speed dial

In case you've been trying to put a face with my name, here's a fairly recent portrait by the younger lad:

"Momm" by Younger Lad, age 4.5 • November 2011

Yes: my hair usually does look like that, and I'm trying to incorporate more "bling" into my everyday look with accessories and embellishments.

These bambini of mine are by turns sweet, spirited, imaginative, and resilient.  They along with my beloved play a major role in the ongoing process that is my conversion of heart to the will of Christ.

Someone who always spoke of the lofty nature of motherhood while acknowledging its far less glamorous aspects was the pastor emeritus of the parish where I served as director of music and liturgy for a few years.  He was a man of such size and stature as to cause young children to wonder if he was God or Santa Claus.   He died a few days before Christmas this past year, and his absence is felt keenly by those whose souls he tended for many years and whose hearts he lifted with words of encouragement and prayer. 

I had the great honor of playing the piano at the vigil service held for him the night before his funeral was celebrated.  I chose music to reflect the servant leadership he so deftly offered as well as music that summoned the prayers of Christ's mother Mary, whom this Irish Catholic priest (as noted by the funny sign stationed at the head of his casket for the vigil that proclaimed "parking for Irish Catholic priest only") held in highest regard and mused about often. 

The well-timed phone calls from him are sorely missed, not just by me but by lots of folks, I'm sure.  The brief exchanges of pleasantries and vocational affirmation always helped me in my quest to mother intentionally, faithfully, and gently.  As much as I miss those phone calls now, I trust he continues to pray for us, and that those prayers are carried to the Father speedily. 

With sincere appreciation for my mother, my beloved's mother, our grandmothers, godmothers, aunts, cousins, and friends who mother us so lovingly and for those who support and care for mothers of any kind, I pray the Lord will bless in a special way those who are in dire need of mothering, whatever their age, and in need of someone like this dear priest to affirm them in living out the call of Christ. 

outtakes

Sifting through scads of digital photos I've taken of the bambini in the past month or so (remember my strategy?), I am searching for those images that are in focus, well-lit, not too cluttered in terms of what's in the background, and interesting.  Those images that meet these criteria are added to a "favorites" folder that serves as my screen saver -- a veritable slide show of the past three or so years (the lifespan of my current computer) -- and organized into albums to share with our loved ones.

Notice I didn't include among my "favorites" criteria that bambini be looking at the camera.  I don't often ask them to do that.  Instead I try to document their doings, expressions, and interactions as they unfold in real time.   In my experience this makes for better photos -- at least the ones I end up taking. 

There are times I try to get all four bambini together for a photo to mark a certain milestone or holiday.  I don't think I've ever gotten a photograph of all four of them looking at the camera that is better than those that result from the logical progression of a "photo shoot" with four young children.  With these characters, there are plenty of goofy expressions and silliness shining through the awkwardness of being posed.   Among the candid images are usually several "outtakes", some of which may or may not end up as the favored photo for the intended purpose (such as a Christmas -- or Easter, in our case -- card).

Sometimes the best pictures aren't the posed ones.  That's not my area of expertise.  They may not be of portrait studio caliber, but their authenticity trumps the fancy factor.  The relationships among the siblings and we who love them are evident.  The accomplishments and milestones are documented as they happen, and the expressions captured for posterity are genuine.  These photos tell our story. 

just sayin'

I went to the salon this morning for a little spruce up to my neglected mane.  O happy day!  Upon my return, however, there were some mixed reviews.

my beloved: "you look great, Sweetheart!"

younger lad: "why does your hair look like that?"
me: "like what?"

him: "weird."
me: "how?"

him: "like [the two-year-old lass's]."
me: "how should it look?"


him: "curly."  (the lass's is *straight*, and she thinks my hair looks "good".)

Once I came home from the salon all coiffed and curled.    The younger lad said I looked "like a tiger".  That was a compliment coming from him.  I assured him my locks would be back to wavy soon enough...

girl talk: sugar scrub

File this among the less weightier of the topics I address in this forum, but open-toed shoe season is upon us and Mama must get ready. 

My dear sister and I like to go to the beauty parlor for pedicures together when we can, but since this happens as often as those "supermoons" come close to Earth, I have to come up with some quick and simple measures I can do at home to keep my feet looking decent in the flip flops and espadrilles I'll be wearing for the next several months.

The lads are keenly interested in my toe nail polish selections and have their opinions as to what I should wear.  Just the other day I slapped on a few coats of a very sheer polish, but the younger lad was quick to notice.  The elder lad also finds the whole toe nail polish procedure intriguing.  Go figure. 

As part of the sootsie shape-up regimen, I mixed together a very simple exfoliant and moisturizer.  It's simply sugar, olive oil, and lavender essential oil.  One could use salt instead of sugar, although the sugar sloughs off that which needs sloughing without irritating sensitive skin the way salt does.  The olive oil is a natural moisturizer.  One could also use almond or some other carrier oil, but I didn't have that on hand when I remembered this homemade beauty treatment (such as it is) late one night. 

Were one of the mind to get fancy about this sugar scrub business with the intention of giving the resulting gritty goo as a gift to either herself or someone she cares about, she could mix up the ingredients in a pretty little jar and put a fun label (like these) on it.  I just put mine in a plastic container with a lid.  It's important to keep water out of the mixture for obvious reasons.  It won't keep forever, but if you mix up a little bit a time, that won't be a concern. 

With a little slather of my homemade sugar scrub and some pretty polish, my feeties are now in flip flop condition.

reflections

Out with the lassies to run a couple of quick errands this afternoon, I walked hand in hand with the two-year-old lass and wore her seven-month-old "sissy pie"  in the sling.  Funny Girl caught a glimpse of us in a series of glass storefront windows as we walked, and she was transfixed.  She smiled at her reflection sweetly, proudly, and with a certain silliness, lifting her chin up and grinning.  "I see us!"  she said. 

Where did this little girl come from?  Just yesterday she was the one in the sling.  Tomorrow she'll be shopping for graduation dresses like my sister is doing.

While there have been many times in these postpartum months when I have avoided my reflection in the mirror, today when I saw us, we were -- if I do say so myself -- pretty as a picture.

funny face falls flat

The younger lad is not one to wolf down his dinner -- or lunch, for that matter.  He's usually not in a rush.  As I sat helping him finish up the pancakes he was dipping in applesauce, I tried to get in touch with my silly side and started making funny faces at him -- not in a poking fun kind of way, but more one to get him grinning in spite of his sniffles.  I love that grin.

I furrowed my brows at him, then opened my eyes wide.  Then I pursed my lips and puffed up my cheeks.  "Not like that, Mama," he said indignantly.  "Don't look like that!"

"How do you want me to look?" I asked him, returning my expression to baseline.

"Like that."

pretty is as pretty does.

As I crouched down to tie his church shoes, the younger lad noticed the  bobby pins I'd stuck in my hair in a feeble attempt to fix it.  "What are those, Mama?"

"Bobby pins," I told him.

"Why are you wearing them?"

"To make my hair look pretty," I answered.  "Sometimes girls -- some girls -- like to fix their hair to look pretty."  Already I could feel myself sliding down a slippery slope, the precipice upon which I perch each time the lads observe me putting on the little bit of make-up I wear most days. 

"Are you a girl, Mama?"

"Yes.  Or at least I used to be."

***

"That's cute!" The lass-who-will-soon-be-two noted on each piece of laundry she was tossing into the washing machine.  This was after she told her baby sister that the younger lass looked "so pretty" in her Christmas dress. 

As the lass takes more of an interest in "pretty things" and looking pretty by way of hair "do-dads" (that's the technical term) or tutus or dressy shoes, the importance of cultivating an appreciation for beauty without over-emphasizing the material aspect is ever clearer.  She and her sister are beautiful in the way God created them.  They don't need fancy frocks or bows or frilly things or make-up to make them pretty. 

Sure: it's fun to play dress up at home or even get dressed up for special occasions.  I like to do that myself.  It's important to me to look my best, both for my own sense of self and that of those who might be watching me to see how I manage the particular hand life has dealt me.  It's important for my daughters, too, who are learning partly from me what it means to be a woman. 

I hope to show them by example (and their brothers, who might someday be applying these principles to the women they encounter, or perhaps already are) that we are prettiest when we are reflecting the face of Christ to others, when we take ownership of our identities as daughters of God, and when we present ourselves modestly and humbly to those around us. 

As much as I enjoy shopping for clothes and dressing myself and my bambini tastefully, it's vital I communicate that the clothes (or hair "do-dads") don't make us pretty.  Beauty comes from within.  It is enhanced by our respectful treatment of others and ourselves.  As I've been told many times myself and likely will tell my daughters on more than one occasion, "pretty is as pretty does."

in the picture

Photography is a family hobby.  While my beloved has taken the craft to another level after studying its technical and artistic facets, I just snap away on my camera and hope one of the images turns out nicely.  He makes photographs.  I take pictures.

I have a vague understanding of the technicalities of photography, but when I hear such terms as "F-stop," I am inclined to think first of an organ (the musical instrument), rather than how much light my camera is letting in when I take a picture.  Having said that, I have developed a rudimentary understanding of what makes for good photographs such as considering the source and direction of light cast on my subjects while also considering what's in the background of the picture field so as to reduce "noise." 

Sometimes after I post batches of pictures that I've captioned for family and friends to view, reviewers ask me where I am in all the pictures.  I'm behind the camera in most of them, unless I've tried to take a self portrait of me with one, some, or all of the bambini (which happens on occasion if I happen to luck out and have a good hair day, or if I want to show off my cute slingling).

When Grannie was here last month, I was determined to take lots of pictures to document her visit.  We took a few together toward the end of the week, I asked my beloved to take some with me in the picture so we'd have that "multigenerational" thing going.

A few weeks ago we had our family photograph taken for the upcoming parish pictorial directory.  I signed us up to participate not because I wanted to order family photographs (because we can make those -- equally as good or better -- at home for free), but because I wanted the directory that will be coming out soon so I can put names with faces of fellow parishioners.  Having these directories at my disposal when I was new on the scene as the music and liturgy director of another parish was hugely helpful in getting to know people.  In order to get a copy of the directory, we had to have our picture taken.

Coordinating everyone's attire for the photograph wasn't so much of a chore, but getting myself ready to have my photograph taken proved mighty challenging.   Of course I fretted about it way too much.  With little time to primp, I hoped to try to resurrect some of my curling iron skills (not that I ever really had those) to freshen up my limp curls.  This resulted in a tangle of hair and several pointed warnings to not touch the metal part of the curling iron issued to curious lads who rarely see such a gadget in use in our home.

The resulting photograph is decent enough.  It pretty much captures us as we are today, from the skeptical look on the 21-month-old lass's face to my "come as you are" appearance.  I'm sure this will resonate with people who look us up in the directory.  They might not recognize us if I was all coiffed and curled, accustomed as they are to seeing me in a state of quasi-dishevelment. 

Truth be told, I'm usually not too keen on having my picture taken, as I don't really want to have a permanent reminder of looking pale, puffy, tired, and disheveled.  But it occurs to me that this camera-dodging business might have some negative consequences down the road....

Someday when the bambini look through the multitude of photographs we've taken over the years, I want them to have a few with me to go along with the oodles they'll have of themselves and their other family members.  I know they won't be looking for a supermodel (or Super Mommy).  They'll just be looking for their mom.

what not to wear

The younger lad is a dapper little guy.  He knows what he likes and takes an interest in what he wears. 

When he suggested I wear a certain pair of shoes, only to discover that I in fact had donned a different pair, he was greatly displeased.  "No -- not those!  Those don't look good!" 

I had to explain to him that the shoes I was wearing were more comfortable at the time than the seemingly sensible flats he had chosen for me, as I had just been wearing a similar pair of flats that required some, um, breaking in and my feet were kind-of sore as a result of wearing them.  He found this excuse to be pretty lame.

He's probably right. 

skirting the issue

There's nothing like a pretty skirt to perk up my tired maternity wardrobe *and* make weathering the beastly heat a little more feasible.  I've amassed enough lightweight skirts with either smocked waists or drawstrings that aren't even "maternity clothes" to wear nearly every day (especially given our laundry schedule).

This suits my girly-girl tendencies quite nicely, as I like to look my best.  Happily, the skirts are long, so they're modest while still allowing me to get down on the floor with the bambini (though they don't make the actual getting up and down any easier) or crouch to their heights when necessary.  *And* there's far less hiking up of the waistline to be done than on the wretched elastic-waist maternity pants I have.

In all, this skirt idea is one of the best I've hit upon in a while.  I'm as comfy as a mega-pregnant mama in the final weeks of pregnancy can be, and wearing something so pretty and feminine perks up the sense of self in a very welcome way.

on 3

I had to renew my driver's license today. For mega-pregnant mamas melting in the 100 degree heat, there should be some sort of sticker or endorsement visible to everyone who will have reason to see the license that speaks to this "delicate condition" as an explanation for the puffy face and unfortunate timing for renewal of the license.

On the bright side, though, I had a cute date to the tag agency in the person of my three-year-old younger lad (the other two bambini were cavorting in the shaded sandbox at my beloved's parents' house), *and* thanks to the Edward Ardizzone books, I heard on more than one occasion today in response to a request I made, "aye, aye, Cap'm."

keeping up appearances

Here's another story beginning with "on a recent trip to Target..."  I need to find a new opener.

Nonetheless, on a recent trip to Target with all three bambini (back in the brother cart -- faring far better this time), we were making good time and progress through the store and everyone was reasonably content.  As often happens on shopping trips, I passed the same woman a few times among the aisles and eventually took notice that each time she saw us, there was a look on her face that I would be described as "concerned" -- not quite alarmed, but in that general milieu.  The look seemed to flash across her face when she saw us.  Maybe the image of three children under age five being pushed around by a mega-pregnant mama was unsettling to her for whatever reason.  Or maybe -- and probably more likely -- she couldn't have cared less about us (except to hope that we wouldn't crash into her with our behemoth cart, which is perfectly understandable) and was thinking about something else.

At any rate, it brought to mind the reality that we are somewhat conspicuous when we're out and about, not because we are raising a ruckus (though we do have our moments), but simply because of these three close-in-age cuties and the big baby belly.  We attract attention.  Because we are a sight to be seen, I am keenly aware of how we look -- not so much from a standpoint of vanity, but from one of living out our vocation faithfully.

I like to look my best presentable whenever I am out and about, and for me this means a little bit of make-up, my watch, an outfit that is put-together but practical (i.e. washable and comfortable -- at much as maternity wear can be, anyway), and hair that might not be "fixed" per se but has been attended to somehow (a laughable concept, given my unruly curls).  Earrings are nice if I think I can manage them without my babe in arms ripping them out of my ears.

I have a built-in safeguard against vanity in the form of three young bambini starting the day at the same time I am, so I am able to take only a few minutes to put myself together (in snatches, if necessary).  It does wonders for my sense of self to have attended to these personal matters however briefly, and I think it conveys a message to other people -- some of whom are looking very closely to see how I manage this tricky business of mothering multiple young children.

It is this latter aspect about which I am most concerned -- the idea that there might be some young woman yet to have children or one expecting her first child or even a mom with however many children who sees me with mine and wonders how I do it.  I might (and sometimes do) feel entirely disheveled, exhausted, and frazzled -- every mom does at times.  Sometimes it's important for us to own that in front of other people just as a reassurance to them that they're not the only ones who feel that way.  But it's also important for others to see that it *can* be done -- done well, even (by God's grace), with Mama and bambini interacting positively, accomplishing things together for the good of their family and household.

This morning we made another trip to Target.  I saw -- as I usually do -- several mamas (and grandmas) with multiple young children managing to avoid crashing their behemoth sibling carts into fixed objects and people.  From the looks of things, we're not such an anomaly after all.

looking through the eyes of Love

When I was in high school, my favorite stuff to play on the piano consisted of music from movies, Broadway shows, and Top 40 pop music. I was also captivated by figure skating, so it should come as no surprise that the movie Ice Castles would be one of my favorites. I of course *had* to learn the theme song "Through the Eyes of Love", not so much because of the lyrics but more because of the image I could construct of myself figure skating as I played....

More often than not, upon his return home at the end of a long day, my husband will say "Sweetheart, you look great." God love him. More often than not, when he does offer this compliment, my first inward response is "yeah, right." God help me. At such times, I see myself as tired, disheveled, overheated, frazzled, the minimal make-up I managed to apply in two minutes now melting and pointless... anything but beautiful. He probably sees these same things, too, but they don't keep him from saying such kind words.

I pray to see myself as my husband sees me. In these moments especially, he reflects the love I know Christ has for me. My husband is here to help me get to heaven (and vice versa), so whether or not I really merit such a compliment, I can trust that Christ is offering His love through my husband. Ultimately, it is for Christ I am living this life, and all manner of grace flows from the One who calls me to serve Him as my husband's wife and the mother of these children. I love Him best by loving the ones closest to me the best I can, and it's when I do that that I look the prettiest (figure skating finery notwithstanding).