When Irish Eyes are Smiling

"If you want to see a clean house, make an appointment.  If you just want to see me, you are welcome any time."

It became a jaunty ritual that Grandma and I had when she'd pop over after an appointment that brought her into "town".  She would make an excuse as to why she did not call to let me know she was coming (I'm sure she had no intention of actually calling) and I would reply with the same response every time as I moved toys to make room for her on the couch.  It was usually on the mornings when I still hadn't showered, the current baby had me up all night, and the kids had earlier created a whirling dirvish with their popcorn now left all over the living room carpet...I would happen to wearily glance out the front window and see her huge white car pull into the driveway.
Over the years, my reaction changed from:  
Why can't someone pop over when my house is actually clean and I've actually had a chance to take a shower and I actually want company? 
to: There's Grandma...of course. 
I'd take a few deep breaths, bind my pride to the whipping post, and open the door with a cheery greeting, genuinely happy to see her.

These "surprise" visits became more frequent in the last years of Grandma's life; I am thankful that I learned to count them as blessings before they ended.  I am thankful that Grandma was endeared to me in life rather than in hindsight.  We were not close in my childhood.  She was very busy with church and community activities, but not so busy being a grandma.  I grew up knowing her as the "other" grandma and her ways were foreign to me (like Jello-based foods and used rummage sale gifts).  Luckily, one of the things I learned in the hard knocks of adulthood is that everyone has a different style of love...not better or worse, just different.  Love is both shined out and received though the lenses of our experiences...perhaps the rays might not be as bright or the color we are used to, but they are still there.  I know that my Grandma loved me and I'm sure she knew I loved her.  Ironically, that is what makes her passing easier for me.

My grandma was quite the character.  I have always been proud of the Irish blood I inherited from her, and with it, I think I got some of her strong spirit.  She would always speak her mind...often at great length.  She loved people, liked to know and be known.  She wasn't the type to get bogged down by problems, because she always had a story about someone dealing with something worse.  She had a glint of blarney in her eye and was always ready to laugh.  I often think of both my grandmas raising a brood of children with a 50's model husband and it makes me appreciate just how much my husband helps me.  I am awed by the strength of her generation.

I visited Grandma in the hospital the afternoon before she slipped away from this earth.  She was already heavily sedated awaiting the inevitable.  I had hoped to hold her hand...have some sort of contact that would let her know I was there...but she was bundled up under blankets.  Her appearance was a stark contrast to her vibrant personality.  And it already felt like she was no longer there.

On the other hand, it feels like she is still here.  Maybe it hasn't sunk in yet.  Grief usually takes its sweet time and pops in to visit us when we are not ready.

Motherhood, Breastfeeding, and Humility

At a recent appointment at our local WIC office, I saw a poster that read "Breastfed Babies Smell So Good!"  I understand the need for such breast-feeding support posters but this one had the aftertaste of a political smear campaign.  The next thought that came to my mind after reading that statement was "um, so bottle-fed babies STINK?"

The thing is, when I was a first-time-new-mother, such a slogan would have made me think how I'm such a good mom because I would NEVER even consider using nasty formula to feed my baby.  I would nod approvingly at such a poster because it confirmed that I was doing the right thing.  And, other mothers who do not make the same choices as I do are definitely inferior and probably shouldn't be allowed to care for children anyway.  Well, I wasn't actually that harsh, but if I'm honest about it, there's always a black part of my heart that thinks and feels differently than I would ever like to acknowledge.

I guess the only reason I can acknowledge it now is because life has since beaten any such thoughts out of my heart.  Motherhood brings many lessons in humility, many opportunities to change one's mind, and many occasions to feel guilty...no mother wants to make mistakes when it comes to her child.  (Sadly, there are  exceptions to the rule; lack of humility is probably most frightening and dangerous in a mother.)

My first son was breastfed for a whole year, had cloth diapers, never went to daycare, and had all homemade baby food.  He never had formula, never even took a bottle.  I would shake my head disapprovingly when I saw those other moms making a selection in the baby-food aisle at the grocery store.  I just couldn't understand why so many moms refused to use cloth diapers.  Breastfeeding didn't come easily for me, it was actually a very painful struggle, but there was no way I would have fed my baby powdered poison in a bottle.

Then, my daughter was born.  She had a few minor issues in her first weeks that had us in the doctor's office too often when I needed to be home recuperating.  We had recently moved a half-hour away from everything, so what used to be a quick trip became a voyage that needed to be well-planned and well-stocked.  It was exhausting and isolating.  Add postpartum depression and the fact that I not only had a new baby, but also a fresh 2-year-old...well, let's just say some of my ideals took a whack.  For some reason, pumping breastmilk was not something I ever could fully get the hang of...not that I didn't try.  In my desperation for reprieve, those formula samples the doctor gave us were starting to have more appeal.  Unlike my son who never took to a bottle, my daughter loved it.  SHE weened ME at 10 months.  Yes, that is more than most moms BF their babies, but it was a slight failure in my eyes.

The story of my changing opinions continues into the lives of my next two children as well.  It's not so much the details that I wanted to write about...it's what I've learned.  I still have strong opinions about some things.  But they are just that: opinions.  Not rules that apply to everyone.  Not opinions that I will necessarily hold to the rest of my life.  It is ironic that I have become one of those other mothers by making choices that I would have disapproved of 6 years ago.  I am confidant that given all my circumstances, information available, and abilities...I am doing the best I can.  The "good" moms who have never swayed from their ideals may think otherwise, but it doesn't matter to me.  There is freedom in not judging others....because I really believe everyone else is doing the best they can as well.  Circumstances change...abilities change...opinions change...we need the freedom to allow such change.  Motherhood has been the biggest responsibility, the greatest burden I've even had...and it has also brought me the most freedom and joy.

And...formula-fed babies DO NOT stink.  My youngest was a horrible nurser.  I stuck to it two months past my breaking point and weened him at about 4 months old.  Now, we are both very happy with formula.  He is the sweetest baby and smells just like a baby should smell.  (Except that I would NEVER use any of those heavily-scented, paraben-laced, mineral oil-based lotions that the other mothers use to cover the natural scent of their baby!  NEVER!  If you could see my face, you would understand the smirk.)

Stretch Marks and Depression

I was paging through a parenting magazine in the doctor's office and noticed an advertisement for some kind of lotion that is supposed to keep pregnant women from getting stretch marks.  The tall, beautiful (and airbrushed) woman was saying something like "I used such-and-such cream and didn't get ANY stretch marks, even though my mother and sister did!"  I'm pretty sure the unprinted message was intended to be something like "YOU, my mom and sister are idiots because if you had JUST used this lotion, you wouldn't have stretch marks....like ME!  I'm mentioning my mother and sister just to show that your sorry excuse of blaming genetics for your disgusting belly is just WRONG!"

Yup, I have stretch marks.  I used LOTS of lotions with my first pregnancy and got LOTS of stretch marks.  I used less lotion with my second pregnancy (because it's harder to take the time to put lotion on after an elusive shower with a toddler running around) and the stretch marks climbed higher.  After four babies, I am basically one big stretch mark.  I have evolved enough to be genuinely happy for those women who don't have stretch marks.  I can ooh-and-ahh at their bare-belly pregnancy Glamour shots with sincerity (mostly), so my sore spot with this issue is not really jealousy.  It is the self-doubt.  Was there something I could have done differently?  Could I actually have prevented this?  Maybe.
Self-doubt.  Old frenemy. 

Another long-time unwanted companion of mine is depression.  I have suffered from a wide range of depression, from simply blue to barely-able-to-function.  I am thankful to not have experienced the CAN'T-function variety...but I know it's out there.  Looming.  I do my best to stay proactive, to fight the good fight, to do things that I know will keep me on track, and avoid things that I know will bring me down.  I have joy, thankfulness, humor, and contentment...things that help keep me afloat.  But there have been at least 3 times in my life that it all wasn't good enough.  Regardless of what I did, I felt like I was treading water with quick sand.

It seems that any time the topic of depression surfaces, there are always "tips" offered by the well-meaning person who has:  1. encountered some sadness, 2. did something, 3. felt better, and 4. swears that whatever s/he did is what "cured" it.  And if it worked for them, it should work for everyone, right?  In the well-meaner's defense, I have not been immune to this type of thinking either.  I think we all do it on some level.  The topic doesn't have to be depression...or stretch marks...it can apply to so many things.  We grasp at the things we think we do right to quell the self doubt that tells us we are doing it all wrong.

Perhaps this sounds like a pessimistic viewpoint (I am depressed, afterall).  Rather, I offer a ray of compassion on our humanity.  Perhaps we ARE responsible for our failures, perhaps we are not.  More likely, it's somewhere inbetween. I'm not debating the necessity of personal responsibility and good choices; I'm saying maybe we should just focus on being grateful for the good things we have and not judging or offering our unwanted "helpful" suggestions to those (including ourselves) who are struggling with something.  Let's not feed the universal beast of self-doubt.

Even our faith is not our own, but a gift.
Same goes if you don't have stretch marks.

My Cheddar Bicuits

This is my very own recipe that I came up with after watching a Red Lobster commercial.  I don't like seafood, but those biscuits sure looked good!  I wanted to come up with something a little healthier (and tastier, in my opinion!).  I love making these on those days that I scrape together some random soup for supper.  It just makes it all so much better!

 

2 cups flour*

2 tsp baking powder

1/2 tsp salt

1 tsp onion powder

2 tsp. sugar (optional)

5 T butter

1 cup sour milk*

1 cup shredded cheddar

*About the flour:  I usually use about 1 cup whole wheat flour, 1/2 cup unbleached flour, 1/4 ground flax seed, and 1/4 oat bran...all combined to make 2 cups.

*There are different ways to make sour milk.  Here's my favorite:  add a splash of vinegar (probably 1-2 tsp) to your measuring cup and then top it off with milk to the called-for measurement.  Let it sit for awhile.  In this recipe, it's added last, so make the sour milk first and let it sit while you mix the rest.  I use soy milk because one of my boys is allergic to milk.

(First make sour milk, set aside.  Preheat oven to 450)

Combine 2 cups flour, 2 tsp baking soda, 1/2 tsp salt, 1 tsp onion powder, and 2 tsp. sugar (optional).

With a pastry blender, cut in 5 T butter until you have some nice buttery lumps.

Add 1 cup cheddar and toss with a fork to combine.

Add the cup of sour milk.  Use fork to lightly stir, just until blended.  The secret it not to over-mix.  Dough will be very lumpy.

I use an ice-cream scoop to plop out the biscuits onto parchment paper.  You don't have to use the paper, but it just makes life easier!  I've also used non-stick aluminum foil.  My cookie sheet is supposedly non-stick, but that cheese WILL stick.

Bake at 450 degrees for about 10 minutes, until golden brown.  Let them cool on the pan for a little bit to firm up before trying to remove. 

I hope you like them as much as I do!

Shame

I've had a lot on my mind this week.  Hurting loved ones, people making bad choices all around me, my own feelings of inadequacy, my own bad choices.  I'm becoming more aware of shame and shame-driven decisions in myself and the people around me.  I think the root of our life-messes is the result of acting out in shame. Guilt, embarrassment, unworthiness, disgrace, disappointment, dishonor.  How much of life is just making the best of our situation?

I think this started at the very beginning when Adam and Eve were tossed out of the Garden.  Come to think of it, even before that, it was shame that the serpent used to trick the first humans.  "You are not good enough as you are, you need to eat this forbidden fruit so you may see as God sees and know what God knows.  Your existence as you know it is not enough. You could be so much better."  And then sin enters the world.  Or so the story goes.  The husband blames the wife, the wife blames the serpent, and all of them, deep in their hearts, blame God.  He's the one that made the tree, afterall.  And we all hide in shame because of one bad choice...and perhaps also hide in our shame for not trusting the One who created us.

Ironically, the main thing that promises freedom from this, is also shame-based: religion.  I can't think of any religion that isn't a list of rules, a standard that we can barely attain.  There's a promise of hope only if we jump through the right hoops and reach the right goals.  Christians will claim their religion is "different" from all the others in that our hope is in the Christ and not in what we do.  But that message is quickly diluted by a list of things we need to DO to measure up.  What a double standard!

So, what is the opposite of shame?  What is the key that unlocks the chains?  Love.  Jesus' only command was to love Him and love others.  That's it!  Now, how to live in that love and keep the shame from creeping in?  That's a good question.

Coconut Curry Chicken

This is a recipe I tore out of a Rachel Ray magazine years ago...it's simple and distinctive.
(the original recipe can be found here)

• 2 teaspoons curry powder
• One 13.5-ounce can coconut milk
• 4 skinless, boneless chicken breasts (about 2 pounds), cut into strips
• 2 teaspoons five-spice powder 
• serve with rice

Heat about 1 T of olive oil in a sauce pan.  Add 2 tsp curry powder and cook until it smells delicious (a minute or so)

Add the can of coconut milk and continue to cook (stirring occasionally) so that it reduces by about half.

Meanwhile, cut the chicken into strips (cut across the grain), toss with 2 tsp 5-Spice Powder, salt and pepper...stir fry in olive oil.

My kids don't like the spice powder (which I found in the oriental section of our grocery store)....so I divide the chicken in half and cook half with about 1 tsp spice and the other half with just salt and pepper.  Also, I've found that I really like carrots with this recipe.  The sweetness of the carrots is a nice contrast to the spice and curry.  AND you have a veggie built in!  In this case, I'm using julienne-cut, but halved baby carrots are great too.

By now, the coconut milk will have been reduced to a nice sauce.  You can mix it all together, or serve separately over rice.  (I like Basmati)

I usually don't care for leftovers, but I love this for lunch the next day.  I toss it all together and heat up on the stove, fried rice style.

Driver's Ed...for the rest of your life.

My feelings about attending an institutional church in respectful satire.

So...you'd like to drive a car?  All you need to do is "receive" a license!  You'll love driving...you'll find greater purpose in your life!  In fact, when you can drive a car, good things will start to come your way.  You'll be so happy driving that you won't even want to do any horrible things...like jaywalking.

Well, now that you are getting started with driving on your own, you really should start coming to our weekly Driver's Education classes.  Yeah, you might be able to drive just fine, but you really need that weekly support to keep you from driving clear off the road!  Our Driver's Ed teacher spent a long time studying the Driver's Manual, so he's just better equipped to better explain all the complicated rules of driving to you.  It's really important that you are the best driver you can be.  It would just make my heart sad to hear that you forgot to use your turn signals a few times.  Actually, class once a week probably isn't enough.  You can come to my house to meet with a few other couples from our class and we can talk even more about Driver's Ed.  We'll even commit to being your friends.  It doesn't matter if we have totally different personalities and interests....the only interest that really matters is driving...right?  Besides, don't you feel a little bad for your old friends who don't go to your class?  At least some of them go to another class, but, well, their teacher just isn't as good as ours is.

It's so exciting that you are so involved with our Driver's Ed class.  Don't worry that you don't have any interactions with anyone other than your fellow classmates.  There are a lot of crazy people out there doing crazy things like horseback riding, snowmobiling, walking...you know the type.  Yeah, we still have to love those types.  We just have to do our best to convince them to drive a proper car, just like us.  Did you hear we're planning a special "outreach" program to try to get more people to join our Driver's Ed class?...um...I mean...we just want them to learn to drive and have a good life.

Well...now we need to talk about something that will make you a really good driver.  You should probably donate 10% of your income to the Driver's Ed class.  It's just a good practice for you.  Oh, and we need to pay for the building we hold our class in.  And we need to pay the Driver's Ed teacher...and the teacher's secretary...and everyone else who probably wouldn't do what they do for the class if we didn't pay them.  Some of us really don't like to drive, so some of the money can go to pay others to drive for us.  We could also buy a big bus and form committees to car pool.  It all costs money.  But it's not about money, it's just about driving, after all.


I could go on and on....  My intention is not to mock.  And metaphors are not perfect.  I don't go to church anymore and I want to start talking about it.  This metaphor popped in to my head as a good way to voice some of my feelings about the institutional church.  Let me just say I have no problem with anyone who chooses to attend a church, and I sincerely love the people I met while I did.  But for me, it would be just as silly as going to Driver's Ed for the rest of my life.  I have not lost my faith.  I'm not saying I am unteachable or that I know everything.  I'm just saying I want to drive and I'll continue to learn as I go down the road.