Mah Blog

If I were posting on here, I would have made a few more vitriolic statements about my vile disgust for spanking. But I wasn't. I think I did a fairly decent job of gilding my disdain.

Sharon Steele As it seems that this discussion is coming to a close, I will thank you all for a thoughtful discourse. For us, parenthood has been a constant evaluation and reevaluation of what is working and what is broken. This article reinforced my firm resolve that corporal punishment is an outdated form of discipline. Would we spank an Altzheimer's patient for wandering? Never. Why? Because our elderly have an intrinsic right to feel safe. Our children are entitled to the same respect. It seems to me that in an effort to go back to a simpler time (larger families, backyard gardens, bike riding, drinking from the hose, etc. ) we have thrown the baby out with the bathwater, so to speak. We know so much more about the psyche and the dignity of the human person now. Is the objective in parenting solely "obedience?" If so, spank on. I am quite sure that spanking will produce obedient children. If the objective is a deference out of respect and love? There are other ways to achieve that end.

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I'm Mad More than Sad

Read The Story Here

I don't claim to know how much other families shelter their children from the ills of the world. I can only tell you that I remember how it felt to be a kid and to be afraid of the dangers that seemed to lurk. When I was in Kindergarten a young, blonde girl was kidnapped from her own block in Northern California (where I lived at the time) when walking to school. My grandfather escorted me to and from school to ease my fears that something similar could happen to me.

When my brother was born and I was 5 years old, there was a rash of SIDS deaths. I remember being afraid to go in and greet my beloved baby brother in the morning in case he might have been claimed a victim of his slumbering. My parents explained to me the improbability of SIDS in a non-smoking household and made sure there was an open line of communication for when I became afraid.

This morning as I was drinking my coffee and checking my email, I came across an alert from the County Police Department regarding the elementary school where our neighborhood children attend. Someone had called in a bomb threat and the school wanted to alert everyone that the kids were being held in a "safe location," while they scoured the school for explosive devices and to "not come to the school to pick up your children."

Wait, WHAT?!

Not come to the school to pick up the children? That was some kind of joke, right? Where is a more safe location than with their mama? And while I understand that it would be a logistical nightmare to release the children to their parents en masse, I am certain that there could have been some sort of compromise worked out where once the "All Clear" was given, they could have checked the children out the way they would on a Half-Day.

If I wanted to come and pick up my children from a place where I sensed even the most remote possibility of danger, and was denied that right? I am pretty sure they would have more to worry about than some measly, improbable bomb threat.

Today I am thanking God that I have been afforded the privilege of homeschooling. While the children at the local school were being herded into a "safe location" without access to their families, we were eating breakfast together and thanking God for his bounty.

Stream of Consciousness

Health.
The Greeks toast to it. Some say it is the most important thing one can possess.
I am in superb health.
My daughter is not.
My back hurts every once in a while.
I wonder how adversely Western medication is really affecting our bodies.
Do we really need the flu shot?
I've been looking into a more holistic approach to my health.
I've started cooking with bones and garden herbs. No MSG, real sugars.
I went to a chiropractor today and he cracked my back.
He also inferred that manipulation can help with my daughters health problems.
I thought it over.
Then I was looking into some other alternative health stuff.
And I saw this:
Remineralize Your Teeth
which basically states that one can reverse a cavity without having to drill it.
My mother-in-law is a dental hygienist.
I don't think you can heal your cavities, either.
Is Western medicine borne out of the sheer reality that alternative medicines don't work?
I am going back to the chiropractor tomorrow.
Immediately following that appointment is my dentist appointment next door.

Walden 2.0

Kill Me - Why don't you?

We went to the woods because we wish to live deliberately. We wish to front only the essential facts of life: Our Lord, our family, our beloved friends, God's miraculous creation and all of it's splendor. We wish to impart it's lessons onto our children and make sure they know what nature has to teach. But, when we got to the woods, all we found were boardwalks and overlooks and rule signs and thousands and thousands of people. And as long as I live, I swear on my honor, that I will never go to Great Falls on the Maryland side again. So that when we die, we will know without doubt, that we have experienced real life and authentic nature and we will not discover that we have indeed not lived.
                                                      ~Sharon Kieffer Steele, 2012

Spoooooky

So I was just sitting here, right? Minding my own business. Just perusing the internet to bide my time when all of a sudden - out of nowhere - I got the most mysterious gust of foot odor.

And my feet don't stink. Ever.

Don't you think that is spooky?

And that is all.

Self-Portrait

You knew I'd be back. I go through phases.

Stand Down, Spongebob!

Grant and I do some of our best talking either on the telephone or while riding in the car at night. It probably has something to do with not having to look at one another directly in the face while speaking that makes the conversation be a little bit more flowy and candid. So tonight we were driving home from dinner at his parents house (about a 30 minute trip) and I was telling him about a story about a blogger who used to have a really funny, thought provoking little blog going and how it has gone completely south. I was searching for the right words to describe it, "... and now it's like... like..." and he said, "Like yours?"

I feigned shock and shot him a "How Could You"-face but the truth is I know what he meant. He decided to enlighten me anyway, "Well, you were pretty funny there for a while, but now it is all just filler crap." Touche.

Well, the truth is I am not a writer, but sometimes I like to write. I am not a photographer, but sometimes I like to take pictures. These things pass into and out of my life from time to time, season to season, and I am completely in touch with how fickle I really am. But when I really needle it down to the truth I must confess: the reason I lag in creativity right now is because the fall seasons started on the television and I have been using my evening brain drain for that instead. Is it a less worthy use of my time? Oh, I wish I could say no, but the truth is yes.

Upon having this realization, I started to think again about the amount of time my kids have been spending in front of screens - television, computer, video games - and how I don't want that for them. I started to think again about the over-branding of our culture and how children don't want anything to do with anything that doesn't boast the label of something that is familiar to them. Forget about ethnic food - kids won't eat anything without a McDonald's label. Don't even think about taking them to the theater - kids don't want to watch anything but the latest installment of the GI Joe saga. All of these familiarities provide them with a sense of belonging, recognition ... comfort, comfort, comfort. I just want my kids to be able to think outside of all these labels. To interpret freely what they like and dislike. But guess what? I really want the same thing for myself.

And so tonight when we got home, fresh off of the conversation/realization I had in the car, I received an email from someone talking about her impending Florida vacation. She made reference to staying at the Nickelodeon Hotel. Since I don't know this person well, and I am curious about her tastes in vacation spots, I googled Nickelodeon Hotel and this is what I found http://www.nickhotel.com/ ARE YOU KIDDING ME?? Someone would actually purchase an airplane ticket for her entire family to fly to a place where murals of Spongebob adorn the walls of their hotel room? Come on. This has to be some kind of joke. Listen here friends, it's not. (And I thought all-inclusive resorts were tacky.....) But seriously, how can you think in a place like that? How can you relax? I just don't want that for our family. But is partaking in just some of it the slippery slope into a vacation in a pineapple under the sea? I sure hope not - but maybe.

To sum it up a bit, (as always) we have some revamping to do. Just for this week, let's trade tv screens for board games. Let's trade XBox for lively debate. Let's trade the internet for extra prayer time. These are my ambitions. Let's just see if I am not too fickle to keep them.

Confessions of a Slob

Isn't it funny how something so seemingly insignificant can trigger a memory so profound?


Here's some background. Never in my wildest imagination would I have ever thought that I would be a stay-at-home mother. I had so many preconceived notions of stay-at-home mothers. They were dowdy. They were boring. All they thought about were children and housekeeping. This wasn't for me, no way. I was going to have a life. I was going to be interesting. I wasn't good at housekeeping and I didn't want to be - I was better than that.

Fast forward to our first year of marriage, I commuted and worked and baked a baby. And once our sweet son arrived and it came time to make the decision to return to work or not - I reluctantly decided to stay at home with this little stranger - but I had no plan, no goals, and no vision. Exhaustion had clouded my view so profoundly that it guided all of my decisions. Basically, I was too tired to return to work, so I didn't.


And I became that person I feared most - uninspired, boring, and exhausted. I learned to embrace motherhood, but I did not embrace the care of the household. The mess was a source of comfort. It meant that I didn't have to housekeep. It meant that I still had a hold on my precious individuality.


Luckily, my identity crisis didn't last long. The Catholic Church crept quietly into my life and started to permeate all of the cracks that had appeared in my life. Soon, I was transfixed, transported and uplifted by all of the new ideas that were offered by our catechism classes. The fog started to roll back and I found myself awake for the first time in months. And I will never forget the day that a friend explained to me the idea that motherhood and married life are a vocation unto themelves. That they should be pursued with the same vigor as any education or career path.


Holy.Crap.
I had some major work to do.

So with the help of prayer and faith and good friends and family, I have made our marriage, these children, and the care of this house my personal mission. And ironically, I feel liberated. I feel like I am home. And I think I have done a fairly good job. There are lots of things I think I do quite well, including keeping the house neat and pretty and (mostly) clean.


This brings me back to Grant. A few days ago, he stumbled upon a small corner of our bedroom that goes hidden for the most part. It is a small parcel of our home where I throw my crap: damp towels, worn pajamas, not-quite-dirty clothes. I go through it periodically, but there is always a pile there. And Grant says to me, "When are you going to clean up this pile here?" And I said, "You leave my pile alone. It is mine. I need my pile."


He looked at me with true confusion, "Why do you still need that pile?"

Why indeed? I can clean it up - I just don't want to. Is it some remnant of my life as a slob? Does it represent some sort of silent rebellion that I haven't acknowledged?

I don't know. But I keep hearing the words, "Why do you still need that pile?" And now, I too, am wondering why.

Keep it Real

Today I had an experience that was so mindblowingly irritating that just thinking about it sends shockwaves of frustration through my wildly pregnant body. I would tell you about it, but that would mean telling you who it was, and I just can't find it in myself to do that. You see, I am painfully afraid of hurting someone's feelings.

Don't worry. It wasn't you. Ten-thousand bucks says it wasn't anyone you've ever even met or heard of before and I shouldn't be so afraid to reveal little things about people if it means telling a good story, but I am. And I think that is what stands in the way of my being an effective writer. Sure, the stuff I say might get a little guffaw here and there - but when it is a whole lot of I's and not a whole lot of why's my stories might delve into the tedious.

What good is exposition if it doesn't really expose anything? Sure, I can make things up here and there that might parallel reality, but the effect tends to be lackluster compared to the rawness of the truth. If you don't get to know me any better after investing the time to read my posts, you have wasted your time. If I said something like, "I tend to have a humorous outlook on life because growing up, my dad used to spray paint political messages on the side of his truck and drive us around town" you would tune me out - because that couldn't have really happened, could it?

So I sit at a crossroads between keeping-it-real and becoming a fiction writer. The latter of which I have absolutely no interest in. I come here seeking reflection and revelation. And just to be clear: no spray paint has ever touched the side of my dad's truck. And that, my dears, is the truth.

On the Power of Suggestion and Comfortable Shoes

So if you are reading this (and you are) you probably know by now that I am pregnant. And if I have been less than attentive to this blog in the past several months, it is because I haven't wanted to talk about being pregnant. And while the topic is paramount inside my own mind, I don't want to count down the days (95 to be exact), I don't want to talk about how cute I look (I don't), and I don't want to answer the question "So, is this it?" (I don't know.)

But if you construe this as negative, it is really not. I am thrilled to be welcoming another child into this household. I recognize that God has bestowed a tremendous gift on our family and I am a gracious and willing recipient. I am confident that I have a strong and healthy body that will accomodate our desire to bring children into this world - that is, until someone suggests that I can't - and then it all falls to pieces.

You see, my confidence in my abilities rests almost exclusively in the hands of those around me. I am a sucker for a spontaneous compliment, however, the seed of doubt proves to be a formidable opponent for me. So, I do my best to keep the doubters at bay by making sure I look presentable when I go out - you know, brush my teeth, wipe the makeup off from underneath my eyes, put on nice shoes. That way, the doubters won't be tempted to doubt. They'll think, "She can do this!" And then, so will I.

So last week I had an appointment at the birth-control pusher Ob/Gyn's office and found myself without a babysitter and needing to bring all 4 children to my prenatal appointment. This would be the lion's den of discomfort for me: six-months pregnant, trying to keep 4 small children quiet in a place of business, and having a visual stare-off with the Doctor when I try to answer her with confidence, "No. I don't plan on tying my tubes at the end of this pregnancy." I decided to head it off before it could start - I dressed everyone up in their Sunday best, put on my cutest sundress and donned my 4-inch espadrille wedges. Nobody better dare say anything negative to me: we look fabulous.

I was feeling tentatively confident by the time that they called my name to be seen. The nurse walked me and my ducklings back to the scale to face facts. She read me the number and the net increase over the past month. The kids were quiet, my backbone strengthening, and then she said it, "Well, you're doing great girl. And with all these kids - I can't believe you're still walking around in tall ol' shoes." I looked down at my feet, slowly sinking into drying concrete, and had the sensation that I couldn't take one more step. Her mere suggestion that my shoes looked uncomfortable struck me lame in the middle of the hallway leading to the examination room. I realized that I needed to get ahold of myself and hobbled on to finish the appointment.

Upon driving home, I had to give myself a reality check. It doesn't matter what anyone else thinks, way down deep, in the places that are available to only me - I truly believe that I am a worthy and able candidate for the job that I have undertaken. Who cares if the clerk in the grocery store shakes her head when my 2-year old won't stop crying in line? WE are happy - and I have to believe that God is happy, too. And that is really what matters, right? But, if I did take anything away from my little crisis, I realized the nurse was right: My life is better when I wear comfortable shoes.

Just Thinkin...

I am lying here waiting to fall asleep. Upon waking tomorrow morning I will be catapulted back into the drudgery of school. It is no wonder that sleep doesn't come easily tonight. My life will change drastically tomorrow and I am ill prepared for it's onset.

Really, aside from the physical strains of dragging children out of bed, to the breakfast table, to school on time, to friends houses to play, home to do homework - my ill preparedness comes from a melancholy attached to knowing that I will spend the majority of my day away from the people who bring me the most joy: my precious family. And like any anxiety induced insomnia, thought begets thought.

My dad has always asserted that time is a "manmade construct." I wholeheartedly disagree. But perhaps it exists not like we imagine with our western minds - but more like the Native Americans asserted. As if we are staring down a well and all "time" is existing at once. Wouldn't it make sense that even in my most happy of times I am pinched with a strange melancholy, an urge to weep for the beauty of it all? Wouldn't it make sense, that somewhere out there, an aged me is looking back on now and wishing that she could have it all back? Does her sadness touch me here? Does my joy and peace now bring her any solace?

These are the times that I will cherish for the rest of my life: the late mornings in pajamas, sun-soaked children sleeping under fans for the summer heat, fresh fruit for breakfast, silly songs, walks to the playground, drying tears for skinned knees. These are the moments I will miss while my children are away.

These are the moments I will wish for when I am a little old lady.