Month: August 2016

At least eleven non-famous people are dead, and 40,000 more have had their homes wrecked or damaged. That’s 39,999 Americans who aren’t celebrities, so their very real tragedies simply didn’t rate as headline news.

This is nothing new. When the Titanic sank — arguably the first news story to get immediate, international coverage — newspapers ran large photos of the Astors, who were aboard, and only later began to report how many third-class passengers were lost because there weren’t enough lifeboats. It will always be this way: Big names sell headlines, and the suffering of nobodies gets a bored shrug, and we move on to whether or not a gymnast stuck her landing, whether Britney Spears looks more toned than last time we saw her, and whether Donald Trump is still Donald Trump.

It’s frustrating, even sickening, when the news gets covered this way. Here’s what we can do in response.

Read the rest at the Register.

***

Image: The National Guard via Flickr (licensed)

Sad person wrote sadly about sadness of summer, and the existential desire to prove that we love and are beloved as summer draws to an end. But it wasn’t just all moping and maundering and wallowing in the exquisite bathos of that squooshy spot where memory meets love.

No, there was also . . . a lot of TV-watching. Specifically, some of my older kids really got into the hilarious show 30 Rock (and yes, we skipped a few of the more inapwopwo episodes).

For some reason, one scene that really hit home was the one where uberhick Kenneth invents a new game show, and as he tries to sell it to the network, he accidentally wields a powerful bargaining chip by implying that he’s in talks with [CBS CEO Les] Moonves. In fact, Kenneth is referring to Moonvest, a batty homeless guy sporting a vest with moons on it.

In what is obviously part of a daily ritual, Moonvest says . . . well, see for yourself:

Okay, so what happened next is that, for some reason, we taught the baby to do this:

As always, I am unable to judge the severity of my actions.

We also went to the fair, okay? And we toasted marshmallows one time.

“Mama, I had a dream about you last night.”

Oh, I heard that collective gasp of horror from all the other Mamas of kids who dream. When kids dream about you, somehow you’re never at your best. Last night, for instance, my daughter dreamt that she wanted to go hang gliding, but I said “no.” Then we went to the fair, and she wanted to go on a ride, but I said “no.” Then we all adjourned to the cafeteria, where she asked for dessert, and I said — guess what? — “no.” And then I said “yes” to her sisters! What is the matter with me? I mean, besides that it wasn’t actually me, it was just her little squirrel brain firing off in her sleep.

Well, I’ll tell you. I wake up in the morning, and before I even let my tootsies touch the floor, I think, “In what way can I disappoint, frustrate, thwart, defraud, or otherwise let down my family, so that I will be forever associated in their minds with great suffering?” And I’m not allowed to have any coffee until I have a plan.

The other day, I went shopping.I made my shopping list taking into account the needs, desires, tastes, and schedules of twelve people, plus a dog, a fish, two parakeets, a mouse, and two hamsters. Shopping took three-and-a-half hours, as it always does, because I go to Walmart, and then my shopping buddy and I get lunch, then we hit the dollar store if they’re still young enough to find it thrilling, and then we go to the cheap supermarket and fill two carts with food and treats, and then we go to the real supermarket to pick up whatever we couldn’t find elsewhere. I also got gas, went to the bank, stopped at the post office, and nipped into that awesome toy store that is closing, so I could find Christmas presents at a discount for the kids. And we drove around for a while looking for a power station, in case any Pokewhatevers were lurking about.

But I forgot my shopping list at home. However, I remembered everything on it.

Almost.

I chose, bought, bagged, loaded into the car, unloaded from the car, and put away approximately 426 useful and desirable and reasonably-priced items, but I forgot soap.

So my husband mentioned it the next day, and I apologized, but I forgot to pick some up again. This went on for a few days. He would mention it; I would promise to buy some, but then forget. Finally, in desperation, he went to the store himself and attempted to buy some soap.

I know. Someone should make a daytime movie special about us: She Didn’t Buy Soap  . . . Twice. 

So the poor fellow gets to the counter with his four bars of Ivory, and the cashier looks at him from under his S-Mart visor, one canny eyebrow raised in suspicion.

“Buying soap, eh?” the fellow says. My husband admits that he is.

“Ain’t that a weddin’ ring on your finger?” continues the inquest. Sotto voce, my husband acknowledges that he is, indeed, married.

Pause.

“She run off or sumpin’?”

A single tear of shame trickles down my husband’s craggy, careworn face. No, she did not run off, but she might as well have, mightn’t she’ve? Leaving the house soaplessly forlorn, like some kind of heartless amalgam of Medea, Mrs. Portnoy, and whoever made Dina Lohan be that way.

My husband, who, at this point, is already suffering mightily under the privation of soap for 36 hours and counting, cracks under pressure and begins to babble any lie that comes to mind:

“It’s not her fault! She has a shattered pelvis and two kinds of face cancer! She tried to order soap from her hospital bed, but the internet went down because of that multiple helicopter crash! We usually have lots of soap, because she gets everything eleven weeks in advance, but she was technically dead for four minutes, and the surgeon said I should let her re-e-e-e-e-e-e-essssst. . . ”

Unable to bear the searing scorn of the other customers who would never forget the disgraceful spectacle of a man forced to buy his own soap, he fled out of the store, clutching the bundle of Ivory to his chest, flinging wads of dollar bills behind him in his agony.

The next day, I woke up surrounded by my family. They proffered Champagne-colored roses, home-baked pastries, and a fragrant mug of coffee on a silver tray. I began to rise, but in a single voice, they insisted that I remain in bed, because of all the things I do for them.

Their faces were bathed in rainbows through the prism of my grateful tears. “My loves,” I said, “My dearest loves, I feel so appreciated, and that scone smells heavenly. Just let me get up and visit the restroom, and wash my hands. If someone would just hand me the soap . . . ”

And then I woke up. Hey, mothers have dreams, too.

It’s the end of vacation, when all the things we meant to do over the summer cascade into guilt and regret. “Tree house” and “ocean” and “art museum” come off the list; “haircut” and “school shopping” go on. We should have done more! When I was little, I remember doing more.

On the radio, I heard the end of an essay by a man trying to connect with his elderly father, a father who had been harsh and distant for decades. I gathered that the one happy childhood memory the narrator had was of their annual, extravagant beach house vacation. The kids would run and play and whoop it up, while the dad, as he recalled, would glower and retreat to the couch to watch TV. Still, he made it happen year after year.

Now, forty years later, the man finally asked his father if he had fun on those vacations — and if not, if he hated them as much as he seemed to, why did he make such a point of taking them every year?

It turns out that the old man, now almost eighty years old, was still smarting from the sting of his childhood, from the first day of school, when the teacher would assign that dreaded essay, “What I Did On My Summer Vacation.” The only true answer would have been: “We gathered peaches to pay the landlord” or “We shot rats in the turnip field so we wouldn’t starve come winter.”

So he and his brothers would make up something to write about, something that would prove that they had been having fun like the rest of the world. He resolved that his own kids wouldn’t have to resort to fantasy. They’d do something real on summer vacation, something wonderful. Something to report.

When my kids were all little, I used to accuse myself of not so much striving to make a happy childhood for them, as striving to create evidence that they had had a happy childhood. A baby book full of carefully edited anecdotes and cute dialogue; a photo album of high points and rare good days. Maybe, day to day, they had to cower away from me and my mood swings, and maybe they longed for me to just sit down, relax, and play with them, rather than frantically crafting towers of glorious expectations, and then collapsing in tears when it all caved in under the weight of real life. Maybe so. In the words of an old guide to confession: I am unable to judge the severity of my actions.

Either way, I had some hard evidence. I could point to the salt clay figurines, the stretchy loop potholders, the quirky animal sewing cards I had made just for them, using the back of a Crispix box and my own lifeblood, and I could say, “The proof is here. Only a loving mother would have done this. Remember how I let you make muffins with me, even though you drive me crazy? Let’s laminate this photo of you petting a goat at age 2, and let’s not laminate the memory of me crying over how much money we spent to get in. You liked that goat, you liked it very much. But you won’t remember, so I need to nail it down now, to present to the judge, I mean put in your baby book. And look, you were wearing a dress that I sewed myself.”

Behold, the gulf between love and intentions. Oh, the longing to love, the longing to be loved, the longing to have been loved. Oh, the clumsy swipes we take at that shining, shifting goal of happiness.

We are all, maybe, hoping to pacify the demands of the past, striving to bridge the gulf, to reach back over all those summers and tell our own selves as children, “Yes, you were happy. Here’s the proof.” We’re telling that long-dead teacher, now moldering in the grave, “You wanted an essay? You wanted to know what I did? Here’s my child, and he had fun on his summer vacation. Here’s the evidence you demanded; it’s all there.”

Here are the things I remember about my childhood, along with the vacations and the treats, the parades and the birthday parties — and also along with the mood swings and strife, the tensions and shouting and slammed doors. Here are the things I remember, from summer and from winter, from the long, empty, formless days of vacation and the long, empty, formless days inside the lonely, needy heart of a child looking for some definitive proof of love:

I remember my mother putting down her book (more precious than rubies) and looking me straight in the eye when I called her name. My father pausing for a minute before he answered me, staying silent a little too long, muscling past his first impulse to criticize or refute. My big sisters praising me for so skillfully walking down the stairs with only one foot on each step, instead of two, like babies do. I remember being on skates and being swooped up from behind, just as the floor was looming up to pound in my face. I remember someone holding a pajama zipper away from my belly, protecting my skin as they zipped it up. I remember being protected.

There’s the evidence, and I’m writing it down now.

 

 

***

Image: David Prasad via Flickr (Licensed)

[img attachment=”98244″ align=”aligncenter” size=”medium” alt=”whats for supper aleteia” /]

Here is my story about food:

SATURDAY
Korean beef bowl; rice

Yep, Korean beef bowl again. It’s so good!

[img attachment=”115784″ align=”aligncenter” size=”medium” alt=”beef bowl” /]

And what made it taste even better was (a) my husband made it, because I was exhausted from a trip to Colorado followed by grocery shopping and (b) my husband kept marvelling at how exhausting it is to care for kids and cook dinner and run errands, never mind writing about it. Delicious. I mean, gratifying. I mean, I like him.

***

SUNDAY
Sausage subs with peppers and onions

On Sunday, we went to the county fair for six hours! Fun fun fun! I love the fair. And I was so smart: I cooked dinner the night before, so we just had to heat it up when we got home.

[img attachment=”115785″ align=”aligncenter” size=”medium” alt=”sausage subs” /]

Fair food is, of course, hideously expensive and deliciously hideous, so we were strategic about keeping everyone fed and hydrated throughout the day without spending too much and without throwing up.

We had lunch right before we left, and we brought water, juice, candy, and frozen grapes. The frozen grapes are wonderfully sweet and refreshing snack for when you’re out in the hot sun (as long as you have a cooler with you).

Then, after we were pretty much done with the violent rides, everyone got to pick one item of fair food. Benny had her first ever cotton candy and was in paradise.

[img attachment=”115786″ align=”aligncenter” size=”medium” alt=”Screen Shot 2016-08-12 at 11.28.45 AM” /]

The other kids chose fried dough or french fries, and Dora and I had fried pickles.

[img attachment=”115802″ align=”aligncenter” size=”medium” alt=”fried pickles” /]

I’ve seen the sign for years, and always imagined a giant batter fried dill pickle on a stick, which is just silly. But it turns out they cut the pickle into chips and fry them separately, and they were fantastic, if you like that kind of thing. (A clear winner over their other options, fried green beans, fried Oreos, and fried strawberries. That ain’t right.)

At one point, after the pig races but before the free Bibles, my son said, “I want to be a demolition derby driver when I grow up!” and I said, “WE HAVE TO GET OUT OF NEW HAMPSHIRE.” But we distracted him with candy and he forgot about it. So like I said, we were there for over six hours, with the goats and the heat and the ring toss heartache and the face painting and the pony rides and the neck-snapper and the upside-downer, and by the time we got home and had supper, all ten kids agreed that it would be prudent to skip dessert. Whew.

***

MONDAY
Blueberry chicken salad; ice cream sundaes

You know how your wife is always telling you that a salad can be really filling and satisfying if it has enough protein in it? Your wife is not crazy (in this regard, anyway). This recipe (from the Blueberry Council, which my kids thought was hilarious) has chicken, blueberries, toasted pecans, red onions, romaine lettuce, feta cheese (the recipe calls for bleu cheese, but I didn’t think the kids would like it) and a dijon vinaigrette dressing.

[img attachment=”115801″ align=”aligncenter” size=”medium” alt=”blueberry salad” /]

Really delicious, and also pretty.

I did owe them dessert, so we had hot caramel sundaes.

***

TUESDAY
Giant pancake with accidental blackberry jam; sausages

One box of pancake mix, plus cinnamon and some of our lovely homemade vanilla extract. Mix it with water until it looks right, throw it in a buttered pan, and bake for a while. Cut in wedges. It’s sort of like a muffin scone cake pancake thing, and it fills up enough of the plate that I feel like I can call it “dinner” without too much shame.

Here’s a pic with a terrible camera:

[img attachment=”115788″ align=”aligncenter” size=”medium” alt=”blackberry jam” /]

The blackberry jam was homemade. Homemade, I tell you! We have ten thousand wild blackberry bushes, so I told the kids that if they picked enough berries, we could make syrup. Not jam, since every time I try to make jam, it ends up being syrup, no matter what recipe I use, what kind of pectin I use, how carefully I employ a candy thermometer, etc. We always end up with thin syrup: grape syrup, chokecherry syrup, even dandelion syrup. The only exception was when we tried to make maple syrup, and ended up with maple-flavored scouring solution, full of ashes and grit.

So I threw the blackberries in a pot, mashed them a bit, added some water and vanilla extract and sugar, and let it simmer for a good long time. Then I left the house for some errands and completely forgot that the stove was on. Came back, saw that the house was still standing, and threw a little butter into the pot and let it simmer some more. Then we poured the syrup into a jar and put it in the fridge, and forgot about it for several days.

So, that’s how you make jam, apparently. What do you know about that?

***

WEDNESDAY
Ham, cheese, and mushroom omelettes; watermelon

I feel like there was a story here, but I forget what.

***

THURSDAY
Chicken quesadillas, frijoles, tortilla chips, corn on the cob

I abused, maligned, perverted, shamed and defamed my friend Elizabeth’s Cuban grandmother’s recipe so badly, I won’t even reproduce it here. But look at my pretty red plate!

[img attachment=”115799″ align=”aligncenter” size=”medium” alt=”quesadillas” /]

***
FRIDAY
Pasta or something

The perfect meal for when you stayed up late with a bunch of callow youth to watch the Perseids that never really turned up, and then the baby wanted to nurse for several hours, and then it’s super hot but someone stole your fan, so, rather than sleep, you had a four-hour medium-sized panic attack about children leaving the nest, and then there was this terrible fly that wouldn’t leave your face alone (AND MAY HAVE GOTTEN STUCK IN YOUR EAR). Then you doze for three hours with the baby sitting on your head and repeatedly stealing your nose, which would be cuter if someone would trim her fingernails.

Bye, Friday! Bye!

[img attachment=”115800″ align=”aligncenter” size=”medium” alt=”Screen Shot 2016-08-12 at 11.32.23 AM” /]

 

The UPS man just dropped off something I ordered with reluctance and gloom. It’s stuff called “Professional Anti-Aging Skin Cleaning Serum,” and it’s for my stupid old face. It comes in a little dark brown bottle, to keep the light from getting in.

There’s nothing wrong with taking care of your skin, of course; and there’s nothing wrong with feeling a little low when the mirror tells you that you are, indeed, aging. These attacks of gloom happen to most of us, and it’s all right to try and fight back.

It’s all right to get old, too. It’s all right to show the world your naked face, aged and dingy as it is, and just to let people look at you as you are. If the 21st century can learn to forgive a woman for hitting age 40, then the 21st century gets a gold star from me. The whole “I yam what I yam” movement has made my morning routine so much simpler.

And if I still do feel the urge to be attractive, I just think of poor, suffering Marya Bolkonskaya with the heavy tread, who was plain and dull when she thought about herself, but transfigured, radiant, when she thought of other people. Other people, imagine that!

Still, some days, it’s just me and the mirror, me looking at me, and me looking back, and neither one of us is well pleased.

Well, today is the feast of the wonderful Saint Clare, who faced down the Saracens — or, rather, she let Jesus face them down while she prayed before Him.

The mercenary hordes were trying to breach the convent walls where she was abbess, so she had the Blessed Sacrament carried out to the gate where the enemy could see it. As she prayed, the enemy was seized with a nameless dread. They panicked and ran away.

Why? I suppose because He looked at them, and they didn’t want Him to see them. It was intolerable, too beautiful, too threatening. As they were, what they were — rapists, thieves, murderers for hire — as they were, they could not let Him look at them, and so they fled.

We know what happens when The Almighty looks upon you in your lowliness. Moses had to wear a veil over his face after he encountered God, because the Israelites couldn’t bear that radiance. And that was radiance once removed: it was to protect them from seeing the face of someone who had seen God. What if they tried to look at God Himself?

What if they let God look at them? Intolerable.

So God did veil Himself. He did cover His unbearably radiant face so we could bear it, taking on a human body — and even further, taking on the appearances of bread and wine, so that we could bear to look at Him, and we could bear (sometimes) to let Him look at us.

Even in this form, doubly veiled as a consecrated Host, the mere sight of Him mounted on the gates of St. Clare’s convent was terrifying. Blinding. Too much to bear.

And when the attack is over and the enemy has been driven away, we are left to ask ourselves what happened. Who are we, that we are worth protecting? What does God see, when He looks at us?

I do want to be transfigured. I do want to be clean. I want to be brightened — not just in my dingy old pores, but deeper down, deeper than that. “I yam what I yam,” I bleat to the Almighty. “What will you do with me?”

“Don’t think about that,” He says. “Look at Me. I am.”

***

Image: Aimee Vogelsang via Unsplash

6. Give the whole day to the beach (or whatever it is that you usually only do for a short time). We go to the beach a lot, but we usually only have an hour or so before we have to pack up and get other stuff done. Toward the end of the summer, I like to clear the schedule for one day, pack a lunch full of treats (including one of those bags of mixed candy meant to go in a pinata), and just chill. We love getting there before everyone else and staying long after the crowds have left.

Read the rest at the Register.

Behind the curve as usual, I’ve discovered a new game that was hot a few months ago: Scale Back a Book. You take a famous book title and just . . . take it down a notch. (Check out #ScaleBackABook on Twitter for plenty of funny stuff.)

Here’s what I’ll be checking out of the less-visited wing of the library no time soon:

 

A Tale of One City

The Adequate Gatsby

The Patina’d Testament and The Refurbished Testament

On the Shoulder (by Jack Kerouac)

To Intimidate a Mockingbird

Wuthering Hummocks

The Jungle First Draft

1983

The Sun Also Tenses Its Glutes and Hamstrings

The Mauve Letter

Misdemeanors and Written Warnings

The Viscount of Monte Cristo

Atlas Shifted Uneasily and Then Resumed the Position

Request for an Interview with the Vampire

The Third Sex (0r should it be The First Sex? Or The Sex 2.5? I can’t decide)

Thus Implied Zarathustra

and

Fleurs de Naughty

 

Whatcha got? And gosh, don’t you have a job or something?

 

***

Image via Pixabay

A few times a year, I find myself flying here and there around the country, giving speeches about this and that. Lots of people do this; no big deal.

The only reason I’m bothering to tell you about it is because this is not the kind of thing I do. I mean, I do it, but it sure doesn’t come naturally.

I didn’t even learn to drive until I was 23. I didn’t even learn how to look people in the eye until I was 26. I’m pathologically shy, wracked with anxiety, and utterly lacking in self-confidence. I’m easily intimidated, have poor body image, tend to mutter and babble, am afraid of flying, have face blindness, don’t know how to apply eyeliner, get lost in the town I’ve lived in for eight years, hate leaving the baby, and never know how much to tip.

However, those 30-45 minutes when I’m actually in front of the microphone? Love them. And I love having met people and having made friends, even if the process of actually encountering them for the first time is terrifying. For better or worse, traveling is part of my job now.

I’ve learned some survival tips for the surrounding logistics, to prevent me from falling apart or coming completely unmoored when I’m away from home:

At the hotel, go ahead and call the concierge for anything, from “What’s the number of a pizza place that will deliver to my room?” to “Which hotel exit do I use if I want to walk over to that big rock thing I can see from my window?” to “How can I tell if my alarm clock is on?” They’ve heard much stupider questions, and even if they haven’t, who cares? You’re flying away and probably never coming back. If you ask a dumb question and the concierge gives a useless answer, hang up and call again. You’ll probably get a different concierge and you can start fresh.

Same is true if you’re at the airport and have gotten overwhelmed. For some reason, airports are designed to be confusing, and each airline has a slightly different brand of confusingness. So go ahead and wave your important bit of paper at anyone with a lanyard around their neck, and ask them repeatedly what you’re supposed to do next. If it’s the wrong bit of paper, they’ll tell you. Are you a terrorist planning to blow up the plane? No, you are not. Therefore, you have the right to expect them to help you.

If you do get overwhelmed and are about to cry in public, speak to yourself (in your head!) in a firm but compassionate voice, in the third person: “Now, Simmy, I know you’re exhausted, but I really don’t think you’re going to cry. You’ve gotten through this kind of thing before. It’s okay to stand still for three minutes, and then I want you to walk over to that kiosk and ask advice, okay? You can do this!” It’s ridiculous how well this works.

In a fabulous new city? Got a wonderful opportunity to explore untried vistas and climb new climes? Finally have a little bit of time to yourself, with no one else’s needs or plans to consider?  Feeling horribly guilty because here you are in your hotel room, squandering it all by holing up on your Naugahyde lounger, eating granola out of the pouch with the AC cranked up? You’re fine. You’re fine. If this is what you want to do with your free time, then go ahead and do it. Shy, introverted people need to recharge before and after meeting other people, so it’s not wasted time, it’s preparation time. If you push your limits now, you won’t have anything left when you really need it.

Go ahead and stream your hometown radio station. Normally, that fool announcer who groans when he breathes is the last thing you want to hear, but when you look out your hotel window and see weird, alien kinetic art installments and mountains that are the wrong shape, and outside your door are chattering ice machines, sad-looking housekeepers, and some kind of wall art made of neon lights, fish gravel, and wheat . . . you go ahead and stream your hometown radio station. Find out what the weather is back home.

Speaking of housekeepers, you can tell them to skip your room and come back tomorrow. They won’t mind, honest.

Stay away from magnifying mirrors. I know you’re thinking, “Hey, I have forty minutes before I have to be out the door and get on stage! I’ll just take a peek and see if my eyebrows couldn’t use a little touch up!” No. Stay away. Trust me on this one. Or if you don’t trust me, trust Liz Lemon:

Shut it down!

If you have to make conversation, ask people about themselves. That is what people really want to talk about. Also compliment their jewelry, their babies, their car, their lovely downtown area, or their shoes. Line up some questions ahead of time if you need to.

If you have unassigned seating on the airplane, your best bet is an old person, preferably an old man. He is far less likely to make hideous conversation, snap his gum, blast the music in his earbuds, shove his knees into you, use up more than his share of the armrest, watch filthy things on his laptop, or try to impress you with his carry-on-stowing prowess. He will likely make little phlegmy noises in his throat from time to time, but you can manage that until he falls asleep.

And finally:

Find Jesus. It doesn’t matter what city you’re in, how bizarre the neighborhood is, how peculiar and foreign the architecture is. If you’re anywhere near a church, go find the tabernacle and you’ll be at home.

***

Image: Country Mouse by Joseph Jacobs [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

A recent poll shows that 59% of Americans think a woman should be allowed to get a late-term (24+ weeks gestation) abortion, despite the laws in her state, if her unborn baby is diagnosed with birth defects caused by the Zika virus.

Pro-lifers are rightly distraught by this high number of Americans who would accept a late-term abortion of a Zika-infected baby. By 24 weeks gestation and beyond, we’re talking about a child who’s been unmistakably kicking, dancing, and hiccuping inside his mother for many weeks — a child whose face she’s probably seen in an ultrasound, and whose sex she knows, whose name she may have already chosen. By 24 weeks, it’s likely she’s bought clothes for her baby, maybe even had a baby shower to welcome him, and planned a space for him to sleep at night.

So what would make a woman seek an abortion this far along, after she gets the diagnosis of Zika? Pro-lifers must look more deeply at this question, beyond just saying “Be pro-life!” Especially in an election year, we must think of the bigger picture, at the issues surrounding a woman’s decision — and we must vote accordingly.

A woman carrying a baby with Zika-induced defects might abort because . . .

She thinks her child’s life will be worthless because of his defect. This is not an idle concern. Zika does not always cause microcephaly, and microcephaly itself can cause a wide range of defects, from mild to severe; but at its worst, microcephaly is associated with

• Seizures
• Developmental delay, such as problems with speech or other developmental milestones such as sitting, standing, and walking
• Intellectual disability (decreased ability to learn and function in daily life)
• Problems with movement and balance
• Feeding problems, such as difficulty swallowing
• Hearing loss
• Vision problems

No mother wants this for her child.

But can she accept it? It may be easier for a mother to resolve to show her love for her baby by giving birth to him and caring for him as best she can, if she has help. If she knows that there is a support network available, and that she and her child will not be alone, she may feel more hopeful that it’s worth it to give birth. Private and public-funded organizations that support and encourage people with disabilities and their families are invaluable, and they can make the difference between a life of agony and a life that is difficult but rewarding. They can make a difference between choosing death and choosing life. We must consider public policies that make it easy for such organizations to function.

Can we vote for policies that fund the support a disabled child needs to have a good life? Pro-lifers must consider this.

Why else would a loving mother consider aborting her child with birth defects?

She thinks her child will be too hard, and too expensive, to care for. And this is not an idle concern either. Caring for a child with a severe disability is exhausting. It is only manageable if parents have access to lots of help from the medical community: trained therapists; schools that are equipped, encouraged, and funded to include special needs students; respite care when parents needs a break; help with things like transportation to and from medical appointments and childcare for their other children; and the assurance that the unthinkably high medical bills they incur will be paid.

And a mother must know that she can afford to live, eat, pay her rent and her electric bill, while she is caring for her child.

Can we vote for policies that readily fund all the primary and ancillary care and support that a disabled child and his caregivers will need? Pro-lifers must consider this.

And the third reason, possibly the most important of all, that a woman might choose late-term abortion?

She thinks her child will be rejected and outcast by society, and people will treat him as if he’s less than human because he looks and behaves differently. This is also not an idle concern. More are more, we applaud leaders who encourage us to automatically reject, demonize, and physically thrust away — out of the room, out of the state, out of the country — people who don’t look and act like us.

If we learn the habit of despising the alien, this attitude will not sequester itself to one class of despised people. Hatred is hungry, and is always looking for more hateful classes of humans to consume. The one who despises the refugee, the poor, the foreigner, the helpless will also inevitably despise the baby with the malformed skull, who cannot speak, who cannot pull his own weight, who cannot give us easy, comforting answers about what life is for.

Can we vote for leaders who teach us to despise the weak? Pro-lifers must consider this.

Being pro-life means being willing to look at hard, ugly questions without easy “pro/con” answers.

Before you vote, look at a crucifix and tell me that we’re only supposed to be pro-life when it’s easy, or cheap, or doesn’t make any demands on our sensibilities or our wallets. Look at a crucifix and tell me that we’re called to join in that unspeakable sacrifice only as long as our taxes don’t get too high and we never have to hear a foreign language that bothers us. Look at a crucifix and tell me that all that agony was only meant for the useful, the strong, the wholesome, the familiar, the whole.

When we call ourselves pro-life, we must not only consider the basic issue of accepting abortion or rejecting abortion. We must look at the reasons that women seek abortions, and we must look at what she needs to reject those reasons. If we want fewer women to seek abortions, then we must do all we can to make life with her child seem possible, even joyful and worthwhile.

And we must keep all this in mind when we vote.

It’s easy for a candidate to say three syllables: “I’m pro-life.” It’s harder for a president (or a state rep, or a governor) to sign bills that will shape a world in which pregnant women realize, “Maybe I can do this.”

If you can’t vote, then so be it. Despite what you may have heard, I haven’t stated or even decided whether I can make myself vote in this election, much less for whom I will vote.

But do not tell me that a candidate is pro-life, when every policy and attitude a candidate promotes would push a mother to kill her child. I won’t have it. I won’t sit back and let that happen to the phrase “pro-life.”

Look at a crucifix, and ask yourself if you can let it happen. Think of the mother who wants to carry her baby to term. Think of what she needs, and think of what you can to do make that possible.

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image via Pexels