find it…

Because a newborn (due in two months) doesn’t need a bassinet or itty bitty diapers or receiving blankets or onsies or pajamas…all still in several boxes in the basement marked “baby stuff”…nearly as much as a food mill I might use sometime after the baby turns six months old.

I’ll get right on that…

08.08.07
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The county fair

Everybody’s a bit cranky and tired today. Late to bed, early to rise syndrome. But that’s okay…the county fair only happens once a year. We had a good time.

I remembered as we pulled out of our neighborhood that I forgot the camera, but I didn’t want to be late for the youth rodeo, so we didn’t go back. We got there in time to see kids as young as 3 and 4 years old holding on for dear life to the backs of bucking sheep. Kids who were a bit older were trying to ride calves. And the two little girls with the fastest times clearing the barrels couldn’t have been over twelve. I swore they were going to fall off the horse when they charged for the finish line.

I did wish for the camera when Pete got on his first Midway ride, but I doubt I would have been able to snap a shot. I was so nervous, and I instructed Billy to hold on to his arm the whole time. OK, so I just watched three year olds get thrown from sheep, and I’m worried about my buckled two year old on a ride that goes round and round and up about 9 feet in the air. I’m a ninny, what can I say? Later, he rode the cars that go in a circle and do not go up and down (what a relief), and it was the cutest thing to see him energetically throwing the steering wheel from side to side with a huge grin on his face. He would have been happy on that ride for 20 minutes, but fortunately for the crying one year old and the scared stiff three year old covering her eyes, it was over in only a few minutes. Why do parents make their kids go on these rides?

Oh, wait, I can’t judge. I forced my kids on rides at Disney World 3 years ago…but they were four and six years old and afraid of It’s a Small World and I spent a ton of money to get into that park, by golly, and we weren’t going to stand around and watch everyone else have fun. So, really, it was totally different. So, I can label those parents as big meanies, but I…I was just doing what was necessary to help my children overcome ridiculous fears. Harumph.

By the time the ride tickets were gone, it was after 9 pm and dark. We bought some cotton candy and made our way to the van. I was worried about finding our way on dark country roads at night, but we didn’t get lost until we got to Leavenworth, the town right outside post. By the way, Lorri, we did spot the buffalo outside the back gate on our way to the fair. It was 1030 before silence descended on our household.

All the kids agreed that it was a good family adventure, except for Katie who was upset that she didn’t get an animal balloon because she stayed with Daddy to watch the rodeo while Mommy took the littler ones for a stroll. We promised her next time, we would get a babysitter for her, so she wouldn’t have to be so miserable. OK, I really am a mean mom after all.

08.08.07
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Meanwhile…

…in the waiting room for swimming lessons…

…talk turns to being “done.” As in not having any more kids. As in getting rid of baby stuff as your youngest outgrows it. I said I couldn’t imagine feeling that way. They looked at me as if I were crazy.

It’s not that I desire a dozen kids. It’s not that I think changing diapers and wiping bottoms or even teaching a child to read is particularly fun. It’s not that I want to be the center of the universe. It’s not that I crave the power or the responsibility of raising a human being from childhood to maturity. It’s not.

It’s that to me being “done” means declaring that I have no more room in my heart for another person. I’m out of love. The club is closed; the membership roster is full.

And it might also be that 8 pounds of the softest skin on earth curled and resting on my chest is the sweetest addiction.

So, naturally, talk turned to…vasectomies.

Apparently, there’s a waiting list here and men are scrambling to get on it. Sitting in a classroom is pretty low-impact, so the procedure (and the recovery) won’t cause them to miss much. After this school, most of these guys will be heading for Iraq or Afghanistan, and they won’t be able to do it there (and want to avoid any welcome home celebration surprises, I suppose).

“That’s not an option for you, is it?” one woman asked me.

I shook my head no, and said that even if it were, my husband would never do it. “Really?” someone else asked.

“My husband has a pretty low opinion of men who would have that done. He says if a woman doesn’t want to have kids, she should get herself fixed.”

“But the recovery is so much easier on a man,” she argued (obviously defending her own husband’s decision to do it).

I gave my best deer-in-the-headlights look. How could I explain that my husband would sooner have his testicles removed than kow-tow to the selfish demands of his wife? And it’s not that my husband thinks women should be popping out as many kids as possible. Trust me, he is much more willing than I to say: enough is enough, we’ve proved to God we’re open to life, let’s get on with our lives and do all those things that are difficult with little ones around…and while we’re getting rid of baby stuff, let’s get rid of maternity clothes and all those bigger sizes that my wife wears in between, and honey, if you’ve been holding off on cosmetic surgery until you’ve finished birthing babies, let’s go see the doctor…for you, honey, to make you feel better about yourself (but, do I get a say in the size and shape of any breast augmentation?)…and if you don’t think you need that, it’s fine by me, I love you no matter what.

My husband will be the first person to read this blog, and he’s going to kill me for that.

He does love me no matter what, but he initially fell in love with an eighteen year old who didn’t have stretch marks, spider veins or a droopy cleavage. He still sees that girl – thank goodness that love is blind – but he knows that I don’t.

So, Bill won’t be putting his name on the vasectomy list, even if it would put him closer to having a smokin’ hot wife, please, sweet baby Jesus in the manger (a joke for anyone who suffered through Talladega Nights). And even though he passes judgement (not moral judgement, rather cojones judgement) on men who have the procedure done, I don’t. It’s tough to argue in favor of retaining your fertility in an age that thinks having children is burdensome.

I’m grateful to have the Catholic Church to use as an excuse for indulging in the pleasure of a large family.

08.07.07
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Tornados and Hard Times in the Slammer

Last night I attended a “Spouses Orientation” which was simply an information session about the services and organizations here on post. Since every place is unique, these kind of things are good. If nothing else, I would have been happy to just get the map showing the four jogging paths on post with distances from 2 miles to 7.5 miles.

Most of the information was generic, but I was interested to learn about the tornado warning sirens. We had heard a siren last weekend, and wondered what it was…until we realized it was just the fire department responding to a call. They described the two-minute continuous blast for a tornado and assured us that we would hear it and know what it was.

I also paid close attention to the man who spoke about the prisoners of the United States Disciplinary Barracks (USDB). Within a very short distance, there are a half dozen prisons: some federal, some state. Mostly maximum security. Those at the USDB are primarily guilty of violent crimes and have minimum sentences of 5 years and a day. There are three different colors of uniforms indicating their level of security. Blue uniforms are for the most trusted inmates who may have jobs on post like cutting hair. Brown uniforms are for those who are not trusted quite as much. They would be accompanied by a guard and would likely be in handcuffs. Orange uniforms are for the ones who need strict monitoring. They would have at least three guards and be in full shackles. There is a possibility that we would see a prisoner at the Health Center, and we were told that we should give the ones in orange a wide berth: “They’re shackled for a reason,” the man said.

This gives me one more reason to avoid going to the doctor.

There are programs, run mainly through the religious organizations, that allow volunteers to minister to the inmates. He encouraged anyone with those sorts of charitable leanings to contact the chaplains and get involved. But he cautioned us all against developing personal friendships. “It’s not good for them, and it’s certainly not good for you,” he said. “I wouldn’t be saying this if it hadn’t happened before.”

No problem.

Was it one of the Narnia books where the children were playing in a communal attic system – where the row houses were separate, but the attics were open to each other? My house is a duplex, and there is an exterior basement door that opens to a small area with the water heaters for both sides. Doors in that room lead to each half of the duplex. There is a dead bolt lock on those doors, but no lock on the door to the outside. My boys play with the boys next door, and we both use the basements for playrooms. Every day, multiple times a day, I’ll go in the basement to rotate laundry or work on the school room, and I will find the doors to both sides wide open as the boys have been passing between the houses. I reminded Bill that part of our “locking up for the night” procedure has to include checking that door, even if we’re too tired to go up and down the stairs again. I’m not worried about the neighbors…it’s that exterior door.

Who wants to haul sleeping children down to the basement to seek shelter from a tornado only to find an orange-suited escapee in hiding?

I’m so happy I went to the orientation. Now I know where to focus my worries!

08.04.07
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day-zjah-voo

I know I can get my keyboard to make all those fancy French accent marks, but I am really too lazy to figure out how.

We’ve been in Kansas for less than a month, and we’ve had three significant health crises already. And for once, it’s not the usual suspects who are causing all the hullabaloo.

First, there was Bill…on the patio…with the ratchet.

Then on Thursday, our dog suffered a heat stroke. She had to be taken to the vet and given an ice bath and an IV and kept overnight for observation. Really, we’re not bad pet owners. She had been in the A/C all morning and had plenty of water. Bill played fetch with her for about 15 minutes when she started returning r e a l l y s l o w l y. He brought her in, and within 10 minutes we had called the vet, determined she needed help and gotten her out the door. Even the vet was surprised, since we moved here from Virginia and not someplace routinely cooler. Since dogs, and humans, are more susceptible to heat stroke if it’s happened before, and since we haven’t owned her for her entire life, I suspect that this wasn’t the first time. Now we know: absolutely no exercise during the heat of the day, which is basically from dawn to dusk around here right now.

And then last night, I missed the bottom step on the way down, just like I did over a year ago. This time, it’s my right foot and not my left that is sprained. And I was such a baby. I cried, in part because of the pain, but mostly because I was so mad at myself, and I think sobbing is more ladylike than throwing a temper tantrum. Then I had to ask Bill to get me the tissues, and to have to ask him to wait on me, and especially to have to ask him to get me tissues because I was crying only made me cry more and tell him I was pathetic.

“You’re not pathetic,” he comforted. “At least you didn’t hit yourself in the head with a ratchet. That’s pathetic.”

And that made me laugh, because, well, that is pathetic. He’s always got to top me, that husband.