Heaven Help Me!

I am wearing black today. Both of my Roombas died within a week of each other. Bad timing I say. School is about to start and there is NO way I want to even attempt to keep my house clean without these little buddies of mine.

They work to keep my house immaculate all day long, while I cook, clean up, read and teach the kids all day long. I have to say that this is a modern convenience I do not like to do without. Mud, grass, cereal spilled all over the floor…I can continue teaching and the kids can continue learning while the Roomba cleans them up.

However, when I have to go without them, I pause before ordering new ones. Here’s why:

1. While it is not outside of the realm of my vocation to own these devices, it may be outside the realm for my children. What I mean is that I know for sure that it is ok for me (as a homeschooling mother of six, and a wife, a sister, a daughter and a friend) to use any tool necessary to get done what I need to get done in my day. However, I know I need to instill good work habits in my children, and using a robot to clean may not do this. I especially became concerned about this when I asked my six year old to sweep the floor the other day, and, instead she pulled out the Roomba to do it, pushed the ‘on’ button, then ran off to play (until I called her back to do it the way I asked).  Well, I don’t blame her – it makes my life easier, too! How can I ask them to sweep the floor, when I prefer the Roomba over a broom myself?

2. They are expensive! The going rate right now for a Roomba is $199 for the base model.  This is a lot of money for us. Still, it is cheaper than weekly maid service, which costs $120 a week for our home. I can use the Roomba daily for a year and pay a total of $199. That seems to be the better deal.

3. They break.  The Roombas I have owned are susceptible to “technical difficulties”. They require some kind of fixing or cleaning (cleaning a vacuum cleaner? yes, that’s the annoying part!) after using them for a couple months. The batteries wear out quickly and they eventually just break down. IRobot customer service used to be wonderful and based in USA, but lately it has gone downhill.

4. The less fortunate do not own these. Through centuries women have cooked and cleaned like madwomen and somehow found a way to live without dishwashers, roombas and the like. In particular, the less fortunate throughout the world today do not have such things – it bothers my conscience to be so spoiled. At the same time, I know women with large families in the 40′s & 50′s who had nervous breakdowns from trying to “do it all”.  My dishwasher helps my children get read to more often, and keeps my kitchen from becoming grossly unsanitary. To me, a Roomba is another tool that helps me achieve this goal. I guess the solution is to use these tools mindful of how fortunate I am, but also mindful that I haven’t found a perfect solution yet.

VS.

Any opinions?

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I woke up to a morning of choas. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised, being that I have six children, a dog, a cat, (and a rat or two about to join the family soon). But for whatever reason, today I did not feel up to dealing with it. Hubby and I stayed up late last night for “date night”, and needed much deserved sleeping in time. My kids have been intelligently arguing and *stinging* each other for the past couple weeks since school has been officially ”over” in our house. (It is frustrating to watch just how mean they can be to each other – even though they are brother & sisters! As my father-in-law put it to my husband and his brothers when they were growing up, “You have to fight the whole world – why fight each other!” ) My eight year old daughter unlocked my bedroom door with a key this morning proclaiming that my three-year old just had an “accident” and could I please come and clean it up. As I mobilized my troops kids to action in cleaning up the spill (and helping their sister get new clothes), I tripped over the dog who was spinning in circles around me wanting to be fed and let out. Then I returned to my bedroom, because our newborn woke up screaming and needing to be fed, and my husband expressing that he missed me and wanted more time with me.

So, waking up with demands from all sides prompted me to recall a familiar scene from a horror flick – one in which a woman is running away from ghostly arms coming at her from all sides. Once in a while, it comes at me, like a movie that is on continuous repeat. In this panic, I just felt like being a teenager running away from home (I did this once, but only made it to the end of my driveway); to escape my responsibilities, and fly to a deserted island where the only noise would be the lapping of the pristine blue ocean waves, and the only conversation would be a waiter who would bring me interesting, gourmet tapas and perfectly prepared pina coladas, as I dreamed of fitting into my former size 8 swimsuit, beached in the glowing sun on a comfy, white sand mattress.

Finally, with the assistance of my husband, I made myself an iced cafe mocha, went to my room, closed the door, pulled out my computer and typed in a google search the words “overwhelmed mother”. What this search yielded was a timely surprise:  an article on being an overwhelmed mom written by an overwhelmed mom.

I won’t say exactly what the article says, but I felt much better (and grateful for the choas I’ve been given) after reading it.

It was a good reminder that what I need is to make sure I take time out once in a while. My husband constantly offers such time to me, but something inside wants to stay home enmeshed in my responsibilities. What is it? Pride? That I can do it all?

A mother of a large family is called to a life of service. As I tell my kids sometimes, when I need to “recharge my batteries”, “Okay, guys, my tank is almost on empty. Time for me to take some time to fill it up and for you to watch a movie!”

Fifteen minutes later after ‘filling up my tank’, I am a happy woman again.

Which is a much cheaper, much more  accessible solution than a flight to Kauai!

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Husband and I have always been interested in what makes a successful marriage “tick”. When we were newly engaged, we played out different scenarios in our minds about who would stay home and who would go to work. We mutually hyphenated our names when we got married. We knew the flexibility of modern marriage did not confine us to certain roles.

In practice, it turned out I was not destined for a career outside the home, as I immediately embraced staying home when our firstborn son was born. I was “into” cooking and cleaning and caring for children and found great fulfillment in it. I loved reading the children stories for hours on end, playing with blocks and making birthday cakes. Changing diapers wasn’t all that bad, as long as I got to do these other things, too.

Throughout the years, marriage and the idea of a “good wife” has been “reinvented” multiple times. This is the focus of an article written by Lisa Belkin in the March 22, 2010 edition of the New York Times, entitled, “The Marrying Kind”.

All this redefinition has become possible as women have been given more choices. While some of it has been helpful, as a fairly traditional woman who stays home with my children, and tries to make a home for my husband, I have found some of it a maze to navigate. My impression of what makes “a good wife” has been subject to society’s influence over time, particularly when I was young and forming these ideals. I believe I had the “perfect mother” – she tended to my two brothers and my needs with extraordinary devotion and care, in a way I’m quite afraid to admit that I am unable to do myself today. Dinner with all food groups represented every night at 6:30pm, Sunday brunch without fail, meticulous attention to detail when we were sick. Although I have twice as many children as her, and my life choices have dictated that I won’t be able to pull off motherhood with as much careful concern as she did, a part of me still wishes I could. At the same time, I am grateful that the standards aren’t so perfectionistically high that this type of care come solely from me (my husband is just as active in it).

However, the “osmosis” education that my peers and I received to become a H.I.T. (Homemaker in Training) was conflicting at best. It tooted the benefits & supposed freedom of being a ‘supermom’, who could “bring home the bacon AND fry it up in the pan”, just like the Enjoli perfume commercial said. In other words, we were told we could be a mom just like my mom and a career embracing feminist, as well. In high school, we had a home economics class (one of the most popular classes!) in which we all donned aprons and baked apple pies during school hours. When that class ended, we were whisked off to the next class, “Business Economics” which encouraged us to have skills for a successful career outside the home. Confusing? I’ll say. And most of us still don’t know how to make homemade gravy from scratch.

In the aforementioned article, Ms. Belkin highlights the latest “twist” in the redefinition of marriage and what it means to be a good wife: the fastest growing subset of cohabitating couples today are over the age of 50. These women, having been previously married and lived out the “ideal Mrs.” – having wanted nothing more from life than to don the apron and be married -now scoff at it. These women, who were enmeshed in that rejection of the “old ways”;  ”housewives” protesting they were not married to their houses, began calling themselves the more respectable title of  ”working moms” instead. Gradually, we have realized since then that “Supermom”, due to its unattainability, is more comic than reality. Seeing the old guideposts gone, what impetus is there to follow?

Women today are not what they were and as a result we are probably much more relaxed and reasonable. It is perfectly fine to enlist the help of a device to do housework, instead of scrubbing each square of bathroom tile with a toothbrush like grandma did. With the constant redefining of our roles, it will be interesting to see the scenario play out.

On that note, I am off to eat a wonderful meal, home-cooked by my husband, who is a five star *Mr. Mom*, doing all the cleaning and homekeeping while I recover from birth. In the “old days”, it might be unthinkable that Mom or Mom-in-law would not be at my side for two weeks, so hubby could get back to work since he was clueless when it came to running a home. However, this is not the case for us, nor for many women today. Due to this redefinition of roles for women, our mothers, *too*, have the freedom they earned themselves thirty years ago.

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As I sit here cradling my less than 72 hour newborn son, I am reminded of the previous births of my children – (and the one birth that I hoped would happen, but didn’t). Thomas is as perfect as it gets – he’s blessed with good health, a nice ruddy glowing Sicilian skin tone like his siblings, a peaceful disposition (he fusses, but he hasn’t cried loudly yet!), great baby noises and all the rest.

I couldn’t imagine myself in this position almost exactly one year ago. One of the most dismal days of my life was when my obstetrician told me my baby had died spontaneously in my womb sometime in the past week before seeing her. So many plaguing questions filled my mind: What did I do wrong? Had I done too much (fill in the blank), etc., etc.  If I had gotten there a day earlier, would she have been able to save him? As she broke the news to me that his heartbeat had stopped, I soaked the hospital gown and ultrasound table with my tears. I went through weeks, no months, of thinking I would never have the privilege of conceiving again. Seeing a happy pregnant woman was a harsh sting.

After I checked in at the hospital’s registration, someone took me up to labor & delivery. This person assumed I must be excited about being in labor that day, to which I responded, “Actually, I’m just plain relieved”.

Relieved that I could finally get my hopes up that this was happening! That my baby was past the point of viability! That now all we had to do was get him out safely and we’d be home free!

There is a reason and a time for everything. I am grateful to have had the privilege to bear another child. Perhaps I would not be as much so if I hadn’t experienced the fragility of life before. It is not easy to conceive a child, carry a pregnancy all nine months to term, and give birth to a healthy baby, as a simple Google search with the search terms “infertility crisis’” illustrates. We speak as if it is so easy to do so, but the truth is it just isn’t.

If you are one of those who it isn’t easy for, my thoughts & ardent prayers are with you. May all that is good be yours in His Majesty’s good time.

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I’ve always thought those looming “green” wind turbines were a magnificient contrast to the blue country sky I often travel through to get to my parents’ house, until reading this article in the Chicago Tribune recently. Watch the video. Now, I have to admit to having second thoughts about whether or not they are such a good idea. I think the inability to escape those shadow flickers would drive me insane. I understand the people whose land is being leased for the turbines are going to be compensated fairly, but their neighbors, who are perhaps more affected, are not. For those land owners who are affected by “shadow flickers”: does money make-up for a loss in quality of life? Can one be “paid-off” to enjoy a formerly unobstructed view of the countryside? If the government pays you a fortune for your land, but the new outcome is a loss of community, loss of relation with one’s neighbor, is this in the best interest of the common good? Is it true that this is what it really takes to become less dependent on foreign oil? Or is there is way to work out these issues?

What do you think?

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There are many people on the streets of Chicago begging for money. My seven years living in and close to the city has brought me in contact with hundreds of them. And it doesn’t stop when you move to the suburbs and drive around in your car to get places, as opposed to walking. Then the homeless claim street corners, or exit ramps off the expressway as their own. Usually with cardboard sign and cup in hand, so many of them walk up and down the rows of cars when the stoplight is red.

I have seen one particular woman at an exit ramp off the Kennedy for some time now. Usually, she is predictably standing there on Sunday mornings after church, along our commute route. Every week, predictably, the kids and I discuss what we can do to help her and come to the same conclusion: we don’t think giving money is in her best interest. We’d be happy to buy her lunch, bring her a warmer coat, or a cup of hot coffee to make the cold more bearable. Even a blanket or a pillow.  The kids and I used to buy McDonald gift cards to give to beggars downtown, until one time we saw the recipient of one of these cards trade it with some else.  He said he was hungry.  Maybe he wasn’t. Then, it got us thinking, “What do these people truly need?”

I used to work with the homeless when I attended Marquette University. One of the highlights of my week was volunteering for “M.U.C.A.P.”, an acronym for Marquette University Community Action Program. We would feed folks from a truck, meeting their physical needs, but the best part of the experience for me was just sitting and talking with the people. I was surprised to learn how many of the homeless on the streets of Milwaukee were well educated, some with Ph.D.s and J.D.s.  Some had left behind children and families. Some, but not all, succumbed to drugs or alcohol. We talked about the Bible. We talked about Jesus, the “Common Denominator”. We talked about how dangerous it was to live on the streets and where they were headed after our conversation was over. I was afraid of them. But then I started just talking with them and through the realization of our common humanity, my fears abated.

Flash forward to yesterday. I hadn’t even thought about the homeless woman I would probably see off the exit ramp until in the middle of Mass, at the Consecration, her image flashed into my head. It was clear to me that this time I would talk to her, like I did in the ‘ol days. Instead of pondering the course of action with my kids, and talking about how giving her money would probably just be wasted, I would roll down my window, talk to her, find out what she needed.

As we approached the turn-off for the exit ramp, my son called it. I did, too. She would be there, as she had been every other Sunday at that time. The light had just turned red – which was just what I hoped for. This time, I would speak to her, but not just through a one inch crack in the top of my window. I would roll it down and talk to her. As I started to do so, my children gasped, “No, Mommy! Can I go hide in the back?”

“Sure, I said, you can do whatever you want, but I just have to do this now.”

Window rolled down, I called her over, “Ma’am”, “What is it that you truly need?”

She spoke plainly, “Well, unfortunately, it’s the money I really need. You see what I do with the money is get a room for the night. Then I don’t have to stay at a shelter.”

“You know about the shelters?” I asked.

“Oh yeah. But I won’t even touch the ones downtown. They are totally unsafe”, she replied, “There’s a nice one in Oak Park I try to get to”.

“So, are you hungry?” I asked.

“No, someone dropped off breakfast for me this morning already”, she said with a grateful smile, “People are really quite generous.”

“So, you’ve got a plan to stay somewhere for the night, you aren’t hungry and you’re not in need of anything else but money?”

“That’s right.”

“Ok, then. I guess you’re alright.”

“Yes, thank you!”

At that point, the light turned green. There were cars behind me, and I had to go.

I did not give her money.  But, I did do what I thought I was supposed to do.

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