Author Archives: michellereitemeyer

02.14.07
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Dear Bill,

Quite a while ago, I read about another woman writing daily love notes for her husband. I thought this was a sweet idea, and wanted to start doing that for you, too, sometimes. As you know, I haven’t done a single one. I told myself last night that I had no excuse for not doing one for you today, but, still, it remains undone. At the computer, though, I manage to find time and inspiration. And since so many of our love letters are electronic, I figure one more won’t matter. I can’t spray it with perfume, but, if you want, I’ll sit on your lap while you read it, and I’ll be sure to dab a bit of scent on my neck before I do.

I know I give you such grief sometimes and run you ragged with my whining and complaining about your hours, your weekends away, your constantly buzzing Blackberry. Please realize that it is not so much that I need a break and lament you not being here to pitch in and help with taking the kids hither and dither or to allow me to go to the grocery store in peace but rather that I just really miss you. I could have you home all the time. I would put you to work, but I would enjoy your company too. And I know that you would be here too, if you could. I do appreciate the work you do for us, for me, in trying to give us a wonderful life. I am thankful that you don’t dawdle at work or find distractions to keep you from home a minute longer than necessary. I love that you call me the minute you leave the office to tell me you are on the way, and that you would talk to me the entire drive if I didn’t brush you off with having to attend to something else, although never something more important.

I know that I fail you and don’t often have a hot meal, a clean home and cheerful children ready to great you when you come in the door. Instead you find a tired wife, cold food in the fridge, and children madly tearing through the house. You are even left to forage for clean laundry, sometimes only to discover there is none to be found. And you manage, uncomplaining, to make do with whatever you have. Thank you.

And thank you for supporting me, encouraging me, and challenging me. I am blessed to have found a man smart enough to keep me on my toes, strong enough to keep me going, and brave enough to dare me to be the best I can be. And through it all you make me laugh.

Life with you is a slice of Eden. Happy Valentine’s Day.

02.14.07
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The German homeschooling debacle

This is why I oppose any and all homeschooling laws in this country. If you give an inch, bureaucrats will take a mile.

German authorities have basically kidnapped a 15 year old girl, because her parents violated the law by homeschooling her. The worst part is the charge made by her father that the local papers aren’t covering the story because “It is about a personal affair that is not of public interest.” Gosh, that infuriates me.

I suppose that Jewish family that was “detained” in 1932 didn’t interest the public either. Nor that other Jewish family, or that Christian family that hid them…

It also wasn’t a public issue when authorities came knocking on someone’s door and took away their mentally handicapped relative. Just a personal, private affair. Not my business, not yours. Keep it out of the papers, mind your own business.

You would think that the Germans would have learned that lesson long ago. Oh, no. The law is the law – right or wrong. And violators of the law, even an unjust law, deserve punishment. That is the German mentality, witnessed first-hand by me. Thank goodness I live in a country where enough people think the laws (at least traffic laws!) are somewhat optional. And thank goodness there is usually some media outlet for every outrageous governmental decision.

02.14.07
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Saints Cyril and Methodius

These poor saints share a feast day with St. Valentine and, at least in this part of the world, are completely ignored or overshadowed by him. Neither my Cooking with the Saints book nor my Slovak-American Cookbook offers any suggestions for appropriate dishes in their honor. I could tackle a rolled pastry of some sort, but we have leftover “death cake” as my kids call it (plus various chocolates purchased in honor of that other guy’s feast day), and just don’t need any more sweets right now.

St. Cyril is responsible for the Cyrillic alphabet. I’m not really sure if we should thank him for that. Once in the very early 90s, I happened to be traveling with a German, a Brazilian and a Slovak (this sounds like the beginning of a really bad joke, huh?). We were heading for Prague and stopped at a rest stop sort of place. We were hungry. We opened the menus. Three of us almost immediately closed them and turned to our Slovak friend and asked her to order for us (I do NOT recommend Haluski). There was no way that we could make any sense of what sort of food was even offered. I mean, I don’t speak French, but I know some words like poulet. Find that word, point it out to the waiter as what you want, how bad could it be? But on that menu, pointing to things on the menu might have brought me a glass of water or “the tongue of a castrated bull” as one man once described the food on the table in another country at a different time. No thanks.

If only my sister lived nearby. I’d have her trudge over through the snow and ice on the streets. She’d have to bring her kids, too, since schools are closed today, and we could all sit down and learn a few letters of the Cyrillic alphabet. Barbara studied Russian, and I’m sure is right now grinding her teeth at my dispraising of her favorite subject!

Morning prayers in the Magnificat included prayers for the Slavic peoples. Amen to that. Sts. Cyril and Methodius recruited locals as clergy and established a Cyrillic liturgy despite opposition from those troublesome Germans. Thanks, guys, for laying the foundation for my ancestors.

02.13.07
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Catholic Blog Awards

Thank you very much to whomever was kind enough to nominate me as Smartest Catholic Blog. It’s nice, for a change, to be recognized for my brain-power and not my good looks!
I feel like I did when I ran the Army Ten Miler: confident I could go the distance, but equally confident that I would finish at the end of the pack. It’s not that I don’t think I’m smart; it’s just that superlative ending…smartest? There are lots of other blogs out there – about 80 nominated for the same category as I – who are really smart all the time. Gosh, half of them have Latin blog names, a sure sign of higher intelligence! My brilliance shines forth about as often as my kitchen sink sparkles: at least once a week, but frequently no more than that, and, as proof that I’m not particularly intelligent all the time, I picked the same name as the most widely used online language program. Doh!
You have to register to vote, and can only vote once, but there are plenty of excellent blogs nominated for all the various categories. Again, I thank you, whoever you are, for your kindness. It is truly a humbling experience. And the pressure – oh, the pressure to write about something a bit more meaningful than the weather or my kids’ reading lessons!
02.13.07
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Forecast: partly anxious with a 100% chance of prayers for safe driving

Yesterday my husband forwarded to me a love note he received: he was on the list of “essential” personnel who needed to report to the office regardless of the weather.

…O-kaaay…he’s so essential that he needs to risk life and limb to get there? Hmmm.

Notably absent from the list were all the truly important personnel: the ones with more gold on their uniforms than I have in my wedding band. My guess is that the “essential” personnel list is really an “expendable-essential” list: those personnel who’s job is important, but who we can always replace. The “essential-essential” personnel need to stay home where it’s safe, which makes sense – interest of national security, blah blah blah.

As he headed out this morning, looking so fine in his blue uniform, only a bit of drizzle was falling, and now some white stuff is mixed in. The roads are probably slippery…and I forgot to remind him that bridges freeze before roads. With all the construction around here, those yellow signs are not as predominant as they should be! And if I don’t do my “drive-safely” routine, he might forget, right? Not too much snow is expected, but worse is the predicted half inch of ice from freezing rain beginning this afternoon. God, keep the amateurs home and give decision-makers the clear-sightedness to close shop before it gets too ugly! I’m sure everyone out there is “essential” to somebody else.

02.12.07
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Jesus, a fan of poultry

Today, Billy’s phonics lesson was “CH.”

He had a word list, which he breezed through with ease (oh, I love teaching this kid to read).

He had riddles: A fruit used in pies? Cherry! A place where we worship God? Church! Jesus said, “Let the little (blank) come to me”? ??

He was a bit stumped. I pointed to his word list to offer some assistance. He thought I pointed to one word, when I pointed to another. “Chicken?”

“Let the little chickens come to me? Billy, does that make sense?”

“OH! CHILDREN!!!”

They’ve been clucking around here ever since. Yes, I suppose the Lord loved the little chickens, too.

02.12.07
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Chocolate, roses and snow

Growing up, I always remember there being one or two cards from my parents waiting for me in the morning of St. Valentine’s Day. And usually there was a small amount of candy. My mom continued to mail me a card after I left for college and even into my early marriage, but since having kids they get the red and pink envelopes, not me. That’s OK. I know my mom loves me, and I know she loves them even more.

Except for those awful adolescent and teen years when Valentine’s Day pointed out who had a boyfriend and who did not (I being in the latter category generally), this saint’s feast was never a big deal to me. My parents were (and are) affectionate and hugs, kisses and “I love you”s were (and are) commonplace. I don’t recall them doing anything extra like going out to dinner, and certainly my dad never got my mom an extravagant gift.

By February of my freshman year of college, I was dating my husband, and we had precious little spare cash. A card, a carnation stolen plucked from the dining hall centerpieces, and a quiet walk on the freezing cold campus by moonlight sufficed for a romantic evening. Young hearts can always make up in knowing glances, soft words, and warm caresses what they lack in roses, expensive dinners and diamonds. Fortunately, Bill is an affectionate and romantic man much of the time, and this has kept my heart young. I don’t need much to make me happy.

Once we left the insular college life, we were bombarded with commercials and co-workers who tried to define for us what a true expression of love constituted. Frankly, I was repulsed. I saw a complete disconnect between what had been a commemoration of a saint’s martyrdom and what had become a Hallmark holiday. It’s not that I was offended from a religious perspective (at that time of my life, religion was not particularly important to me, and I doubt I even knew the history of the two St. Valentines), it was more that rampant consumerism, instead of inspiring competitiveness with the Joneses, made me want to throw out the TV and live in a cave. We were struggling with student loans and paying for the rent; we could not live that life, and I didn’t want to live that life. I didn’t want to be poor, either, of course. By the time our finances were such that we could afford a dozen red roses, my anti-Valentine’s Day resolve was ingrained to the point that I would accept flowers on any day of the year except February 14th.

I’m not quite that bad now. Bill can buy me flowers or not. It doesn’t matter much to me what he does, although our FRG is selling flowers on Wednesday as a fundraiser. I suggested that he buy some for our daughters who always get all giggly and excited whenever Daddy sends Mommy flowers, which he does occasionally do for no reason other than because he loves me. I think if he failed to acknowledge the day with a minimal expression of his love such as a card or some special chocolates, I would be a little disappointed. But he knows he doesn’t need to be scouring the diamond district for a good deal on a bracelet or earrings or whatever.

He was also very confused when I told him my plans to make this cake for his office on Wednesday. I told him it was a bribe cake. My hope is that all those good feelings that scientists say occur in the body when it eats chocolate will inspire everyone to go home at a decent hour, or at least send my husband home in time to eat a second cake I’m making for our family. He had to think for a bit…what is Wednesday? Why is my wife making a cake Wednesday? Why would my wife want me home for dinner on Wednesday? Oh, Wednesday is Valentine’s Day! OK, got that…now, why is my wife making a cake on Wednesday? She’s not a big Valentine’s Day person…??? I told him that if making a cake is what is took to get him home mid-week…finally, he gets it. “Oh, you want them to think you’re like most women!” With a faux teary expression I say, “That’s right, honey. If you’re not here on Valentine’s Day, I will be so upset. Of all the days of the year, can’t you come home and have dinner on that extra special day with your family? Don’t you love me? Love us?”

I sincerely doubt this ploy will do much to affect my husband’s schedule. The snow and freezing rain we’re expecting on Tuesday and Wednesday might, though! Perhaps God’s gift to hard-working husbands and their families this year may be weather foul enough to close the roads. And when ice knocks down power-lines, what could be more romantic than snuggling under blankets in a candle-lit room drinking hot cocoa from water boiled on our propane grill?

02.09.07
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Stupid Mom Tricks

Yesterday at the orthodontist’s office there seemed to be a minor hullabaloo. Since it didn’t seem to be alarming and did seem to be under control (no mass hysteria), and didn’t seem to concern me, I happily buried my nose in my crossword puzzle book and paid it no mind. I guess, though, that my subconscious registered enough of the conversations that when Fritz and I stepped out of the office ten minutes later and I saw a woman and her 4 year old standing by her minivan and I glanced through the vehicle’s front windshield and saw a toddler buckled into his car seat, I realized immediately that she had locked her child in and herself out of the car.

“Help IS on the way, right?” I asked as we passed. I have AAA and would gladly have called and waited with her for them to come and rescue the baby. “Oh, yes,” she said. Good. I like to perform good deeds and all, but my kids were at a friend’s house and delaying my return by an hour would have been inconvenient. Not that my friend would have minded, of course. “What? You stopped to help some stranger with a baby locked in a car and made me feed your kids lunch? How dare you!” No, said friend would have done the same thing.

Fritz and I buckled up, but I just had to drive by the woman and roll my window down. “I’ve done the same thing,” I reassured her. “More than once!” She was visibly relieved. “Oh! I was starting to think I was the only one!” I smiled, waved and drove off. Nope. You’re not the only one, honey. Been there, done that.

02.08.07
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ST-HOUSE

Melissa Wiley has had some readers commenting on stupid kid arguments. Her kids had been fighting over the dryer lint! But other people’s kids have fought over things even more inane than that…like the two kids fighting over imaginary goggles. I can’t possibly top that.

But the thread did recall a most amusing argument that occurred over two years ago between Billy (then age 4) and Katie (then age 3). We were on a road trip which meant that my tolerance for such bickering would normally be very low. We had stopped at a gas station so Fritz could use the toilet. Katie started talking about one of the buildings nearby and referred to it, incorrectly, as a “house.” Billy told her it was a “store.” Back and forth they went: “HOUSE!” “STORE!” “HOUSE!” “STORE!” When Bill and Fritz returned to the car, he opened his mouth to silence it, but I stopped him – motioning that he should just listen.

Billy brought Fritz up to speed on the “discussion,” and so he began to assist Billy with convincing Katie it was really a store and not a house. They used logic, pointing out that people didn’t live there, it was a building wherein things were sold. They tried a forceful argument – shouting as loudly as they could. Thank goodness they were little and tightly buckled in or things might have come to blows.

Katie, even though she was only three, was not ignorant. She had realized early on that it really was a store. But she was apparently too proud to admit her mistake to her older brothers. She stuck with “house”. After a bit more, she realized she had both brothers in quite a snit, and kept arguing just for the fun of it. I know this to be true, because eventually the discussion went something like this:

“Katie, it’s a STORE…say, STORE.”

“I caaaan’t!”

“Come on, Katie, say ST-OOORRRRE.”

“ST-house.”

“No, Katie, STORE.”

“St-St-St-HOUSE.”

“Try harder, Katie, STORE.”

“I caaaan’t.”

My husband spoke up from the driver’s seat. “What can’t you say, Katie?”

“Store.”

I don’t know who laughed louder: Bill and I or the boys who couldn’t believe that Dad could trick her so easily. They tried to do the same thing, but she went back to her “st-house” routine. “Do it again, Dad,” they cried, and he might have done it. But since they now realized it was not an educational oversight that had her convinced a store was a house but rather that their little sister had managed to get them all worked up for her own amusement, the talk in the car quickly turned to other things like how much farther, what time is it, and what snacks do we have.

My initial instincts had been to squelch the debate from the beginning. After two or three rounds of “HOUSE!-STORE!” I was preparing my lungs for a loud, “CUT IT OUT!” I’m glad I was able to restrain myself (and Bill), because two years later the scene remains at the top of our funny road trip conversations.

I also understand now how my mom seemed to be “car-deaf” when we were kids. Smart moms go out and get one of those magic, invisible, sound-wave repulsers and install it between the front seats and the rear of the vehicle!