“Mommy!  Why are you wearing Daddy’s pajamas?”

“Because my belly is getting too big for my regular pajamas.”  And because I am too cheap to cough up the money for maternity pajamas that will be worn for a few months. 


I suppose I could suffer through the rolling waistband for 4 more months, but I risk stretching it to the point that it’s permanently ruined.  While the girls have very much noticed my expanding abdomen, they apparently did not equate that with necessary wardrobe adjustments.  They thought me wearing Bill’s pants very amusing.

And then the conclusion: “Mommy, you’re getting fat.”  Nice.  Great to have ego-boosting children.

“It’s not fat.  It’s a baby.”  That’s my knight in shining armor, defending the honor of his fair maiden.  Alas, it merely drew their attention to him.

“So, Daddy, your belly is as fat as Mommy’s!” 

Must have conversation about hurtful words…and, no, definitely his belly is not anything like mine.  It’s like the difference between the 14th century view of the world (flat) and what Columbus envisioned.


In other news…

Mary said this morning:

“I will just die if I get a porcupine for my birthday!’

Duly noted.  I’ll stick with something less prickly.


Rolled my ankle when my running stride landed just right (or wrong) on one of those gumball tree seed things.  They’re all over the road in my neighborhood.  I thought it was no big deal, but it has only gotten worse throughout the day.  I may have to not run or even walk tomorrow.


Billy turned 12.  We took no pictures.


I think the camera is up to 200 pictures now.  Some good ones, too.  Peter earned his Tiger badge at the “Blue Derby” this weekend – a combination Blue and Gold Banquet and Pinewood Derby.  His derby car took first in his den and 3rd in the Pack overall.  Bill did polish the axles for him, but it was his car.  We took pictures.  Bill made his own car.  Even better pictures.  Someday I’ll download them.

Another Lesson Learned

I received an email yesterday that irked me.  Perhaps I don’t have the full picture, but it seems to me to be that someone else erred and now a group of us have to pay for it – literally, cash.  That’s my perspective.

I wrote a response.  I did not mention that I thought it was a self-induced crisis.  I explained my moral reasons why I did not fully support the endeavor to begin with (a point on which I had previously been silent).  When I was finished, I said to Bill, “I don’t know if I should send this.”

“Does it feel good?” he asked.  “Usually if it feels good it means you shouldn’t send it.”

“I never send those,” I replied.  “I don’t usually even write those.  No, this doesn’t feel good at all.”  Gut feelings were not helping here.  Sometimes it’s the words we don’t want to say that we really should say.  Sometimes we just need to keep our opinions to ourselves.

I read the email to him.  “That doesn’t sound bad,” he said.

Maybe I should wait anyway.”

“Good idea,” he concluded.

So it’s been sitting in my draft folder.  And I’ve been waiting for the “reply all”s.  I rarely respond “reply all” – and usually only do it if it is requested (“Please reply all with the dish you plan to bring”).  But some people always seem to reply all.  I’ve been one of 372 people who received an email announcing the birth of a new baby…and had 86 strangers clutter my inbox with reply all: “Congratulations!!”  Why?  Why do you think you need to let all 371 other people know that you offered your welcoming words?  Nobody is keeping track.  Nobody cares.  Just hit “reply”, not “reply all”.  Is it that hard?

So far, no “reply all”s.  Although I’m certain few of us want to pay out of pocket to solve the situation, I don’t know how the others view the situation.  I’m sure that nobody else shares my moral dilemma, which stems from me not taking the moral high ground 6 months ago.  Gut feelings were working well back then, and I pushed them aside, and now I regret it.


Wake Up Call

Regarding the telephone, we go through phases in our lives, and I recognize my entry into a new one.

First, as a child, we have little to do with the phone.  Then we hit our adolescence or teens and early twenties, and it becomes a central part of our existence.  It is a connection with friends, fun, opportunity and adventure.  There is a complete disconnect between the hour of the day and the phone call itself – if you (or your friend) want to talk, you call.  You don’t mind, necessarily, a wake-up call at 2 am, especially since you might not have been asleep at 2 am.

Then, hopefully, you grow up a bit, and start to keep more regular hours.  Perhaps you get news of a family member’s illness or death at a bad hour, and you start to discern whom you can call and during what hours without causing alarm.  Calls at 2 am are not ever welcome, unless it is your husband calling from Shannon, Ireland, telling you he’s having his first beer in 6 months and he’ll be home to your arms within a day or two.

Now I am discovering a new phase, one in which I am the parent of teens who use the phone whenever they think of it, regardless of the time of day.


The boys were able to go skiing/snowboarding this weekend.  I didn’t think we’d be able to afford it, but their fundraising through Scouts covered the cost.  Fritz had been sick with some sort of cold virus earlier in the week, and we were happy that he recovered sufficiently to go.  They left Saturday morning, very early, with enough time to check in at the hotel, change into ski clothes, get to the Saturday Vigil Mass, and then hit the slopes for night skiing.  “Call me tonight,” I told them.  I wanted to remind them to use the hotel dryer for the clothes that would get wet.  They had extras in case they forgot anyway.

They didn’t call, of course.

Sunday, 8:30 am, the phone rings.  That’s too early on a Sunday for the phone to ring.  Unless, of course, you have children of a certain age.  Especially boys who feel guilty for not calling their mother the night before.

And, actually, Fritz didn’t feel too guilty about that.  “Sorry, Mom, we were tired.  We went right to bed.”  I had figured as much.  Instead, he was calling to tell me that Billy was sick, having finally succumbed to the virus Fritz had had.  Billy was not going to be hitting the slopes, but would be staying in bed.  I told Fritz to leave the phone with him and tell him to call me if he needed to.  Poor kid, poor adult leaders.  I knew there was one couple who did not plan to ski, and would be available to deal with any injuries or kids who needed a break.  But sore muscles or a sprained ankle are less of a problem than a lethargic, feverish kid.

Later that day, Jenny went down, so I could compare how she was feeling with how Billy was likely feeling.  She spent several hours passed out on the couch and didn’t eat dinner.  She sipped water and watched a movie and went to bed with everyone else.  She looked and felt miserable.

Billy called again during dinner to report on his misery and to say that the adults were going to have someone look at him.  I thought he meant an urgent care center, but I think it was just another mom with medical training.  “Call me later and tell me how you’re doing,” I said.

He didn’t, of course.


This morning, 5:30 am, the phone rings.

I was soundly asleep, which is rare for me at that hour.  But Bill is off for President’s Day, so his alarm and my internal clock were silent.  In an instant, however, that phone had me awake.  I nudged Bill.  “Get the phone!”  And he leaped from the bed.  Momentary panic was quelled by a reminder that I have boys of a certain age.  I was concerned, though, since Billy had been sick.  I couldn’t imagine that he had anything worse than a cold, but you never know.

It was Billy, as I suspected.  They were packing up for the return home.  In that early morning quiet, I could hear clearly from across the room as he asked his father, “Can I watch Star Wars Episode III in the car on the way home?”

“I’m going to kill him,” I groaned as Bill groggily tried to explain that asking permission to watch a PG-13 movie of a parent awakened from a deep sleep at an early hour of the morning was, to put it mildly, poor timing.

But at least he’s an obedient son.

My husband, ever the soldier, went back to bed, and is still there now.  I, on the other hand, have a grocery list to write, a dog to walk, laundry to start, etc etc etc.

I Should Have Hired a Babysitter

I realized, belatedly, that, perhaps, three Masses in five days might be a bit too much for a 4 year old, especially when two of those Masses were not quicky daily Masses, but were instead loooong special sacramental Masses.  Especially the one with 43 confirmandi and the bishop who questioned every single kid about his/her confirmation name or asked some other question about the faith (that was Fritz’s confirmation Mass). 

And the 6+ hour drive on Day 4 didn’t help either.  Nor did being in a different time zone – one in which it was much closer to bedtime than dinner time for little children.

Yes, that was my child screaming so loudly in the “baby” room that she nearly drowned out the bishop’s homily.

Fortunately, I didn’t really know it at the time, being in the second pew behind my niece as her sponsor-proxy.  I just kept thinking, “My goodness, that child is loud.”  Apparently, she really wanted to sit with me.


I think I have about 200 pictures on my camera to download.  Some go back to January, and the gingerbread houses that the kids built.  But they will have to wait, still.  This is a make-up week for school, and a clean-the-house day, and a get-the-grading-done-day, and a cook-for-an-event-day, and a pay-the-bills-day.  Not a download photos day.  Or a blogging day.

Did I mention we’re not moving next month?  Oh, no, that seems to be delayed to coincide with my due date.  I keep telling God, “I trust you!  Really!” And then He keeps testing me on that.

Miles Christi Sum

Crazy-busy week, this.  Fritz is being confirmed on Thursday, so some planning for guests and their care and feeding and coordinating with the church, etc to do.  It’s a low-key event, but still.

I try very hard not to read the comments at most “news” articles.  It’s one thing to get involved in a discussion on a blog, even a popular one.  Quite another to listen in at a mainstream article where people seem to enjoy seeing their name in print and will type the most ridiculous and ignorant things.  But regarding the HHS mandate, especially regarding the Army stifling/censoring the free speech of Archbishop Broglio, I’ve been glancing through some of the comments, just to see what the “average Joe” is thinking.  (Note: I can no longer find the article at Fox News I saw, which I find very interesting…)

Heaven help us.  Somehow, my refusing to pay for someone else’s birth control pills is imposing my religious views on others?  I suppose I’ll next be required to pay for their porn magazines?

It’s no longer “live and let live” – a motto which attempts to gag as hate-speech any efforts to point out the negative societal consequences of poor (immoral) choices. 

No, now we need to shut our mouths and open our wallets, too.  Pay tribute at the altar of the false gods, or be fed to the lions.

It’s interesting that this freedom of religion crisis (and it is a crisis) is coming right now, as my oldest is about to be confirmed.  That old Baltimore Catechism instructs that the sacrament makes one a soldier of Christ.  I don’t think the “army” will be a metaphorical one.

Avoiding "Depends"-ence

So, I have a hundred photos on my camera from the past month, and I’m sure tons of exciting events have happened in my life, but the days are becoming rather blurred.  Instead of flexing any creative muscles or actually downloading pictures, I’ll just give another link:

Pelvic Floor Party: Kegels are NOT Invited

Many thanks for this info to Lina.  I hate kegels anyway.  What to do instead: squats.  Go Crossfit!

Speaking of…check out this inspirational photo from their site.