03.20.09
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Crossing Over

Coming-of-age genre films are not very popular in this house, mainly because they always seem to involve tears. Some people, women usually, like to have themselves a “good cry.” Not I. There is no such thing as a good cry. Crying gives me a headache. Crying makes my eyes red and puffy. Crying produces gobs of snot. And if the movie was a family film, then I have a passel of red eyed, snotty kids with headaches that I have to comfort when it’s over.

No, thanks.

Unfortunately, my life is a coming-of-age movie. I’m not the star, of course. I have already come of age, and then some. No, I am watching my children come of age. And my eyes are red and puffy.

Last night, Fritz crossed over from Cub Scouts to Boy Scouts. Earlier in the day, I had, as acting Awards Chair, filled out his Arrow of Light award. It was emotionally difficult, and I told him so.

“I’m growing up, Mom,” he told me, smugly.

That he is.

At the crossover ceremony, they have a small symbolic bridge. It’s a little wobbly, and some of the boys stepped gingerly to keep their balance. Not Fritz. I think only one foot actually touched the bridge as he skipped over it. He’s ready to take on the world. The Boy Scout world, at least.

But I am left recalling how much I cried when he cut his first tooth: “He’ll never have that gummy smile again!” I want him to grow up. I want him to enjoy his life. Naturally, if he were 11 and still had his gummy grin, I would be upset. But the joy I have in watching him grow is tinged with a sense of loss.

These are one-way bridges, and I’m left on the other side.

03.19.09
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Cookie Mobster

You might think that the Girl Scout cookie business is a pretty simple one. Some cutie in pigtails shows up on your doorstep, sweetly smiles, and the next thing you know, you’ve agreed to spend an exorbitant amount of money for more calories than your hips will know what to do with. Several weeks later, same girl comes back with a pile of boxes and walks away with enough money to feed the nation of Uganda for two weeks.

People order cookies, distributor fills the orders, little girls deliver the orders. Very straightforward.

And at the beginning, you would be right.

But.

The distributor won’t give out boxes of cookies, they want to give out cases of 12. And then there are all those customers who don’t know any girl scouts. That’s where booth sales come in. The girl scouts know they can reach many many more people by selling cookies in front of stores.

So troops order some extra cases and round up their orders to the next case load, and then they take the extras and sell them off. Even that seems easy.

But.

After a week or two of booth sales and parents with additional orders, the Troop Cookie Manager (or Cookie Momster, as I like to call myself) starts to panic because the supply of one or two types is dangerously low and the supply of other types is dangerously high.

And this is when the Cookie Momster turns into the Cookie Mobster and starts doing Cookie Drug Deals.

Last Thursday, just as I was beginning to feel the beginnings of the headache and fever that was to plague me for a week, fellow Mobster Rachel called me. Her sources had assured her that a local area cookie depot would be fully stocked and opening first thing Friday morning. Did I want anything?

She agreed to get me a case of Thin Mints and a case of Do-Si-Dos and would also give me 6 boxes of her own Do-Si-Do supply. In exchange, I would give her a case of Samoas. We worked out the details of the switch.

Rachel had also tipped me off about Betty who needed Samoas and Tagalongs. I had these a-plenty, so I called Betty and she agreed to take 3 cases off my hands.

The next morning, I realized I needed some Trefoils, but it was too late to have Rachel pick them up. Racked with fever (Friday was my worst day, I think), I loaded the kids up to work these exchanges and we headed out. At the last minute, I checked my email, and some woman named Colleen had Trefoils for the taking. A quick phone call secured me 7 boxes.

So, off we go. First, the exchange with Rachel. Then, the pick up with Colleen. Then I sat in a parking lot for a bit until a mom (not a Mobster, just a mom) picked up $140 worth of cookies. Then, off to Betty’s house for the final drop off of the day.

And the deals continued. Mobster Kelly sent her husband Jim to pick up a case of Tagalongs from me at our last booth sale on Sunday. After my final inventory, I sent out an email offering one last case of Samoas. Within seconds, a Mobster using her Blackberry put in a claim. That exchange will take place tonight.

And that will be my last cookie drug deal. This is no kind of life for a decent mom. I got lucky in that most of my extras were Samoas – one of the most popular brands. Next time I might be stuck with 4 cases of Sugar Free Chocolate Chips, and then what? No, much better to retire on this good note with a successful run.

And if I never see another Thin Mint again, I’m okay with that.

03.17.09
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Lenten Crosses

I gave up meat for Lent, which really isn’t that hard for me.

I gave up cheese, which is a bit of a challenge, but certainly isn’t a Herculean task.

I gave up milk, and had to practice patience while waiting for my black coffee to cool to a consumable temperature. To this, I have adapted.

I gave up caffeine, and felt the addiction work it’s way out of my body within the first week. I was no longer yawning all day long.

I fashioned a cross that suited me, and although it wasn’t fun to carry it and Lent seemed like a very very long time, it was a cross I chose, and I was comfortable with it.

But then I got sick. I still am sick. I rarely get sick. I don’t have time to get sick.

Nonetheless, I am on Day 5 of fever, lethargy, chills and coughing. My head hurts, my throat hurts, and my ears hurt (even though the doctor says it’s not my ears that hurt, it’s my lymph nodes).

And because I don’t have time to be sick, I have spent way too much time in the cold, rainy weather shivering as I look at azalea bushes for sale or manning that last blasted cookie booth in an unheated vestibule.

I have come to understand how back in the days before we had insulated windows and draftless heat throughout the house people would catch their death of a cold. How did they ever get truly warm?

And it’s not just me. Katie started us off on this adventure, but she seems to be well on the road to recovery. Billy was so sick on Sunday morning that he was begging for Anointing of the Sick. I haven’t seen him yet this morning, but yesterday he was doing well and responding to the regular rotation of Advil and Tylenol. Even little Mary had a low fever for two days.

Poor Jenny, though, was flushed and lethargic all day yesterday. Even with medicine, she’s not gotten her temp below a hundred, and it’s all I can do to get her to sip some water.

And so, that custom-made cross of my choosing has been laid aside. Instead, I have this other one.

I didn’t pick it. I don’t like it.

But it is mine.

03.14.09
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Thought for the day

Why does the phrase “working feverishly” mean to work hastily and with great effort…

…when in reality, working feverishly means sluggishly, gingerly or from a fetal position on the couch, preferable in a darkened room with hushed sounds?

Note to self: do not stop the ibuprofin regimen just because you woke up feeling better. Such delay in medication means you crash that much harder when the day gets underway.

Happily, Bill is either at the airport or in the air on his way home from Germany. He won’t get home until after bedtime, but perhaps having that light at the end of the tunnel will sustain me.

03.12.09
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Archbishop Chaput on Catholic Political Vocation

Long, but excellent text of a speech:

“Tolerance Is Not a Christian Virtue”

One of the words we heard endlessly in the last U.S. election was “hope.” I think “hope” is the only word in the English language more badly misused than “love.” It’s our go-to anxiety word — as in, “I sure hope I don’t say anything stupid tonight.” But for Christians, hope is a virtue, not an emotional crutch or a political slogan. Virtus, the Latin root of virtue, means strength or courage. Real hope is unsentimental. It has nothing to do with the cheesy optimism of election campaigns. Hope assumes and demands a spine in believers. And that’s why — at least for a Christian — hope sustains us when the real answer to the problems or hard choices in life is “no, we can’t,” instead of “yes, we can.”

03.11.09
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Lamentations

Although I weigh myself most mornings, it is only once a month that I record that number and about a half dozen body measurements, since inches mean more than weight (or so they say).

Compared to last month, I am down 4 pounds. Nice.

Except those measurements tell the truth I already suspected. The size 8 jeans are still just a bit snug. Where were those 4 pounds lost? Hips? Thighs?

No. Alas, I lost them on my chest.

{sigh}

03.10.09
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And what do stem cells have to do with the economy anyway?

Stem cell decision exposes religious divides:

Princeton University politics professor Robert George, a Catholic and another member of the Bush-era Council on Bioethics, said the moral argument over embryonic stem cell research is not rooted in religion but in ethics and equality. He said research shows that an embryo is a human being in its earliest form of development, so we have to ask ourselves whether all human life should be treated equally, with dignity and respect.

“I don’t think the question has anything to do with religion or pulling out our microscope and trying to find souls,” George said. “We live in a pluralistic society where some people believe there are no such things as souls. Does that mean we should not have moral objections to killing 17-year-old adolescents?”

I’m a bit shocked that Princeton University, home also to infanticide-promoter Peter Singer, permits a pro-life professor on their roster. Or maybe he’s the one guy in there so they can call themselves “diverse.”

Over and over and over again, I hear the refrain that “we’re not sure” when human life begins. So, of course, naturally, we’ll err on the side of caution and protect that fetus, right? Wrong.

Over and over and over again, I hear the refrain that we need to “relieve human suffering” and that these embryos are “unwanted” and would be “destroyed anyway.” Yet most of us would cringe at the thought of the elderly, enfeebled and on life support, being treated like a commodity.

If we can not treat all human life with dignity, then we can not expect such treatment for ourselves. None of us has the right to classify any other human being as inferior. And yet, when you set aside this basic tenet, that each human life has equal worth, and begin to rank people, born/unborn, healthy/unhealthy, young/old, man/woman, able-bodied/handicapped, you quickly become an oppressor, no better than Dr. Mengele, willing to use other people for your own personal gain whether that be money, health or fame or some other personal pleasure.

Either you think it’s ok to use people, to treat people like a natural resource ready to be exploited, to evaluate someone’s worth based on how productive or useful they are to society, to agree that a majority vote is acceptable in determining which basic rights any human gets to retain, or…

…you think that each human being is endowed with certain inalienable rights, to include life and liberty, and as such should be afforded with basic human dignity to include respecting their bodies both in life and in death (we do not simply heap people in mass graves unless urgently, medically necessary).

And if you think that all human beings have an equal worth (and Peter Singer does not), then you better be erring on the side of caution. It is only for the humble to equate themselves with a “clump of cells,” but the inverse of humility is pride, and if you choose pride, remember when you find your own intrinsic worth in question (and if you live long enough, you will eventually get to “old age”) how you treated your fellow man.

03.06.09
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Mini-Me, Mini-Mom

“What’s the matter?” I cooed at the baby as I extracted her from the high chair. She was covered with her dinner, apparently had had enough, and didn’t much care that I was not done eating.

As I whisked her off for a necessary bath, I heard my three oldest children give their opinions.

“She’s just tired,” said the sage 10 year old.

“She has been pulling at her ears,” reminded the clever 7 year old.

“She’s cutting molars, too,” offered the wise 9 year old.

Well, if one must have four mothers, it is good that they are ready to make excuses for you.