My children surprised me with this video last week. They decided to offer our litany this month to our family's special saints. This one's a keeper--those dear voices do me in every time. (Apparently, even Karoline's favorite doll has a patron saint.)
Blessed Feast to you all!
After weeks of laundry and buckets and dealing with the virus-from-hell Williamsburg, I thought we were in the clear. Apparently not. This is how I found Felicity yesterday. Poor dear.
A few weeks ago, we had a fingerpainting party in the backyard.
My neighbor came over and brought with her an teenaged exchange student from France who was staying with her family for awhile.
The girls "painted" and we chatted. And a good time was had by all.
Our French visitor commented that she had never seen anything like it.
Later that evening, Katie said to me, "Mama, didn't you say that C was from France?"
"I did. She lives in France with her family and is visiting to have a chance to practice English."
"And don't the French have all that really good art. You know, like Monet and the Versailles and everything?"
"They do. Lots of very fine art."
"Then how in the WORLD could she never have heard of fingerpaints? Can you believe that? She's lived her whole life and never, ever, fingerpainted.
Amazing."
From May 1998
Last weekend, I had the distinct privilege of serving breakfast to five six-year-olds. They had just "camped" in the basement because it had rained for days and days prior to this much anticipated campout birthday party. They had left Jimmy, Christian's godfather and their great protector from basement monsters and other such things, asleep in his sleeping bag and ventured upstairs for breakfast. Between bites of chocolate chip pancakes, the children discussed really weighty matters.
Alex, who had just turned six a few weeks prior, commented to Christian, the current birthday boy, that "Six is the best age to be."
Matt, who has been six nearly a year, disagreed. "Six is fine," he said, "but seven is better. When you're seven you can have first communion." Matt has just been to his cousin's first communion and was duly impressed.
"Yeah," agreed Kevin, who is nearly seven, "but first you have to have first confession."
They pondered that prospect for a while and Christian's cousin, Catie Lea, asked, "Why do you have to be seven to have confession?"
"Probably because the priests all decided that by the time you're seven you've done enough bad things to make a list," said Christian solemnly.
"Hopefully," ventured Kevin, looking concerned, "we can read the list by the time we're seven."
By this time, I was in the kitchen wishing I had this conversation on videotape. They were all so earnest one would have thought they were middle-aged men discussion the prospects of world peace. Except the children were not colored by years of living in an adult world. Everything in their world was decidedly simple.
Later that day, Christian was on the front porch with his buddy Victor, who had just flown in from England for a visit. It never ceases to amaze me how children can just pick up a friendship right where they left off, regardless of time or distance. These two had several philosophical discussions during the week Victor stayed with us, but the one that afternoon was particularly amusing.
"Cool, look at all these ants," exclaimed my gentle son. "Let's stomp on them."
"Christian, God made the ants and God made you. Now He wouldn't have us smashing them would He?" chided Victor in his very endearing British accent.
"God made cows, too, Victor, and you went to McDonald's in the airport and ate a hamburger for dinner, didn't you?"
I love this age! The last remnants of babyhood have disappeared from their once round faces and they are taking an increasingly sophisticated view of the world. But they are so trusting and so innocent. Life is coming into clearer focus; perhaps it's as sharp as it will ever be. Soon, enough, it will be confusing again. Confession will be real and necessary and debates will be over issues much bigger than ants. All in good time. For now, I agree with Alex.
Six is the best age to be.
The other day, I happened upon an overstuffed envelope filled withmy old columns. Most of them pre-date my time on the internet. I enjoyed some quiet time, re-acquainting myself with the young wife and mother who wrote those columns. And since I'm in need of a bit of a blogging break, I'm going to share her with you in the next few weeks. I hope you are blessed.
From November 20, 1997
For Mother’s Day, our friend Jim, who is Christian’s godfather, gave me a votive candle holder and some aromatherapy candles. The candles were supposed to dissolve stress in the lives of those who inhaled their fragrance. About a month ago, my sons were playing soccer in the house. The “indoor” soccer ball hit the candle and it went sailing across the wood floor, to be shattered when it hit the wall. My rowdy gang grew fearfully silent and all eyes fell upon mom.
A very brave nine-year-old dared to break the silence. “Geez, you know things are bad when your stress candle breaks.”
I looked up from the mess, grim-faced, and burst into laughter. Michael had effectively broken through the anger and used humor to defuse the situation.
One of my favorite proverbs is “A cheerful heart is good medicine.” My children have taught me to laugh, by their example and their inspiration. Some people are born laughing; they have wonderful senses of humor, laugh easily and make people laugh. I was a rather solemn child. But my kids make me laugh all the time. Laughter really does make us all feel better and childhood seems much funnier this time.
Patrick, our third boy, is our resident clown and he has held that position since before he could talk, though his baby sister is an able understudy. When we moved into our new house, Patrick was a little over 18 months old. He observed the comings and goings of various servicemen and added their titles to his ever growing vocabulary. As I was retrieving him from the car one day that summer, I noticed an ominous wetness on his bottom.
“Oh, Paddy, your diaper’s leaking.”
“My diaper’s leaking? Quick call the plumber; I’ve got a leak!” We’re still laughing about that one.
Christian is usually the great philosopher. Serious like his mom, his humor runs deep. Occasionally though, he is so earnest, it’s funny. His friend Kevin is one of four boys and has two older sisters. Christian has decided that this is the perfect family because they fill the van and older sisters are nice to little brothers. We have explained to him that, try as we might, there will be no older sisters in his future.
He thought he had the perfect solution when he ran excitedly into the kitchen one day. “Mom, I just saw on TV how we can send 72 cents a day to these people in a poor country and they’ll send us a kid. We can ask for a boy or a girl. (I’d pick a big girl.) Can we buy two?”
“Christian, they don’t send you the child. They just use the money to help the child.”
“Mom, I know they’ll send them to us. I think they come UPS.”
If only it were that simple.
I gained a greater appreciation for the gift of laughter that my children give me continually early one morning when I inadvertently shared it with strangers. After driving my husband to work, I took the children to a bagel store in the heart of many business offices. We were clearly out of place amidst the rushed, suited, early-morning clientele. My children chatted with each other, happily unaware of workaday woes.
Patrick was in his prime, telling us stories with all the expression he could muster. He has a flair for the dramatic and his gestures and flirtations had caught the attention of several other customers. They were laughing so hard they held their sides. As we were leaving, one man stopped me. He apologized for eavesdropping and said, “When I saw a lady in here with four kids at eight in the morning, I thought you were nuts. But I’m really glad you came. That little boy made my day.”
As I buckled him into his seat, Patrick was confused and wanted to know why everyone was laughing at him. I explained that he had been blessed with a tremendous gift. He was able to tell stories and to use words to make people laugh and laughter was a wonderful thing. Michael caught the drift of the message and began to tell Patrick all the times that Patrick’s antics had made him happy. We laughed together all the way home and I thanked God for sending me angelic clowns disguised as children.
The other day, I happened upon an overstuffed envelope filled with my old columns. Most of them pre-date my time on the internet. I enjoyed some quiet time, re-acquainting myself with the young wife and mother who wrote those columns. And since I'm in need of a bit of a blogging break, I'm going to share her with you in the next few weeks. I hope you are blessed.
I'm Elizabeth. I'm a happy wife and the mother of nine children. I grab grace with both hands and write to encourage myself and others to seize and nurture the joy of every day. I blog here with my daughter, Mary Beth, a wholehearted young lady on the brink of adulthood.
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