crazedparent

Things I love: My fake wedding band...

Back when Seven was playing Fall Ball (baseball in the fall for you non-baseball folk), Q. and I would poke around the other park facility while we waited for practice to end. One afternoon, I spied an empty field, perfect for an imaginary ball game between me and Q. Only one problem stood between us: a fence.

Q. was already climbing said fence when I decided we both could hop over it to get to the field. I helped him get to the ground. (Yes, okay, I taught my kid to scale a fence. When he gets in trouble 10 years from now for climbing a similar fence, I know it will be all my fault.) My turn arrived. I was free and clear until I jumped to the ground and my wedding ring got caught on a wire.

In my head, I could hear my mom: "Mija, that was just a little message from God. Entiendes?"

Over the course of the next few days, my finger swelled up and I could barely get my wedding ring off. Once the swelling went down and the cut healed, the scar tissue left behind made it impossible to wear the ring. The entire setting was now to small to fit over the scar. To the jeweler it went.

(This is turning into a really long story.)

Last week, I was called into to tape a segment for the show "Home with Lisa Quinn" on Live Well HD. As I was gathering my props, I realized I wouldn't be wearing my wedding ring on national television. This bothered me.

Praise sweet Jesus for Target. While I was strolling the aisles breathing the piped-in air that makes you buy things you don't need but must have*, I found this lovely faux gold ring that perfectly fit my wedding ring finger. It was meant to be (for only $7).

I wore the ring. We taped the segment (to be aired over the next week or two). And on my drive home from the studio, the jeweler called: my rings were ready.

Curses! I love that fat chunky ring!

And so back to the big, gold hoops earrings and all of my other gold bling. Because I love that fake wedding band.

*Target does not pipe in air that makes you buy things.**

**Just don't stare too long at the red bulls eye when you're in the store.

Catholic Guilt: I want my money back...

It's nearing the end of summer vacation. Okay, I'm in denial––it's four weeks away from the first week of school. But I believe in the power of positive thinking. And if I believe the end of summer is near, perhaps that will make me tolerate my kids' spinning in circles in the living room, kitchen and hallways because, you know, they can't find anything better to do. "Awww, someday I'll miss them being at home with me on summer vacation," I say to myself. I'm still waiting for it to work.

***

"You need to find something better to do than bugging the dog or your brother," I assert with a sigh. "Am I to believe that can't find anything else to work on? You are Mr. Imagination."

He buries his head into the white fluffy comforter on his bed. "Mom," he says, only it comes out "Mooooom" and I suddenly feel like I'm twelve and hearing my own voice coming from his vocal chords.

"You're just wandering around the house. It's okay to be bored sometimes. But you're not even trying NOT to be bored, " I continue. "You know that saying you like? 'It's better to be safe than sorry'?"

He nods his head.

"There's another one. It goes like this: "Idle hands are the work of the devil."

He stares at me, his eyebrows furrowed and his mouth scrunched. The signal that I've gone mad.

"Do you know what "idle" means?"

"Like "American Idol"?

"No. I-D-L-E. It means doing absolutely nothing."

He nods again, letting me know he gets it.

"Do you know what the devil is?"

"No."

"You don't know about the devil?" When I say "the devil," my hands automatically go over my head and I scrunch my fingers like horns.

"No."

"They've never talked about the devil in Religion class?"

"No."

I shake my head, get up from his bed, kiss his forehead and tell him to get ready for camp. All the while thinking what the hell happened to the devil in Catholic school? Do they not get that parents need them to teach the kids about the devil? And ideally, the message needs to be delivered by a nun wearing a habit and she needs to speaks in a serious, hushed tone and squint her eyes when she says, "devil." So the kids shudder.

"Just stop bugging the dog and your brother, okay? It only makes you get in trouble."

"Okay, Mom."

***

The devil is most definitely working his naughty magic in my house this summer. And laughing a wicked laugh because the joke is totally on me.

Catholic Guilt: Easter edition (a week late)...

Let us review several encounters with Catholic Guilt, hereby referred to as "CG":

CG example one: We arrived to church only a few minutes late and scurried past crowded pews and the rows of people lining the walls of the building.

CG example two, just because the following thought entered my mind...in church: If you're not a practicing Catholic throughout the year, you're always Catholic on Easter Sunday.

Half way through the service, Q's cheeks turned the color of a Red Delicious apple and my husband carried him outside for fresh air. About 10 minutes later, I received the following text message from the hubs:

Turns out the post-Mass doughnuts were already waiting for the the parishioners in the rose garden. Only father and his young son found them sooner than expected.

CG example three: Seven and I hurried to meet them.

I mean, really. One should never turn their back on a DEFCON 1 doughnut alert, especially if issued by your sweetie.

 

Catholic guilt: Giving up or giving in...

Again, I confess. Another Ash Wednesday passed, another Ash Wednesday without receiving ashes on my forehead. While my son goes to a Catholic school and while I can recite an entire mass verbatim, use the Catholic Guilt to instill a sometimes-necessary fear in my kid, and misbehave in Church like a child,  I still consider myself a mediocre in practicing the religion. But when Ash Wednesday arrives, I find myself trying to decide what (if?) I should give up for 40 days.

Self-denial and how one handles temptation are central to Lent. Last year, I tried giving up coffee. I lasted about 16 days without a morning latte. One year I gave up martinis (I succeeded). I've

given up chocolate, dessert and swearing. But lately I've been feeling like the end result of Lent should be about making one's self a better person. And self-denial doesn't need to be the means to the end. Really, self-denial during Lent becomes no more than an exercise of "practicing a religion" versus finding meaning in a situation. Case in point: Coffee is integral to my daily writing routine. Dessert? Please. I bake all the time. To not taste what I am cooking is sacrilege. And giving up both will, perhaps make my body happy. Giving these up would be ridiculous. They are not bad habits, they are part of a daily existence.

But rushing through life? Bad, bad, bad. And so easy to do.

As the ever-so-astute Leo Baubata writes, "It’s not often that most of us just sit quietly, and allow the world to pass us by."

I've decided that this Lenten season, instead of "giving up," I'm "giving in."  For 40 days, I'm going to let a few things pass me by. To live in the moment just a little bit more. To not utter the phrase, "Stop dawdling, we're going to be late." On the contrary: For 40 days, dawdling will be encouraged.

And I won't feel guilty about it.

Do you give things up during Lent? Or are you going to try a different approach this year?

 

Catholic guilt on July 4th...

The hubs and I were reminiscing about Fourth of July celebrations from the past. And since we go way back (nearly 20 years), we have lots of stories. They mostly end up with, "Remember when we used to just go out to dinner and have cocktails and chill and sleep in before we had kids? Sigh." And then we watch the boys do something cute and feel like heathens for thinking about how we'll get those days back when they are off to college.

When we were dating in our very early twenties (maybe even late, late teens), we went to a July 4th picnic organized by the hub's church. It was non-denominational but very Christian and very conservative.

The group, also in their late teens/early twenties, decided to play a game a volleyball. I played  in high school (my high school team was the best in the city and we ranked high in Northern California back in the day) so you could say that I was slightly competitive whenever I got on the court. Or in this case, on the grass.

I missed a ball and threw down a "Jee-zuz CHRIST" under my breath. A girl whipped her head around and stared at me with her eyes so wide that I swear I nearly jumped. What'd I do?

The game went on and I said it a few more times along with its variants: OH JEEZ. CHRIST!

The stare. Every. single. time. And she wouldn't talk to me. But the game ended, the picnic was over. Another July 4th gone by.

And then the hubs and I reminisced. One day, years later, it clicked.

Here was little liberal Catholic school girl at church picnic with some very devout young Christians saying the name of the Lord in vain. Not once, not twice. But many, many times. When I think back on the picnic, the volleyball game and that stare, it's really hard not to laugh. Not because I, you know, basically cursed in front of folks that don't even say "oh shoot!" But that I didn't even notice what I was doing. Seriously. This is how my entire volleyball crew dished on the court. A bunch of teenage Catholic school girls spouting off various forms of Lord-in-vain type jargon. I mean, yo, when you grow up hearing that all you need to do is say 10 Hail Marys and God will forgive you for swearing, what's to worry about?

Now I've got my little Catholic school boy son who walks around singing about peace flowing like the river while he does his homework and tells me about David and Goliath. And I don't say Jee-zuz anymore, mostly because I don't want him to end up in the Principal's office because he took the name of the Lord in vain.

Besides, sweet baby jesus works just fine. It's much more pleasing on the ears and kind of sounds like I'm praying...which means it's easier to cover up.

Happy Fourth of July and hope any strolls down memory lane make you smile as much as ours do.

Catholic Un-guilt...

Catholic school spring concert time brings unexpected musical happenings. Like your kid singing church hymns while he's dribbling a basketball or swinging a bat in the backyard. "Michael rowed the boat ashore, Allelujah," doesn't really jive with tossing a baseball around. "Peace is flowing like a river" as he builds with blocks kind of works. So, so sweet. But after weeks and weeks of hearing them, even Q. and I are busting a Church rhyme at random moments.

It had to stop.

I searched high and low for a song that would fully throw my Six into rock n' roll tailspin. A song that would do battle with the honey sweet lyrics and melodies and arise on top. A song that flat out could not leave his brain for years and years to come. A song that has made me decide a member of my family must learn how to play the drums soon so we can do a little cover jam session of this tune.

I am happy to report my plan was executed with great success (except for the drummer part...I'm still working on that).

In other news, one of my dear friends was cleaning out the home of her dad, who recently passed away. She came across something that made her immediately think of me. It's an old Rick Springfield concert video. I love friends like her!

The Catholic Guilt: Lightening will strike me down...

Six and I went to church this morning because of the post-Mass donuts since it was the first Sunday of Lent. As we stood up for part of the Mass, I looked on the floor of the pew in front of us -- a little girl was crouched on the ground playing with the toys she brought to stay entertained. The sun beamed gloriously through the stained glass onto the floor in between the girl and her dad's feet. It chose to illuminate the boobies of a near-naked Barbie-type doll. Lying on the ground. Directly in front of her dad's feet. In church.

As the priest spoke about saying no to temptation in our lives, I clearly wasn't listening or praying hard enough because I could not resist the urge to pull out my iPhone and covertly snap a photo of the light shining on bare-chested Barbie. Lying on the ground. Directly in front of her dad's feet. In church. 

I know. I'm going to hell.

But I have not touched coffee in six days. And I didn't eat meat on Friday. That has to count for something, am I right?

The Catholic Guilt: Lent -- forty days without...

I confess. Yesterday was Ash Wednesday and I didn't go to Church. The Catholic Guilt is lessened by the fact that I really did make every attempt to attend an 8am mass at my son's school. But it wasn't happening with his squirmy, loud little brother in tow. I'm no masochist, even for God.

I will even admit that I was sad to have missed Six's first time receiving ashes on his forehead. He was thoroughly jazzed to explain how it all went down with the ashes feeling like cool sand and how he accidentally wiped them off.

And then he brought up Lent, asking what we were going to give up to mark the 40 days and nights Jesus was in the desert. I explained that it needed to be something that was important to him, like say, sweets, dessert or maybe our Friday night movies. He wanted to give up teasing the dog and fighting with his brother, citing that he enjoyed doing those things so it would take away fun from his life. No really, he said those exact words. We settled on him trying not to chant "Destroy Buzz Lightyear" every two seconds. He's six, you know how it goes.

Even during my issues phase with being Catholic, I always participate in Lent. As a kid, it was always chocolate or some sort of candy that I didn't really eat all that much to begin with. Something easy. Nowadays, I dig deep to give up something that probably isn't all that good for me anyway. A vice, as they say, that causes a little turmoil and focus in the process of removing it from mi vida.

I share this because I know once I make it public, I'll force myself to stay committed to this challenge. Sort of like my swimming lessons. The online support has been amazing to my diving in and it's made a difference. And trust me, this Lenten challenge is going to cause me grief.

I'm cringing as I write this: I'm giving up coffee. No lattes, Mexican mochas or cappachinos. No Blue Bottle Coffee for 40 long, cold, tired days.

It's part of my morning routine, this Blue Bottle Coffee latte habit. My treat after a good morning swim. My little warm boost before I sit and write each day.  Gone, baby, gone.

On the positive tip, it's $3.50 a day that I will be saving for six weeks. Perhaps at the end of Lent I'll take all that cash and buy a little espresso maker and become a home barista. And I had already switched to decaf, so maybe it won't be that bad? Or not.

Adios, latte. It's been real.

Holy water in a school parking lot...

"Don't forget, we're bringing Luna to school tomorrow for the Blessing of the Animals."

"Mom, we don't need to bring Luna. I'm going to bring my stuffed animal that looks just like Luna. I can bring a picture. Miss X. said that would be okay too."

"Sweetie, she's having a pretty big operation in a few weeks. Our puppy needs to get the Holy Water sprinkled right on her fur. She needs a little extra special attention."

"But Mom, Miss X. said the blessings can travel."

We arrived at school on the Day of Saint Francis. The parking lot was filled with dogs big and small, a few cats, rabbits, a turtle and four goats. After the second bell rang, all nine classes lined up in a circle in the yard, with students accompanying their parents...and pets. The kindergarten class huddled around their room pets, two cute rats.

Five held on to Luna's leash with a grin plastered across his face, his resistance to bringing her long-since forgotten. He dispensed dog treats to his friends when they asked if they could pet her. "Here," he said, "Hold this in front of her nose and tell her to 'shake.'" His friends complied and so did Luna when she saw the food.

Under clear bright skies, the school pastor came out with his bucket of holy water. He recited a prayer and asked all of us to talk to our pets and give them our own blessings. He walked around the wide circle of pets and kids, sprinkling holy water on all the animals and their owners.

I knelt down next to Luna and whispered in her ear, "You stay healthy, okay puppy? Stop with all this surgery business." A bit of water landed on her shiny black fur and I smiled in relief. While not always a consistent practicing Catholic, blessings are a tradition I back with my entire heart.

I grabbed Luna's muzzle and looked in her brown, non-cherry eyes with some more words of protection.

"Stay healthy, pretty girl. And if you poop on my lawn or jump on my kitchen counters again, you're going to need more than holy water to help you out."

Red vines to the rescue...

I lie in bed Sunday morning as the light of day begins to peek through the cracks in our blinds. The dog is stirring in the playroom, she must have noticed the light too. But the kids are silent. Still asleep.

Perhaps Five hears my thought, the one that says, "Oh good, they're sleeping in. I'd love to sleep in." I hear the loud "thud" of him jumping off his junior loft bed. The sound of him scooping his five stuffed animals -- Footsie the Green Monkey, George the Bear, Alexander the Black Lab, and Miss Elizabeth the Mosquito Eater. And his blanket. His feet hustle across the floor, his bedroom door quickly opens -- and then slams shut. Damn, now Q. will be up within minutes, I think to myself. "Sorry," he whispers as he walks into our still mostly dark room. He clearly is telepathic.

Five climbs on our bed, crawls in between us and gets himself -- and his stuffed animal army -- situated. Thankfully, he's cuddled up and it appears he'll fall back asleep. Or at least stay content to be a snuggle bunny.

"Mommy, I don't want to go to church this morning," he whispers.

And so it begins.

Growing up Catholic and attending a Catholic school typically means that unless you are puking or contagious, you will be attending church every Sunday for the majority of your elementary school life.

It's usually not by choice.

In junior high, we would walk into class Monday morning and immediately receive a quiz about Sunday's homily or gospel...a test that weeded out who didn't attend Mass. Only after a while we would snag a missalette, which mapped out every Mass for the year. Or we would all scurry together before class and exchange information on the homily, ensuring that we would all pass our quiz....even if we didn't attend Mass the day before. There were a few times I missed Mass, or totally spaced out, and I'd swap homily details with some friends. But you had to be careful; if someone in class was pissed at you, you'd get a bad homily and fail the test...a fool-proof payback.

I think I asked my Dad every single Sunday if we could skip Mass, most likely because we would attend the 8 a.m. sermon. I wanted to stay in my Strawberry Shortcake jammies watching Sid & Marty Kroft Superstars on TV-20, not get dressed up and sit in a pew at the back an overheated church. I never could get out of it. So there I was, sleepy headed and bored out of my mind.

I have to hand it to my Dad though. He knew that the early mass was the quickest sermon of the morning, only 25 minutes long with an abbreviated gospel and homily...and no choir. You were in and out. Mom never joined us; it was Dad's job to cover Mass. I knew he really didn't want to go either. Before we'd leave the house, he'd tuck the sports section of the San Francisco Chronicle into his back pocket. One morning he was reading the Sporting Green (because it used to be printed on green paper), completely immersed in an article about the Giants. We were shoulder to shoulder because I wanted to read it too. Suddenly one of the mass volunteers tapped him on the shoulder from behind and we both jumped. He simply wanted Dad to help pick up the collection. But we were busted, and it marked the end of the Sporting Green joining us for any "Our Fathers." Dad made up for it by packing Red Vines in his coat pocket, handing one to me during a seated moment.

By the time I was in ninth grade at yet another Catholic school, my disdain for Sunday Mass was so fierce that when I found out I would never get asked -- or graded -- about going to church, I cheered. I only attended Mass for school functions. Over it.

Five is just at the beginning. I don't want the battle to start this early. For now, we'll stay in bed and listen to the birds. There will be no 8 a.m. mass for us. When the right time, we'll make it a regular event. We'll go to the later mass so he can see his friends -- and eat donuts after -- and learn that it's not about a dreaded routine. He loves the songs he's learning in school, the practice runs before the Kindergarten starts going to school masses in November. I'm hoping that will make him excited about church.

If not, I guess there's always Red Vines.