The (Bad) Language of Free Will

My 7-year-old daughter came into my bedroom the other night about an hour after I’d put her to bed.  I knew she was upset because she was sucking her fingers, a habit that she has mostly kicked but sometimes creeps up when she is worried or sad. I put my arm around her little nightgown clad body and asked her what was wrong. “Sometimes I say bad words in my head,” she said as tears rolled down her cheeks, “and I am afraid that God will be mad at me since he knows what I am thinking.” I hugged her close and dried her tears and asked her if she would ever say those bad words out loud. “No way,” she exclaimed, half-laughing/half-crying. I asked her why. She answered, “because I know they’re bad and I can’t choose what I think but I can choose what I do.”

These kids, right?  Sometimes they can take the most difficult topic, in this case free-will, and make us see it in an entirely new dimension. My daughter’s dilemma is all of ours. All day long we have thoughts that drift in and out of our consciousness, some good, some bad and we have to constantly make decisions about which ones to act upon. As a Christian family, I try to make sure we are rooting our decision making in the teachings of our religion. This does not make life easy.

I often consider myself fortunate that I don’t struggle with the concept of religion. If I believe that there really is a God (I do) who imbued humans with an immortal soul (I do) it only makes sense that God might give us a primer on how to protect that gift. But without our immortal soul  – what are we? We are animals with instincts and desires and an inclination to do whatever it is that we want. Our bodies and our minds are these amazingly complicated tools with great capacities for good and evil. God, with his ultimate understanding of the nature of humanity, gave us the owner’s manual for our bodies and for our soul. That means having to sometimes choose the way that is difficult, but as our parish priest once said, “We should not confuse what is easy with what is true.”

Back in my bedroom, I confessed to my daughter that sometimes I say bad words in my head too. She giggled and used her spitty fingers to wipe away her tears. “What?!” she asked, incredulous. “You think bad things too?” I said I did. “Well, I can imagine that you think bad thoughts, but does Daddy?” I told her that, yes, even her beloved Daddy says bad words in his head sometimes. It’s normal. She hugged me and thanked me for talking to her, but if I’m honest she taught me just as much as I have ever taught her.

Lorde - With Outtakes

we tried "Team" but we don't know it very well and the choreography was a fail. The result is a little funny - - if you're my mom. 

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.

6 minutes ago · Like

What it is to be Ben...

Today my eldest son is 13. Let me profile the things I know about him.


Ben is sophisticated

 Ben is mature

 Ben is serious

and he makes me a better person every day. My boy. He stole my heart, this one. And he's never given it back.

(Secret: I don't want it anyway.)

Linkaroo:
Ben's Defunct Blog
http://bensmag.blogspot.com

Ben's 7 Year-old Birthday Pictures
http://sharonksteele.blogspot.com/2008/05/happy-birthday-darlin.html

Dear Diary,

April 10, 2014

Dear Diary,

Deciding to put the kids in school has seemed to work out well. Everyone is thriving and I have a lot more time to focus on getting things put away in the new house. I know I may have said this before, but this may very well be the happiest time of our lives.

Yesterday started out very promising. I signed up to chaperone a field trip to the Smithsonian Natural History Museum with Michael's class. Lucy was able to come along and I was very much looking forward to seeing the caveman exhibit I heard about on NPR. An artist/anthropologist has rethought how to reconstruct early man beginning at the bones and sculpting from the inside out. I was also pretty excited at the thought that I could put Michael back on the bus and go to the Cherry Blossom Festival with Lucy. I've never been in 15 years of living in DC and with homeschooling in our rear view mirror, this was the perfect time.

We got up early, packed a yummy lunch, put on our best walking shoes and got set to hit the town. That is when our plan unravelled.

First of all, I got separated from the school bus I was following, which if you know DC traffic you will understand that this spells disaster. As the bus sailed through a yellow light at a main thoroughfare and into the city of gridlock and tunnels, I felt like I was waving to the launching space shuttle from terra firma. Farewell. Hope to see you again someday.

I then employed the help of my frenemy (mostly enemy) Siri. I think I said something like this, "Siri, I know we have had our differences in the past but I really need you to get me to the Natural History Museum. The Smithsonian. In Washington DC." Apparently Siri hasn't forgiven me for all the times I have cursed her and wished her dead over the years, because what I heard back was, "Starting route to … Hayden Planetarium" the one in New Flipping York. I then screamed some obscenities at Siri and told her I really did wish her dead. And I do.

I used my very own homing skills to get us to the Natural History Museum and as I turned the corner I saw Michael's bus. Victory. That is when I heard Lucy in the back say, "Mommy, my tummy hurts….. blaaahhhhhhhh!" She vomited all over herself and the seat of the car. Game over. I called one of the moms that I knew on the bus and got the message to Michael that we had to go home. He was fine. He enjoyed the trip but never did get to see the cavemen.

Lucy and I took the long way home. She used one of Grant's old shirts to mop up the vomit and sucked her fingers as we drove the route of the cherry blossoms.

Someday I will make it to that festival, and when I do, I am sure that I will find myself wistful for the days of vomit and field trips. All in, I count myself very fortunate. Very fortunate indeed.

Matrimony in Our Front Room

Im a sucker for a wedding and this one is no exception.  Please don't anyone tell her that she can't really marry Josh. I think she'll die.

A Stream of Consciousness

Today, I heard an advertisement on the radio for a casting call catering to young girls.  They asked if your daughter likes to "sing and dance," and has ever "dreamed of being on their favorite shows such as Wizards of Waverly Place or The Suite Life."  I wondered who falls for this load of bull anymore. Don't we have a collective awareness that turning our kids into commodities is dangerous - if not fatal?

A friend (who I've actually never met, in real life) posted the following video on Facebook.  I have to confess that I loved it.  Miley Cyrus strips down We Can’t Stop! And while I am a huge lover of the party anthem and dance music, if you look at the poor child who is at the literal center of the music, you will see an addicted, broken shell who needed protection about ten years ago.

I've had an uncharacteristically difficult time transitioning from Homeschooling-Mother-of-5-Kids to Public-Schooling-Mother-With-Only-One-At-Home.  You can hate me or think I am a baby when I confess to you in all humility that I don't know what to do with myself. This is not something that I think is cute or humblebragging.  I am wont for a purpose and those are difficult waters to navigate. So, in an effort to get out of the house, Lucy and I went to H&M where I purchased a pair of MC Hammer pants, or what the upstarts like to call harem pants. Here's the thing friends: they are hella fresh.  I am fairly certain that they will be my new uniform until such time that Doc Martins and prairie skirts come back "in" and then I WILL BE ALL OVER IT.

I am contemplating using natural deodorant.

This week, I joined Twitter because, I don't know.  My foray into the Twitter-verse has forced my sweet husband to shut his own account down.  Sometimes I feel like Pepe LePew and the Cat with him on the internet.  Good thing he loves the daylights out of me, IRL.

Sometimes I feel guilty if I don't blog for a long time.  Like, someday when my kids are poring over my writings after I have gone to Jesus, they will wish that I had continued my tribute-journal to our life together.  So, if that is indeed the case, dear children this is my contribution to our posterity.

On Paintbrushes and Coffee Cups

This morning as I was touching up paint in our house in preparation for it to go on the market, I got a little sentimental.  The brush glided a silky trail of ivory over the sill where Michael used to race his Matchbox cars. A sweet childhood memory is now forever hidden under a gilt of semi-gloss.  I thought about the next mother who will occupy this starter-family home.  It has been a perfect shelter to rock my babies to sleep and prepare nutritious meals for their growing bodies - and it will provide those same comforts to the next family.  I will paint my sills so she doesn't have to do it.

As one thought often gifts another, I then thought about the older mom who might be preparing her house for me. Perhaps her children are grown and out of the house.  Perhaps she and her husband are moving to Florida, or Alexandria, or a houseboat in St. Michaels. Is she painting her sills, too? 

My thoughts drifted to prayers for these imagined, romanticized women, their children, and their new adventures - and then back to thoughts -  and then back to chores.  It was then that I promptly dipped my paintbrush into my coffee cup instead of the paint bucket.

Back to work.

Head Stylist in Charge

Watch out Beebs. Michael Steele's hair is almost as epic. 

Dear Ben. you are going through an awkward phase. That's ok. We all do it. Stevie Kieffer wore only a burgundy turtleneck paired with his amazing mullet for about 6 months solid. I ratted my bangs so hard that I made carnies at the State Fair gasp in amazement. Rumor has it that Grant Steele wanted to wear airbrushed overalls with one side undone. You'll be ok, son. You'll be ok. Steer clear from Axe Body Spray, faux-hawks, and white rapping. I know I might not seem "cool" but I won't steer you wrong.

Love, Mommy Dearest

Back to my Real Life - Part I

(A Five Part Series on where I've been for the past 2 weeks)

Occasionally I say things that irritate even myself. My frequent use of the word "Like" drives me nuts but I can't seem to root it out of my vernacular. My ironic use of urban slang (Holla!, Booyah!, WhatWhat!) is super annoying, even to me, and yet I keep on using it because occasionally someone laughs. Right now, the most annoying thing that I keep on saying is, "When I grow up I want to be a __________." Here is the deal (dealio?): I am already grown up and I already have a vocation that requires 100% of my time, attention, focus and interest. When I turn my time over to the other desires of my heart - my real life suffers - therefore the end-result is a mixed bag of fulfillment and chaos. I have been swimming in this pool for the past two weeks (and I have to admit it was fun.)

The Meals
If I asked my kids to tell you about the meals I have prepared for them lately, they might appropriately ask you, "What meals?" I wouldn't even get mad at them for their exaggeration. String cheese, yogurt, apples and clementines have been the orders of the day and it wasn't until this morning when Michael asked me, "Mommy!? Is that sausage I smell cooking? It smells sooo good!" that I realized how much I have neglected their tummies.

The House
Lucy flat out refused to use our downstairs bathroom on Thursday because, "It was too messy." Need I say more about this?

My Husband
I have a really good husband. When talking numbers and figures, I would put him in the top 95th percentile of all husbands who have ever existed. However, nothing he did this week was good enough. He didn't cook enough, he didn't praise me enough, he was too late, he got up too early...... I didn't realize until I was ready to claw at his jugular with my crafting knife amid a haze of fiery tears that it wasn't him. I was stressed. Stressed to the Nth and he was the fall guy to my craziness.  I wasn't nurturing him, our relationship, our kids, our house, my relationship with the Lord......
I was doing it all for the egotistical desires of creative outlets.

So today my life returned to normal. I got up and prepared a hearty breakfast for the kids. We've said our prayers,  we've studied and grown in knowledge and interest. Never once (I mean that sincerely) have we raised our voices at one another and as I write this the children are playing nicely with their toys. I am thankful for the talents with which God has blessed me (and that I get to occasionally use) but I am humbly and forever grateful for this quiet, Grace-filled life that I lead in this house.

Tomorrow: When I grow up I want to be a Hairstylist.

Photo

Changes of Heart

Last year I wrote an article for an online Catholic magazine entitled I'm Not Wearing Pants. It was a fun article to write, but the response to it was even more fun. It garnered a lot of attention (for me!) and was even given a tip of the hat by the book author who I referenced in the essay. Here's the kicker: I take it (well, most of it) back.

It has become very obvious to me lately that one's outward appearance has almost nothing to do with the inward state of one's soul. Everyone is on his or her own journey toward God and the costume that we put on the outside is representative only of how we want others to perceive us.

These thoughts have been percolating around in my head for a few months now. They have come to a full boil recently as I have watched some of the most perfect looking people be exposed as duplicitous - while nearly simultaneously realizing that some of the most unassuming, quiet, under-dressed, plain people I knew were such deep well-springs of holiness that had I not been seeking, I would have missed out on their intrinsic wealth completely.

Deep Breath.

All of this was forming into conscious thought in my head when this came about. One of my favorite bloggers C Jane Kendrick has recently written a series of essays where she has realized that she is indeed a feminist. A practicing member of the Church of Latter Day Saints (LDS), Kendrick is on the cutting edge of Mormon bloggers who traditionally display an almost unanimously united front when it comes to motherhood: Traditional is Best. Kendrick's latest essays have underscored a level of restlessness with the availability of opportunities for women in the Mormon church, outside of young marriage and motherhood. And apparently she is not alone.

In order to demonstrate their discontent, a band of likeminded LDS feminists staged a "Pants In" of sorts. In breaking with societal norm, but not necessarily church teaching, many women came to church on Sunday wearing...
PANTS!

Feminism. Hmm. It sure took them long enough.

You see, feminism and Catholicism have a long, ugly history together and part of my Pants piece was in revolt to what feminism has done to Catholic motherhood. It takes that flame of discontent that is part of the human condition, and it fans it with, "You are better than this! You are smarter and more capable than this dirty work of raising kids" and the fires of inequality rage. But here is what I know now to be true: Life will never be equal nor fair. There is no fairness when it comes to infidelity. There is no fairness when it comes to infertility. There is no fairness when it comes to the early onset of a terminal disease, to discontent, to depression. We are all on our own road. We are all called to our own level of holiness - and nobody else's. One's decision on how to dress should be a matter of holiness rather than defiance. Because defiance will take you down a bitter and ugly road.

Seek ye first the kingdom of God, and it's righteousness, and all these things shall be added unto you. 
There is inherent beauty in being a woman, that I will never recant. I do believe that women are called to accept their femininity with grace and ownership - but there are so many ways to do that. Some of them may not look on the surface like I might expect them to look, and who am I to decide what is feminine or not? There is only one thing I do know for sure - a woman is at her worst when she is trying to be a man.

Bomb Vegan Apple Cider Donuts

I don't bake vegan because I am a vegan. I mean, I respect you vegans out there, but I don't share your passion. No, I bake vegan because my daughter is allergic to milk and eggs - pretty much everything that makes a baked-good delicious. I am on a mission, so to speak. A mission to reinvent buttery, eggy, milky fabulous baked goods into ones which won't make my child die. A noble mission, indeed.

Today's Entry:
Bomb Vegan Apple Cider Donuts
Inspired by Joanna Goddard's Lemon Ricotta Donuts

2 cups White All Purpose Flour
2 Teaspoons Baking Powder
1/2 Teaspoon Baking Soda
1 Teaspoon Salt
1 Tablespoon Ground Cinnamon
1 Cup Apple Cider
Vegetable Oil for Frying
Powdered Sugar mixed with Cinnamon for Sprinkling

1. Heat Oil in fryer to 350*
2. Sift together Dry Ingredients
3. Make a well in the middle of the dry ingredients and pour in cider.
4. Whisk together until batter resembles pancake batter. (You may need to add 1/4 more flour if it appears too wet.)
5. When oil registers 350* on a candy thermometer, drop batter by offset tablespoons into oil.
6. Do not crowd fryer.
7. Donuts will flip over by themselves (watch! It is actually kinda cute!) but double check to make sure they are brown on both sides.
8. Remove from oil with a slotted spoon and allow to cool on a wire rack.
9. Once they are drained and slightly cooled, move to a plate and sprinkle with Cinnamon Powdered Sugar.

As far as allergen free/vegan baked goods go, these are pretty darn good. They taste like a appley-cinnamony version of funnel cake. Except you are not at the State Fair - you are in you cozy little home in the chilly fall.  And they aren't being served to you by a carney. And for those things? You're welcome.

A Slice of Crap Cake

Grant and I got in an argument the other night. Well, let me rephrase that... I got into an argument with Josh, then Ben, and then I got into an argument with Grant.  And like all good arguments - it was mostly my fault.

I won't give you all of the lame details, but here is the gist: The hormones in this house are making me crazy and I can't seem to keep a level head when my junior highers are acting like junior highers.  "So What?" you're saying to yourself, right? "Everyone gets irritated by junior high kids." Well, I thought I would be different.

And apparently so did Grant.

Like so many things I have been wrong about in my tenure as a parent, preteen hormones seem so obvious. Your kid is acting like an irrational spaz? Send him to his room with a book. Crying all the time? Give them a hug and a journal. Encourage them to write. Take walks. Be honest. Empathize. Encourage music. Don't talk too much. Don't lecture. Don't take things personally. Make them laugh (if you can.) Relate.

Somehow, even though I know all of these things, the fact that I know my son is mentally flipping me off makes me mad. His tirades only stoke my own fires and our interactions become bombastic. WHO IS HE? and more importantly, who am I?

Anymore, I am left pondering both of these questions and for now I don't necessarily know the answers. Contrary to who I thought I was, I am not above freaking out. I do take things personally. I do not want to do "cool" things to make my kids laugh, like preparing cakes that look like litter boxes. I want my kids to learn how to be a level headed adult, but I am not doing a very good job of it myself.

I feel misunderstood. So I guess in some ways, the kids and I are in the same boat, aren't we?

Letter to Myself

Dear Sharon,
There is a lot of crap that you screw up on a regular basis. You are a work-in-progress with a bigger emphasis on the work rather than the progress.

However...

Today you made a cloud that looks pretty much like a real cloud.

(Instructions to Make Cloud Here)

And if you accomplish nothing else this week - just remember: You rocked that cloud.

Love, Yourself

Give me an EPIDURAL!!

Dumb chick alert: I read People magazine.

Ah.  That hurts to admit. But I do. And sometimes, when I am bored or sick (like I am today.. both) I click on the links at the bottom of the page to see what is happening on more salacious or scandalous tabloids. Today I stumbled across this bit of crap:

http://thestir.cafemom.com/pregnancy/139954/model_miranda_kerrs_judgy_comments

My dad says that 'interesting people do not talk about people.' My dad also spray painted the words "Reptilian Brain" on the wall of our garage, so what does he know?

Here's the deal folks - having been around the labor and delivery block a couple (plus 3) times I feel at liberty to comment on this story.  I have done it both ways.  I have delivered three big, healthy, alert babies without so much as a tylenol in my corner.  I felt powerful, ultimately feminine. When it came time to deliver my 5th precious child, I didn't have the stuff it took to fight that battle because here's the deal folks: 

Labor sucks.

It is stressful, it is scary (at times), and it hurts like hell.  So, knowing all the information, I chose the path of least resistance.  I opted for the epidural. Truth? The medication can pass from the spinal column and over the placenta and to the baby.  The baby can be a bit groggy. That did not make one eeensy weensy bit of difference to me at all. And so you ask, what was the experience like? Well, it was peaceful. I could listen to the doctor without the mask of mortal pain and process exactly what was happening. I loved it. Was it a selfish decision, Yes. But, Lucy's birthday was indeed one of the best days of my life. Should God decide to show his incredible sense of humor and bless us with another child, I will do it the exact same way.  Groggy baby or not.

I love Miranda Kerr.  I am proud of her for sticking by her principles and choosing the path that she felt best for her child and herself. I just wish the people on the other side of the argument would own their position, as well, risks, selfishness and all.

I've said YES.

I read this early this morning, "We have two choices: to be selfish or to be generous." (cjanekendrick)

So by darned, this week, I decided to be generous. When my kids asked, I have said Yes! "Can I have ice cream for lunch?" YES! Can I play XBox? YES! Can I run through the sprinklers in my underwear? YES! (Sorry, honey.)

There are a lot of needs to be met around here.  I know that I need not say YES all of the time, and that typically the generous answer is no, but after a tough year of being at once teacher, disciplinarian and housekeeper - it feels good to be the good guy. It feels good to just be a Mommy.