More than Milk: The Moral Lives of Mothers

Greg Popcak has written a stunningly nasty post against mothers who feed their babies formula: The Myth of Optional Breastfeeding & Why You Might Not be Breastfeeding Long Enough

Popcak’s post is largely cut and pasted from an article by “Dr. Darcia Narvaez … a moral developmental psychologist at the Univ. of Notre Dame.” The thesis of Popcak’s post is that breastfeeding is so vastly superior to formula-feeding, in so many ways, that there is no doubt: women who breastfeed are doing the moral thing, and women who don’t are not.

Before we go any further, I’d like to sit for a moment with Narvaez’s title, “moral developmental psychologist.” Kind of a Dagwood sandwich of a title, ain’t it? (Does she ever hang out at the Museum of Science and Trucking?) In general, I’m wary of people who call themselves specialists in several different fields at once, especially when they synthesize all of that expertise into something absurdly reductionist, like mandatory breastfeeding.  I am more likely to trust people who acknowledge the limits of their field.

My therapist will do the same thing. When I ask him for advice about something that isn’t in his purview, he’ll make it clear what are the boundaries of his expertise, and will be very cautious about wading into unfamiliar waters. He’ll remind me, “This is just a theory I’ve formulated, based on my experience. You may want to read so-and-so — that’s more his field.” This is the kind of humility that we see in learned people, who truly understand the scope of their authority. In people who are concerned mainly with promoting an agenda, though, we do not see this humility.

Keep this in mind while you read Popcak’s insistence that breastfeeding is a moral issue.

Now, we do care about making moral choices as parents, right? Of course we do. As an expert in nothing but typing, I always give the same advice: for moral teaching, we go to the Church. The Church has the authority to tell us which actions are moral and which are immoral.

The Church gets specific in some things (Not just “be pure,” but “don’t fornicate or masturbate”); but in other things, she gives us the latitude to discern on our own the best way to follow broad moral principles.

Many parenting issues fall into this latter category. The Church tells us, for instance, that we have a serious obligation to educate our children, both academically and in the Faith. She does not, however, tell us that we must send them to Catholic school or public school or private school or that we must home school. She says, “Here’s what you’re trying to achieve. Now you pray about it, and then, using prudence and being the expert in your own life, go do that in the way that makes sense to you.”

In the same way, the Church tells us that we have a serious moral obligation to care for the physical, emotional, and psychological needs of our children, even if that means making personal sacrifices. We have a serious moral obligation not to neglect them, and to do our best to care for them according to our abilities and circumstances.

But the Church does not tell us we must breastfeed. The Church does not tell us this, because breastfeeding is not always the best way to care for babies’ physical, emotional, and psychological needs, which are bound up intimately with the physical, emotional, and psychological needs of the mother and the rest of the family.

In my case, breastfeeding was and is the best way to nurture my babies, both physically, emotionally, and psychologically. I’m a healthy woman with healthy babies, and my lifestyle meshes well with the pleasures and demands of breastfeeding. I’m cognizant of the existential chorus of significance that carols around me as I nourish my child with my own body, feeding her with my food, breathing with her, relaxing with her, passing back and forth unspoken communication of a million kinds. Breastfeeding is easy and natural for me — so much so that when my one premature child was failing to thrive at my breast, I made gargantuan sacrifices to work through it with the help of experts, and to establish a good nursing relationship. I did this not because breastfeeding was always the only moral choice, but because breastfeeding made sense for me and my family then, and was therefore the moral choice.  For someone else in other circumstances, switching to formula may very well have been the moral choice.

I have friends who are on medications for physical medical reasons, and can’t breastfeed. I have friends who are on medications for psychological medical reasons, and can’t breastfeed. I have friends who must work, and can’t breastfeed, or can’t breastfeed full time. I have friends who have psychological difficulties regarding their bodies, and so they don’t breastfeed. I have friends whose babies have such byzantine allergies that the mother cannot keep her milk allergen-free and also eat enough to stay alive and care for her other kids, and so they don’t breastfeed. I have friends who adopt orphans, and never even considered breastfeeding, even though it might be possible to induce milk production with drugs. They just didn’t feel it was necessary. They showed their love in so many other ways.

I have friends who don’t breastfeed, and I don’t know why they don’t. I never asked, because it’s none of my business. I can see in ten thousand other ways that they love their babies, that they care for them, are attached to them in every meaningful way, and want the best for them.

I don’t assume, like Dr. Darcia Narvaez, that these women who feed their babies formula would probably just tell me some “make-my-life-easy story.” I assume that they’d say, if I dared to ask, “We decided that this was the best way to care for my baby.” And I would believe them, because there are many, many good and moral ways to care for a baby.

I do not believe that we are required to move mountains, turn our lives upside down, or be willing to go through enormous upheaval to produce milk, even if it would be possible to do so. It may even be the wrong choice, if all that mountain-moving and upside-downing bleeds into the rest of a mother’s life (as how could it not?). Women are more than the milk they can make. Their mothering is more than the milk they can make.

And what about children? What about their needs?

Being devoted to your children is what is valuable to them. That’s what gives them a shot at growing up happy and moral and grounded. What’s damaging to children, short-term and long-term, emotionally and physically and psychologically? Being raised a mother who breastfeeds because she is terrified not to — because she can’t trust herself to make the decision that it’s time to try something else, something that will make life run more smoothly for the entire family. When we make parenting decisions based on horror stories and threats of imaginary sin, then that is not an act of love — and never doubt, that aura of fear makes its mark on a child, breastmilk or no.

Mercifully, Popcak does interject one joke into his essay, saying:

Baby will usually stay alive with infant formula.

That was a joke, right?

Because I laughed. I looked around, utterly failed to see heaps of baby corpses pickled in nasty, loveless formula, and I laughed, and annoyed my one-year-old, who was attached to my breast as I read. I was nursing her because I wanted her to be quiet, the noisy thing. I was, dare I say it, trying to make my life easy. Trying to keep her occupied while I pursued my feminist career path as a writer –just like I was doing when I left my husband with breastmilk and formula and flew across the country to speak to other Catholic moms. Everyone was cared for. Everyone was fed. Everyone was fine. And my sons and daughters got to see my virile, conservative, bread-winning husband caring for his beloved baby girl ’round the clock, and that was good for our family, too.

I haven’t the energy to go through Popcak’s entire piece and take on all the nonsense, all the sloppiness, all the sneers and scaremongering. He ends with this paragraph:

The science is there for those who are willing to look at it.  Breastfeeding is a moral issue. God gives moms breastmilk to hold in trust for their babies.  Don’t take away your baby’s inheritance.

Moms, your baby’s inheritance is the love of his parents. Don’t take that away. Do consider breastfeeding, because when it works well, it’s very nice indeed. But most of all, make your decisions based in love, not in fear of bullies, no matter what their title is. Look for the best way to love your children, and be at peace.

 

Raffle! Giving away 2 copies of A Little Book about Confession

A Little Book about Confession for Children by Kendra Tierney is one of the best confession prep books I’ve ever seen. It’s short and to the point, approachable but thorough. It also has a fold-over flap on the sturdy front and back covers, so you can easily find a quick examination of conscience or act of contrition. Great for kids, and also really serviceable for teens or adults who are preparing for their first confession or looking for a refresher about the sacrament.

Just because I’m swell like this, I’m giving away two copies of this great little book. To enter, use the Rafflecopter form below (there are several ways of entering). If it’s not showing up, click on the link that says “a Rafflecopter giveaway.” I’ll announce the winner later this week.

Good luck!
a Rafflecopter giveaway
https://widget-prime.rafflecopter.com/launch.js

 

The day I bought steak with my food stamps

I cried every night, the week before I finally applied for food stamps. I was so ashamed. Food stamps are for losers, people who make stupid, irresponsible choices,people who want to live a life of luxury while other people work hard to pick up the slack. This I knew.

We were homeschooling, because the schools in our town were wretched. We were in that town because we were renting a house from my brother-in-law, because we had been evicted from our previous apartment, because the landlord had sold the duplex, and nobody else would rent to us because they thought we had too many kids for the size of apartment we could afford.

So there we were, in a dead end town. But we were getting by. I budgeted like a maniac, playing Scrooge with the precious hoard of toilet paper, detergent, and apples we could afford. I once bought a used linen toddler dress for four dollars and blushed the whole way home, nauseated with the extravagance of my purchase. It wasn’t a great way to live, but as long as my husband could get enough overtime hours and WIC kept us in cheese and Kix, and as long as the kids could stomach a rotation of pasta, hot dogs, bananas, and tuna noodle casserole, we were okay.

Then my husband’s employer cut the overtime hours, but still required everyone to hand in the same amount of work. No, it’s not exactly legal, but there weren’t any other jobs to be had that year. His schedule still varied wildly and unpredictably from day to day, and we couldn’t find any jobs that would make up the lost overtime income and allow him to show up at either 8 a.m. or 11:45 p.m., depending on what else he was doing.

Now the kids got hot dogs for supper, and the adults got a hot dog bun with ketchup. We figure and figured and figured, and discovered that, no matter how hard we squeezed, we were always going to be about forty dollars short of being able to eat and pay our basic bills. Just forty dollars — something that, five years ago, when the economy was better, I would have spent on odds and ends at Target without thinking twice. But it was forty dollars that we didn’t have now, at all.

So off to the welfare office I went. And they granted us $800 a month for our family of seven. I couldn’t believe it. So much money! Boy oh boy, I thought. They were right about food stamps: you can live like a king on this stuff. No wonder people just sit back and let the free checks come in! I knew we weren’t like that, though, and I decided we’d just use what we needed, and let the rest sit there, so at least we won’t be part of the problem. I’d put money in the bank as a down payment on an apartment in a better city, and I’d only use my benefits to make up the slack that I had found in our budget, and no more. We’re no freeloaders.

And we followed this plan for many months. I salted away savings, and I strolled past the meat freezer in the supermarket, lusting after the trays of meat, scorning the shameless slobs who stopped and filled up their carts on the taxpayer’s dime. Freeloaders. Scum. Oh lord, look at that steak. Stop looking. Now go get some spaghetti.

You know what? I was still ashamed of myself for being on food stamps, even though at this point I was working, too, tutoring and then delivering Meals on Wheels while still homeschooling, while my husband worked what amounted to swing shifts at his job. I was obsessively drawn to arguments about food stamps online, and, feeling extraordinarily defensive, belligerently or pathetically pled my case to strangers over and over again. It wasn’t our fault. We didn’t mean it to be this way. We’re really trying. We’re not worthless, truly not!

And they hated us anyway. Oh, man. They told us everything I had been saying to myself: freeloaders. Not willing to work. What’s wrong with America today. Culture of dependency. And all the while, we went around the house with winter jackets and three pairs of socks on, because we couldn’t afford to turn the heat above 60 degrees when it was below zero out. My kids never got a new toy, never got new clothes. They learned never to ask for a popsicle or a box of crayons. We cobbled together a bizarre school curriculum out of whatever books were 25 cents at the thrift store. My husband’s glasses were taped together at the nose, we had no auto or health insurance, and I chose my driving routes according to how many hills I could coast down, to save gas. We prioritized bills according to how threatening they were.

And we were thoroughly, thoroughly stuck in a neighborhood where everyone was on parole for beating, cheating, or molesting someone else on the street. They set the actual street on fire once. I remember staring at the green catfish we kept in a tank, a leftover from our old life when we could consider buying luxuries like pets. He would swim around and around, and I would have these cartoonish, drooling fantasies about how delicious he would be, fried up in a pan with a little lemon juice. I’ve told stories about these things as if they were funny, but they were not funny.  My kids were not safe in their own yard. I would let them play in the rain puddles only after checking for used condoms.

I couldn’t stay away from comment boxes about food stamps. And every single one told us that we were shit, because we needed help buying food.

So I went out and bought a freaking steak. And pop tarts, and ice cream, and chips, and asparagus, and mangoes, and all the things that we had trained ourselves to stop even looking at. And with the cash I saved from using food stamps, I bought a giant carton of cheap beer.

Everything else in our material lives was completely awful. There was no hint of luxury anywhere, no wiggle room, nothing simple or easy. Everything was dirty and sour, and everything was a struggle. Everything we tried to accomplish was impossible because six other impossible things had to be fixed first. The one and only expansive thing was the food budget. So I bought a freaking steak, and it was so juicy and good.

Not everyone has a story like ours. But not everyone has our advantages, either: the advantage of knowing that life isn’t supposed to be like this, that fresh fruits and veggies are important, that debt isn’t normal, that work is normal, that reading books is important, that family can be depended on, that kids need structure and order, that marriage and monogamy are normal.

Not everyone knows how to maintain a car. How to show up on time.  How to file taxes, make photocopies, save paystubs, request forms, and fill out the reams and reams of paperwork necessary to keep the welfare office from cancelling your benefits — or, as happened to us one month, to keep from despairing when the welfare office makes a mistake and gives you too many benefits, and then, when they discover the mistake, it turns out you owe *them* money, which you pay off with the money you’ve been saving in the bank until you run out of money, which means you have to go back on food stamps because you can’t buy food.

It may very well be that the ratty, vulgar, freeloaders you see with their L-shaped leatherette couches, their flat screen TVs, their tattoos and yeah, their food stamp steaks are in the same position. They may be stuck. They may have been stuck for generations, and they may not even have anyone tell them that there is supposed to be more to life than getting as many benefits as you can. They may have been shrieked and sworn at, neglected and molested since they were babies. They may have lead poisoning and FAS. The may have been numbed and dimmed by being told from day one that they’re retards, so go watch cartoons and drink your orange soda, retard, and leave mommy’s boyfriend the fuck alone. They may never have seen anyone cook in an oven. They may spend their lives on waiting lists for another dank, foul, dim, narrow subsidized apartment with a yard of dirt and broken bottles. And all of this may be the only thing they can imagine, because everyone else they have ever known lives exactly the same way.

They may have tried to get ahead by getting a second or third, minimum wage job working overnight at a gas station, or sweeping floors at the tampon factory, and discovered that their food stamps are immediately cut by exactly the amount they bring home.  They may hear that they’re not going to get any more benefits until they sell their cars (because that’s a great way to find a steady job) or get rid of their phones (because teachers, employers, and the welfare office itself really appreciate not having any way to get in touch).

They may hear that they should somehow miraculously vault over a lifetime of the degradations of generational poverty and just . . . be better. Be self-sufficient. Be a completely different kind of person out of sheer will power. That if they don’t do this, they are pathetic, and have no one but themselves to blame. Look how they live! Such luxury, on the taxpayer’s dime!

And they may get their monthly benefits and think, “Screw it, I’m gonna get something I want for a change.” They may buy themselves a freaking steak. And they may not care if you think they deserve it or not.

***

UPDATE: Several people have expressed concern about our financial state. I appreciate this very much, and would like to reassure everyone that this essay describes what we went through several years ago. Thanks be to God, we have been off WIC and food stamps for several years. I wrote this essay mainly to get  it off my chest, and my husband encouraged me to publish it — so I did so assuming it would only reach my normal audience, who are already familiar with our family. If I had known this essay would get as much attention as it has, I would have made it more clear that we are doing (more or less) fine now, thanks!

Image by Michael Berch via Flickr (Creative Commons)

What’s for supper? Vol. 24: Cultural appropriation FTW

It was a pretty good week, food-wise! No catastrophes, and the kids mentioned dinner in the “gratitude” section of our evening prayers. Here’s what we had:

SATURDAY
Pizza

I have no memory of Saturday at all, but my blackboard says “pizza” on Saturday. Have I showed you my blackboard, by the way? I love it so much. I got in on clearance at Walmart:

[img attachment=”92128″ align=”aligncenter” size=”full” alt=”blackboard” /]

This way, when the kids ask, “What’s for supper?” over and over again, I can say, “Look at the blackboard!” over and over again. Even better, it hangs in my kitchen, and every time I look at it, I can think, “Ah, something is settled, anyway.” Priceless.

SUNDAY
Chicken; salad; challah

I stopped at the expensive supermarket for seltzer, bananas, fresh herbs, and whatever else Aldi doesn’t have, and there was a little mob around the freezer section, so I leaned in and saw these individually-wrapped, boneless, skinless, organic, cage-free, vegan-fed chicken breast portions, 99 cents for 1.5 pounds. Don’t ask me why your chicken can’t eat bugs like the rest of us, but the old ladies had spotted the sale and there was no time to quibble. I bought six packages and my chakras felt more holistic instantly! Then I pulled the Lululemon out of my crack rushed over to the cash register before it started being New Hampshire again.

I marinated the chicken all day in olive oil, lemon juice, basil, salt, pepper, and tons of fresh garlic, and then put it under the broiler. Yum yum.

Couldn’t find my challah recipe, so I went with this one. I made the dough in the standing mixer with the dough hook. My lovely assistant helped me brush it with egg wash:

[img attachment=”92131″ align=”aligncenter” size=”full” alt=”challah benny” /]

and they turned out great! (I just divide the dough into four, braid thee strands, then divide the fourth into three and braid that, and then put the little braid on top of the big one.) A single recipe made both loaves.

[img attachment=”92132″ align=”aligncenter” size=”full” alt=”challah” /]

Sweet, fragrant, and lovely, bread of happiness.  You do have to be home all day, but it wasn’t hard to make at all.

MONDAY
Beef barley soup; baked potatoes

I made the potatoes so the jerks would eat something. It was some very fine soup. Someday they’ll be sorry.

TUESDAY
Chicken nuggets; cheesy weezies; frozen peazies

WYSIWYG.

WEDNESDAY
Gochujang Bulgoki (Korean spicy pork)

On Tuesday, I got this amazing package from my friend Elizabeth:

[img attachment=”92144″ align=”aligncenter” size=”full” alt=”korean food box” /]

including a hefty jar of gochujang (fermented hot pepper sauce), 5 lbs. of Nishiki sushi rice, tons of roasted seaweed, and the prettiest chopsticks I’ve ever seen, plus a ton of crazy, self-inflating valentines, sesame seeds, and a bamboo mat and rice paddle, which caused much squealing in my Asian-crazed daughters.

I made a triple batch of the sauce recipe she sent me, as follows:

per 1.5 pounds sliced pork:

1 bag matchstick carrots
1 white onions sliced thin
5 generous Tbs gochujang
2 Tbs honey
2 tsp sugar
2 Tbs soy sauce
5 cloves minced garlic

with about 4.5 lbs of pork sliced thin. I marinated it overnight with the onions and carrots. Good thing, too, because the next day (this is Wednesday. I’m telling this wrong) we ended up stranded and languishing at the library in the next town until after 6:00, waiting for my husband to come rescue us.

[img attachment=”92142″ align=”aligncenter” size=”full” alt=”corrie library” /]

Pretty rough, but we survived. It turns out you need to add coolant to your vehicle once every three years or so! Who knew.

So we got home super late with no time to try any fancy side dishes. Cooked up the pork following this recipe, cooked up a pot of excellent rice, and served it rolled up with lettuce and rice, and also bundled up some rice in seaweed, and we also had some rice rolls they had on sale at Aldi, which we ate in a most authentic fashion:

[img attachment=”92141″ align=”aligncenter” size=”full” alt=”moe chopsticks” /]

O my brothers and o my sisters.  Say it with me:

Gochujang Bulgoki.

If I were going to be hanged in the morning and they offered me whatever I wanted for my last meal on earth, it would be this. It was everything.

[img attachment=”92140″ align=”aligncenter” size=”full” alt=”korean plate” /]

Eventually we had to stop eating because our jaws got tired, but that was the only reason. The kids loved it, too, even though it was seriously spicy. And I have more gochujang, too! Elizabeth says “mix a bit of it with a little sesame oil, apple juice, or honey, sesame seeds and green onions and use like a veggie dip, or mix with tuna.”

I will. I will.

THURSDAY
Hamburgers with fried onions; oven roasted potatoes; asparagus

Down to our last 5+ pounds of fancy-pants local beef. I campaigned hard for stroganoff, but the kids had their hearts set on 1/3-pound burgers. Can’t really blame them.

[img attachment=”92134″ align=”aligncenter” size=”full” alt=”burgers potaotes asparagus” /]

I only had about five pounds of potatoes, so I sliced them thin instead of into wedges. Before I roasted them, I mixed them with oil and something called “Adobo all-purpose seasoning.” I think it’s pretty much garlic salt — not too thrilling. The kids sprinkled vinegar on them and declared it good.

FRIDAY

Spaghetti with jarred sauce; broccoli and peppers with hummus

And that’s that. Next week is school vacation, so who knows what we’ll come up with. My mother-in-law gave us a pasta maker that was sent to her in error, so that should be entertaining.

What’s for supper at your place? Anything thrilling to report? Don’t you want some Gochujang Bulgoki???

Magnificat app winners!

Thanks to everyone who entered the contest. The winners are . . .

Kate Skidd and Bethany Eskro. Congratulations!

I’ll be contacting the winners with their coupon codes. If you didn’t win, the app is quite inexpensive — check it out!

A beautiful and meaningful Easter board book

Looking for a truly wonderful Holy Week and Easter book for kids? The best I’ve seen is Maite Roche’s My First Pictures of Easter from Ignatius.  

The “My First Pictures” series have only a little text, and they allow the parent and reader to spend as much or as little time as they like talking about the pictures. At first glance, the illustrations seem merely pleasant, but when you look closer, they are actually small icons — rich, glowing, windows into a inviting world of love.

[img attachment=”92045″ align=”aligncenter” size=”full” alt=”roche 2″ /]

They are a wonderful combination of sweetness, simplicity, and depth.

The book begins on Palm Sunday, shows the Last Supper, the Carrying of the Cross, Jesus dying on the cross, Jesus in the tomb, and the resurrection, and also an Easter Mass with the lighting of the Paschal candle:

[img attachment=”92046″ align=”aligncenter” size=”full” alt=”roche 1″ /]
Excuse the dings and bite marks! You can see that this is a well-loved book.

The “My First” books by Maite Roche includes My First Bedtime Prayers, My First Prayers for My Family, My First Prayers with Mary, My First Pictures of Mary, and My First Pictures of Jesus, all of which are lovely, meaningful books for young children.

Dialogue with Masons? Is there any point?

I understand the instinctive dislike of the word “dialogue.” I really do. It sounds like felt banners and burlap vestments and liturgical silliness. Well, get over it! We’re adults, and we can think past our first visceral response. It is childish and incestuously vain to imagine that dialogue, as an idea, has no place in Catholicism. My friends, when I go into the confessional and tell Jesus my sins, and He tells me, “I forgive you,” that is dialogue. Dialogue just means making contact. We are all in need of contact with God — and, with very few exceptions, God comes to us through the mediation of other people.

Read the rest at the Register.

The appropriate, the inappropriate, and the butt

Here’s a memory that Facebook brought to my attention:
.
Me, getting out of the car: “Bring your jackets in the house, kids.”
Irene (then age 3): “I’m gonna bring mine in by wearing it, D. I said ‘D’ because it’s inappropriate to say ‘duh.’
.
Couple things to talk about here! No, three things. The third thing is: yes, Irene is the awesomest kid ever. Aside from that:
.
First, I happen to love the word “inappropriate.” When we first started going to school and the kids came home reporting that certain words had been deemed “school inappropriate,” I rolled my eyes. Come on, teachers, enough with the feeble euphemisms!  Just tell the kids to knock it off!
 .
But then I realized that the teachers had to tread a pretty fine line: it’s not their place to tell kids that certain words, behaviors, clothes, or ideas are flat-out bad, because what if they’re considered acceptable at home? But at the same time, they need to be in control of the classroom. And so the concept of “school appropriate” and “school inappropriate” is a useful one. They’re not making any blanket judgments; they’re just saying, “You can’t do that here.”
.
In kindergarten, for instance, even the word “bum” is considered “school inappropriate” — because, as far as I can reconstruct, it causes the entire class to erupt like popcorn, and it will be a good half hour before there is quiet again.
.
It’s a useful concept that escapes people more often than you’d think. And thus we have folks who can’t wrap their brains around the idea that no, we wouldn’t wear a dress with spaghetti straps if we’re expecting a vision of Mary, but it’s fine when you’re accepting your Oscar; or the idea that we wouldn’t cuss in front of our abuelas, but it might be contextually appropriate in a movie about Al Capone. It’s okay to talk about sexual issues in some contexts with some audiences, but in others, the very same discussions would be an offense against innocence and modesty. Graphic photos of genocide victims can be a valuable tool in the service of protecting life, or they might be an offense against the dignity of the subject and the audience, depending on how and when they’re used. Proclaiming the truth that Jesus Christ is Lord of all:  always true, not appropriate if you are a guest at a bar mitzvah. And so on. Context matters.
 .
Yes, some things are never appropriate, but lots of things are appropriate in some places, inappropriate in others. It’s not moral relativism, it’s just taking context into account. Normal human thing to do, and often completely compatible with Catholicism.
 .
The second interesting issue: what about outlawing words in your house? What are your standards, and how do you enforce it?
 .
I can’t remember if, at the time Irene refrained from using it, “duh” was considered anathema at school or at our house, but I can imagine banning it just because I was sick and tired of hearing it, and not because I feel it’s objectively evil. This, too, is a completely legitimate thing that parents can do just because it’s their house and they’re in charge.
 .
My Facebook friend Stacie says
.
I actually had to use reverse psychology once and forced each person to use one potty/body function word in every sentence. “Please hang up your farting coat”, etc. Lasted one hour till they begged me to stop making them use potty/body function words. It was a brief but savored victory.
 .
I’ve had a similar experience. I got so tired of hearing the boys call each other “stupid” (and so tired of hearing myself say, “Don’t call him stupid!”) that I had them face each other and call each other “stupid” one hundred times in a row.  Boy, did they sound stupid. It wasn’t a permanent fix, but it put a lid on that word for a few days, anyway. (And yes, you can crack down on stuff like this by dishing out heavy punishments, but I save the heavy artillery for more serious stuff. Just my preference.)
 .
A few weeks ago, I happened to look out the kitchen window and saw one of my kids unhappily trudging past in the dark. I made some inquiries and learned that he had to take a lap around the house because he said “butt.”
 .
Ha! The word is actually pretty tame, as far as our household standards go; but it was a Saturday, meaning my husband had been home with the kids for several hours in a row. I don’t know what led up to it, but I guess hearing “butt” one time to many pushed him over the edge, and someone had to pay.
 .
Friends, I laughed my butt off. 

Who wants to win a coupon code for the Magnificat Lenten app?

You know what’s been on my list forever? Finally trying Magnificat. I’ve heard nothing but good about this spiritual guide (which, incidentally, is published by the same lovely folks who bring you Aleteia). Magnificat is a monthly booklet mailed to you, and also come in digital form — and I have two coupon codes for the latter.

Each day includes:

LITURGY – daily Mass prayers and Scripture readings
PRAYER – a cycle of prayers for morning, evening, and night inspired by the Liturgy of the Hours
MEDITATION – spiritual reflections for each day of Lent

Other unique features include:

ESSAYS – to enlighten , inspire, and deepen your relationship with God
POETRY – capturing the spirit of the season
PENANCE SERVICE – to prepare well for your Lenten confession
DEVOTIONAL PRAYERS – for various occasions and growing in faith
CHANTS – for Lent and Easter… listen while you read and pray

I know we’re already well into Lent, but it’s definitely not too late to get to know Magnificat. To enter, use the Rafflecopter form (or click on the link, if the form doesn’t show up) below. I’ll choose two names at random, and will announce the winners Wednesday afternoon.

Good luck!
a Rafflecopter giveaway
https://widget-prime.rafflecopter.com/launch.js

Watching, reading, listening to . . . Almost Lenten edition

Not that you asked, but

I’m reading . . . 

The Seven Principles for Making Marriage Work by John M. Gottman

[img attachment=”91659″ align=”aligncenter” size=”full” alt=”seven principles marriage” /]

As an incurable fiction reader, this is probably about as close as I’m going to get to spiritual reading for Lent. It’s not religious at all, but it is encouraging a lot of self-examination. I’m only about 75 pages in, but am finding it a very refreshing, practical, and humane take on love. For instance, in the first chapter, he lists some of the common myths about marriage, including the myth that “neurosis or personality problems ruin marriages.” He says:

…We all have issues we’re not totally rational about. We call these triggers “enduring vulnerabilities” . . . They don’t necessarily interfere with marriage if you learn to recognize and avoid activating them in each other.  . . . If you can accommodate each other’s “crazy” side and handle it with caring, affection, and respect, your marriage can thrive.

Like a lot of the passages in this book, it’s not a mind-blowingly new idea, but it’s a refreshing contrast to the flood of bad and selfish ideas about what it means to be in an adult relationship. A lot of people seem to believe that you have to get to the root of every conflict, or communicate your way into resolving everything, or stand your ground and refuse to budge every time your spouse has some microaggressive habit. That’s no way to live!

The author is a professor of psychology and has been a marriage therapist and researcher for several decades, and the book includes a bunch of quizzes and exercises you can do with your spouse to assess and improve your relationship. I’ll let you know, as I continue to read, if I find anything that’s a deal breaker in this book! In the meantime, I recommend it. Thanks to my sister Rosie for discovering this title.

***

I’m watching . . .

Curb Your Enthusiasm on Amazon Prime streaming. Definitely not appropriate for Lent, and actually kind of a live-action demonstration of how not to make your marriage (or any relationship) work. Full of awful people and very bad language (and lots of improv). But gosh, it’s funny in small doses. Larry David, who co-created and was head writer of Seinfeld, plays a pettier, more clueless version of himself. In every episode, he falls afoul of completely unreasonable people and manages to get blamed for something totally unjust, and yet somehow he always brought it on himself.

Well, after ten minutes of searching for a video clip I can reasonably share on Aleteia, I give up. Never mind!

***

I’m listening to . . . 

The Louvin Brothers are known for their close harmonies, but in “Almost Persuaded,” the solo voice slays me:

Seems about right for the second week of Lent.

***
How about you? Any discoveries, old favorites, or guilty pleasures to share?