Theology for the Infant Soul

Dear Fagin,

We went to Trader Joe's yesterday. Bert looooves Trader Joe's. He gets to push his own tiny cart (like a maniac) and have little sample snacks and juice. Even the tiny cups in which the juice is served are a treat. Do your kids do this, too? Or maybe you don't let all three little boys push their own cart? Ummmm... especially the two-year-old? I can just see it... his tiny finger pointing like a general, "MY. CART!"

Anywho, back to the point. Wait a minute, I can't remember the point... ah yes, there it is. It came to me again today that I am often like a child with a cart. Except I'm in some scary huge big-box store and I can't see over the handlebar. I think to myself, "I've got this. No problem. It's even kind of fun...". I crash around with abandon a lot of the time. I bump into things, mumble an apology, and go the other way. Then I crash into something else. I get side-tracked by juice and treats. I get distracted by huge signs advertising quick fixes and great sales. I forget what I came to buy.

I am a moron.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that the idea of pushing my own cart, a cart filled with all my own ideas and dreams and feelings and wills, is ludicrous. Like the rapper. It's kind of laughable. I can't even see where I'm going sometimes, except when I look behind me. And a lot of the time looking behind me doesn't help much because I get discouraged by all the wreckage and debris I've left in my wake.

The truth is, I'm not big enough to push. I'm not smart enough or good enough or strong enough. I don't know the way. I don't know what I'm supposed to be putting in the cart. I don't know what I should be leaving behind... and I shouldn't be helping myself to all the juice I want! Because really, I think God wants me to let Him lift me up to the seat. To not throw a tantrum when the control is taken away. To look at things from this new perspective... to be carried. Up there I can see. I can see where He's taking me (at least part of the way), I can see what He's putting in my cart, and most of all I get a great view of his Adorable Face. Sometimes He lets his Lovely Mother push me around. And she is so beautiful! She smiles all the time, even when I yank things off the shelf and make a huge mess. Sometimes she gives me juice.

Being in the cart is so much better than pushing it. True, sometimes He walks out of sight, and it's then I know He wants me to climb down and push by myself for a little while. Man, it's hard! And I ought to be glad when He's ready to take over again. I'm ashamed to say sometimes I'm not. Sometimes I wrestle. Sometimes I throw one of those nasty public tantrums and arch my back and kick as He tries to put me back in the seat. And He lets me. He won't fight me to the point of taking my will. He just waits patiently until I realize that it's dirty on the ground, and there's something gross stuck in the wheels of the cart, and people keep tripping over me.

Do you see how this analogy could go on forever? He is so good to teach me in ways I can understand! I think He just wants us to remember that He is here. That our carts don't have to weigh us down the way they do. That they may never be less cumbersome, but that with His help we will fly along the way!

You know how it feels when you push your cart in the parking lot, and get up to a jog and then jump on and coast? You know the look on your kids' faces when you do?

Be the kid in the cart! In this life it doesn't get any better than that.

love,

Hook

Breakfast Fail

Good morning!

I burned the oatmeal again.

Let me back up a bit. When I woke up this morning, it was a brisk 62 degrees in the house. Still is, actually. That's ok, though, because I am wearing two bathrobes. Boo-yah. Anyway, feeling the chill in the air, and inspired by my neighbor's tree (yes, it's a very blurry tree. I don't know how she got it to grow like that), I decided to make some oatmeal. All apple-y and raisiny, with a touch of cinnamon and nutmeg. I was smug and self-satisfied as I made it, thinking of Bert asleep upstairs, and how happy he'd be. He was up half the night coughing up a lung (and maybe a spleen), after all.

Then, what do you know, I hear him hacking and go up to say good morning and get him into dry, warm clothes because he peed through his diaper again. Yes, in my bed. And we sit and snuggle in The Man's office and feel the love, and then the dang smoke detector goes off and I run downstairs cursing under my breath because I know why. Oh, I know why.

Because I burned the dang oatmeal. Again. As in, it happens about 75% of the time that I make oatmeal. And I just want to know why. Why is that the thing that I always do?

It's so lame.

Ashamed,

Hook

Oh Boy

I'm going through storage bins. Making piles of things to give and throw away.

Baby clothes.

Things I've kept for far too long already. Bert will be four next March, after all. And it doesn't look like there will be another baby... maybe, maybe, but probably not. Even though Bert told me for the hundredth time today that he would like us to have two kids. One two.

Me, too.

I was doing ok earlier today. Picking through, choosing one or two things to keep. Keepsakes for when Bert's older. Dividing the rest into little piles for nephews, getting rid of a lot because Bert just spat up so so much as a baby. But I'm back at it now, and I'm getting that feeling again. That heaviness on my chest. It's actually hard to breathe. If I let myself, I know I could have a good hard cry.

And sometimes I do let myself. But not today. Because today there is a joy that's greater than the pain. Somehow even part of it. Earlier today I realized for sure that, even given the chance, I would not take this small sorrow out of my heart. Because through it God is showing me His Immense Love. Through it He is shaping me into the "me" He always had in mind. A better "me" than I would be if I just got my way. His Love is slaying me. And as I die to myself a little more each day (I have far to go, and it is slow work for Him) He awakens me to Himself.

I can't explain it. I don't have words. But I keep trying. I think He wants me to.

If you are weary, take heart. Literally. Take His heart into yours. It's not complicated, just ask Him.

If you suffer, suffer still. Suffer joyfully. Ask Him to help in this, too. I asked so very many times for help on this one. I'm still asking. But boy, does He answer.

And if you feel alone, know that you are loved. You are so so loved that if you even had an inkling of how much your heart might just explode.

And I love you, too.

Thanks for reading, Fagin. Thanks for listening while I talk everything through with you. It is a gift to have such a friend. Many don't.

much love,

Hook

Mother of Small Children

Dear Fagin,

I don't mean to be all "stuck in a rut", topic wise. Promise. But Our Dear Lord keeps sending me the most beautiful inspirations and promises, and I CAN'T not share this one.

You see, he led me to think about Bert. You know how his shoes are always too big? (If there's anyone else reading, Bert has a thing for shoes. And darn it if he doesn't always sniff out a new (used) pair before they fit him, and insist on wearing them.) Well, it causes my boy to trip. And veer. And... clomp.

Also, you know how I've been talking about Mary lately? No, not gossiping, the Blessed Virgin Mary. How I've never cultivated a relationship with her? How I kind of always thought I should go right to the Big Guy, skip the middleman, all that? And then you mention again recently how all of these great saints and mystics and wonderful people throughout history have talked about how wonderful she is? How beautiful, how powerful, the Highway to God, etc.? Gosh, how there's an entire Litany to her? So finally I start thinking, "Hey, Dummy. These people probably know better than you. (And, by the way, I bet Jesus is just tickled when we love his Beloved Mother.)"

So I start in. Tentatively at first. Asking timidly, feeling the water. Not sure how I feel about Mothers. Asking her for her help in getting to know her. Getting to (gulp) love her. (I know, ok! I'm on some very low loooooow levels of spirituality here.) And what does she do?

She says to me, "Hold my hand."

... gaping...

... crickets...

I am stunned right down to my toes. Let me splain. I am so much like Bert. All willful in my big shoes, clomping around making messes. And when I trip? Well, now I don't have to worry about falling flat on my nose, rolling around in the dirt kicking and screaming. She's holding my hand, so I don't fall far at all. My Gentle Mother scoops me up, puts me back on my feet and tells me to keep running. Heck, she runs with me!

We have the same goal, after all.

with much love and joy,

Hook

It's Most Uncanny...

The way that God gives us just what we need, right when we need it... if we're willing to take it. When I was waking up at night, fearing the devil, what is in my scriptural reading for the next morning? Luke 4:37-44. Jesus heals a possessed boy. "'O unbelieving and perverse generation, how long shall I be with you and put up with you?"... But Jesus rebuked the unclean spirit and healed the boy, and restored him to his father. And all were astounded at the majesty of God."

Wow. Ok, good reminder.

And again today, after I've been having trouble keeping up with my daily prayers: "...The Lord loveth a cheerful giver; and it is far better to give Him one minute cheerfully than ten minutes under duress."(M. Eugene Boylan, O. Cist. R., This Tremendous Lover)

Spell it out for me, God. Spell it out.

Happy birthday to my hilarious, sweet, rappin' nephew, Joseph. Four makes a big boy. I love you.

No More Mister Lame Guy... Girl

Dear Fagin,

Whoa.

Whoa.

It's been almost two months. Our reading public must be in despair! Abandoned and alone. Confused and constipated.

Or oblivious.

Because we have no public. The public deserves better than us. S'part of why I haven't written in so long... I just didn't have nothin' good to say. First there was that weird funk. And then those three or four weeks of 90 degree weather when I never went outside or opened my curtains and sat huddled in my sweaty house in the dark thinking bad thoughts. It was a serious case of SAD (that's Seasonal Affective Disorder... I think), which is weird because I thought that could only happen in the Winter.

And then! And then September came and with it the wind that blew the stink and the SAD away. We've had the most gorgeous series of sparkling cool days I can remember. My windows are open. Almost all the time. We go to the park and the zoo again. I see sky. And it is good! More than the change in the weather, though, it's the change of heart. God is changing it. He's been trying for ages and I just wasn't letting him. I'm trying to let him now, and dang! but He is good. Seriously, I was waaaaay underestimating the Guy. So here are a few of my resolutions.

Today I will give glory to God.

Today I will not think of myself. All. The. Time. Ok, I won't after I'm done with this post. Dang.

Today I will talk to my son. I will take him outside to play. I will tell him how much I love him.

Today I will say thank you. Thank you thank you thank you!

I will not make mystery slop for dinner.

I will be patient.

I will smile. And maybe laugh. And definitely sing.

Today my husband will know that I appreciate him. Because I'll tell him. And show him.

I will go to mass (missed it this morning... sometimes a girl's got to shave her legs).

I will not mope, or feel sorry for myself (why is that one especially hard?).

I will clean my house. With a joyful spirit.

I will be reminded over and over that I could do none of this by myself. That none of the credit is mine. That this is all a gift. All of it.

Today I will say thank you (sincerely!) for my small crosses. Especially for the gift of infertility. I never thought I would be able to do that. But with Him all things are possible.

Today is the day the Lord has made. I will rejoice and be GLAD!

Slap-happily yours,

Hook

Hook,

I don't know where I've been. In Stupid Land? Too stupid to write anything here, even stupid things. How many times can I say 'stupid'? Feels liberating to write it because I live with small people who are always ready to tell me "Don't say 'stupid', Mom!" As if I've really trained them so well. Wasn't it one of my darlings who only yesterday removed his diaper unnoticed and did...something in the dining room?

I don't need to have a dog in order to have poop on the floor. I love how I can streamline my life. Forget ridding my over-crowded house of unused, unnecessary, not to mention ugly books, furniture, toys and hoo-hah. I've got a recently and rabidly un-housetrained two year old instead: the perfect excuse to give the six year old who really really wants a puppy.

Would you rather I write about a recipe I'm dying to try? How about a whole category of food instead. Make that two: fruit pies and margaritas. Sour margaritas and any kind of fruit pie made with smitten kitchen's painfully beautiful and painfully buttery pie crust. The smell of that crust haunts my dreams. And I wish a tart margarita would haunt my days.

And when are you going to make me fried chicken, hmm? I'd make biscuits and slaw and strawberry pie and dress all in gingham. I know, you're at the lake going fishin' and eating bizarres with Bert. I can wait for fried chicken until you return, but not much longer.

Fagin

Stultiloquence

Dear Fagin,

Where are you? I mean, I know where you are. I just saw you yesterday. But still, where are you? I'll remind you that this whole blog thing was your idea... I think. And here I am vomiting my brain twaddle all over it with nary a word from you.

C'mon, you've got thoughts. And feelings. I know you do. Like how about Reading Lessons, or Terrible Twos, or The Color Pink? How does it make you feel when I bring my kid over to whine at you and eat all your food? How does it feel when I bring myself over to whine at you and eat all your food? What's an average day at your house like? What's the recipe you're most dying to try at the moment?

How crusty are your feet?

No?

That's just me? Alright then.

Don't write if you don't wanna. I'm mostly just pissy because I'm bored and there's nothing to read (besides the dozen books I checked out of the library). And I need to pee wicked bad but the bathroom's all the way upstairs. Yoho.

This is one of those Summer days. You know the sort. Hot. Boring. Mehhhhhhh. I finished reading "Julie and Julia" yesterday, and hated it. You told me I would. What a miserable read. What an unappealing person! Sorry if that offends you Readers. But I know it doesn't because we don't have any Readers.

Ha. This is exactly the sort of random driveling I didn't want to write. Next time I will write about World Peace or Religion or Something Important. Mmmmmkay.

Bert Snert was in the dirt.

His lunch was smeared all over his shirt.

He bedaubed his neck

With feculent dreck.

Pert curt hurt blurt skirt.

I'm sorry,

Hook

Surprised By Joy

Dear Fagin,

It occurred to me yesterday, not for the first time, that I am settling. I know, I know, "settling" has a bad connotation these days. It's giving up on your dreams, taking less than you deserve, copping out. The mortal sins of the Society of Me. After all, I opted out of grad school in favor of marrying The Man, starting a family and - gasp! - staying home. I settled for an older car, a less glamorous job, and three dollar Target clearance tees.

Ok, so I didn't really settle. I married a man I profoundly respect and love. I'm blessed with a child whose worth is infinitely beyond my deserving. Even when he's being a toot. I have comfort, security, and people in my life. I didn't settle at all, if you want to push the issue. And I'm happy.

I. Am. Happy.

That may sound trite, but lately those words have been walloping me over the head. Over and over. I am settling and I am happy. Or maybe settling in is a better way to put it. I'm finally starting to feel like I've caught up with myself! Like I'm not measuring my life in phases. Or something.

Do you know what I mean? Is this something everyone feels at one point or another? Did God blast me with Celestial Joy just for the heck of it? Is this a routine part of growing up, or am I simply slow to arrive?

Hello? Ummm, you there?

Do enlighten, dear Older and Wiser Sister. Although, I guess if you don't know either it's not the end of the world. Because I'm totally diggin' this settling thing.

Yours In a Great Stupor of Obviousness,

Hook

Ah You Makin' Chickin?

Dear Fagin,

Don't you just love the ease of Summer? Don't you just love how Summer is the only thing I can talk about lately? Duuuuuuuude, I just can't help myself! There's nothing like having a long day getting a lot done and at the end of it thinking, "Saints alive, it's 7:00! Whatever shall I serve for supper?"

Or just, "Oh crud, whadderwegonnaeat?"

Here's where it gets beautiful, though. The Man flips on his gas grill, and in five minutes we've got chicken and asparagus sizzling while I whip up my most favoritest Caesar salad. Then we carry it all out to the back of the yard and pinch ourselves because it's all just too... heavenly. (There'll be food in Heaven, right? I mean, there's gotta be.)

Do I sounds braggy? Don't worry, it's not like this most nights. Last night we had frozen pizza with a side of bat poop. But the wonderful thing about Summer is that sometimes, often when you're least expecting it, those perfect moments and magazine meals do happen.

And the livin' is easy.

Hook

That Certain Something

What is is about little boys and their dads?

Bert loves his Dad. To him, The Man is... THE MAN. The other day Bert told me, quite seriously, "My Dad is a super hero."

"Oh really?"

"Yeah. He said so."

I know what he means.

At dinner I can't get a word in. Bert just wants to talk to his Dad. He has "so many questions to tell him". He'll make up endless stories just to keep his dad's attention.

Sometimes we argue over who loves The Man. "No no, Mom. You don't love Dad. You love me and I love you, and I love Dad myself."

And I love that.

WWJD?

Dear Fagin,

We have recently been making a greater effort to say the Rosary each night. Bert registers bits and pieces of it, and tries to pitch in when he's not too busy wrapping his Holy Beads around his toes. It's a nasty habit that I'm trying to break, but he is only three so it may take time. I digress.

Tonight we were listing our intentions and he says in his quietest, most reverent voice, "Thank you for our Sins."

Please Advise.

Hook

Red Meat and Fire

Dear Hook,

I so solly about the bats. So very solly. Here's a happy memory to take your mind off the tragedy that is your bat-filled but Edward, Bella, and Jacob-less life.

Remember these beauties? Nothing makes me smile like steak. Slightly charred, perfectly pink inside (thanks to The Man!). I think it was the best dinner I've had in I don't know how long.
And since I'm already forgetting exactly what was done, here's what I do remember:

- you marinated the beef, so I can't say exactly what you did to make it so delicious, but you did say something about lots of soy sauce, worcestershire, and garlic, no?

-potatoes were sliced, boiled (and not mush!) , cooled and tossed with cucumbers, tomatoes, parsley, chives, and tarragon. I think I splashed some red wine vinegar over everything, too. And s & p of course.

- I just couldn't include a picture of the homemade mayonnaise. As lovely as it was, all pungent with garlic and lemon, the photo didn't look lovely at all. Very congealed and slithery looking. Which isn't to say I didn't dab pretty much every mouthful with it. And tasted garlic all night long. All night.

So that's that. It was the kind of meal after which I should have announced, "I am replete." They seem to say that in books, don't they? I'm not even sure what it means, but I figure it something like "I am satisfied and then some."

Fagin

Blubbering In My Belfry

Dear Fagin,

It started a few weeks ago when we noticed "droppings" on our garbage can. Mice? Up there? Ew. We ignored it, but then there were more.

We got home one night last week and spotted something ominous flying around and around our house. A bat. My cute, tiny Georgian suddenly looked like something out of Dracula. And I don't mean that in a cool, vampires-are-so-in-right-now way. More like Lord-help-me-we-are-all-going-to-get-rabies-and-die-foamy-deaths kind of way.

So, we're suspicious. The next night I'm washing dishes and I ask Bert, "Hey, buddy, what's Daddy doing?"

"He's outside flashin'."

To be honest, I might have preferred indecent exposure. The Man was galloping around the house at twilight, shining his flashlight at the roof in the hopes of finding the bats. And did he ever. He counted eight that night. All tucked up cozy in our soffit. Our soffit that has a three inch gap it shouldn't have. I stayed just inside the screen door, and I may have peed my pants a little.

Last night The Man's whole family was over for Fathers' Day, and everyone counted aloud as the bats flew out for the night. Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen. EIGHTEEN.

Send help quick.

Hook

Some Summers

Dear Fagin,

Do you remember that one Summer we spent holed up in Mom and Dad's room? It was one of only two air conditioned rooms in the house, the other option being the library with the couch that stunk like sweaty boys.

Probably because of the sweaty boys.

Who sat there and sweat... ed.

So we picked a corner of Mom and Dad's room, shoved the piles out of the way, and made a home for our dolls. Kirsten with Fagin, and Samantha with Hook. And one of those teeny weeny (ha ha. teeny weeny) Tobasco sauce bottles, and tiny little newspapers you made, all rolled up and cute. I think my contribution was little wads of bread that I molded into loaves of doll bread. No, I'm gonna say that was your idea, too. I bet Mom appreciated it.

Wasn't it fun, though? I think of it whenever the Summer gets very hot. I also think of Margaritas, but who's perfect? Honestly, though, sitting there in the cool mooshing little balls of bread around was about as good as it gets.

It sure beat sitting on the sweat couch.

Nostalgically yours,

Hook

Eight Years Ago Today

Dear Fagin,

Eight years ago today you married a fabulous man. I was so proud. I remember telling you, when you had just started dating Mr. Fagin, "That's the one. You should marry him." Good thing I'm so S-M-R-T, and good thing you listened to me. Ha. You already knew, didn't you?

You two made sense right away. You still do. He's whip smart; you (don't think you are but you) are, too. He's mellow, you're passionate. You're one of the funniest people I know. He's got a great laugh. You're both forgiving, humble, generous. Things you need to be to make it eight years. I'm still so proud of you both, proud to be your sister, grateful to be your friend. I could go on and on, but if I did I might fluster your Irish Freeze, and then where would we be? Yo-ho. Har har.

Happy 8th anniversary, Mr. and Mrs. Fagin. I'm so happy for you!

much love,

Hook

Man to Man

Dear Fagin,

Have you ever "Googled" yourself? I just did. Yo-ho. Wikipedia describes Fagin "(pronounced /ˈfeɪɡɪn/) [as] a fictional character who appears in the Charles Dickens novel Oliver Twist, referred to in the preface of the novel as a "receiver of stolen goods", but referred to more frequently within the actual story as the "merry old gentleman"...Born in London, Fagin is described as "disgusting" to look at."

Mwa ha ha ha ha. Yar.

Were you ever. Right down to the matted hair and the liver spots. Oh, the liver spots! And of course, the beard. Which in your case may have been a goatee? And yes, fake eyebrows.

Much like our friend, Alec Guinness. Yes, that's him. As Fagin. For REAL. So ugly it changed my font. And I can't change it back. Not with all the pixie dust in the world.

In your last, you brought up a long-buried memory. I am referring to the dreaded "adhesive-induced acne mustache" or, as you so aptly put it, mustacne. Yes, I remember it too clearly now. Raw and bumpy. Sticky. Because Spirit Gum is designed to adhere to the skin for no-less-than-but-not-limited-to-three-weeks-plus-one-ill-advised-trip-to-Baker's-Square. Yes, the Captain clearly remembers hustling off to the pie-house after a performance, eyebrows firmly glued to her head, the yellowish cast of spirit gum highlighting the bits of faux mustache and eyebrow still stuck all over her face. All to see a boy. A traumatized and freaked-out boy. A boy who was re-thinking things. "Reviewing the Situation", if you will. Moving on to greener, less manish pastures. Ah, young love! So reckless. So... useless.

But it was fun, wasn't it? Playing the villain, instead of Snow White (Captain Hook played her, too, but no one remembers that, do they?). Getting the laughs. Trying our best to sing like men and walk like men, and coming off more like this.

But with more hair. (Side note: Really, Paula?)

Let me splain. No, is too much. Let me sum up. Going to an all-girls high school and playing the male villains is an indelible part of our make-up. Maybe we learned valuable lessons about men that later prepared us for marriage?

Nah.

Maybe the heavy disguises allowed us to express ourselves with abandon. To be confident in our personalities and choices! To say to the world, "I am who I am, and who I am is as fabulous as Alec Guinness and Paula Abdul (REALLY, Paula?!?!).

Naaaaaaah.

I got nothing. It was weird. And it still haunts me. Like the crocodile with the ticking clock... always following. Always hungry. Speaking of which, peanut butter and jelly for breakfast is soooo not jolly. I'm off to make "suffin to eeeeeaaat" for Bert. And then go to the "pork". Hope your day with your rabble of boys is wicked awesome.

Yo-ho,

Captain Hook

Poor Disguises

Dear Captain Hook,

I'm sorry. I'm sorry your disguise didn't work... again. I really thought it was flawless this time: twenty-five year old female in party dress, strappy sandals, lipstick. Even earrings. Two of them and not of the large gold hoop persuasion. And yet they still sniffed you out. Eight years after the fact, too.

I can just picture it. There you are, cocktail in hand, clutching your girly clutch as the parents of your high school past approach.

you: "Hi, so good to see you! Have you met my husband? Do you like my girly clutch and my mascara?"

them: "Oooooo, look, it's Captain Hook!"

I don't know how they remember. Even little Bert bought your disguise when you picked him up at the end of the night and was fully convinced you were his mom and not a mustachioed pirate. Is it the creepy oddness of all that facial hair glued onto the face of a sixteen year old girl that leaves some sort of indelible mental association?

Not that the depth of your delicately nuanced performance didn't also touch the hearts of your audience. That's what I like to tell myself anyway. It takes the sting out of being told how much one's performance of Fagin was enjoyed when pictures absolutely prove that one looked exactly like one's older brother might look in forty years. Or now that I've seen it, Will Farrel as the Old Prospector on SNL. And did you ever get the adorable adhesive-induced acne mustache? That was cute, and just in time for prom, too.

"Thanks for the corsage! Do you like my pretty dress? Do you like my mustacne? Let's go dance, they're playing 'With or Without You'!! No? Really?"

And there are people who want to relive high school?

Grunt.

Fagin