My husband’s new job is working out quite well, thanks. He even actually has the day off today! (Of course he’s not being paid for it, which means he worked his behind off last week to make up for the lost hours.)
Anyway, we’re not accustomed to this sort of thing, so I got all mixed up about posting, not posting, posting something appropriate, wondering what would be appropriately proletarian for Labor Day, wondering if I just used the word “proletarian” right, and so on. I wrote something for today, but then it was kind of stupid. So I’ll just post it tomorrow. It’ll be a new feature: “Stupid Tuesdays.”
In the mean time, in honor of this confusing holiday, I have reached new extremes of laziness and posted something on The Anchoress which is a cross-posted repost of something I posted here last week. If I keep up this way, eventually I won’t be writing anything at all, but just posting an endless loop of links.
[Here you will just have to imagine a photograph of a snake eating itself, which WordPress will not let me post, for some reason, probably in honor of Labor Day. Communists. I call it a poor excuse for picking a man’s pockets every 6th of September! Well, it was kind of a disgusting picture anyway.]
My kids fight sometimes. Of course they do. But I have long thought that well-meaning parents actually cause much of the sibling rivalry that worries them so. Most parenting magazines, sooner or later, run an article for parents expecting baby #2, explaining how to guide the usurped older child through the horror and the devastation of bringing a new baby into the home.
Now, I don’t mean to be a pollyanna about what really happens. Sometimes it’s not pretty. Overall, it’s about 98% good for older kids to have another sibling join the family. But that other 2% of the time can be a little bloody. Many’s the time I’ve had to intervene when the toddler starts out patting the baby gently, and somehow, without really meaning to, ends up rhythmically whacking the baby as hard as he can. Nice baby, nice baby, nice baby, Nice!!! Baby!!! Nice!!! Baby!!!
So there are any number of books and articles about how to prepare the older kids for the newest arrival. You should explain in detail what to expect (newborn brothers can’t learn to play football right away), you remind them of how they’re allowed to eat ice cream and poor silly baby can’t, you make a fuss over them, you let them have private time with mom and dad, etc.
This is all fine, but I do think it goes overboard a little bit. Angelina Ballerina, for instance, is a good example of a kid who is just being a jerk about it, and needs to be taken down a peg or two. She trashes her room, as I recall, and firebombs Mrs. Hodgepodge’s potting shed. Or something. To make it up to her, they name her sister of the year and buy her a private island. Or something. I hate that mouse.
Anyway, the foregone conclusion in these ostensibly helpful books is that, by having a baby, you are wrecking your original kid’s world, and your main job now is to make atonement, and help them put back together the tatters of their former, only-childish happiness.
Naturally, kids pick up on this attitude. If you are very afraid they will react badly, then they usually will. I have found it much more helpful to be very matter-of-fact about the new baby. Of course you keep a close eye on the older kid’s reactions, and are kind, patient and understanding. But don’t get carried away.
What is much more disturbing, however, is a new trend I’ve noticed in children’s books: the “how to help your pet deal with the new baby” genre. I’ve seen two or three in the last few weeks, and I don’t get it.
Okay, I understand that you love your pup, and you don’t want him to be unhappy. He’s been an Only Dog for many years, and this will be an adjustment. Also, you want to avoid any revenge pooping, and you don’t want him to eat the new baby, either. So it makes practical sense for there to be some guidance on how to prepare your pet for the new baby.
But … why are there children’s books about it? Who are they for? I do not understand. I suppose these books are not necessarily instructive manuals, and it might be interesting for a child to read a story from a dog’s point of view. And story books reflect whatever happens to be going on in the culture at large. It’s become more common for couples to have a pet in the family for many years, and then, after long deliberation, they take the big leap and go ahead and buy a baby. So, people write about what they know, and this is why there are books about it.
Echh, I don’t know, it still gives me the creeps. I have the terrible suspicion that these picture books are for parents, who harbor some kind of resentment toward their own child, and want reassurance that everything will be okay, but don’t want to admit to anyone that they’re scared of their own newborn.
Or, or, are the adults reading these books to their dogs? Am I making too much of this? Just what is going on here? Anyone?
(Cross-posted yesterday, due to me being not used to getting up this early, at The Anchoress)
I don’t know what my problem is, but I have a problem with novenas. I guess I’m overly cautious about superstition — maybe I’ve seen too many of those classified ads: “Force the Sacred Heart of Jesus to grant your top wishes!” I may be an idiot, but even I know better than to drag the Holy Spirit into a pyramid scheme.
But seriously, I do understand the theology behind a novena. You’re just kind of proving to God that you really, really mean it, like the woman in Luke 18 who wouldn’t leave the judge alone, so he finally said, “[B]ecause this widow is troublesome to me, I will avenge her, lest continually coming she weary me.” My kids know this method, too, and that is how I found myself at the cash register at Walmart, shelling out genuine cash dollars for three hideous Lisa Frank lunch boxes that they really, really, really, really wanted a lot.
Recently, someone heard that my husband was out of work, and she suggested a novena to Edith Stein. I don’t know what the connection could be between Edith Stein and employment, and I couldn’t actually find a very good novena online. The one that we ended up with turned out to be kind of a sacrifice in itself: it’s so awkwardly and pretentiously written, I can’t decide if it was translated by a computer from another language, or just written by a sadist.
But my husband had been out of work for eight months, and we happened to get this tip about the novena on the day before Edith Stein’s feast day. Not wanting to annoy God, who was clearly trying to get our attention, we started the novena.
He got a job on day 2. We added a couple of other guys on, and they both got interviews — and they didn’t even get the full nine days!
So–what can I say? As Edith Stein’s old Jewish grandmother used to say,* “It couldn’t hoit!” Here’s the novena we’re saying. Maybe someone can suggest a better one?
*probably
I didn’t start with a photo of Edith Stein, because I couldn’t find the only nice one I’ve ever seen. Normally, she looks crabby and irritated–not at all someone you’d ask for help–but I once saw a photo of her playing with a baby niece or someone, and she looked relaxed and happy.
Here’s an explanation of the picture at the top, according to the CASE website:
This beautiful painting of Our Lady protecting Europe illustrates the Christian roots of Europe, and shows Our Lady surrounded by six patron saints of Europe: SS Cyril and Methodius , St Teresa Benedicta of the Cross (Edith Stein), St Benedict, St Bridget of Sweden, and St Catherine of Siena. Robert Schumann, one of the founding fathers of the European Union, looks on. St Benedict offers the monastery of Canterbury to the Blessed Virgin, and St Cyril writes of the conversion of the Slavs.
The painting is by John Armstrong, who is involved in a forthcoming celebration of religious art in Liverpool: see Vision of Hope.
I happened to pick up Isabelle Allende’sIsland Beneath the Sea, and now I’m sorry. Okay, so the cover said it was “[t]he sweeping story of an unforgettable woman–a slave and a concubine determined to claim her own destiny against impossible odds.” So I was warned.
In my defense, I didn’t expect it to be great literature, and I assumed I’d have to skip some steamy parts (right-o). But Allende’s earlier novel, TheHouse of the Spirits, was actually a good book — not perfect, but interesting, carefully made, funny, and original.
Island was none of these. The author apparently felt that what the world needs now is yet another novel about a strong and valiant woman who is cruelly crushed by western culture and masculinity, yet rises from the ashes and manages to learn to support herself and have children and orgasms — but historical!
I’ve never written fiction, but I know an early draft when I see one. Even if you ignore the loud creaking noise made by the elderly clichés described above, you will get lost in the disorder of this sloppy work.
Major plot points are exposed so clumsily that you can just hear the author thinking, “Crap, I meant to put that in sixty pages ago! Well, a deadline’s a deadline — I’ll just cram it in . . . let’s see, here.”
Some characters are elaborately and meticulously introduced, only to evaporate without explanation in the second half of the book; while others leap fully-formed halfway through the plot, leaving the reader to wonder, “Wait, who is this guy? Howdid he get to be so important?” Subplots are hinted at, never to appear again, and satisfyingly huge denouements are promised, but all you get is a fizzle.
There are long, confusing passages of dry historical detail (the book takes place during the Haitian revolution, which should have been interesting) which are followed abruptly by hastily sketched-in descriptions of the cruelty of a slave’s life, the cruelty of a young student’s life, the cruelty of men toward women, etc. I kept thinking about this scene from Blazing Saddles:
In Island Beneath the Sea, whole chapters go that way.
The prose (it can’t all be the translator’s fault) is also clunky beyond belief. Wade through this if you can:
He was amazed by his ardor, renewed every night, and even at times at midday, when he arrived unexpectedly, boots covered with mud, and surprised her embroidering among the pillows of her bed, expelled the dogs with one sweep of his hands, and fell upon her with the jubilation of again feeling eighteen. (271)
I knew a guy who surprised my embroidering once. It wasn’t pretty.
So, to sum up: Women damaged by rape and oppression, healed overnight by a tender lover who’s not so grabby? Check.
Women controlling their fate through choosing when and where to be slutty? Check.
Swooning approval of loathsome behavior as long as it’s done consensually in the name of lurve? Check.
Catholic priest who’s a good guy mainly because he says that voodoo is basically the same as Catholicism, so you go right ahead and bite the head off that chicken? Check.
Writing whole chapters in italics to show that certain characters are deep souls who speak interiorly? Check.
Dreadfully predictable switcheroo with an inexcusable number of various mixed-race babies? Check, check, and check.
Railing against the senselessness of racism and sexism while shamelessly exploiting both in lieu of character development? Check. (For a quick reference guide: dark skin=good; female=good. Light skin=bad, male=bad. Black female is double plus good; white male double plus ungood.)
Throw in some tutti fruity quasi-lyrical nonsense about surrendering to the power of the drums and the dance, and, according to Allende, you’ve got yourself a novel. For a more insightful and entertaining exploration of race, just go ahead and watch Blazing Saddles. It’s twoo, it’s twoo!
There she is! Oh, um, sorry, I mean, please come see me in two other places today.
Such a day! I have a piece up at Faith and Family Live–an interview with Kathy Rivet, who has been teaching Creighton Model NFP for over 30 years. Kathy has also been my instructor for about eight years, so I can personally attest to the fact that she is a woman of supernatural patience and fortitude. Come check out what she has to sayabout the changes she’s seen in the world of NFP.
And today The Anchoress is going to Rome, and I’m not jealous at all, do you hear me? She has very generously invited me, Danielle Bean, and Sally Thomas to write guest posts while she’s gone. So come on over and see the video of Dolly Parton that I found!
How should I do this? Should I post the same thing here and there? Or should I just leave a note here to remind you to see me there? What should I do? Where did I put my coffee? What’s that smell? You thought it was okay to just step over this mess and keep on walking? And with a track record like this, you think I’m going to get you a dog???
Sorry, I forgot who I was talking to again. Nooo, I wouldn’t rather be in Rome….
1. I just got home from school supply shopping. Well, I’m used to checking out with heaping full cart, but usually that’s when I’m buying a week’s worth of food for ten people, not desk supplies for four little kids. Sheesh. Sheesh. Sheesh. Those kids hadbetter learn something this year. Two of the kids had flash drives on their supply lists from the teachers! Okay, that’s actually kind of cool, but still. When I was in 6th grade, we were using computers to run the following program:
10 PRINT “I LOVE UNICORNS”
20 GOTO 10
RUN
and then Mrs. Blanchard would get all mad because the boys were making the computer run “DEAD MEAT DEAD MEAT DEAD MEAT DEAD MEAT DEAD MEAT.”
2. In two weeks, I will have my first very own linky list! So get ready to share your SEARCH TERMS POETRY. This stuff practically writes itself, and sometimes tells you a little more than you wanted to know about what kind of thing you write about. For instance, every single damn day, at least one person finds me by entering “Horshack” into a search engine. I write about Bach; they want Horshack. I mentionadoration; they clamor for Horshack. I write about Horshack; they search for “when simchas go wrong.” I’m not making any of this up.
I don’t even actually know who this person is, this Horshack. But I realize that, in writing this, I’ve now eternally cemented my and his relationship in this strange and stupid place called the internet.
The only rule for SEARCH TERMS POETRY is that you may only use words and phrases which are direct quotes of search terms for your blog or website. Or if you want to add other words in, you have to make it clear (with quotation marks or italics or something) which words are direct quotes. Everything else – style, length, rhyming or not, etc. – is up to you. If you don’t have a statistical thingy on your site, you can install the free version of Sitemeter, easy peasy.
On Monday, Sept. 13, post your poem on your site, and leave a link to it on my blog, and we can all have a good laugh at the poor suckers who Googled “spiritual help” and ended up with you. Here is the search term poem I came up with. Spread the word!
3. The one and only, the fabulous, the indefatigable, the outrageous and yet humble, the incisive, the witty, profound, and now globetrotting Anchoress, Elizabeth Scalia, has done me the inadvisable honor of asking me to write guest posts for her blog atFirst Things while she is in Rome! Danielle Bean and Sally Thomas will be there, too! I believe that officially makes me the Gummo of this particular group, but I don’t mind. I will be cross-posting the same silly stuff here and there. Posting will probably start Tuesday! I still can’t believe she asked me!
Here is The Anchoress’ lovely introduction of Danielle, Sally, and me.
In choosing movies, my kids have more or less beaten me down. Of course I don’t let them watch just anything they want, because, obviously, some things are harmful or inappropriate in themselves; and some things are just so dang stupid, they do damage to immature aesthetic organs.
On the other hand, it’s so unpleasant to spend an evening shushing and chastising sulky kids while they ruin a perfectly good movie. And all they remember about the movie is that you yelled at them all the way through it.
So we more or less compromise, and let them watch a small amount of really worthless stuff (Scooby Doo); a lot of accessible stuff that has some merit, even if it’s only the merit of well-crafted entertainment (Daffy Duck); and then some Good Movies They Ought To See (High Noon), whether they want to or not.
The following list is a subcategory of accessible-with-merit: things they ought to easily enjoy, but don’t, just to drive me crazy. For these movies, I wait until the kids are really desperate for entertainment, and then gradually wear them down until they accidentally start enjoying themselves.
Is this actually even a good movie? I sure loved it as a kid. It’s a Sinbad-ish story about a (remarkably white-bread) beggar/king Prince Ahmad who goes adventuring with his little brown buddy Abu, and wins the princess with the help of a gigantic and greasy genie with Brooklyn accent.
I sometimes think that the more clumsily-executed special effects of this era (together with the garishly brilliant color scheme) portray magic better than slick and perfect CGI. The roughness makes it all the more startling and otherwordly, which is how it ought to be.
Why the kids didn’t like it: It’s dated and goofy. I think there are songs, too, which is intolerable to sophisticates like themselves.
A completely charming live action dog and cat buddy story set in the lovely Japanese countryside. Dudley Moore narrates and does the dialogue, perfectly giving voice to the natural gestures and expressions of the animals. He’s clearly ad libbing in places, and some of it is just comic genius. I thought the turtle part was especially funny (for my TMC classmates: the turtle always made me think of Mr. Shea), and I really like the fox:
Why the kids didn’t like it: I really don’t know. They do show a dog giving birth in more detail than I would like. It’s not a typical computer-manipulated, squeaky-voiced animal picture, which takes some getting used to. Also, it opens with an irritating folksy kid song “We’re gonna take a walk outside today,” which really gives the wrong impression about what kind of movie it is.
The only movie version of this story you will ever need. Most convincing (and entertaining) conversion story you will ever see. So many elements of this movie are unforgettable: the pagan grandeur of Christmas Present, the terror of Scrooge alone in his cold house, hearing the dragging chains coming closer and closer; the the brilliance and sincerity of Alastair Sim’s timing and facial contortions. A nearly perfect movie.
Why the kids didn’t like it: It’s black and white. Some of it is pretty hokey, and the emotionalism (Scrooge’s sister’s deathbed; the miniature lost souls in agony waving their arms around) made them uncomfortable.
A modern (50′s) retelling of Romeo and Juliet with unforgettable music by Leonard Bernstein.
Haven’t actually made them watch this one yet (it’s not so much the sexiness as the sad ending that’s made me hold off. I’ve been really chicken about exposing them to sad endings)–but I’m pretty sure they’ll hate it when I decide they’re old enough. The baby, however, loved it: lots of jumping and dancing, loud drums and swirling skirts. Boy, the music is so great.
Why the kids won’t like it: the dated scenario and slang, the gang members doing menacing jetés and arabesques, and some of the plot points (the wedding scene comes to mind) are important but subtle.
How did they pull it off? It’s a story about a small tribe of simple and noble Bushmen being threatened by the violence and consumerism of the western world. But it doesn’t preach. It doesn’t even teach. It’s more of a funny, moving, and unusual fairy tale with a happy ending, which creates strong affection for several of the characters (and not just the Bushmen). I remember the sweetness, but was surprised at how much slapstick is in this movie, too.
Why the kids didn’t like it: Because they’re bad, bad kids.
A little boy discovers a giant robot, who has to develop a conscience and save the world.
Why the kids didn’t like it: I suspect it’s because they were made nervous by elements which they thought I wouldn’t approve of: the main character is really bratty, occasionally uses bad language, and there’s an irritating anti-establishment vibe. But I think the good of this movie outweighs these slightly distasteful aspects, and one scene (when the Iron Giant murmurs “Superman . . . “) makes me (and–shh!–my husband, too) leave the room when I know it’s coming, because it makes me cry.
———
Whoa, that’s only six! Oh well. I also forgot to list which scenes might not be good for kids. Sorry! Going to bed now.
Don’t forget to check out Jen (and excuse her dust. I love that phrase!) at Conversion Diary, where she is hosting the weekly 7 Quick Takes linkaround.
Since as many as two of my readers have asked for pictures of my van (which I described here), here are some pictures of my van:
You know what, I think one picture is enough. You get the general idea. Contain your jealousy! If anyone deserves to tool around rural southern New Hampshire in a vehicle this awesome, it’s me.
As you will see, it is an intimidating vehicle, weighing in at two-and-a-half tons of pure kid-schlepping menace. If you are unlucky enough to find yourself stuck behind our van in traffic, you’ll have this stonelike visage to contend with:
So what we have here is not so much a picture of how the decals under the back windows resemble the mustache of Muammar El Qadaffi, as an illustration of the law of diminishing returns, exacerbated by the husband who brings around gin. That is to say, the harder I worked on this stupid picture, the stupider it got, until my husband came along and asked what I was doing. So I explained it, and then he decided to bring around some gin.
Oh, the time stamp on this post that says 7 a.m.? Don’t think about it too hard.
A couple of people have asked why we’re not home schooling any more. We will be, a little bit — my six-year-old son will be at home for first grade, and my four-year-old daughter keeps handing me notes composed of random letters, in a pathetic plea to be taught how to read and write.
And of course we’ll keep our feral three-year-old, whom no school can hold, and the smartest baby in the world (16 months old), who is not only putting together two- and three-word sentences, she can say “Come ON!” just like Gob Bluth. So clearly, we will be maintaining a richly educational atmosphere, even though I’m sending the oldest four off to a classroom.
I don’t know, is it too passé to say I’m burnt out? It wasn’t the hard work that wore me out; it was the crappy job I did, and the worrying about it. That’s what was so exhausting. And then there was this:
(This was the first day of school last year. We wondered why she was letting us get math done.)
We had nice times, when the kid would have revelations about free will, or when they’d groan because it was the end of our Latin lesson. The dining room is still decorated with the heraldic coats of arms we designed for our Medieval unit, and there were some thrilling moments in stovetop meteorology experiments.
But I was sitting here ordering the math books for the school year (yes, now. Shut up! It isn’t even labor day yet) and feeling nothing but weariness. We enjoyed some of the benefits home schoolers promise: the closeness, the leisure, the freedom, the intensity, the depth. But really just not often enough. We did it for six years, and I’m about ready for something different (not necessarily easier!) for a while.
If I’ve learned anything in the last twelve years (and I haven’t), it’s that you never, never know what your life will look like this time next year– so who knows? Maybe we’ll go back to home school next year. Or maybe the world will come to an end, and I won’t have to explain place value again.
The four oldest kids have a lovely, rural charter school to go to, and I want them to be happy and busy. Also, a couple of them turned out to be more complicated than we thought. And I’m not the kind of mother that it’s okay to be around all day.
I do know that all my kids have learned that reading is a wonderful way to spend your time, and that figuring out things and hearing new ideas is thrilling. They aren’t embarrassed to talk about ideas, and they have no idea how dorky they are. So I feel more or less okay with the start I’ve given them.
Well, I did it again. I thought the joke was really obvious, but it turns out that it was just me being a big weirdo again. I hope no one was offended, disgusted, or, you know, weirded out. This poem was made up of search terms for my blog. Each line was an exact quote of a phrase that someone entered into a search engine, and then ended up at my blog.
“Hallie Lord the jerk,” for instance, is not a statement of opinion — it’s just a sad statement that Hallie Lord is now inextricably linked (at least as far as Google is concerned) with people like me.
