Ruh-Ro, Raggy!

Things I don't understand

I've read that children need fathers in their lives, in part, because a father is more likely to rough-house with his children than the mother.

I've read that children need mothers, in part, because a mother is more likely to be caring and nurturing with her children than the father.


So why is it that my child views me as a jungle gym and gives me a fat lip while I'm putting him to sleep?

Having fun is really hard, despite the library card.

Libraries used to be wonderful, exciting places.  I used to go there regularly and pick out books or study.  I enjoyed browsing for a title that sounded unique, cover that looked interesting, an author I recognized, or a genre I enjoyed.  I carried a book with me wherever I went, and often spent Saturday afternoons curled up in a chair with a cup of tea and a novel.

Throughout college, I maintained a wishlist of books on Amazon, and gladly purchased the required texts for my literature courses.  And, unlike many of the other students in my classes, I actually read them!  Twain, Kipling, Defoe, Bronte, Orwell, Dostoyevsky, Hemingway, Salinger, whatever a professor threw at me, I read.  Everything, but Mrs. Dalloway.  Try as I might, I couldn't wrap my head around that.  And although I was looking ahead to a series of moves, being engaged to a Pre-Seminarian, I kept every single one of them.  Even Mrs. Dalloway.

During some dizzying years a third-grade teacher, I had little time for books with a reading level higher than 8th grade.  I was always in need of the next great read-aloud, and knew I wouldn't find it hiding on the shelves at home between D.H. Lawrence and Emily Dickinson.  So I grabbed E.B. White and Shel Silverstein; Kate DiCamillo and Beverly Cleary.  Good authors, no doubt.  But certainly not challenging.

I eventually quit that job, moved again, but this time, left most of the books packed away in storage.  Since having a kid, something in me changed.  Certainly I was aware that the majority of the books I would be reading would be at his level (at most, 32 pages, and fully illustrated).  But surely, since I would be staying home, surely I would have time for something more challenging that Eric Carle and Kevin Henkes.  Surely, surely I could find time for something well-written and though-provoking.

But sadly, no.  Most of the library time is spent finding books at his level.  If I ever get a chance to venture to the "Adult Fiction" section, and actually manage to peruse the shelves and select a novel; even if I'm lucky enough to bring it home and start to read, I'm sunk.  Somewhere along the line, everything above an 8th grade reading level became like Mrs. Dalloway.  I find myself rereading entire pages, searching past sections for the plot I missed, even wondering who the main characters are supposed to be.  I'm sure it has something to do with the fact that I'm interrupted every fifteen minutes, and that I'm constantly wondering what my child is up to when he's not interrupting me.

And so, I try to keep out of the Adult Fiction section.  The books I have managed to find and read (excepting Michael Perry) have been sorely disappointing.  But I keep being drawn back, in search of that elusive well-written, thoughtful text, authored by someone kind enough to keep everything simple enough that I don't have to think too hard about the meanings of the words on the page.  After all, I may only get a few minutes before my son wakes up, or empties a gallon of water on my kitchen floor, but I still want to read!

How to mop your kitchen floor (with your toddler still awake)

1.  Fill large bowls with warm soapy water.

2. Place bowls on towels in middle of kitchen floor.

3. Give toddler several measuring cups and several empty bowls, pans, pots, whatever.

4. When towels are thoroughly soaked, scoot them around the floor with your feet.

What Mary Saw

What Mary Saw, George Denninger

"The world looked at Jesus' tomb and saw a dead man, a lost cause, abject poverty.

The Magdalene saw the beginning of a promise fulfilled"

It's that time of year again

Jesus, I will ponder now
On Thy holy Passion;
With Thy Spirit me endow
For such meditation.
Grant that I in love and faith
May the image cherish
Of Thy suffering, pain, and death,
That I may not perish.

Grant that I Thy Passion view
With repentant grieving
Nor Thee crucify anew
By unholy living.
How could I refuse to shun
Every sinful pleasure
Since for me God's only Son

Suffered without measure?

 If my sins give me alarm
And my conscience grieve me,
Let Thy cross my fear disarm,
Peace of conscience give me.
Grant that I may trust in Thee
And Thy holy Passion.
If for me he slays his Son,
God must have compassion.

Grant that I may willingly
Bear with Thee my crosses,
Learning humbleness of Thee,
Peace mid pain and losses.
May I give Thee love for love!
Hear me, O my Savior,
That I may in heaven above
Sing Thy praise forever.


TLH 140, sel. verses
Sigismund v. Birken, 1653
Translated by: August Crull, 1923, alt.

I know that feeling....

Right about here ^