The tedious little hobby I've aquired

I was finally brave enough to try out my idea on the brocade I bought for my husband's stole.  And no, it's not done yet!  I still have to fill in the spaces, and whip-stitch the outline.  There's also the task of adding four lilies...

Best of all, this is just practice.  I don't have much goldenrod thread left, so I doubt I'll be able to make a match, if I'm even able to fill the spaces...

Gotta love embroidery.  It's addicting.

How the 60s failed us

When Karen Owen first appeared in the news, I decided not to take up the debate.  Rather, I would leave it to the people who were more gifted in wisdom and words.  My wait was worthwhile.  From Caitlin Flanagan in the most recent Atlantic:

 "As I read the woman's report, and imagined the tones of outrage and hurt and violation in which it was surely given, and as I lingered on her account of how drunk she'd been, a very old-fashioned phrase suddenly floated through my mind.  It was a phrase I hadn't thought of in years, a simple formulation that carried within it a world of assumptions and beliefs, 'She's angry,' I thought to myself, 'because he took advantage of her.'

. . . In those days, we relied on our own good judgment to keep us safe, but also--and this is the terrible, unchanging fact about being female--on the mercy of the men around us."

While I may have used a word other than "terrible" to describe the truth of women relying upon the mercy of men, I believe Flanagan has hit upon a truth we have ignored.

"We've made a culture for our college women in which they have been liberated from the curfews and parietals that were once the bane of co-eds, but one in which they have also shaken off the general suspicion of male sexuality. . . "

And not just our college women, but our young daughters as well, as evidenced by the alarming fashions available in the "girls" section of any clothing store.  We have not taught our women and girls to guard themselves, but encouraged them to be seductive in the name of beauty, and therefore have left them vulnerable to the pain only a man can bring upon a woman.

God grant us wisdom as we teach our daughters what is good: to love their husbands and children, to be self-controlled, pure, working at home, kind, and submissive to their own husbands, that the word of God may not be reviled.

Flanagan's full article here.

Arise, shine

One of the biggest challenges a mother will face is being privy to the demons that daily arise in her children. The nights her child refuses to sleep and keeps the family awake from one until four; the scream fest that initiates the moment he is set upon a chair so she can prepare dinner. The whining and complaining that commences when she reveals she has to stop reading for a moment to use the restroom; the throwing of toys that occurs when the Thomas train falls off the track again and the frustrated child cannot verbalize his emotions.  The refusals to nap when she is deliriously tired; the demands that she hold him while loading the dishwasher or washing machine.

Each event wears upon her until she feels she is about to break open and lash out.  Whereupon she enters church, and her demon-child becomes angelic, charming the crowds with his smile as he toddles down the aisle to his father at the end of the service.  "What a sweetheart!" "What a well-behaved child!" "What a doll!" the crowds gush.

And she must be stoic in her response of thanks.  "Come visit," she longs to say, "moments after I've plopped him in his crib for pulling the dog's tail and listen to him scream obscenities at me that, I assure you, are not part of our family's vocabulary."

It's difficult to acknowledge that children, even the tiniest of infants, and the toddliest of toddlers, are indeed, sinners, too. It's difficult to acknowledge that the most angelic of children sometimes throw their blocks at their mothers and keep them up all night.  And it's difficult for a mother to watch another woman's children without feeling that she is somehow, someway, doing something wrong, because her own children don't behave as they ought.

And while this too, shall pass, she cannot help but allow that this set of demons will only be replaced with another, and the cycle will continue until all things are created anew.  So she begins each morning, thankful for the rising sun that sheds new light upon the earth, and reminds her that she, too, can arise and shine, for her light has come.  She will see and be radiant, her heart shall thrill and exult.  Her sons will come to her from afar, and her daughters will be carried on her hip.

The IQ is dropping by the minute around here.

Yesterday, I opened the dishwasher in an attempt to get the milk.

I used "meaned" as the past tense of "mean" instead of "meant."  (And I'm picky about grammar.  Really picky.)

I misplaced my glasses around noon, and my husband finally found them this morning.

I had superb idea for a blog post, but since I can't recall the brilliant idea, you get this one.

So I'm buying one of these, and hopefully my brain will get back on track.  Thanks to The Happy Housewife, you can get a coupon code here.

Jealousy strikes again

While sitting through the Christmas Eve service, I noticed I was becoming increasingly skeptical of the hymns we were singing, and rather jealous of the Holy Mother.  In most every song, the Baby Jesus is portrayed as the perfect sleeper. Mary sings a lullaby as he rocks on her lap, puts him down on a pile of hay in a manger, and they all sleep in heavenly peace. Sure, the cattle and their lowing wake the poor kid, but he doesn't cry.  He doesn't wake his mother and make her hold him or insist on sleeping in her bed.  He puts himself back to sleep.

Maybe you have a kid like that.  I am not so fortunate.  In fact, while I was attending this late service, my son was at home with a babysitter watching Cars. He was supposed to be sleeping.

Perhaps when he leaves for college, I'll finally get a good night's sleep. Until then, you can probably find me rolling my eyes at all those sentimental Christmas melodies, and secretly wishing I knew what Mary knew about putting kids to sleep.

In case you were wondering (or even cared!)

I've been on Christmas break.  I'll be back when I have fewer guests and a functioning computer in the house for more than 30 minutes at a time.  Enjoy your Christmas season!

Of Mary and the Stable

I've been thinking a lot of Mary lately.  I'm sure the snow-clad wreaths and the shimmer of lights from neighboring houses has been somewhat influential.  Regardless, I keep wondering about that night in the stable-forget that animals that were or weren't there breathing on the baby and giving him their wool for clothes, forget the sweet-smelling hay, forget all the sentimental things that make us sigh and forget that a woman just gave birth, and possibly alone.

Anyone who's been through labor, or seen labor, has to know it's not pretty.  Not in the least. I'm certain Mary's was no different.  Though her child was not conceived in the traditional way, it came into this world as any other (or so I think).

What really gets me, though, is that she was miles from home- miles from the women who would have attended her at the birth, who would have supported and encouraged her.

I can't help but think that some woman in the crowded town heard and rushed to her side.  Or that Joseph went to find some help.  I can't bear to think of her having to do that all alone.

Nor can I imagine being visited by a bunch of strange men with their cute little lambs shortly after giving birth.  I suppose it's a good thing God asked Mary do the Mother-of-God job.  I would have botched it.