Lysistrata's Daughter

Lev: Next time we come to the creek, I'm going to break down the sand stone wall up there! Me: Lev, why do you find it necessary to accelerate the process of erosion? Lev simply continues his plans for rearranging the landscape.

Vuk, not quite awake from a nap, moans in his room. Me:  Honey, what's wrong? Vuk:  Somebody stole my liberry books!! There, there, dear.

I want to be clear that I am in no way judging women who can't or don't breastfeed.  Until the issues of medically unnecessary labor intervention (especially induction) are redressed, along with the destruction of supportive multi-generational communities, the near-necessity of the two-income household, and the abysmal state of maternity and paternity leave in this country, the moral ranting about breast vs. formula feeding just needs to stop.  Here's to all the families doing their best in their particular circumstances.  Cheers!

Breastfeeding is not the best way to feed a baby.  It's the normal way to feed a baby.  It's a brown paper bag kind of miracle--one for which we should have an appreciative nonchalance.  As long as the rhetoric of 'best' continues, breastfeeding will be like all the other bests most of us can't manage:  the best diet, the best stroller, the best van, the best health.  But if breastfeeding is just normal and everyday, we can stop having moral conniptions about it and go enjoy a nice glass of beer to increase our milk supplies.  Or share some chocolate with the women who aren't breastfeeding their kids, for whatever reason.

When Vuk is feeling extra cheerful and cooperative, he responds to my requests with a chipper, "Yes, Sir!"

There's a picture of my three boys, taken the day after baby Vanya was born. Vanya is in the foreground, on Vuk's lap (I'm supporting his head, out of the frame). He looks like brand-new babies do, sort of lumpy and skeptical. Vuk is leaning into the camera, grinning his little face off, inviting you in, to see his baby, to read him a story. Lev is leaning back, away, a bit aloof, but also protective. Ready to protect his little brothers if need be, but he doesn't want you to talk about it too much.

...until you became a parent, and the craziest sentences began to leap from your mouth. "Good job going poop in the potty, Vuk.  Now let's get you a poo-poo car!"

Modesty is becoming one of the words that make me twitchy almost as soon as it's mentioned. The conversation usually turns to the necessity of covering breasts and bums, how covered is covered enough, how women just don't understand the male sex drive, how adolescent males are little better than dogs in heat. The whole discussion becomes so negative and degrading, to both men and women. Modesty cannot be the passing of the burden of male chastity or male honor onto the bodies of women. 1 If it is, we should just forget it entirely, because in that case, the very fact that a woman possesses a fully matured body is immodest, and she is therefore, by definition, not through any action on her part, a source of temptation to weak-willed men. This is no way to live. We are creatures with bodies and sexuality, and modesty, at its best, can help us balance those aspects with the rest of our selves. The balance is hard to achieve, but a good first step would be t...

This year, only my mother in law came to celebrate Thanksgiving with us. It was a wonderful day. The Padre and his mom did most of the cooking, and they are great cooks. Turkey, roast beef, green bean casserole, mashed potatoes, and pumpkin pie. A delicious dinner, then packing the children off to bed. A glass of wine, the three grown ups chatting. We went to bed ourselves, well fed and content.

" Shopping -- even on Black Friday -- is not a sin. I   do   give my kids gifts. But our quasi-official start to the Christmas season sets the wrong tone. Rather than delivering us to the peace and fulfillment of a love that will never end, the Black Friday ritual hollows us out, leaving us only with a hunger that can never, ever be satisfied."   Read the rest here .

Today I am very thankful for our temporarily multi-generational household.  The Padre's mother has been here for the past couple of weeks, and it's been just wonderful. Wishing everyone in Internet land good food and close friends and family this Thanksgiving!  xo

Odysseus never got home, you know not really Yes, yes, he landed on Ithaca and made his way to his house, revealed himself to Penelope & made love to her after 20 years then awoke to slay the houseful of suitors and, dripping in their gore, was on the cusp of unleashing the horrors of a ten-year siege on his home his home when Athena appeared and sent him away she sent him to a place where the people didn't sail in ships and wouldn't even know what an oar was for where ever that was-- but he had to sail away again to find it and then walk who knows how far or how long further and further from Ithaca from Penelope, Telemachus & his aged father he couldn't be home he had fought too long and journeyed too far and lost too much to be a husband, a father, a son to ever have a home again

the moment is all there is and the moment is truth the being in it is interpretation enough whatever happens later, the moment of truth remains

“ There are two novels that can change a bookish fourteen-year old’s life:   The Lord of the Rings and Atlas Shrugged .  One is a childish fantasy that often engenders a lifelong obsession with its unbelievable heroes, leading to an emotionally stunted, socially crippled adulthood, unable to deal with the real world.  The other, of course, involves orcs. ” — John Rogers

Not only am I capable of keeping everyone in clean underpants and clean bowls and spoons (it only took 9 years!), I have become one of those women who has a Right Way to load the dishwasher.  As in, it makes me a little twitchy when someone does it another way.  I am, of course, grateful for the efforts, but it takes a rather large effort not to hip check the person out of the way and load the dishwasher myself. I am now going to fail to declutter the family room in order to read my book about Spiritualism in America in the latter half of the 19th century.  There's only so much domestic competence I can manage.

"Hi, Sunshine.  Even though there isn't any sun right now.  At least, not right here."

Tonight Lev and Vuk had a loud disagreement over who got to lie down on the floor with baby Vanya.  They were both sent to time-out, for fear of the baby's safety.  When Lev returned from his upstairs sojourn, he started complaining that he had been lying next to Vanya first and the time-out was SO unfair..  So I said to him, with apologies to Plato and Socrates, "When it comes to baby Vanya, it's better to suffer an injustice than for the baby to get hurt."  Surprisingly, he accepted and agreed with me. And they said a Great Books education wasn't practical. Another time I'll tell you how I used Euclid to make a beret.

How astonishing it is that language can almost mean, and frightening that it does not quite. Love, we say, God, we say, Rome and Michiko, we write, and the words get it all wrong. We say bread and it means according to which nation. French has no word for home, and we have no word for strict pleasure. A people in northern India is dying out because their ancient tongue has no words for endearment. I dream of lost vocabularies that might express some of what we no longer can. Maybe the Etruscan texts would finally explain why the couples on their tombs are smiling. And maybe not. When the thousands of mysterious Sumerian tablets were translated, they seemed to be business records. But what if they are poems or psalms? My joy is the same as twelve Ethiopian goats standing silent in the morning light. O Lord, thou art slabs of salt and ingots of copper, as grand as ripe barley lithe under the wind's labor. Her breasts are six white oxen loaded with bolts of long-fibered Egyptian cott...

...so, go look at this post .  I don't vouch for the rest of the blog, but that post is perfect.  Here's a small sample:  " There is an Orthodox intuition of alienation, one that can be transformed into: do you feel alienated?  So do we.  Come worship with us, etc."    

Time keeps sneaking up on me.  I turn around, and I'm already late for something.  My thoughts are as chaotic and wildly jumping as my toddler today, and it's impossible to write.  I hope to get a good night's sleep tonight and tomorrow be able to keep a train of thought on the tracks.

Anytime you begin a sentence with the words, "I think God is punishing me because...." what is really happening is you are a sleep-deprived mess.  Go to bed.  God isn't punishing you.  You're just exhausted and loopy.

Vuk is three and all blue eyes, blonde hair and cuteness.  He gets a lot of attention from ladies while we're out.  A few weeks ago, this emanated from the backseat of the car: Vuk:  Mama, I don't like ladies. Me:  What?  I'm a lady. Vuk:  You need to stop being a lady. Then, just yesterday he came out with this: Vuk: Mama, I don't like ladies, but I like you. Me:  Well, thank you.

Lev was holding Baby Vanya and cooing at him.  Then suddenly, he said, "What if there was a booger that was as big as Baby Vanya's head?"  To which I said, "Have you ever seen a nose that was sufficient to accommodate such a huge booger?"  Then he grinned mischievously and said, "What if there was a booger that was as big as the whole world." I guess logic doesn't apply when a boy contemplates enormous boogers.

What passes for winter in Los Angeles has arrived, which means that warm food sounds appetizing.  In honor of the fact that wearing a jacket while outside is significantly less optional than usual, I made this crustless quiche for dinner tonight.  The recipe is quite flexible.  Enjoy! Crustless Quiche mix together *12 eggs *1/2 cup flour *1/2 teaspoon baking powder add in *2 cups shredded cheese (I used cheddar this time, but feta is great, too) *2 cups yogurt (the recipe actually calls for cottage cheese, but I never have it) *1 cup vegetable (I used a four veggie medley, but green chile is good, too, and I suspect spinach or tomato would be, too) Grease a 9x13 baking pan with plenty of butter and pour in the mixture.  Bake it for 15 minutes at 425, then at 350 for 30 minutes.  Let it cool at bit before serving. Something I've learned when I'm cooking is that I'm pretty much constitutionally incapable of following a recipe as written. ...

A few months ago, an acquaintance asked me if I had advice about raising a son.  I think I said to just let him play in the dirt and have lots of rags on hand for clean up.  Later, I thought about things some more and came up with what follows below.  A lot of it is stuff I'm still trying to learn and some is stuff I wish I'd know when I had my first kid. Expect that you will be utterly overwhelmed with a newborn. Expect to get very, very little done that's visible to anyone. In truth, you will be working harder than you probably ever have before. Your body is producing nourishment for your child, as well as healing from the most Herculean effort it has ever performed. The Church in her wisdom gives you some time off from services. Take it. Embrace it. I was *barely* ready to go back to church at six weeks postpartum. I think I took a very long nap that afternoon. Think of those six weeks as the Church giving you permission to generally skip out o...

What's the good of being the 'little mother' of the parish if I can't send ruckus-causers to time out?

It's been kind of a whirlwind here.  I have a lot of thoughts, but I haven't sat down to write them.  I'm sorry.  The thing about writing is that you have to make time for it.  Heh.  I have a date with myself to write for at least fifteen minutes tomorrow... as long as Vuk's fever doesn't get any worse... and that the baby, Vanya, doesn't get it, either.  It's hard to be a mom and a writer at the same time.  I'm working on it, though. Good night.

Outside my window... our darkened backyard, which is full of trucks and dirt, the setting for the boys' imaginations. I am thinking... about the writing process--why am I sometimes so prolific and sometimes so dry. Today I'm very tired, and so you're getting a prompted post. Oh, well. I am thankful... for my wild, sweet, chaotic, loving family. I am creating... this post, but I have a couple of poems swirling around, waiting for the right words to come into being. I am reading... well, about to start reading, a book about the history of American religion. It's going to be a wild ride, I suspect. I am hoping... for a bit of calm this week. I feel that we've been tearing around like crazy people lately. I am looking forward to... next week, when my delightful mother in law comes to stay with us for a couple of weeks. She's wonderful with the boys, and we always have ...

You know those scars you carry in your psyche? The ones that are deep, and old. And sometimes they ache, and nothing seems to ease that ache, which goes right through to your heart. So you stumble around, carrying on with the task of living as well as you can. The ache throbs away. Sometimes you can ignore it, but it gets you again. And the pain is so bad you think you'll shatter. But then there's a song, which sings the song of the pain, and even though you don't hurt any less, you're stronger because of that song. This is one of those songs for me.

Homer got it wrong, blind old fool There wasn't just one horrible moment, when the earth opened and Hades took you down It wasn't just that he and your father bargained and you were the exchange It was a long time coming, that day You were gone long before you left There was a spell, an incantation, that came to you in quiet moments that came to you from beneath the earth that came to you as you roamed You turned pale and your eyes lost their sparkle You were searching for the source of that song That song, which promised to take away your doubt and your fear That song, which promised you could be someone new, if only you would go down, down, who knew where? You didn't seem to care anymore, you forgot everything but that song But I remember I remember that cursed song, and how it stole you I remember who you were before that man took you away I remember before you thought you could change your being I remember what your ...

At the behest of my good friend, Mrs. Bear, I am attempting the write a post a day for the month of November thingy.  I cannot for the life of me deal with the acronym. Funny how writing works.  I opened the 'create post' window with a couple of silly things in mind, then got interrupted by a phone call from an old friend.  Her father's heart is sick.  And he might need surgery or transplants.  I remember her father very clearly.  He was the youth pastor when I was in high school, a big bear of a man with a heart full of love.  He was the sort of person that could get past the defensive sullenness of a teenager and just love you.  I think it was his love, his huge heart full of love for Jesus, that was a life raft for me in those difficult years before I went to college.  It seems impossible that he could be so ill.  But he is, so I'm holding him and his wife and his daughters, my friends, in my heart, praying for mercy.

when the heartbreak is too immense for comfort or words or even grief the only thing to do is to keep silence and gently learn the contours of the void and to carry on accomplishing the daily tasks with utmost care

sometimes it's the ghosts who speak the loudest their silent howls crowding out the rubbishy commonplaces about the weather, the interesting book you're reading, and how are YOU? I don't know I can't hear you your voice is drowned out by the sound of everything left unsaid 29 May 2012

This is how the Padre served his first funeral as a priest:  About a month after he was ordained, we got a call from some very close friends of ours with sad news: they had had a still born baby at five and half months gestation. They wanted to know if the Padre could come and bury the child at the Orthodox convent in Ventura county. We both went, driving through the beautiful farmland around Fillmore and Castaic. It was a perfect Southern California day: the sun made all the hills glow green, but it wasn't too hot. Our friends were outside at the monastery, talking with the nuns. I felt a bit awkward. What do you say to people when they've suffered that kind of loss? I said nothing, hoping that hugs could communicate when words failed. I noticed that the father was holding a small box in his arm when I walked up, but I wasn't sure what it was. He set it down to go get something out of the car, and I realized it was a miniature coffin. When he returned, he tu...

I continue to be bewildered at the proliferation of flat screen TVs at all sorts of public places.  Also, the need to tune each set to a different channel.  Further, why there is on each channel an ever increasingly tawdry show:  court shows, daytime talk shows, and celebrity tabloid shows.  Finally, why people would go on the shows and put their strange personal problems on display for strangers' voyeuristic pleasure. My only hope, especially for the talk shows that insist on airing complicated paternity problems, is that the 'guests' are really paid actors. My other hope is that family oriented burger joints and the YMCA will soon cease to feel the need for all the dang TVs because I'm tired of having to concoct believable fictions to answer the pint size inquisitor as to "Why are all those people fighting/shouting/wearing hot pink talons for nails?"