yes, i’m mom. ENOUGH.

To say the cover of this week’s Time magazine is provocative would be an understatement:

When I saw the photo, I sighed. I get that extreme parenting makes headlines and sells magazines, but I’m so tired of this worn-out song. Look at this model mommy – she looks like a million bucks AND practices attachment parenting like a pro! She probably even got to shower this morning! SHE WINS!

But beyond the titillating cover shot, the headline is what bothers me most: “Are You Mom Enough?”

Demanding, defiant, pushy, probing – it’s exactly the kind of gut-punch-to-insecurity question that drives me nuts about today’s treatment of parenting in the media. Enough with the mommy wars, enough with the attachment parenting debates. Parenting is not a competitive sport. It’s not a test to be aced or a contest to be won.

It’s a relationship – a way of being with others in the world. It’s a calling – a lifelong commitment. It’s a leap of faith – a journey we start without knowing how it will end.

I am a mom. A pretty new mom. Equal parts clueless and hopeful. I make a lot of mistakes, but I want to learn. I love my kids fiercely.

I think that’s enough.

While parenting shouldn’t fall prey to the self-esteem movement either - everyone gets a trophy! - it deserves to be treated as a complex, challenging calling. No theory will neatly solve its dilemmas, no ideology will produce perfection, no single decision will promise success. In fact, I wish we could banish “perfection” and “success” from our parenting discussions entirely. My inner critic doesn’t need any more help; does yours?

We’re called to be faithful parents, not successful ones.

Faithful parents keep their children’s best interests at heart and work hard to make choices that will speak to their changing needs as they grow. They stay true to their kids, not a theory or an expert.

Faithful parents know they need partners in parenting, and they find the help they need to raise their children: friends, family, doctors, nurses, teachers, day-care providers and babysitters. Faithful parents seek out community so they don’t have to go it alone.

Faithful parents try to forgive themselves for their shortcomings and forgive their kids for being human, too.

Faithful parents learn that they can’t do everything, but they can do enough.

In two days we’ll celebrate motherhood. Biological, adopted, foster, step, grand, and “other.” Flip through Mother’s Day cards at Hallmark and you’ll see this beautiful diversity: women who are faithful to the children in their lives, regardless of relationship. None of those cards are about success. None of our mothers “won.” But they were faithful. And that is enough.

Are you mom enough?

You, with your insecurities and doubts and fears? But your fierce, faithful love for the children in your life?

Yes, you are. Enough.

the old translation: what i will miss

The Catholic Church in the U.S. is on the cusp of change. Starting on Sunday, the new translation of the Roman Missal will go into effect, and all of us in the church – from pastor to pew – will begin learning new prayers and responses.

Last week I wrote about my need to grieve the loss of the well-loved words I won’t hear anymore, in order to turn and embrace new words. So today I give you a few of the changes that I’ll leave behind with longing…

[Words in bold are the part of the old translation that will be changed.]

We believe in one God…

I know that by definition, the “credo” of the creed means “I believe.” Yet I can’t help but miss how it feels to stand in a full church, shoulder to shoulder with family and stranger, and declare what we as a people hold true. Especially in a world as divided and contentious as ours, there is something powerful about proclaiming the truths that a wide and diverse group holds as sacred. We are liberal and conservative, we are practicing and lapsed, we are certain and unsure, but we all stand together and share the beliefs that make us church.

…by the power of the Holy Spirit he was born of the Virgin Mary, and became man.

The loss of “born” (in favor of “was incarnate”) is one that I especially grieve. I love the moment in the creed when we bow in reverence of Jesus’ conception and birth, not only because it honors the wonder of the Incarnation but because it honors Mary’s role in God’s great plan. Ever since the births of my own babies, I have barely been able to speak the words of how Jesus was “born of the Virgin Mary” without a lump in my throat. To learn all that bearing and birthing a baby demands from a woman, to have lived through the pain and the power of those moments – I felt that I was honoring Mary and her strength every time I prayed those words of the creed.

Christ has died, Christ is risen, Christ will come again.

Powerful and poetic, simple and succinct. Yes, there are many ways to proclaim the mystery of our faith, but I’m saddened that I’ll never hear these three phrases prayed in the Mass again. They always reminded me of the constancy and consistency of Christ: everywhere and always, in time and beyond time, past/present/future.

Lord, I am not worthy to receive you, but only say the word and I shall be healed.

At a family wedding years ago, I overheard the guest behind me whisper to her date right after the assembly prayed these words before Communion. “That is my favorite part of what Catholics say at church,” she said. “I don’t really get what they’re saying a lot of the time, but I love that part – ‘I’m not worthy to receive you, but I shall be healed.’”

I never forgot her words, how she recognized the power of humility and certainty of faith, all wrapped into one. At times in my life, I didn’t feel worthy to receive – but I could, so I did. Unworthy but grateful and hopeful – and therefore worthy in ways I couldn’t see. I know that the change to “Lord, I am not worthy that you should enter under my roof” is more Scripturally sound, but I mourn the loss of the intimacy of simply saying “receive you.”

These are just a few of the changes come Sunday, words that will pass from everyday use into the history books. But they are words that shaped my faith, prayers that guided me through dark moments and showed me glimmers of light. Maybe it’s not too dramatic to say that losing them is like losing an old friend. Because words matter. And we loved the ones we lost.

What words will you miss?

parenting styles: are you a mac or a pc?

I’m a Mac girl. Converted in grad school by a bevy of Apple lovers (thank you, ladies), I’ve come to love the ease and style of my trusty MacBook. But I use a PC for work. Certain programs that I need, Mac doesn’t offer. And converting between the two systems can be a pain even for software that both support.

So many days I’m bouncing back and forth between two laptops: checking email and Face.book on the Mac in the morning, working in Vista and Office on the PC in the afternoon. Sometimes it feels a little schizophrenic, mixing up commands or forgetting how to translate between a one-click button and a two-button mouse. But even though my heart lies with Mac, I’ve come to appreciate both computers in their own quirky ways.

The PC is a faithful workhorse. I have a longer knowledge of PCs, having used them through high school and college. So I know more programs, more shortcuts, more tricks of the trade. I also know the infuriating sides of PCs: the bizarre error messages, the evil viruses, the heart-stopping crashes. PCs can drive me nuts, but they’re practical (and cheaper) for businesses and universities. So I know I’ll probably be working with PCs for the rest of my life, and I have to learn to love them.

Macs are more intuitive and creative. For someone who likes to jump in and try new things, I love that nearly every time I wonder, “How would I do this?” and make a stab in the dark, I’m able to do what I wanted. The design and layout of Macs – both hardware and software – is more attractive, and I’m not ashamed to love aesthetics. Photo and video editing is much more fun with Apple, and most of all, I love that I never have to worry about viruses. That said, it’s maddening that certain programs aren’t available for Mac. And certain Windows-based software is clumsy and frustrating when converted to Mac.

So I’ve concluded that for me, neither Mac nor PC is 100% perfect. I lean more towards one, certainly, but I know I’ll always have the other around as well.

In the short few years since I’ve become a mother, I’ve been exposed to many different parenting styles. Some parents are uber laid-back, others more rigid. Some follow the book (whatever The Book may be for them); others follow their gut. Whether overbearing or intuitive, clingy or creative, demanding or doting, passive or protective, most parents ultimately have their child’s best interests at heart. They just have their own views of how to best support their child, shape their upbringing, and show their love.

As the media’s been all a-Twitter the past few days about how Steve Jobs and Apple changed the world, I’ve been thinking about the Mac vs. PC debate. Since both systems continue to sell, it’s clear that we haven’t all been converted one way or the other. And some of us muddle along between both.

Perhaps parenting styles are like that, too. We have our own preferences and we make our own choices, but other choose differently. Hopefully we can keep our hearts and minds open enough to see why. It’s when we get dogmatic about our philosophies that we can become insufferable, criticizing or belittling others for not following our path.

The God whose very Being is plural and diverse – yea Trinity! – has created us in wonderful diversity. And more than a few times, I’ve been changed for the better in my own parenting by someone whose style or approach was very different from my own. They opened my eyes to see another way, another point of view. But perhaps I’ve also missed out on room for growth when I kept my heart closed, convinced I was in the right, and refused to consider why anyone would do differently than me.

I love my Mac. But you might not. And my husband the engineer certainly prefers his PC. If we all chose the same, we’d never appreciate the diversity of what each has to teach us. Here’s hoping we can keep an open heart – and a good sense of humor - about our differences, whether in PCs or parenting, MacBooks or mothering.

So what’s your parenting style – Mac or PC?

(I like to think I could be a cool, creative, intuitive Mac, but I know my system gets way too many error messages and crashes to not be a PC. Rare is the day that goes by without a Ctl+Alt+Del to restart my mothering.)

9/11 & culture shock: life with a newborn

What a difference ten years makes.

With all the 9/11 remembrances, I’ve been stepping back in time as we all have, revisiting that day and how it changed each of our little worlds.

But when I talk to people who reminisce wistfully about the swell of patriotism after the attacks, I feel like my 9/11 story has gaping holes. I never shared that sense of national unity, never saw the flags on every porch, never watched the hours of TV coverage.

Because September 1, 2001, found me stepping off a plane in Charles de Gaulle airport, ready to start my semester abroad in Paris. And when the planes hit the towers 10 days later, my thoughts were consumed with culture shock, far from the country I’d left behind.

So when I think back to 9/11, my head is full of France. The sunny courtyard of the school building where I watched my classmates from Columbia crying on their cell phones as they tried to reach parents back in NYC who worked in the World Trade Center. The corner bistro where a group of us – brand-new acquaintances thrown together by jarring tragedy – went to talk and think and simply stare at each other over cafe au lait as we processed the news. The radio in my apartment where I curled up to listen to the BBC for hours that night, since we had no TV to watch the endless loop of the planes hitting the towers again and again.

It’s been strange to have my mind swirling with thoughts of 9/11 and Paris and study abroad as I readjust to life with a newborn. Because it reminds me that the culture shock of learning to live in another land is not so far from the transition of adding a new baby to the family.

Round here, we’ve all been thrown into the strange world of babyhood again. Burp clothes and bouncy chairs surround us; mid-night feedings have rearranged our routine. F and I have relearned the rhythmic rock to soothe the infant during the evening witching hours. And the state of the housework – well, let’s just say we may end up discovering a whole new culture (or life form) once I finally get time to mop the kitchen floor again.

Life with a wee one has its own language: words like “changes” and “pumping” and “thrush” all take on new meaning in this context. Likewise, the land of newborn has its own culture that seeps into every corner of our home: nursing at the dinner table, bathing baby in the bedroom, changing diapers in the living room.

Toss in a good dose of sleep deprivation, add an energetic toddler to the mix, sprinkle some shrill newborn screams on top, and you’ve got the perfect recipe for bleary-eyed parents wondering what strange new land they’ve stumbled upon.

A few months ago, I stumbled across the journal I kept during my months abroad. Early entries are filled with embarrassing stories about faux pas I made and the resulting new words or customs I learned. But slowly my words shifted subtly from English to jumbled Franglais to near-fluent French. And by the end of my sojourn in the City of Lights, the newspaper columns I wrote for the school paper back home revealed just how much I learned – or thought I learned, in the wise audacity only a 20 year-old can muster – thanks to a leap outside my comfort zone.

Perhaps this blog is the closest thing I have to such a journal these days. So let the record show, as a testament to my current culture shock, that yesterday I thought it impressive enough to brag to F that I figured out how to nurse T with one arm while preparing S’s afternoon snack. But in the sink-or-swim of cultural immersion, yesterday’s accomplishments were quickly dwarfed by today’s demands: the frantic need to figure out how to simultaneously nurse the screaming baby, make lunch, feed the toddler and myself, change two diapers, read three stories, settle both children down for a nap, and not lose my mind in the process.

Living in a new culture brings daily lessons in humility – reminders of how little we really know. But it also brings the sweet “aha!” moments of pride when we learn a new trick or realize a big breakthrough.

Right now my only goal for each day is to figure out a creative response to what drove me nuts the day before. S whining about how I can’t help him build block towers while I nurse T? Situation disarmed the next day by hiding the frustrating blocks and replacing them with the Duplos he can handle solo. Stressed out by not having a free hand to make and serve the afternoon snack? Change up tomorrow’s routine by making snack at breakfast and sticking it in a container so S can serve himself.

They’re small victories, baby steps towards the goal of greater ease and comfort that every culture-shocked foreigner craves. But just like the lightbulb moments when I would finally figure out what that French slang on the Metro ad meant, or I’d greet my professor with the proper formality, the small steps add up.

Suddenly we find ourselves looking back and realizing things have gotten easier. We’ve learned; we’ve grown; we’ve changed without realizing it was happening. Confidence boosts; capacity stretches. Life is not so strange around us anymore.

Et ca serait vraiment super, quand ce jour-la arrivera chez nous…

raising children in a complicated world

A few weeks ago, S became obsessed with the alphabet. A set of foam bath letters and an ABC puzzle became the Toys Of The Moment.

F and I now spend a good part of each day watching S pick up letter after letter and declare (or ask) its identification. We’ve been amazed at how quickly he learned and now names letters in books, on posters around the house, on billboards as we drive.

I love to read. So of course I delight in the world of letters – and then words, and then books – that is opening up for S. I can’t wait the day when he will sound out his first word from the letters on the page: the triumph of recognition, the lightbulb moment of learning.

But yesterday morning reminded me that every discovery, every glorious step towards greater understanding, has a shadow side. I came down to the breakfast table and was greeted with the largest headline I’ve ever seen on a front page:

BIN LADEN IS DEAD.

Screamed out in four-inch tall, bold black capital letters.

I sat and I read. I thought about what this news meant. I felt a surge of conflicted emotions.

And the question hit me. How would I explain this news to S? 

My immediate response: Thank God, he’s way too young. So of course I don’t have to tell him.

Then a more nuanced response: That’s kind of a cop-out, L. You still need to think about what you would say. Because the world is always full of hard news and scary men and evil that is tough to explain. So if he were 6, or 8, or 10, what would you say? How would you explain this?

I thought about this question all day long. Because what troubled me more than the screaming headline was the giant photo of a jubilant crowd outside the White House, waving flags and pumping fists for U-S-A. I understood their desire to celebrate a victory over terrorism, their satisfaction at justice (or revenge) ten years overdue. But the sinking pit in my stomach would not go away. They were rejoicing at a man’s death.

Of all the things I struggled to imagine explaining to S about this turns of events, the celebration over bin Laden’s death was the hardest. Every time I tried to picture what I would say about that photo, I could only think how it contradicted core values I want to pass on to him. That we are a pro-life people. That life is sacred, no matter what or where or how. That we are called to be peacemakers.

I chewed on this dilemma for most of the day, and it put me in a sour mood. The world had, as ever, proven itself to be messy and broken and smeared with evil. My theologian’s mind knew this to be obvious, but my mother’s heart protested that it wasn’t fair. And I didn’t know how to start making sense of my reaction to the news of this death, which seemed to be so far from the response of the media and (judging from my ill-advised decision to check Fa.ce.bo.ok) many of the people I knew.

Until I came across this simple statement:

Osama bin Laden, as we all know, bore the most serious responsibility for spreading divisions and hatred among populations, causing the deaths of innumerable people, and manipulating religions for this purpose.

In the face of a man’s death, a Christian never rejoices, but reflects on the serious responsibilities of each person before God and before men, and hopes and works so that every event may be the occasion for the further growth of peace and not of hatred.

Vatican statement on May 2, 2011

And in that simple last sentence, I found the hope I needed that I would be able to talk to a child about what had happened.

That aside from all the complicated consequences – positive and negative – of what this event meant, we as people who try to follow the forgiveness and compassion and peacemaking of Jesus Christ never rejoice at the death of another. Because life is of God. And all life is sacred.

I do not look forward to the conversations I will inevitably have with my children about evil. And war. And violence. And hatred.

Yet the world in which they are growing and I am parenting is a world that thrusts such conversations upon our breakfast plates and dinner tables. We cannot avoid them. We cannot pretty them away. As soon as we learn our ABCs and begin to read the words that whirl around us, we start to learn that the world is a complicated place.

But if we as parents can trust in the faith and the values upon which we try to build the very life of our family, then I think we can have the difficult conversations in the light of hope. We can help each other remember who and what we are called to be in the midst of a complicated world.

At least that is my prayer today. For the challenging moments of parenting that lie ahead, of truth-telling, of helping my children to negotiate life’s messiness. The moments that lie ahead, but still trouble my heart today.

when a mothering spirit breaks

When I saw the newspaper headline, my gut reaction said don’t read it.

I was up early, trying to ward off the morning sickness with a piece of toast, hoping to squeeze in an hour of work before S woke up. So the last thing I needed was to get distracted. Also, being all pregnant and hormonal, I knew exactly what my reaction would be if I opened the front page.

But I had to.

So I read this story: Mom drives kids into river; four dead.

And it was heart-breaking, as I knew it would be.

I stood there reading as my toast got cold and my cheeks got hot with tears. I felt every maternal instinct and every pregnant hormone in my body grieve at the thought of a mother so distraught that she would drive her babies into a freezing river.

But then I read this testimony from the daycare worker who cared for her children and reported that the mother seemed “stressed out” when she came to pick up her kids on Tuesday:

“The only thing she’d say was that she was so alone,” Strange said. “She’s a single parent. She takes great care of her kids, goes to school and works. She really needed a helping hand.“

Suddenly the story became personal. Even damning. Because some guilt lies on all of us when someone falls between the cracks so tragically.

I thought of how many times I’ve paid lip service to single moms, often when I’ve had to brave a week or two of solo parenting. I don’t know how they do it; they deserve so much credit. Which they do. But they also deserve my help. My support. My prayers. My refusal to condemn them with my judgment.

And I think I’ve failed in many of those respects, if I’m honest with myself. I could do a lot more. And I hope that reflecting on this awful story will move me to do more.

God’s Mothering Spirit must ache so deeply when such tragedies happen. Those babies are God’s babies, too. As is their mother. And I believe that the God of Love and Compassion and Forgiveness must surround such souls so tightly in those last moments that the terror of the present is washed away with the peace and promise of what is to come.

But I still can’t help but mourn the fact that a mother who “really needed a helping hand” never found one. And I wonder how often my arms are crossed or my fingers wag instead of reaching out a hand to help.

on forgiveness

This week has turned out to be much more about forgiveness than I would have liked.

First there was the situation I wrote about yesterday, which I am still struggling to forgive and move past. Just when I think I am at peace, small snarky thoughts sneak into my head about cruel retaliation and sweet revenge. Clearly I’ve not forgiven wholeheartedly.

Then there was my attitude towards my spouse one night this week, when I was exhausted from a day of taking care of S and trying to prepare for a program I was leading at our parish that evening. Overwhelmed and overtired, I snapped at him when he told me he wouldn’t be home by the time I wanted (which, coincidently, I had failed to communicate clearly to him). Then when he walked in the door, I breezed out to the door to church with barely a goodbye.

When I got home several hours later, he was sulking. And justifiably so. I had to swallow my pride (which was already shrunken and bruised, remember?) and ask him for forgiveness. I felt rotten that I had ruined his perfectly fine evening by my own dark mood.

Thankfully F is much better at forgiveness than I. (Maybe because I give him so many opportunities to practice.) But the misunderstanding was quickly resolved and the rest of the night unfolded peacefully.

Yet over this whole week has hung the pall of the Arizona shootings. I first heard mention of the rampage when I was running errands on Saturday morning, and I gasped as I pieced together what the radio was reporting. My poor attempt at a pacifist heart rages when I hear about such violence. Innocent bystanders? Children? The elderly? Unthinkable.

As the week went on and details unfolded, I struggled with my desire to react to the news in such unforgiving ways. I wanted to blame the hateful political rhetoric of the moment, or our country’s approach to gun control, or the failure of authorities and institutions to prevent a dangerous person from hurting others.

But I definitely did not want to forgive anyone.

Then I heard a simple story on NPR while I was crawling home on the highway in a snowstorm. My eyes filled with tears as I listened to the commentator read a short biography of each victim of the attack. (I can’t find the exact piece online, but these descriptions are pretty close.)

Young and old, political junkies and everyday citizens, high-school sweethearts and devoted Catholics – their stories were shared with dignity and grace. There was no political slant, no judgment on the killer, no angry call for revenge. Just a moment of quiet respect for each man, woman and child whose lives were taken. Their stories reminded me that rage and revenge were not the right responses. Forgiveness was.

Lying in bed this morning, I was thinking about the shooting again. (Honestly, who wakes with these thoughts? My mind works in overdrive some weeks). And I remembered the story of the Amish community in Pennsylvania who forgave the man that burst into their one-room schoolhouse and killed five young girls. They forgave him. Went to his funeral after burying their own children. Raised money to help his widow and family. And did so without seeking grandiose publicity or praise for their remarkable ability to forgive.

Remembering that story reminded me that forgiveness is radical, no matter how it is practiced. We’re blown away by high-profile stories of victims’ families making peace with death-row killers, but the kind of everyday forgiveness that Christians are called to practice can feel just as radical. Forgive the co-worker that back-stabbed me? The family member that betrayed my trust? The friend whose carelessness hurt me? These can be seismic revolutions in our little worlds.

Forgiveness is wildly counter-cultural. Blame, anger, revenge, resentment – these reactions are more popular in today’s world. They grab the headlines and tantalize our emotions.

But to forgive, quietly and without fanfare, is a small yet challenging act. A statement of our beliefs and a witness to our faith. A response that we must make again and again, in every relationship. We try to grow through it, but we fall back and fail again.

Seven times seventy. Christ never said it would be easy. But it would be Right. I seem to need to relearn this truth at every new turn of the road. And figuring out how to teach S forgiveness? That will be another challenge all its own.

This week I’m just struggling to get by. Any kind of forgiveness feels radical.

an aching heart

Recent news stories about the rash of teenage suicides provoked by bullying have given me a heavy heart. I see the faces of these young people – children, in some cases – and their bright eyes and lively smiles make me mourn for the men and women they would have become. I cannot imagine the pain of losing a child; I cannot fathom the devastation of losing your child to suicide.

Regardless of one’s feelings about homosexuality and what the church or the state should do or not do about it, I pray that men and women of faith can agree that it is Too Much for children in this country to feel driven to despair and death because they are persecuted by their peers. As parents we have to say Enough is Enough and demand better for our children, for our schools, for our communities.

As I reflected today on these heartbreaking stories, I thought of God’s own Mothering Spirit and the pain God must feel when we inflict such pain on one another, when we terrorize and persecute and bully and shame. How God’s heart must break with our own, and yet still remain the constant, eternal, unconditional source of love that heals and forgives and redeems the whole world.

When I feel despair and anger at hearing such stories of violence and evil, I pray for an increase of strength and wisdom and understanding. I pray that God’s Mothering Spirit will guide my own. I pray for a recognition of the in-dwelling of God within each sacred human soul. I pray that my own actions and words – or the actions I fail to do and the words I fail to speak – may not inflict suffering on others.

I looked at S today and I wondered what kind of man he will grow to be. I pray that he will be loving and compassionate and fair and kind. I pray that he will not know the terror of being bullied or the self-loathing of hating the person God created him to be. I pray that he will be someone who stands up when others are being put down, that he will fight for justice and truth, that he will be unafraid to speak the prophetic words that God calls him to speak.

But he is his own beautiful mystery, unfolding in God’s time before my eyes. I cannot control what he becomes or what will happen to him. I can only accompany him on this journey. Sometimes that is a terrifying prospect.

So my prayers tonight are with the mothers and fathers who are grieving the loss of their children to suicide. I pray for those children who cannot sleep tonight because they are terrified of facing bullies at school who insult their sexuality, who belittle their religious beliefs, who degrade their ethnicity, who mock their disability. I pray for all of us who are raising children, that we may commit ourselves to caring not only for the children in our own family, but for all children – from the unborn, to the poor, to the persecuted, to the marginalized.

I pray that we remember that the vocation to parenting calls us to seek the common good for all children, not simply our own.