Month: May 2016

It was on Tuesday of this week that I first started saying, “Whew, at least it’s finally Friday.”

But it wasn’t.

I am not sure if I can fully convey how stupid this week was, but I will try.

When it first began, we had no idea what we were in for. We thought we had a busy week coming up, but nothing we couldn’t manage.

SATURDAY
Tailgate Ham and Swiss Sandwiches (there are a bunch of amazing, thrilling, and infuriating sandwich ideas at this site, Saveur)

These sandwiches were tasty! Mini ham and swiss rolls covered with savory sauce and baked until fabulous. I’m very glad to know this recipe for future parties.

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I think I’ll use way way way less butter next time, though. They more than met Dr. Nick Rivera’s criterion for the kind of food we’re apparently seeking out.

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It’s your window to weight gain!
SUNDAY
Roast chicken with gravy, mashed potatoes, string beans; apple crisp with ice cream

Sunday was supposed to be Lucy’s First Holy Communion and then an afternoon party with a bunch of guests, and I was planning stuffed shells, garlic bread, salad, and a stained glass cake. But she suddenly got violently sick on Saturday night.

Possibly a case of too much damn ham, right? Poor kid. We reluctantly cancelled FHC plans, to be on the safe side, and started rearranging our schedule. We went ahead and did the final shopping and packing for my son, who was off for a week-long nature camp with his class. With the day suddenly free of parties, I relaxed and had a nice, peaceful day cooking with the kids.

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Shortly after this, it became abundantly abundantly abundantly clear that we were dealing with . . .

dun dun dun . . .

Norovirus.

So much vomit. So much vomit.

The rest of the week was an insane amalgam of sick people doing everything backwards (sleeping through the day and wandering around at night, normally hungry people refusing sips of water, normally workaholic people barely able to peels their heads off the pillow) and non-sick people rushing around like maniacs (work, choir practice, interviews, field trips, doctor appointments). There was a lot of pounding on bathroom doors and a lot of, “Well, I told you I had to get in there.”

One kid was sick throughout the weekend, and recuperated on Sunday, so we kept her home from school on Monday. On Tuesday, she was better but we forgot to wake her up, so she missed school. On Wednesday, she was fine, but we forgot to wake her early for a field trip, so she missed school. We kept on sleeping through alarms, because there really hadn’t been any night to speak of. That was the day I went to pick up Corrie from the arms of my almost-dead husband, and didn’t realize Benny had crept into our bed with another werewolf dream, and so I sat on her. So it was like that.

MONDAY
Complete blur. Lots of bowls.

TUESDAY
Hot dogs without buns, grapes, because a few of the children were still able to work their jaws.

WEDNESDAY
Chicken nuggets because the dog expected it.

THURSDAY
Roast chicken thighs, rice, salad. 

By Thursday, I was just so tired of everything being crazy, I got mad, and I was determined to get back into some kind of normal routine, even though I ended up making something like seven trips into town and back, and even though we’re in a diocese that actually has Ascension Thursday on actual Thursday.

But dammit, I roasted those chicken thighs. My husband was feeling almost completely better at this point, but we were so accustomed to feeling terrible that he made a big batch of margaritas in honor of Cinqo de Gringo. Tequila is the one kind of alcohol that makes me do really stupid things, so I usually stay away. Turns out when you’re old and decrepit, having a second large margarita is about as stupid as it gets.

I feel fairly hung over today, but that’s mostly because I ate some of the marshmallow fluff I put in the car as a crowd-calming measure. I had brought the baby and four-year-old along with me on the fifth trip out, because I had left them in the care of my teenage son for the previous jaunt, and when I got back, he screamed, “OH THANK GOODNESS.” (He’s not normally a screamer.) Apparently he had spilled hot chicken grease on his arms, and then on the floor, and I guess he cleaned it up with some baby shirts? And then the baby was crying, so I guess he gave her some rotten ham? The dog ate a bunch of feathers. There was bird seed all over the house, again. Anyway, I elected to bring her with me after that.

FRIDAY

???

Did you know it’s not just in cartoons that your eye starts twitching after a while?

My son should be home from camp today, so we’ll find out whether we sent him off in time to miss the stomach bug, or maybe we didn’t and he infected everyone and we’re the worst people in the world. There’s a formal concert tonight, and another one tomorrow, and Saturday is my son’s birthday, and of course that First Communion party is Sunday.

My husband asked me what I wanted to do for Mother’s Day, which is also Sunday. I feel like the only answer is more tequila. It’s my window.

Dear Father,

I wish I had a dollar for every time I’ve said, “Quit telling priests what to do.” You guys are super busy and already working harder than anyone could reasonably expect.

But I’ll give one of those imaginary dollars back today, because I’m going to tell you what to do this Sunday. Trust me, it’s for your own good.

This Sunday is, as you no doubt know, Mother’s Day, and a lot of your parishioners are going to expect you to acknowledge it. Also, a lot of your parishioners are going to be mad if you acknowledge it.

A good portion of your congregation feels that the world despises motherhood, and they look to the Church to be the one place where they are appreciated for their sacrifices and their hard work.

Another good portion of your congregation feels that the world only cares about women if they are mothers, and they look to the Church to be the one place where no one despises them for not being mothers.

Some of your parishioners are pregnant, and they’re miserable about it. Some of them desperately wish they were pregnant, and are working hard not to hate their fertile sisters. Some of them look pregnant, but are just fat, and if one more well-meaning priest blesses their unoccupied abdomens, they’re going to sock him in the jaw.

Some of them look pregnant, but they’re the only one who knows that the baby they’re carrying is already dead.

Some of your parishioners are the mothers of children who are already buried, or children whose bodies went straight into the hospital’s incinerator while their mothers wept and bled. Some of your parishioners paid to have their children put there.

Some of your parishioners have been wretched mothers, and they know it. Some of them have been excellent mothers of wretched children, and everyone assumes that wretchedness must be the mother’s fault.

Some of your parishioners hated their mothers. Some of them just lost their beloved mothers yesterday. Some of them never knew their mothers at all.

Some of your parishioners are excellent mothers who pour their heart, soul, mind, and strength into caring for their families, and as soon as they get home from Mass, everyone expects them to get right back to cooking and cleaning and making life easy for everyone else, the same as every other day.

And then, of course, you will have the people who are mad that you mentioned a secular holiday during Mass. And the people who remember how much better it was when Fr. Aloysius was in charge, oh yes, it was much better then. It’s a shame.

So, what’s your plan, Father? Gonna make all the mothers stand up and be acknowledged? You’ll be forcing a lot of women to make a statement they may not want to make. Gonna pass out carnations? Same problem. Gonna make us extend our hands over mothers in blessing? Well, you’re the priest, aren’t you. We would rather keep our hands to ourselves.

The real answer would be for Americans to just calm the hell down about motherhood, and not to expect the Church to cater to their every emotional need. But that’s not where we are right now. It’s a mess, and you’re right in the middle of it. Sorry! But I really do think you can thread the Mother’s Day needle without getting poked if you offer something like the following blessing before the end of Mass:

On this Mother’s Day in May, which is Mary’s month, we remember that our Blessed Mother was honored above every other human being besides Jesus Himself when she was asked by God to bear His Son. We ask God’s blessing on all women, because all women, no matter what their state in life, are specially privileged to bring Christ into the world. Mary is our model in joy and in suffering, in trust and in sorrow. We ask Mary to intercede for our earthly mothers and for all the women who cared for us, and we ask the Holy Spirit to increase our love so that we will always honor the women in our lives. We ask this through Christ Our Lord. 
Amen.

Then scoot out the side door before anyone can yell at you.
Amen.

***

Image of woman who is disappointed in you via Pixabay

Today, I fulfilled my Ascension Thursday tradition and put out a frantic question on Facebook: IS THURSDAY A HDO IN NH OR NOT???

The answer is: Yes, in my diocese it is. All of New Hampshire is the Diocese of Manchester, which is a part of the Ecclesiastical Province of Boston, which, unlike most places in the U.S., has not moved the feast of the Ascension to Sunday. Thursday is a Holy Day of obligation in New Hampshire, and also in Connecticut, Maine, Massachusetts, Nebraska, New Jersey, New York, Pennsylvania, Rhode Island, and Vermont.

Our family’s schedules are crazy go nuts, so I was trying to figure out if I really needed to excuse my kids from a mandatory final dress rehearsal or not, or if we should tell the carpool kid we can’t get her because we’ll be getting to our three schools late because we need to go to the morning Mass, or if I should cancel today’s doctor appointment and have all the kids go into aftercare so I can get to the vigil Mass in a town forty minutes away. I mention this in case you’re wondering why I don’t just say, “I love Jesus, so we’ll go to Mass whether we have to or not.” I do love Jesus, but, see: crazy go nuts.

Anyway, there was some back-and-forthing among my Catholic friends around the country, and one of my non-Catholic friends commented:

I ask this in all sincerity as a non-Catholic, so please forgive me if it seems disrespectful. But if it takes a 40-person Facebook discussion, a set of trigonometric tables, and a slide rule to figure out if Ascension Thursday is a Holy Day of Obligation, does it really matter that much to God? I mean, is He going down the list and saying “Sinner! Oh, never mind, she’s in the Diocese of Omaha and it’s Daylight Saving Time”?

A fair question! Here is my answer.

There are some things we are obligated to do because they have intrinsic moral significance, and there are some things we are obligated to do out of obedience. So it’s not a question of God trying to keep up with the rules that the Church has created. It’s a question of whether or not we believe that God has given the Church the authority to define doctrine and to impose discipline.

That’s what we’re talking about here: doctrine vs. discipline.  Everything that the Church obligates us to do falls under one or the other category.

What’s the difference? The classic example illustrating doctrine vs. discipline: the male priesthood vs. the celibate priesthood. The first is doctrine, and has intrinsic moral significance; the second is a discipline, and we’re obligated to follow it out of obedience.

The male priesthood is the doctrine that says only men can be Catholic priests. Doctrine never will be and cannot be changed, because the Church has decreed that there is an unchangeable theological reason for this teaching.  The Church simply does not have the authority to decide that women can be ordained priests, and Catholics have always been obligated to acknowledge that women cannot be priests.

The celibate priesthood, on the other hand, is a matter of discipline: it’s something that the Church can change and, in fact, has changed. So if there was a married priest celebrating Mass, God wouldn’t look at him and say, “Hey! You have a wife? Sinner! Oh, wait, it’s only the year 1 AD. Never mind, you’re fine, bro.” The Church has the authority to change this discipline.

But here’s the key: We are obligated to obey both what the Church teaches as doctrine and what the Church imposes as discipline. The first will never be changed; the second might. Whatever the Church currently imposes as a discipline, we are required to obey that, because we recognize that the Church has authority over us.

So, back to the current question about the Holy Day of Obligation and the scheduling shenanigans. I discovered that tomorrow is a Holy Day of Obligation for us in New Hampshire, so we are obligated to get to Mass if we possibly can. It’s a discipline that the Church has the authority to impose on us, and if I know that this is the case and it’s reasonably possible for us to get there, then we need to get there. Not because God is just cuh-razy about Thursdays and gets mad when people go to choir practice instead, but because God has given the Church the authority to define doctrine and to impose disciplines.

It’s fitting to talk about these things on Ascension Thursday since that was the day that the work of redemption was completed. When Jesus ascended into Heaven, He left behind His Church, having given His Church the ability to define doctrine and to impose disciplines. God is not bound by the Church’s rules. Instead, He has given us the Church as a way of helping us learn to come closer to Him. When we obey the Church in legitimate matters of Faith, then we are obeying God. Which we do because we love Jesus, crazy go nuts or not.

***

Image: photo by Waiting for the Word (license)

So there we were, all throwing up. If that’s too much information for you, just consider: I never even mentioned what else we were all doing, besides throwing up. You’re welcome!

When a stomach bug goes roaring through a big family — a big family, I might add, who’s had “make second toilet operational again” on the to-do list for over a year now — it looks a little something like this:

The first part is all, “Well, well, here we are on a fine spring afternoon. What shall we do with our day?” And then . . . you find out.

So anyway, the baby has not gotten sick. I attribute this to my superior mothering skills, which include letting her eat dirt, letting her eat hot dogs, and letting her eat dog food. I also notice her coat is sleek and shiny and her foot pads are supple.

However, having a healthy baby living amidst the valley of the almost-dead is not necessarily a recipe for domestic happiness. She wants to run around shrieking and hitting people in the face and dancing on the ottoman like a drunken sorority girl, only with less clothing. Normally, we are fine with this, by which I mean we are scared of her and don’t know how to make her stop. But when we’re all sick and enfeebled and our heads are going to fall off if she doesn’t stop shrieeeeeeeeeeeking at us, something must be done.

Using the last working part of my brain, I had a brain wave. I took a milk jug, rinsed it out, cut a hole in the side, and handed it to Ms. Nu Upsilon Tau (head sorority sister at NUT House, ha), along with a bag full of clothespins.

She. Loved. It. If you can’t imagine why, just picture this: You can drop a clothespin in the hole, and it will fall into the jug! You won’t be able to see it anymore! But it made a loud clattering noise, so you know it’s got to be there somewhere! So you stick your hand in the hole in the side, and there is a clothespin in there! And if you take it out, you will have a clothespin! But wait, there’s more. YOU CAN DO THE SAME THING ALL OVER AGAIN!

This miracle of physics kept her busy for a blessed twelve minutes, and she didn’t even try to murder us when we suggested to her that she might want to play with it again later in the day. Babies are insane. Thank God.

If more than 24 hours goes by and you don’t hear from me again, please send more clothespins.

***

image by Loadmaster (David R. Tribble) Creative Commons