Integrity

It's a complicated idea. It is multifaceted and applicable in a variety of subjects: intelligence, morality, environmental, personal, cultural, artistic. Online, I found a site that reminds us: "The word "integrity" stems from the Latin adjective integer (whole, complete). In this context, integrity is the inner sense of "wholeness" deriving from qualities such as honesty and consistency of character. As such, one may judge that others 'have integrity' to the extent that they act according to the values, beliefs and principles they claim to hold."

Ben Franklin's virtues were his daily checklist. He decided, each evening, how "well" he had lived that day by checking off the following boxes:

1. Temperance: Eat not to Dullness. Drink not to Elevation.
2. Silence: Speak not but what may benefit others or yourself. Avoid trifling Conversation.
3. Order: Let all your Things have their Places. Let each Part of your Business have its Time.
4. Resolution: Resolve to perform what you ought. Perform without fail what you resolve.
5. Frugality: Make no Expense but to do good to others or yourself; i.e. Waste nothing.
6. Industry: Lose no Time. Be always employed in something useful. Cut off all unnecessary Actions.
7. Sincerity: Use no hurtful Deceit. Think innocently and justly; and, if you speak, speak accordingly.
8. Justice: Wrong none, by doing Injuries or omitting the Benefits that are your Duty.
9. Moderation: Avoid Extremes. Forbear resenting Injuries so much as you think they deserve.
10. Cleanliness: Tolerate no Uncleanness in Body, Clothes or Habitation.
11. Tranquility: Be not disturbed at Trifles, or at Accidents common or unavoidable.
12. Chastity: Rarely use Venery but for Health or Offspring; Never to Dullness, Weakness, or the Injury of your own or another's Peace or Reputation.
13. Humility: Imitate Jesus and Socrates

I've never thought of this before. "At the opposite ends of the moral spectrum are holiness and multiplicity. This pairing of polar opposites may seem odd at first, but it is solidly biblical. Holiness is so named because it represents wholeness or unity of personality. God is eminently holy. . .God, who is “the fullness of Being and of every perfection” (Catechism, no. 213), has the character of simplicity. For St. Augustine, “God is truly and absolutely simple.” Multiplicity is fragmentation, fractionalization, dispersion, dividedness." You know the phrase, "going to pieces?" Well, there you go.

This is a harder paragraph, but worth the thinking: "Because our unity of personality demands the integration of its parts, there is always the possibility that we can break up (“dis-integrate”) into discordant pieces. But what are these parts that must be integrated if the person is to be whole? There are many lines along which personality can be unified. There is the integrity between word and deed, friendship and fidelity, private life and public life, mind and body, head and heart." (http://catholiceducation.org/articles/religion/re0352.html) The italics are mine for emphasis.

It is my desire to have integrity, to possess it, to (as my Bible study friend says) CLAIM it! As I'm typing this, I can think of times and crossroads in my life where I have failed to be a person of integrity, where my actions did not unify my behavior to my beliefs, whereby I felt fragmented and disintegrated. I do not want to be like this, and I don't want people to see me this way. I want to be a woman of my word. If we are "as good as our word," I want to be dependable, good and honorable. I want to try to say "no" to things I cannot do, and yes to things I can. I want to mean what I say (not necessarily say what I mean!). I want to make friends with people who strive to act this way, too. I've recently experienced something that taught me email and texting are very, very, VERY easy and comfortable modes of shirking and backing out. How clever it was of someone to invent ways to "communicate" with people without ever having to talk to them! I just experienced, in mass proportion, people being untrue to their word, fragmented and disgenuine. It hurt me, it was unkind, rude and incredibly convenient for everyone involved. . .but me. It was not virtuous at all, and it proved a big wake up call to me! I behave this way sometimes, and I am going to try, very hard, to avoid this at all costs. No one called. . .I'm guessing no one could actually communicate with me in such a personal way! They all dropped like flies as the day pressed on--lots of apologies and excuses and explanations, but in the end, the message was still the same from everyone "I'm not going to do what I told you I would. I'm going to leave you out to dry while I go on with my more important plans." 

This is my promise, oh Dogwood Trail and Cosmic Power! I promise to try to be cognizant of my agreements, to be sensitive to making them and be a person of integrity. I promise to try to be the best person, the most whole person I can be, with the help of the Holy Spirit and good sleep. I promise to try to be a woman of my word and a person who can be trusted, depended on and admired. 

I'm printing out ol' Ben's virtues and taping them to my mirror.

Suffering

No one likes to suffer. We don't even like paper cuts, for heaven's sake. They hurt, and we would rather not be inflicted by them. We don't like to struggle, we don't like to hurt, we don't like to be confused. And I don't think these "preferences" are bad; I think they are human. After all, even Christ, as fully human, did not want to suffer! (Matthew 26:38-39)

So, I'm suffering. I'll just admit it. The reasons are private and even too intimate for me to feel like typing (odd, yes?!), but suffice it to say that we would like the prayers of heaven and the planets and all the stars. We would like to have something that might not end up being our gift, and, as an American, as a woman, as a human being!, I don't like being told "no, that's not possible for you." What? Sorry, but don't you know, Mr. God, that come hell or high water, I eventually get what I want? Or, I just change my mind and then that "becomes" what I want? Steve and I are suffering, and we just don't want to. It hurts and it is difficult, and I know in this cross we will find joy and some kind of peace, but I don't want to go through the cross to find the happiness. I'd rather it be given to me easily.

I heard in a talk the other day we should be like little children, with our hands open, patiently waiting for the gifts God will give us. We should stand, with our faces towards God and heaven, being grateful for what is freely given and not grasping at things or people or stuff or hopes or, I guess, anything (Phil 2:6). We are to gladly accept what is given to us by our Father and not reach for those cookies in the cabinet (even if they are Girl Scout ones). If we can be like this, we can live our lives in complete and constant thanksgiving for the gifts we receive, rather than being bitter or resentful or feeling like life is unfair for the gifts we DON'T receive!

Jesus and all the saints and the stars in the heavens, help me to suffer with courage and peace of mind and stillness, and help me receive your undeserved graces gladly!

The N Word

Please help me understand. Please explain this God-forsaken, backward, racist, twisted society we call America. Or maybe it's humankind.

A child gets on a school bus, on his way home. His bus is commonly referred to as the "ghetto bus" because all the black kids ride it. The black kids get on the bus each day, hollering "What's up, nigger?!" to everyone--black, yellow, green and white. The student claims they say this to any shade of boy--as a form of greeting, term of endearment, casual hello, salute. When this child, though, says it in return, he gets pushed down in the bus aisle and kicked. His backpack is thrown and ripped open and he's in jeopardy of suspension. Why? Because he said "nigger" and he's white.

I am so angry and disgusted. What has happened? We are afraid of each other. No one knows anyone anymore. Everyone has their face in an Iphone and their ears plugged by music. This weekend at our local mall (I feel like my grandmother), the young adults (do I dare call them students??) were walking around with their pants below their private parts, the zippers to their belly buttons and their tattoos, earrings, foul language and overbearing, invasive, entitled behavior assaulting my senses and my children. Jacob looked horrified. Steve looked worse.

What has happened? How did the bus--with all its American history steeped in civil rights--become racist itself? My child, my white son, is afraid now to get on his bus because he's not a "nigger." He can't say it, he can't even acknowledge they're speaking to him. He has to sit and take it and hope he's quiet enough no one notices.

Hmmm. Sounds like angry racism to me. Thank you, Mr. President, for breaking all the glass ceilings. The shards are falling on your very own children.

Trash

Ever feel like you just need to go out and pick up your trash? My dad used to make his way to our back garage door, slowly picking up the random trash that had littered our front and side yard. He would finish his run at the end of our street, then collect the lids or sticks or little plastic pieces that might have blown out of the garbage cans (or been strewn by the dogs?) into the grass. I found myself doing the same thing the other day, as I walked to our front door. Just picking up the loose ends. Little pieces that are not consequential in their own rights, but together, make for an unsightly welcome.

And, my English major mind couldn't help but compare it to life. There I was, picking up the garbage. And people do it everyday, all the time. Don't we do it with our literal selves, too? Sometimes, it's just what is required. We have to go out, or go in, and pick up the unnecessaries, the things that have gotten in the way, the things that have littered our soul or our heart or our mind and recycle the heck out of them.

We heard this past week at a MOPS meeting of women and mothers searching to be better and kinder and simpler and smarter (and a million other things) that we must learn, as St. Paul preached, to be content. To seek it out and cling to it. Not settling for, but settling in. That idea helped me breathe this week. It helped me relax around the clutter or annoyances or mistakes or shortcomings and find contentment. This is not my strong suit--it's genetic, actually. That guy who picked up the trash--yeah, not a content, settled individual. :) He passed it on to me, though in a milder version, like Crystal Light. Maybe, hopefully, my kids will be normal? So, I must seek and want to be content. And it's hard, for there is always, always trash in the yard.

Out of the frame

Are we living our lives in the periphery? Are we being an audience member to our life? Are we choosing to be the understudy, when we should be the leading lady? Are we choosing to lead a passive, absented main life, while the rest of it, the stuff that matters, gets shoved to the side to be seen, when convenient, in our periphery, in our rear view mirrors?

It occurred to me the other day the roles have reversed: Steve and I stopped giving our kids remote games. They do not have any mobile devices except for Nick's phone, which is monitored and limited. They play the Wii on a very rare basis, and do not default to the chair facing their computer monitor. However, Steve and I, with our Iphones and kitchen computers, Ipads and laptops, seem to live our lives with our faces planted into some kind of screen. Playing a game, writing an email, searching for an answer, looking people up, looking people down. We spend our time with our family, except on rare occasions, with our phones very near our persons and the priority being its dinging, reminders, game pushes, etc.

Somehow, even family television night on Tuesdays looks like the four of us, watching big fat people lose weight, but there are two of us, really only listening to the show. We are devoted to the round three of a game, the email we've been waiting for, the crazy Wiki search of someone we just thought of--rather than the children and spouse in front of us.

Now, this is not all the time, clearly. But I've begun to notice it. And it made me wonder--will I look back on my life, this precious time of my adulthood and parenthood, and see it in a limited way? Will my memories, literally, be from the perspective of one looking down, rather than one looking at? A friend of mine the other day said she had been advised to try to be a human being rather than a human doing. Tough, but I understand. I don't want my life, my memories, to be framed by a stupid handheld convenience. I don't want my kids to remember me always distracted, always saying "Now, what?" to them. I don't want them to think they come after the computer, after the funny Facebook picture, after the. . .

I think my iPhone needs to go in "toy timeout."

The Bathroom

It's the great equalizer. Ever notice that? That we all go in, cram ourselves into this tiny little box, and, to some extent, have private time with our private parts. Odd, yes? What will people say of this custom in a thousand years? That people who don't even know each other's names, will never ask and will never see them again, share a little room, with only a pit (and where does that go?) covered in this mysterious blue cleaner, a sink fit for a squirrel and a mirror that only children would use because they don't know better. I mean, really. Does anyone look rested and relaxed and happy in that mirror? The answer is no. You always look terrible. Haggard, with static-y hair and runny mascara (though you'd just fixed that river of black two minutes ago).

And you manage to free yourself from this little box you electively entered, and then you have to excuse yourself past five people too big to be standing in the aisle and graze your private parts (again mentioned) against their legs or stomachs or (sorry) private parts. Why is this? Why do we enter into this game?

Ellie, earning her keep.

Men with starched shirts, women with knitting needles. Boys growing silver, pulsating earbuds out of their heads and little girls with light-up shoes. They all ache to get into that little box, invade all kinds of personal space getting to it and away from and then contemplate, after enough V8, Diet Coke or apple juice to DO IT AGAIN.

In case of a water landing, Ellie is prepared.

The airplane's bathroom. We are reduced to our faculties and our most humble of needs when using this ridiculous contraption. And then using it with a toddler. I will never mention how much entertainment we can generate in a tiny little box with a sink, pop down counter and soap.

Fever Breaks

I wrote to a priest friend of mine the other day, needing some help and guidance and counseling. You know when you just need an impartial ear, someone who is faith filled and kind and also wise and sturdy? I wrote to him in a frenzy of emotions, my voice crackling hot with anger and confusion and hurt.

And then a few days later, when his response came, welcoming a time to meet and talk and pray, I felt foolish! "Oh, man. That was dumb. I've worked it out (not really) and gotten over the adrenaline rush (again, not exactly). I can do this on my own, and now, because of my big, helpless mouth, someone knows I was crumbling. Great."

It had all passed and I was no longer hot (just warm) with confusion and emotion. And I felt like the morning sunshine and fresh air had eased my temporary state of madness. It reminded me of babies and their fevers. They are so hot--even to the touch!--and sometime in the night, with a little deep breathing and cool air, their fever breaks. In the morning, they are happy, maybe a little frayed at the edges, but over the maddening and detrimental fever. It is (almost) like it never was. You see some reminders--the damp jammies, the tired eyes, the parched mouth, but, your baby is cool again and so, so much better.

If I could keep in mind that the fever will break, the pulsating red river of anxiety and anger will subside and its tide will pull back out--I'd be calmer. Ha! No kidding, Katie. We are beautifully and wonderfully made, yes! I know! But, heavens. I could do without the roller coaster beating of my heart.

Playing the Game

Responsibility is a crazy thing. It gives you such freedoms and opportunities, but the price is very high. Responsibility is a liberator. If you're responsible for yourself, you have all the power and potential you'll ever need--right inside your hands. Right inside your mind. Right there! You are responsible for your homework, then your gas money, your rent, then your choices and behaviors. We have all kinds of mechanisms that remind of us this freedom. Jail, to start. Spouse. Fines. Children. Rejection. Self-doubt. By being truly responsible, yes, you get to take the credit for your work, but you also bear the load of the consequences.

I remember the first time I appreciated the grave reality of responsibility. I was a little girl, accustomed to directing and bossing and controlling my little brother. To do anything. And he would. Then one evening, I was falling asleep, tucked in, warm and perfectly still. And terribly uncomfortable. I had to go to the bathroom. Really badly. Right now. All of a sudden. And I sucked in air to scream out to David, "Please! Please! Hurry and go to the bathroom for me!" And I realized. Oh no. I'd have to do it myself. For the rest of my life. He couldn't do it for me. No one could. I would have to take time out of my day and  my thoughts and my momentum and go to the bathroom. Everyday, multiple times a day. No one would ever do it for me, no matter how nicely I asked. It was all on my shoulders forever. What a responsibility!

A friend of mine wants to lose weight this 2012. She said to me this morning, "You know. No one can do this but me. No one is to blame but me. And no one can change this but me." That's a great, empowering feeling! I can do it! But, the flip side is, the cost is, no one else can do it, either. It's how I feel about making friends. And keeping them. Do I think they'll land on my doorstep, straight out of a pretty hot air balloon, with intimate knowledge of me and so happy to be my life long confidantes? I much prefer being home with my family and reading a book or watching football, but that is not going to get me any friends, just like eating nachos won't take inches off my waist. Doesn't work, I've tried.

Without the responsibility, though, (I try to teach my boys) that we'd then have no control at all. If it wasn't your "fault" you failed the test, if it was the teacher's or the classroom's or the friend next to you or your dog or the weather or the whatEVER, then how will you guarantee you won't fail it again? How will you learn from this and adjust your pattern? If everything always happens to you, you must suffer a terrible feeling all the time! That sounds awful to me, to really believe my life is up to others' whims and influences on it than my own fallible mind and self.  Isn't it better to be the keeper of that ability (as broken and imperfect and short it may be) than to be the perpetual victim of life's circumstances?

"I am working on a project that needs some tweaking." No one can do it but me. I hope to feel a sense of pride and accomplishment when I finish. There's nothing worse than the feeling of chucking that horseshoe towards the pin and hearing it thud into the grass, feet and angles away from the target staring you in the face. That is not the feeling I'm aiming for, but at least I'm the one aiming.

Litany of Humility

There is a song by Danielle Rose I listened to this morning called the Litany of Humility. It's a beautiful, gentle reminder of what tempts us and how much we need the grace of Jesus to deliver and protect us. These passions are so real and so visceral. They make themselves attractive and interesting, so intriguing and "true." It is a constant battle, one that I must struggle against and stay ever vigilant for. These desires invade our personal space and demand, like a forgotten friend or irritated parent, to be heard and tended to. They are so compelling! Her prayer goes like this:

From the desire of being esteemed,
From the desire of being loved,
From the desire of being extolled,
From the desire of being honored,
From the desire of being praised,
From the desire of being preferred,
From the desire of being approved,
From the desire of being consulted,

Deliver me, oh deliver me Jesus
Deliver me, oh deliver me Jesus, Jesus, Jesus

From the fear of being humiliated,
From the fear of being despised,
From the fear of suffering rebukes,
From the fear of being calumniated,
From the fear of being forgotten,
From the fear of being wronged,
From the fear of being ridiculed,
From the fear of being suspected,

Deliver me, oh deliver me Jesus
Deliver me, oh deliver me Jesus, Jesus, Jesus
Deliver me Jesus
Deliver me Jesus

That others be loved more than I,
Others esteemed more than I,
That others increase and I decrease, in the world's eyes,
That others be chosen and I set aside,
Others praised and I unnoticed,
Others be preferred in everything,
That others become holier than I,
Provided that I may become as holy as I should,

O Jesus, grant me the grace
Oh grant me the grace to desire it.
O Jesus, grant me the grace
Oh grant me the grace to desire it
To desire it
Grant me the grace to desire it.
Meek and humble of heart, Jesus
Meek and humble of heart, heal us
Meek and humble of heart, Jesus

http://www.lyricshall.com/lyrics/Danielle+Rose/Litany+Of+Humility/

I mean, let's be honest. Who wants to be forgotten?? Isn't that what our tombstones are all about? Who wants to be humiliated? Humiliated?! It's a terrible, degrading, most humbling feeling. We can all recount, upon immediate demand, the times in our lives we've felt humiliation. I never want to repeat those moments (A 3 minute experience in 5th grade comes to mind. Three minutes of my life and I will never forget the pain.). What grace and strength and peace we need to truly desire holiness, to truly accept that others are esteemed and we are not, that others are chosen and we are not, that others are preferred or blessed or counted lucky and we are not.

"Believe in miracles."

The List

I recently read about an exercise for "inspiration." It's fun, could be a game if you're the game type (I'm not necessarily when it comes to exercises, aka "assignments to improve yourself"). You make a list of 100 things you love. It's supposed to be something that's good for the psyche, good for your mental happiness, I guess. I found it in a book about right and left brain "work outs," and though I'm very comfortable with all the exercises for the left brain, I had to force feed myself the right brain ideas. But this one I could do. And the book was right, I admit--it was fun. So, I offer it as a "suggestion," as my grandmother would say (she would not mean it as a choice but as an imperative) for the ending of a year and beginning of a new chapter. Here is my list so far:

The List

1.          Coffee

2.          Babies’ feet

3.          Black eyed peas

4.          Ponds cold cream

5.          Powder

6.          Perfume

7.          Rain

8.          Puddles

9.          Crunchy leaves

10.        Acorns

11.        Tchaikovsky

12.        Sequins

13.        Leather

14.        Ballet shoes

15.        Blue ribbon

16.        Grosgrain ribbon

17.        Headbands

18.        Pearls

19.        Ruffles

20.        Lace

21.        Small waists

22.       Small wrists

23.       Meg Ryan

24.       Bookshops

25.       Librarians

26.       Roasted marshmallows

27.       Old friends

28.       Praying

29.       Bookmarks

30.       Popcorn

31.       Dogwood trees

32.       Easter

33.       Incense

34.       Magnolia blossoms

35.       Sidewalks

36.       Our Lady

37.       Rosaries

38.       Surprise parties

39.       The Nutcracker

40.       Fireplaces

41.       Dark wood

42.       Heavy blankets

43.       Argyle

44.       Ireland

45.       Pencil skirts

46.       Fake eyelashes

47.       Sugar

48.       “Punkin”

49.       Big Red chewing tobacco

50.       Nightgowns

51.       Fireflies

52.       Dandelions

53.       Indian paint brushes

54.       Names of nail polish

55.       Lipstick

56.       Gummy bears

57.       Books

58.       Football

59.       Chips and queso

60.       A good run

61.       A library carol

62.       The seam in ballet tights

63.       Giraffes

64.       Smell and stick of rosin

65.       Cheese grits

66.       Buttons

67.       Crayons

68.       Poinsettias

69.       Lists

70.       Mousse (the hair product)

71.       Bobby pins

72.       Pink spongy rollers

73.       Saying “good morning”

74.       Velvet

75.       Holding hands

76.       Peppermints

77.       Tiaras

78.       Lagniappe

I Didn't Know

In this Christmas season, there is much to be grateful for. And sad about. And worried and hopeful and disillusioned and contemplative. One of our friends lost his job a few days ago. A friend of Steve's knows the man in IL who was killed (along with his three children) by his wife last week, one day after school. I busy myself filling up the space under the tree, making sure I'm lighting the right candle on the Advent wreath and hosting a Bunco party with give-aways and spiked punch.

My favorite song this season is "Mary, Did you Know?" I heart "Santa Baby" (especially when my mom sings it), and all the renditions of "Baby, It's Cold Outside" make me smile (what a lovely time when a woman asked for a comb!). But, the reminder of what all this fuss is about is captured painfully in this song and video:

Mary, Did you Know?

And I didn't know. I didn't know He was her son, her baby, until I had Ellie. I had celebrated her life and honored her role in the story of the Universe, but I had not known that He was Ellie to her, He was a part of her. Did He look like His mommy? Did He have the same nose as His grandfather or the same mannerisms as His uncle? Did Mary look at Him and see her family, like we all do when we look at our children? Did He laugh like her? Were His hands her hands? I did not realize she looked at Him and loved Him and guarded and protected and encouraged and knew Him like we know our children. "When you kissed your little baby, you kissed the face of God." Don't we all, though? Don't we all hold our children and our confidence that no one loves like we do? That no one is capable of loving their children as much and as "good" as we love ours? How can they?

And that no matter how lost and distracted we get, that Precious Baby loves us more. I did not know in this great love, I did not know it existed or could be held inside one fallible and finite heart. May we stay in the presence of our Savior during this time of heightened commercialism and remember His poverty and humility. May we celebrate the loves of our lives rather than the things. May we kiss our children more and know the peace He brings.

Shoulders Back

"Katie. Remember. You are a student of the Judith McCarty School of Dancing." That is the last thing Leigh said to me before I walked down the aisle on my wedding day. And she knew those few words, spoken firmly in happiness, would convey all I needed to feel. Remember who you are. Remember what that beautiful, lovely, classy lady we called "Miss Judy" taught us in those years of ballet classes. And radiate that essence--that confidence and grace and beauty--as you walk to your future. And above all, for heaven's sake--keep your shoulders back and don't fall.

I was a ballet student for a time, but Miss Judy taught us to always be a student of class and dignity and loveliness and grace. I hold my shoulders back because I cannot imagine, even today, Miss Judy seeing me slumped over. My sisters and I gained invaluable lessons--yes, about ballet and posture and shuffle steps and forward rolls--but the lessons imparted to us came from dedicated, loyal ladies. They taught us how to celebrate and love and listen and never, never stop trying.

"You are a student of the Judith McCarty School of Dancing." It comes to me at the strangest, though most appropriate moments, when I later realize I most needed it. It's almost like a prayer; it is certainly a passionate reminder. This week I have heard it more often than usual. I heard it in the airport, when I was sure Ellie, Steve and I would never make it out of O'Hare in one piece. Ellie's blanket had kissed the floors of countless airport bathrooms and become friends with rental cars, Grandma's carpet and Embassy Suites free breakfast buffet. I let her clutch to it like she was going to meet its soul. Because it kept her from crying. That's the only reason. A doctor's appointment did not go as expected Wednesday, and somewhere, in the place of me that remembers the music and the smell of rosin and the way Miss Judy's feet sounded on the wooden floors, I found composure and strength. I was disappointed, confused and insulted, but I could honestly hear Leigh's confident voice. And I pushed those shoulders down and back. I held my manners and my tummy in, and I didn't cry until I relaxed on the steering wheel.

When life hands you lemons, we learned to pirouette through them. When we weren't given certain gifts--those of beauty or talent or spirit or natural confidence--we learned to put on a little lipstick, wear more glitter and tap to dizzying speeds (but never give the front row, as Miss Judy would say, more than they paid for :)). We learned, in other words, to find serenity in circumstance and potential in pain. And never at the cost of class. We were taught, above all else sacred and dear, to be a lady.

"Grace under pressure--definition of 'guts.'" E. Hemingway

Precious Gift

This morning, Steve is competing in a Tough Mudder 13 mile obstacle course. Because it's cold (number 1 reason) and it costs $40/person to be a spectator (ridiculous), we are waiting for him to finish and then meeting the entire team at a traditional spot to celebrate Tough Mudder (evidently): Hooters. Awesome. This week has been filled enough with explanations and questions and fears regarding sexual topics. Penn State (and ESPN) have filled my boys' heads with images and concerns and sadness. My family has been consumed by this. The last thing I wanted was another talk about sex. But God had other plans, and I was pleasantly humbled by them.

Jacob (this is predictable) followed me into my room after mass and asked me about Hooters. I described in benign terms what it was like, and the description led to a discussion about Father Tom's homily (while I was trying to go to the bathroom, change my shirt and remove my hose :)). It was, appropriately, about the sanctity of women and marriage and the most precious gift we're given of being man and wife and co-creating life. Jacob loves that stuff. Seriously.

While talking about Hooters, I taught him the "die on a hill" concept. This was not, I explained to him, something I was willing to die over. I could have made the situation difficult for Daddy, created a division when really he wanted some excited support from his family. I guess getting muddy and running through electrical wires and into ice ponds and wading through waist-high mud is something to be celebrated? At any rate, I conceded that we would bring two cars and if Hooters was like Buffalo Wild Wings, I'd take the fat cheeseburger and greasy fries (moral support for Steve's high energy morning). If we thought it didn't feel quite right for the boys, I could politely exit with them.

Jacob then asked (good question) what would be different between Hooters and a place I would die on a hill for. Enter strip club topic. We talked about marriage and respect and love and dignity and protection. . . And for all my verbosity, he was like Occam's razor with his understanding. "Why would a man go to a place where women are treated as objects when he loves his wife (imagine confused, quizzical brows)? Why would they look at naked women and expect their (big emphasis and sarcastic expression) wife to not be naked with anyone but them?" And then he said (he was on a roll), "You know. A strip club is taking our most precious gift and treating it like trash. And people pay to do that? You know what they need to do, Mom? Get. A. Life." Well said, little grasshopper.

I'm going to make a Hummingbird Cake now. God was busy this morning with Jacob.

Excuse Me

Ok. I've had it with the "it's not rude, it's just different" mantra of people who don't have manners and live above, oh I don't know, Little Rock? It is rude.

My kids and I went to the Liberty Science Center today. This is why I like living in/near a big city. It's what I always told my mom I would do with my kids if I lived near museums--take my kids to them. So, I do. And we love them. All 952 exhibits and 2,345,624 kids that come along with them.

When you bump into someone, run them over with your stroller, knock a baby down or step in front of someone else who is reading about the water frog's habitat, you should say "Oh! Excuse me!" I'm not asking for the really nice "Oh, gosh, sweetheart. I am so sorry! Excuse me for bumping into your precious little shoes! Aren't those just the cutest little things ever! Here, can you see the water frog if I pick you up myself??" I am asking for manners. Have them. Share them. Teach them. Practice them.

I don't care if you think that other person you just rudely stepped on, squashed, bashed, bulldozed or bumped is a spiritual being living a human experience. I don't care if you even believe in a God. I don't care if you think that person is valuable or worth-while or ugly or wrong or dumb or silly or too little or too big to be in the 2-5 year old exhibit where you play with rice and paint with water. Excuse your body from interfering with another body.

Nick commented later in the afternoon when we were all tired and spent from being bulldozed by 3 year olds in groups of 500, "You know, Mom. I don't like little kids. And you know. . . their moms aren't much better." No lie. He said that. 13 year old boy. And he was right.

People tell me all the time what nice manners my kids have. They don't have exceptional behaviors--they're just decent young men who recognize there are other people in the world. They say "thank you" when someone holds the door for them. They teach Ellie to say "please" when she'd like her milk. Clearly, they think, she has confused whining and thrashing her little hands for the patient signing of "please." They know it's just nicer to smile and take a deep breath and ask for something than to demand it with an obnoxiously high decibel yelp. Nick and Jacob say "yes" and "no" (they add the ma'am when speaking to Mamalise or me). They don't say "yeah" or "huh??" or "what" or "nope." I know the time will come when they themselves get confused regarding manners and hormones, but I will be there to gently remind them. :)

I'm not expecting them to know which side of a lady to walk on (the left) or which fork to pick up when eating salad versus meat versus shrimp (depends on how the table is set). I am expecting them (and all other children while we're at it) to treat others with dignity and patience and deference. They're human beings, too, you know.

"Don't compromise yourself. You're all you've got." J. Joplin

How I Was

I like lists. A lot. My self-esteem bubble is not that robust, but checking off lists makes it tolerably full. I even put things on lists that I know I HAVE to do, but somehow a longer list looks better (no one is looking at this but me, of course, so what does it really matter, Katie???) than a short one. Quality over quantity, like I always say!

There's a burden, though, that comes with the glory of the list. You have to finish it. Or you fail. You have to accomplish all, not some, of the items on the list during the day. You may not add as you go. So, if in the morning you didn't plan to do something really time consuming or stupendous like waiting in line at the post office for the commemorative stamps but you did. . .good for you. But it is not list worthy. Those are the rules. And it can be as easily oppressive and daunting as satisfying and gratifying.

What if we made lists in the evening rather than the morning (you know, like starting a diet on a Tuesday rather than a Monday? It's a radical thought, I know.)? And what if, it recorded what I was rather than what I did? I know practices are typically reserved for Lent, but I've got Advent to work with in just a few weeks, so I'm going to try out the exercising in December rather than March and see what happens. I'll practice making the backward kind of list. How was I today? Was I kind or short-tempered? Was I gentle and compassionate, patient and present? Was I busy or bored? Was I reflective or preoccupied? If that little dash in between is all that represents our living, maybe I should try being as I'm doing? How will I be when I'm standing in the proverbial (and literal) grocery store line, the most boring and trying of all activities? How will I be when Jacob is trying to earnestly describe his lego landing gear he just built and I DON'T UNDERSTAND WHAT HE'S TALKING ABOUT and frankly, don't really care? How will I be when I'm cooking or thinking or sliding down the slide or talking to my family? Will I be intentioned and attentive or distracted and dismissive? My behavior and my being-that is what I'll write down. Not the actual doing it at all.

My parents visited over the weekend. I hate it when they leave. It's like a piece of you goes with them. And it hurts, dag-gommit. It just aches. You get over it, clearly, but you kind of don't want to. I love them, and so do my boys. I love that they laugh and eat good food. I appreciate that they love their kids and accept each of us for what we are and what we're trying to become. They see the potential in us and celebrate, truly, the lives we've created. They have opinions and "suggestions," but how can they not? They raised a good family and were good at being.

A friend recently emailed me a little reminder of our "responsibilities" and demands on that list. "It is interesting," he said, "to think of life in the terms of flying a kite, suspended by the winds of choice and circumstance.  Many of us think the tethering of the string as a hindrance; our parents, our spouse, the amount of money we have, the responsibilities demanded of us. But in reality, the restraint of the string is the only reason we fly." 

Oh, to the heavens above, thank you for my life. Thank you for my roots. Thank you for help making me a kite (please let it be a thin one with vertical not horizontal stripes) who floats and dips and soars because of the string.
 
"If I won't be myself, who will?" A. Hitchcock