So. Death. That’s a writing topic.

I wouldn’t be much of a writer if I let opportunities to write about death slip through my hands. So here we go.

A week ago Saturday I was a normal person. I made a deal with the SuperHusband that if he would knock out four kids’ science projects on a Saturday morning four days before the Science Fair, I’d keep him fed and clean the house. No problem. Fetched things, ran errands, produced the goods. I was tired by the middle of the afternoon — tired enough I kinda slacked off on my end of the deal, he having come through on his . . . but it was just tired.

Dragged myself to the church in the morning, because tired really is not an excuse, and it was fine. I could sing. I could stand around and chat. Normal person.

Sunday afternoon I pushed myself out the door and into the yard to say that Rosary.

Dear Legion of Mary,

I have missed very many rosaries this winter. Fortunately I came up with new, worse sins, so that I could rather gloss over my neglected prayer life in the confessional.

You’re welcome,

Jennifer.

I like to walk around while I pray, because I am very bad at praying. Sunday a week ago, that did not work out. Even walking very, very slowly, I couldn’t finish a Hail Mary without needing far too many deep breaths. Not only does this increase the amount of time you spend praying (silver lining there, I’m sure), but if you can’t walk and finish a phrase at the same time, you really are supposed to sit down.

I sat down.

Now this has happened before a few times, intermittently over very many months, but it has always passed. I didn’t worry about it very much.

Monday I was so incredibly tired. Too tired to be a decent housewife and homeschooling mom. You only get so many Exhausted Passes before you have to call the doctor, and I’d used all mine up. So I called.

Went in to the see the GP in the morning, and everything checked out AOK, other than the tired and the short of breath at the least exertion. We made follow-up plans. It really wasn’t that bad then. I decided to be serious about resting. I had this retreat coming up, but no problem: Married to a sound guy. He could mic me, I could sit while I talked, it would be fine. Fine.

I called in sick to everything, laid around all week. It would be fine.

Saturday, as I mentioned, shortly after I’d finished catching up on e-mails, it ceased to be fine. Went to the ER, where they spent the weekend determining I wasn’t having a heart attack. They don’t look for much else than that. Consider relaxation. Call your cardiologist if you’re really worried.

They did do a stress test Sunday AM in the holding tank at the ER, and I walked the thing. I knew I could walk it, because (a) I’d spent 20 hours lying around doing nothing so I was very rested up, (b) there was no way no how they were putting that nasty chemical in me that simulates exercise without actually exercising are you kidding? Just No., and (c) I used to race bikes. So I don’t care how hard it is, for ten minute I can do anything.

So I did that. It actually felt *great*, in surreal sort of way. Standing there on the treadmill, walking slowly, and breathing like I was running sprints. 2nd hardest run of my life, though I hadn’t done the first hardest yet. Felt awesome, because sprinting does feel awesome, even if you’re doing it slow motion. Heart did great, lungs sucked wind: Maybe you’ve got asthma, ma’am? Sir, this isn’t asthma.

Went home. They told me to come back to the ER anytime I liked, but of course they weren’t going to do anything new, they’d just rewalk the same territory.

Laid low Monday, and let me tell you: When I’m sitting still I feel perfectly normal. Normal. I completely, absolutely, forget that the body’s gone AWOL these last eight days. SuperHusband lined up the follow-up with the pulmonologist (see: “maybe you’ve got asthma?”) for this morning.

***

There’s a pulmonology circle of Hell, I’m sure of it.

So we go in, and I’m still feeling more or less like a normal person, since the SuperHusband has figured out how to keep me from walking or standing any more than absolutely necessary. Normal person. Albeit a tired one.

So they call you back to do these breathing test things. There’s this room, and a very nice lady with a computer, and this thing like a space-age telephone booth, with a bench in it.

The bench is the killer.

It’s a normal bench. Padded. Like something at an airport.

The really nice lady gives you instructions on the test thing you’re going to do. There will be deep breaths, and inhaling and exhaling and all this stuff. It reminds me of dance class, where the instructor would show us this elaborate thing I could never keep straight, but fortunately during the recital she always stood in the wings and you could look over and see what you were going to do.

The nice lady is like that. You put your mouth on the breathing thing, and she tells you everything to do, step by step.

Except it never, ever, ends.

About halfway through I lost it.

It wasn’t the breathing. It was the sitting up, on that bench, all. that. time.

I just couldn’t sit up anymore. Just no. It was too much of that infernal bench.

***

She was really nice. I cried for a bit, because: So exhausted.

I’ve raced very many bike races. I’ve reached that point in the race where your quad quits working, so you use your arm to push it down each time as you work up the hill. Not a problem. I’ve pushed a final sprint so hard I coughed for a week afterward. Not a problem. I’ve finished training rides so long and intense that I mumbled jibberish to the lady at the bagel shop after. Not a problem.

This sucked. Curl up in a ball and cry suck.

(Except no curling up. That bench. That blasted pale blue bench with the glass surround. I hate space travel. I never ever want to have to make a phone call in a cheesy sci-fi movie. Never.)

She was real nice, and very patient with me, and we finished all the tests but one successfully, and the one I couldn’t make myself do was the easy one. But so long. So much sitting up on that bench.

***

She lets me back to the waiting room, where I get to lay back on the couch and recover and try to finish filling out my forms. We get called to the exam room. Another chair. Happy. Bench bad, chair good. I’m feeling sorta human again by the time the nurse pops in and says she needs to check my O2 sats while I walk.

Hey, no problem. I have O2, the ER knows it. And I wanna see what happens when I walk. And I walked all the way into this place. I can do this.

***

Or not.

Sheesh, what is this? She clips the pulse-ox on my finger, then takes off on a lap around the nurse’s station. And I’m supposed to follow her? She’s like running.

She’s not really running. She’s walking like a normal person. Like people who go for walks. Not like that pansy heart-attack-detecting stress test treadmill at the ER that goes 1.3 miles per hour. The first lap I’m with her: Workin’ it, breathing hard — hard like running hard even though we’re only walking, but I’m with her. Lap 2 is a stretch. I’m coughing. She’s twice as chubby as me, and looking all cute and pert and I wanna smack her, except, too tired. Surely this is going to end.

Lap 3 just sucks. I’ve never worked so hard in my life sucked. Natural childbirth is a breeze compared to this sucks. And then.

She does it again.

Another lap.

Yeah, I cried. I totally cried.

***

So this is sobering. Sitting quietly at home, checking Facebook and writing stuff, I feel like a normal person. Walking around the nurses’ station is the truth serum to end all truth serums.

***

This is the doctor’s office, which means you wait around a lot. SuperHusband and I both brought things to do, and both of us don’t do them. I lay back on the pulmonologist’s exam table thing, which really is perfectly angled for people who don’t breath much, or in my case people who breath too much. Eventually I recover from the evil ordeal. I try not to think about it. How about we talk about things?

SuperHusband is sober. Sober sober.

“I need to figure out what to do,” he says, “about the kids’ education. If you can’t homeschool.”

I know what he means. Exactly what he means. Neither of us has it in us to say it.

This is my topic. I run him through the list of options. There are the Catholic schools – not so bad. That would be good, and they offer financial aid that takes into account extenuating circumstances, it’s not just your total income they look at. There are some homeschool places locally the older kids can take classes by the subject. There are the online homeschool classes. There’s a K-to-something Christian school I’d be okay with, that’s on his way to work. The corner public elementary school is not that bad, and here’s the after school program that you want — they send the kids home at dinner time with homework already done. The older kids cans can dual enroll at the community college their latter years of high school.

We run through all the options.

He’s reassured. It’s not impossible. He could do this. The kids could be okay.

I think to myself: There’s no way he’s going to remember all this.

Should I write him a tutorial? Or just let one of my friends tell him what to do?

***

My lungs were fine. Perfectly absolutely fine. Must be something else, doctor says.

I do not punch him when he asks me if I’ve just been a little stressed lately. Um, did your nurse not chart what happened out there on those laps, sir?

We have a pretty good guess at what it is, and after a few stern words to bring him back to reality, doc straightens up his act and gets us in with a cardiologist, stat.

***

That’s our day. I came home tired. Very tired. A few hours of recovery time, and as long as I sit still I feel like a normal person. I get some work done, and follow-up with retreat lady to explain that no, actually, someone else needs to do the sitting up and talking for me.

***

If our guess is right on the dx, my odds are decent. That’s nice.

Or not.

I downgraded from “sick but we can work with this” to “call the ambulance” about an hour after I sent the retreat lady the e-mail that I was gonna bring the spouse to help out with the heavy lifting but otherwise it was a go. Sheesh that annoys me. So the back-up plan in place is that I send all the cool notes and stuff, and a local guy pretends he’s me :-).

Which means it will still be a very good retreat, which is the important thing. Might even be a better retreat, you never know who the local guy’ll be.

Meanwhile what I’ve learned:

County Hospital food is not actually like prison food, but there is a passing resemblance.
I like Facebook. I really like Facebook.
I have the coolest friends and family.

At this writing I’m now home, not dead, and feeling great as long as I sit still. Also, all labs confirm I’m the healthiest sick person on the face on the planet. Hoping for a dx by the end of the week, and meanwhile am sitting still and knocking out this and that writing stuff, in between catching up with folks, see: coolest friends and family.

Have a good week!

Plague Journal 2013 – Lite Version + Home, Free to Good Kitten

I keep falling off the internet because . . . we’re only a little bit sick. We’re in and out of the plague-ridden life just enough that everyone can keep the momentum on the flesh-and-blood obligations, at least for the highest priorities, but not so sick that we get to stay home in bed and play the internet all day. Yes, that’s right: If only I were sicker, I’d blog more.

(Hush your mouth, we aren’t praying for that. Bad reader! No biscuit!)

If anyone can read my mind, circa early-December, and remember what my brilliant idea for my next New Evangelizers column was, please speak up. It’s due tomorrow, so I’m counting on you reminding me by mid-afternoon. Thanks!

***

The next bit of this update tells a story that includes a death scene. A real one, not fiction. You might want to go ahead and click elsewhere now. Especially if thinking about dead cats bothers you.

***

Morbid Dead Cat Story, with handy funerary tips.

So last Thursday night the testosterone wing was safely away at hunt camp, two little girls were in bed, and my little singer was up enjoying the fire and the Advent Tree, and generally getting her internal clock adjusted per the midnight-Mass situation. Fifi the cat wisely chose this time, when all was quiet and peaceful, to drop dead.

This surprised us.

She was just a middle-aged cat. Looking back, Ev recalls that Fifi had not quite been her usual self that week, but there was no particular lead up. One minute, Fifi is sitting at her usual spot by the fire, doing her cat-by-the-fire routine; next thing I knew, she wasn’t.

Note: If a cat were to just slip off into eternal bliss while sitting by the fire, you would not notice. It would probably be a few days before your realized that your cat hadn’t moved lately. Fifi did not do this.

Instead, some time after she was last spotted in her Queen Cat location, she was no longer there. In place of a cat, I noted that mild stench, which those of you who have been around dying creatures know about, coming from under the coffee table. The rest of you can be surprised later.

We fished the Fifi out from her hiding place, and made a bed in a cardboard box with an old dog towel. We have a dishpan in the linen closet labeled “dog towels”, but they can be used for other pets, too. Every now and then, they make a good burial shroud — more on that later.

Ev extracted a promise from me that we could take the cat to the vet in the morning. I did not break the news to her right away, but once the rapid shallow breathing starts, you have to at least give your child a head’s up that this is probably the end. I cleaned up the minor mess under the coffee table, and we sat around watching the cat in her box. She mostly just lay there panting, but sometimes not.

The dog jumped over her dog gate and came to investigate. I sent her back to bed. The last thing I needed was for the dog to catch cat-plague, and have Mr. Boy come home to a dead pet, too.

Having been a delinquent auxillary member of the LOM that day, I started into my rosary under my breath, and made it through the first decade before we could no longer see fur moving. It was the first time I’d ever been praying that “and at the hour of our death” line during someone’s actual death, even if it was only a cat.

Black and white fur, thick for winter, by the light of an Advent tree, plays tricks on your eyes. You can only watch it go up and down so many times before you think you see it moving even when it’s not. Ev fetched her stethoscope, and we listened for breath sounds and a heart beat, just like they do on TV.

We made that face that the pioneer doctor makes right before the last commercial break.

It was midnight by now. After a suitable period of mourning, Ev extracted a new promise from me: Yes, we can get a kitten.

It was not only midnight, it was cold and dark. Not the time for a burial service. I sent Ev to bed, and told her I’d sleep out in the living room with the cat-corpse, since I did not want to wake up in the morning and discover that the dog had taken an unusual interest in dead things in the small hours of the night.

The handy pet undertaker’s tip: If you are not going to bury your pet until morning, go ahead and curl up the body in a cute and compact sleeping-cat pose right away. And get the ~~dog towel~~ cat burial shroud all wrapped around the body, with just a tiny bit of sleeping-cat head visible, but easily covered when the time comes. You will be glad in the morning, because: Rigor Mortis.

FYI – I was glad in the morning. Got up, made myself go out and bury the cat before I took a shower (because: Co-op — still had a very long day ahead). On a frosty December morning, you will be happy that you posed the cat in the most compact suitable-for-viewing position possible, because: Smaller hole.

(You do know, don’t you, to fully wrap your child’s pet before you start shoveling dirt? They are going to watch. Even though they know exactly what’s inside the towel, it’s better to see dirt landing on just a towel.)

That’s my dead cat story. We told Ev to research the easiest, least-hassle way to obtain a fresh re-supply of cats, and she’s been comparing policies at all the various shelters around town. Meanwhile, yes we were agressive about washing hands and disinfecting. Also, I told the kids that if anyone developed acute abdominal pain, I was taking them to the ER ASAP. But it has not come to that, so I think we’re safe.

The Hard-Headed Life

Snippets since I fell off the internet – no, nothing bad going on, not really. Just my life. You know the scene.

1. The weekend before Thanksgiving, three kids are outside playing tag after dark. Seven-year-old daughter comes inside, weeping and telling us she hit her head. Mandatory concerned-parents questions, but we determine that it wasn’t that bad, she’s just tired, because what she hit her head on was her brother’s shoulder. She settles down, though she keeps reminding us her head hurts.

A few minutes later, Mr. Boy comes inside. His shoulder hurts. You know — where his sister’s head hit it. Can’t be that bad, right?

Next morning, as someone who shall not be named is trying to persuade the boy to quit favoring the shoulder and move it around a little so the muscles don’t get tight, the Mom-alarm goes off. Something is not right with this scene. Further Mom investigation, followed by confirmation at doc-n-box: Broken collarbone.

PSA: Do not play rugby with my 7-year-old.

2. I wrote this article at New Evangelizers. I knew it was slated to run on Thanksgiving, but I wrote it anyway. Hint: I rant about the usual things I rant about, instead of telling you to be grateful for stuff.

How did writing this column change my life? I resolved to wear hats more often. Not at church, necessarily. Just around. Because I like them.

3. At CatholicMom.com, I answered this post from Rebecca Frech. In my column, which you can find here, I assert that my children are not too sheltered, though I give no particular evidence on that point. Those who worried that by “being selective about the movies they watch” you feared I was depriving them of sappy puppy-themed formula films, or hyper-violent Korean parodies of Clint Eastwood films, fear not. We’re covering those bases tonight, that’s why I have time to blog.

4. Awkward blogger moments: I’m at the Family Honor in-town class session that finishes out the course Jon & I took last summer. Great class. Highly recommended. We’re sitting at dinner, and the program director turns to me, and says, “Jen, I just found out you blog. I just started blogging. Tell me — how often to you post?”

I had to explain to him that I had recently fallen off the internet. I went home resolving to post here ASAP, so I’d look more respectable when he clicked on my blog. But the DSL was out.

#5 – #17: About the Internet

5. SuperHusband had to take a child to a violin concert Sunday afternoon, so he put Mr. Boy in charge of contacting AT&T to get the DSL fixed. All part of the child’s education. (So. About all our sincere efforts to not make other people work on Sundays. Isn’t DSL like an ox in the ditch? Isn’t it?)

So the boy gives it his best. Of course, he does not himself work in telecom, so he’s fresh meat. Customer service convinces him we need a new modem.

SuperHusband comes home and rejects this diagnosis. A new modem is the two-aspirin of the Telcom customer service world. He starts to make the boy call back customer service and argue more, but I step in and plead mercy, mostly on me but a little bit for the boy and his father, too. SuperHusband gets on the phone, talks customer service off their ledge, and after a cordial but intense discussion with Nathan in India (is it Sunday in India?), they get the idea that maybe a change of service is in order. AT&T will send a guy around in the morning. No, they won’t charge for installation.

I’d been planning to go to Chik-Fil-A in the morning to check my e-mail, but I agree to stay home so the problem can be solved.

6. 8:10 AM the friendly customer service guy rouses me from a sleep even St. Josemaria couldn’t touch. He’ll be there at 8:40, will that be okay. Yes. I lie and tell him yes. It is not exactly lying if you are also praying that by 8:40 it will be okay.

7. My excuses for being tired include the fact that we are gradually shifting #2’s sleep schedule later and later, so that she can sing at midnight Mass. Thus, all children are asleep. Or faking it because they know it’s Monday, always a risk they might have to do work on a Monday.

8. I have no excuses for the way my house looks.

9. So what I need is a WWMDC bracelet. I go to the kitchen and start asking myself, “What would Mrs. Darwin clean next?” I clean that thing, then repeat repeat repeat. By 8:40, as long as the blinds remain closed, and all the lights except in select cleaned-places remain turned off, the house looks like a place that would not cause a telecom tech guy to call social services.

10. I failed to think about the phone guy when we put chicken prison in exactly the place where the phone lines enter the house. I apologized. He pretended it was no big deal. Tech guys lie just as much as housewives.

11. He was incredulous when I explained that we had no crawlspace, and yes, the phone lines go through the attic. A tech had just fallen through someone’s attic only last week. AT&T does not want to send people into your attic.

12. There were complications. Complicated complications. We eventually get hold of the SuperHusband, who has an intelligent conversation about telecom things with the tech guy.

13. Tech guy gets permission from AT&T to install the new service on our ancient phone lines. Since running a new cable would involve the attic. And other things.

[Note: During all this time, I am continuing to clean my house. The children wake-up eventually, and I convince them to clean the house, too. I am acting as if there is some good reason why I woke up to a trashed house on a Monday morning, and that naturally if no DSL problems had arisen, I would not have spent the morning answering e-mail and blogging, I would have done those dishes! Right away! By the time the tech guy has his marching orders, the house is looking sort of civilized. My children transition to acting like they are doing school work. They are pro’s at this, and even I am briefly fooled.]

14. There’s a problem. The newly-installed service works, but not to the company’s quality standard. More investigations. A manager is called. They visit all the phone jacks in my house. They are gathering evidence that we have the weirdest wiring in the Southeast. (There’s a place that’s weirder, I’ve seen the photos, but it’s in Baltimore.) They need to install new cable.

15. The manager moves on, the tech guy installs the new cable. Through the attic, of course. He sustains no injuries, thanks to my helpful tips. (Stay on the plywood. Not on the pink stuff.)

16. It’s not the cable in the attic after all. Maybe it’s the box at the curb . . . the one with the oak roots entangling it, such that the box cannot be opened.

17. More investigations. Actually, the problem is a few blocks up the road. Tech guy apologizes for mistakenly upgrading my wiring.

Utterly unrelated. Not really. #18. I agreed to be one of CatholicMom.com’s Gospel-reflection writers for 2014. Lisa H. immediately signed me up for the 16th of each month, before I had time to change my mind. This means I have to read a snippet from the Gospel twelve times a year, and think about what the snippet says.

Yes. I know. It seemed like a good idea to me, too.

NFP Saves Thanksgiving

Also, I reviewed a good book.

Back to NFP: So yesterday I woke up at six (normal), and thought it might be prudent to see if I could sleep until seven, what with having a long day ahead, and having been so tired all week. Success. Seven rolls around, SuperHusband’s alarm goes off, and now there’s no more stalling except that old married-lady trick: Reach for that thermometer.

Here’s the thing you need to know, you innocent ones, about women of a certain age: We pretty much know whether we actually need to get a temp that day or not. Round my castle, yesterday was not that day.

But if you want five more minutes of laying in bed, a sudden diligence in Following the Method is a dodge that even St. Josemaria WAKE UP Escriva can’t get down your back about.

So I got my minutes. Thermometer beeps, and if you don’t go turn on a light and check and see what it says, and write that down someplace, Josemaria’s gotcha. So I do that, because I don’t want to be in deep trouble with select saints.

100.0.

Benefit of NFP: You know a fever when you see one, the way baseball fans know a bad batting average when they see one.

–> This caused the surreal experience of knowing I was sick, but since I still only felt like a tired person waking up in the morning, I had no idea exactly what sort of sick I might be. Also, NFP saved Thanksgiving, because:

(a) If I hadn’t known I was sick, I would have gotten up and prepped for co-op.

(b) I would have felt tired and unmotivated, but I would have chalked it up to a moral failure on my part, made extra coffee, and pushed through it. Probably grabbed some allergy medicine when I felt a little sneezy.

(c) Well, yes, by 10:30 my throat would have been very, very sore. But I would have assumed it was from talking too much, not enough fluids, something like that.

(d) My friends at the co-op would have observed my pathetic __insert doubtful behavior here__, but they do that every week, so even they might not have realized I was a walking bio hazard.

(e) Germs. Incubation periods. Major holidays around the corner. Doesn’t take a public health official to add it up.

So you see? Moral of the story: The quest for holiness had side benefits for the wider community.

***

What happened instead is that I called in sick, other people went about their lives happily, and I spent the day mildly ill (not that bad, if you don’t have to talk to anybody and can sleep a lot of the day), read books, and then goofed off on the internet while my children faked doing schoolwork. Which means two more side benefits for the wider community:

1. NFP related: I discovered Simcha’s new book, print version, is now available for pre-order from OSV. The book doesn’t include every single NFP Secret, like the one I’ve just shared, but it does cover the most important bits.

2. As linked above, I finishing reading and wrote a review for Fr. Longenecker’s book More Christianity. It’s a good book. You should consider reading it, if you are one of the qualifying candidates.

A couple notes re: full disclosure on this one, since no one is pestering me at this very minute to get off the computer:

I read the first edition (issued by OSV). The cover pictured above is the revised and expanded edition from Ignatius. You can still buy the old version direct from Fr. L, but I bet the new one is even better.
Fr. Longenecker sent me a review copy because I had been so kind in my comments about Catholicism Pure and Simple, a book I paid for with my own money and think was money very well spent. I’ve also reviewed The Gargoyle Code (loved it), and astute readers may have noticed I tweet an awful lot of Fr. L’s posts from his blog.
This is because he writes good stuff. My usual rule for when he, or anyone, says dumb stuff, is to take it up privately or else just ignore it.*

I would torment you by saying, “I also read a pretty bad book yesterday,” but that would be unkind, unless I meant to tell you which bad book it was. I do read bad books, though not usually an entire bad book.

–> If you reach the point where you have read all the very good books, and need a list of books that are pretty good but have a few glaring weaknesses and possibly even some objectionable content, e-mail me. I know a few. But I bet you haven’t read all the very good books yet.

*I know this is difficult for you to believe, longtime readers of a blog with a whole category called Rant-o-Rama. But I assure you, my curmudgeonly powers far exceed anything you witness on the internet.

Cover art courtesy of Ignatius Press. Ordering information here.

Small Success Thursday: Not Too Much Jesus

1. I’ve been tired lately, mostly because that’s the way my life is. The first thing that goes is the prayer life, because of excuses:

(a) Tired = willpower AWOL

(b) The things that make me tired (= my life) are always happening during the times I had planned to pray

(d) and of course the “I just forgot” problem.

So the solution was to buy a new book. This one. Which I was resisting valiantly until some knowledgeable person went and said I needed to learn what was in it. She was right.

It arrived a few days ago, but remember, tired, so I didn’t really succeed at anything until this morning. Wow.

I sorta kinda new how different it was to sing the psalms than to say them, but no, I didn’t really.

Zowie.

2. I’m pretty sure I’m doing it wrong, by the way. I can’t sight read, and for various reasons the only instrument I had on hand was my daughter’s thumb piano, which means, if you are me, you have to give your best guess on anything that straddles Do. And thumb pianos make me so confused anyway. But even doing it wrong . . . what a difference. Slower, though, but I didn’t mind that. I even mostly paid attention to the words, which is an improvement.

3. I am not using #3 to complain about anything.

4. I turned in my column for New Evangelizers that is supposed to run one week from today. It is not about Thanksgiving, so maybe my trusty editor will flip it around with another post. Or maybe people want to spend Thanksgiving reading what I have to say about the Mass and church-n-stuff. The thing you need to know:

I linked to Katie O’Keefe’s article about the Christmas Carols & Advent Hymns.

You should go ahead and look at that now. She even tells you the difference between a hymn and a carol. I didn’t know that before.

5. If I were to sum up my Theory of Leadership it would be this: Do the things people ask you to do. I’m puzzled that people keep wanting to meet for the discipleship group, even on busy weeks when we also have a Bible study and a long day at the co-op and Thanksgiving coming up. But people do, so we will. You can’t really tell people, “No! Stay Home! Too Much Jesus!”. Since that would be false and all.

6. The reason I know that people want to meet for discipleship group on Sunday is because I switched to a pediatrician at the clinic in the ‘hood.

7. Yes, that kind. Where if you don’t have insurance they treat you on a sliding scale, and the New Patient Form doesn’t just ask you whether you’re homeless (they don’t ask you that in the ‘burbs), it has five different categories of homeless for you to choose from.

8. I did not do this out of solidarity with the poor. I did it out of total exasperation with the reputable practice in the ‘burbs, combined with the fact that my eldest are tweens and teens now so the stakes are a lot higher in terms of the moral values of their physician, combined with the fact that my friend the homeschooling pro-life Catholic pediatrician from our discipleship group is one of the doctors there, and she told me to get off my rear and make an appointment because the kids were due for tetanus shots, ahem.

(She didn’t say it that way. I am translating for readers here who do not speak Gentle-and-Sweet, which I don’t speak either. I can understand it though, mostly.)

9. So the practice in the ‘hood is a whole lot better than the one out in the sprawl. Not just because my friend is one of the doctors. (Though she might be having an impact). The desk staff were both competent and friendly, they got things done, they were efficient, and they didn’t treat you like you’re an idiot. And no one prescribed weird extra lab work ‘just to be sure’. I’m sold. Also, it’s closer to my house.

10. The kids were pretty scandalized by the routine questions, though. They don’t ask about whether you use sunscreen in the ‘hood. They do ask about whether you, 11-year-old, use drugs or alcohol. Also, “Are you sexually active?” My children were mortified, sheltered little creatures that they are. Our parish youth minister would have been nodding her head vigorously — the big problems kids face are not starting in high school, they are starting much younger.

11. So maybe that explains why people are so keen for God more days of the week.

12. Which point (scheduling discipleship group, Little Flowers, Bible study, etc.) we were able to confer about during the pediatrician Q&A, so that I could go home and e-mail folks to let them know, sort of, what’s up.

13. Also, we discovered #3 child is a little bit near-sighted. Follow-up with eye doctor scheduled for early December.

14. Hey, and music! SuperHusband recorded this from Mass on Sunday, and Dr. Mad Musical Super-Genius set it to a slide show. There’s nothing like an apprenticeship to the mad scientist at the choir lab downtown to make a man quite relaxed about cantoring one teeny tiny psalm back at the home parish.

15. Also, I think I’m going to end up banned at St. P’s, on account of how I kept leaning forward in my pew so I could get a peek at my cutie-pie 11-year-old hanging with the sopranos, who were blocked by a column if I sat back nicely. I did not wave, though. That counts for something. I definitely pray better when strangers do the singing.

15. Look! Advent Rabbits! It’s a convertible set, they turn into Christmas Bunnies on the 25th.

My friend Sandra said she’d bring home Miffy merchandise in exchange for French lessons. I’m on it. I think there’s a French proverb that runs something like Lapins de Noel arrivés, leçons de Français commencés. Roughly.

Mundelein Psalter cover art courtesy of http://www.liturgicalinstitute.org/#!mundelein-psalter/byelb.

Small Success Thursday – Halloween

1. I made it through the interview sounding mostly like myself. Which is accurate if not always flattering. I haven’t listened, but I have it on good authority that’s how it panned out.

2. Wrote this post to follow-up: Halloween, Playfulness & GK Chesterton. I’m not sure whether my new approach at the blorg,of doing part essay – part book review (or snippet), is going to make my boss happy, or irritated, or nothing at all. But it’s more fun than straight reviews. I almost always have a book to go with a rant. I’m reliable that way.

3. We’re painting pumpkins. Which means we:

(a) Obtained pumpkins.

(b) Attempted to carve them.

I like the painted thing better, honestly.

4. Not only did I deskavate last week, I fully cleaned the entire study. Yes. For who don’t know, my study was sort of like that situation with the trash barge full of hazardous waste being parked in international waters waiting for someone to accept it. And then, one day, cleaning fairies came and made all the garbage magically disappear, and left an organized work space in its place. Not a small success. But I cheat and post it here anyway.

5. I keep forgetting to write my seven takes for tomorrow’s giveaway. Luckily it’s a feast day and I don’t have to be anywhere until noon. So I can do it last minute. If you find yourself take-stalking, just be patient, there’s no advantage to entering early.

7 Takes: Staying in Sync with the Church – and why I hate these spontaneous fast days.

7 quick takes sm1 7 Quick Takes about haunted houses, affordable weekend wines, and #TWEETSONAPLANE

This week: 7 takes, domestic Church edition.

Next week: 7 takes, Sinner’s Guide to NFP Giveaway edition. More at the bottom.

***

Here’s what: the Pope and US Bishops are driving me nuts with their spur-of-the-moment fasting gigs, called as only bachelors could call them. Reason #2 of course is that I’m a whiner when it comes to fasting. But reason #1 is legit: It takes advance planning to stay in sync with the Church.

1. Sunday. Ha, Sunday. Day of rest, right? Which means you need to:

Get the shopping done ahead of time, so you aren’t running out on Sunday for that One Thing You Really Need.
Have a meal plan in place that isn’t going to drive you nuts with drudgery. See #7.
Do the chores. By Saturday. Or wait till Monday.
Get the laundry off the line, if the line is in the middle of some place you also have R&R. Or if you’ll worry about it.
Schedule hectic, energy-draining social engagements for Saturday. Because Sunday = Rest, right? Not Birthday Party with 20 Seven Year Olds. That might sometimes be fun, but it’s never restful.

It’s not actually that hard to do this, btw. But you have to train yourself to do it. The pay off is huge. Not at all like those other things you make yourself do, where it’s a lot of work and then things are just normal or something. You work for Sunday, and then you get happy relaxing time. A whole day. It’s good.

2. Friday. Friday was the hardest thing about reverting, until we remembered Sunday and pushed the cycle forward not quite 48 hours. In the world I grew up in, Friday was Party Day. Early in our marriage (pre-reversion), Friday evening Jon & I would slap steaks on the grill, open the bottle of red, and celebrate another week over, another weekend under way. Festive Friday. Feasting Friday. Never Fasting Friday.

3. So you move forward Friday’s feast to Sunday, and it works. Grocery shop on Saturday (so you have good stuff on hand for Sunday), and by Friday you’ll be down to leftovers, dried-out bread, and the choice between fish sticks and mac-n-cheese.

4. You have to make the kids clean the house on Saturday, even though you’re tired from all week. Or else it’ll be a wreck come Sunday. Which isn’t restful. (It’ll still be a wreck come Sunday night. But you can at least give yourself those minutes before the kids wake up Sunday morning, right?)

5. Feast Days. Feast Days are like Sundays tossed into the middle of the week. So suddenly the vigil becomes, chore-wise, a second Saturday. [Saturday, recall: Jesus spent it in the grave, but you spend it doing twice as much work so that you can put your feet up on Sunday. Your end of the deal isn’t that bad, actually.]

6. Fasting. When you have a pile of kids, or a pile of work, or a pile of real life, so that you are completely stretched to your limit most of time, fasting takes work. It takes planning. It takes a stockpile of mental energy so you have the will not to eat when your body says otherwise.

The trouble being, you’re already doling out your reserves of energy and patience and motivation bit by truly needed bit. You’re already figuring out how to maximize your “go” so that you can get done what needs to be done. You know how retired people have clean houses and sit around doing hobbies and stuff, in between sitting around resting from their hobbies and stuff? Middle-aged people aren’t there (I hope for your sake). Kicking back for a quiet day of meditation and scrabble is lovely and and all, but it’s not something you the married lady with young children and no servants can organize on a moment’s notice.

Bachelors. They need more toddlers in their lives, to help them with this.

7. Leaving that dreadful reality behind and getting back to a tip for a happy Sunday: If you want to eat something good on Sunday, but it will require you to cook a bit on the day, make it something really, really good. Make it something that you don’t get eat on other days. Then you’ll find cooking it to be relaxing and exciting instead of just more work.

7.5. Or bacon.

7.55 Or coffee cake, acquired on Saturday night.

7.555 Or coffee cake and bacon. Sunday food.

***

So like I said up top, this same time & place next week, I’ll be hosting a giveway for Simcha Fisher’s new book, The Sinners Guide to NFP. FYI: It is absolutely acceptable to come here for the sole purpose of trying to win the book, and then never come back again. Doesn’t bother me.

–> Since it’s all so awkward, deciding whether Friday November 1st ought to be spent goofing off online (feast day!), or staying unplugged (holy day!), and then All Soul’s on the 2nd isn’t much easier to figure out, and then there’s Sunday . . . the combox will stay open until midnight Monday, and the winner will be announced Tuesday the 5th. At which time one lucky person will get the secret information about how have it all: Nine children and expertise on periodic continence.

Cover art courtesy of http://www.patheos.com/blogs/simchafisher/the-sinners-guide-to-nfp/.

That was fast.

Whoever prayed for the SuperHusband’s ribs, THANK YOU. It worked. Now please apply your efforts to Hathaway’s lungs. Thanks.

(PS: People tell me the radio thing sounded good enough. So double-thanks on that one.)

And two things to read:

Chris T. on when and how to give to a worthy cause.

Pope Francis on just about everything.

Verse and Censure for the Feast Day + Chris Tollefsen at Public Discourse

Since we’ve been speaking of wealth ’round here lately . . . a limerick for today’s feast:

When faced with a room full of clutter,

I’ve been known to piously utter,

“Help me to know,

what should stay, what should go?

Oh blessed Teresa of Calcutta!”

In other news: Chris Tollefsen writes brilliantly at Public Discourse today. I’m a shameless Chris T. fan, so no surprise that I like the message. But I don’t get to say it as often as I’d like: This is far and away his best piece ever. That I’ve seen, anyhow. Go take a look.

In places NOT to look: Front Porch Republic, which I subscribe to but very rarely read, because publishing just a snippet for the feed reader is a very effective way to discourage me from reading your work, recently ran a piece about liturgy and limericks. The idea was spot on, unfortunately the chosen limericks were dreadfully lewd. Really? Was that necessary? No it was not.

To which end, perhaps not the most incisive wit, but making the same point as the FPR piece:

The rabbit who traveled by plane

said, “Security can be such a pain.

They opened my baggage,

and out fell my cabbage,

and I had to re-pack it again.”

The point FPR was making? A good genre, delightful in its context, is not necessarily the right genre for the holy liturgy. And another example, same rabbit theme, we have quite the collection growing*:

To my door came a poor little bunny,

who needed to earn some money,

“I’ll cut your grass for a dime,

one bite at a time–“

But in the end, the lawn looked quite funny.

See? Perfectly moral, g-rated limericks. It can be done. And the argument FPR wants to make is stronger when you acknowledge the genre isn’t used soley for smut. Show tunes are wrong at Mass not because Hollywood’s a den of sin, or because the cabaret / jazz / pop sound is always and everywhere associated with immorality. It’s because these types of music are about something else — something that can be beautiful and true and good and inspiring — but it’s something other than the worship of God.

And thus a final contribution for today:

On the feast of Teresa of Calcutta,

this pundit is likely to mutter,

“You’re housed and you’re fed,

but your brain is half dead,

’till you rescue your wit from the gutter.”

Happy Feast Day. Straighten up and fly right, FPR.

*The limerick fest began because, to my genuine shock and surprise, no irony there, my teenage boy does not love his poetry course for literature. I was stunned. A teenager? Not like poetry? Really? It’s all about love, death and self-centered dramatizing . . . that should be just the thing! Certainly was for me at that age. SuperHusband wisely suggested we begin with something a little lighter. And thus I succeeded, not in converting my skeptical teen, but in launching a festival of animal-themed verse among the the two youngest.

I’ll take my victories where I can.

Meanwhile, any poetry recommendations for less-romantic, very modern boys, who mostly read Dr. Boli?

Rabbit Photo: Larry D. Moore [CC BY-SA 3.0 or GFDL], via Wikimedia Commons

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