25 Ways to Romance Your Husband

There’s a delightful scene from the movie “Enchanted” in which fairytale princess Giselle advises an unsentimental divorce attorney on how to tell his girlfriend that he loves her.  In song, Giselle suggests that he wear a color to match her eyes, plan a private picnic by the fire’s glow, or dedicate a song with words meant just for her. Then Giselle uses her lilting voice to summon two doves to deliver a heart-shaped wreath of flowers to the lawyer’s lady.

Romantic?  Well, yes, in a storybook sense.  But when I asked some Catholic moms what they considered to be romantic, their own ideas were more sensible than sentimental.

“My husband shows that his family’s well-being is of the utmost importance to him. That’s the greatest.”

“What’s romantic is when my husband stops what he’s doing just to listen to me.”

“There’s nothing more attractive than when my husband does something to help around the house, whether it be unloading the dishwasher or carrying a basket of laundry upstairs. It’s a complete turn on!”

Poor Giselle would have fainted.

But even the more practical among us can take a leaf out of Giselle’s storybook. Enchant your own Prince Charming with these romantic tips:

• In snowy weather, clean off his car and warm up the engine.  Tape a note on the steering wheel, telling him that you’re looking forward to warming up with him later on.
• Make him dinner the old-fashioned way. No convenience foods allowed!
• Give him a neck or back massage after a long – or even a short – day.
• Hand-letter a menu listing some of his favorite foods, and put it beside his dinner plate.  Then serve forth his faves!
• Get up before the rest of the family and enjoy morning coffee together. And if the two of you decide to slip some Amaretto liqueur into your coffee, who’s to know?
• Download a love song and email it to him.
• Does your hubby travel?  Ask for his itinerary, then write him love notes and send them to each of the hotels where he’ll be staying.
• Candles are the quintessential mood-maker, so be extravagant and put them everywhere.  Consider flameless candles as an alternative.  I always insisted upon the real thing, until my husband and I accidentally set fire to an heirloom pillowcase at an historic bed and breakfast.
• Every once in a while, buy special treats for him to take to work.  When you tell the kids that Dad’s treats are off-limits, expect to hear, “What IS it with you and Dad, anyway?”
• Leave kisses on the bathroom mirror.  This should be done only if you and your husband have a private bathroom, unless you really want to gross out the kids.
• Broadcast your love with an I Love My Husband bumper sticker.
• Cold hands, warm heart…frigid feet?  Nothing demonstrates devotion like letting him warm his popsicle toes on your skin.
• Grab a blanket big enough for two to huddle under, then go out together and watch the sun rise.
• Read aloud to him from a book/magazine/newspaper of his choosing.
• Snap yourself with a digital camera, make up some wallet-sized photos, and tuck them into his books, briefcase, lunchbox, TV Guide, sock drawer… you name it.  Captions are optional.
• Create a crossword puzzle for him to work, using words that describe his most endearing qualities.
• Pack his suitcase while he’s at work, and when he returns, whisk him away for an overnight stay.
• Take him on a thrift-shopping spree.  Let him pick out clothes and accessories for you. Wear them!
• Make time to read books that will help you to really understand your husband. The Temperament God Gave Your Spouse is just one of many such books.
• Send him a schmaltzy email card, funny email message, or titillating text.  Use your imagination!
• Share some champagne while leafing through your wedding album.
• Write a message or invitation on a heart, cut it into pieces, and give him one piece at a time.
• Is there a fragrance you often wear?  Spritz some on a handkerchief and tuck the hanky into his briefcase, or into the pocket of his coat or car visor, to remind him of you.
• Take over one of his most dreaded household tasks.
• Make a date to go to confession together. The sacrament of confession gives spouses the graces they need to help each other to gain heaven, where they will enjoy eternity together. And what could be more romantic than that?

Copyright 2013 Celeste Behe

Fielding Hot Potatoes

The time:  A weekday morning

The place:  A parish church

The scene:  A young mother, holding her baby and leading several older children, is leaving the church after Mass. The mother’s name is Anne Marie.  As soon as she exits the church, Anne Marie is approached by a recently married young woman.

Young woman:  Excuse me, I just have to ask:  Are all those children yours?

Anne Marie (self-consciously): Yes.

Young woman: How wonderful!  You must be a saint.

Anne Marie (with a wry laugh):  A saint?  Talk to my older kids. They’ll set you straight on that one.

Young woman:  No, really.  I think you’re such an inspiration! How do you DO it all?

Anne Marie:  Well actually, I don’t.  I mean, you should see my house.  It’s completely trashed.

Young woman (a little crestfallen):  Well, anyway, it’s great that you get to Mass with your kids.  I hope that, when I have children, they’re as well-behaved in church as yours are.   I can see that you taught your kids well.

Anne Marie:  Not especially.  I just get them to the first Mass of the day, before they have a chance to get cranky. They have terrible afternoon meltdowns.

The young woman smiles hesitantly at Anne Marie, says goodbye, and slowly walks away.  

-Finis-

**********

Mothers, how many of you have been in a position similar to Anne Marie’s?  Perhaps a fellow parishioner was openly admiring of your perseverance in bringing your children to daily Mass, or a gentleman in a grocery store was favorably impressed by your children’s politeness. Maybe a neighbor has praised you for being the mother of young adults who are making a positive difference in the world.  Or another mother may even have said that it was your caring example that got her to thinking about having another child.

Most of us welcome positive comments like these.  They can motivate us in our daily work, affirm us in our vocation, increase our sense of self-worth, strengthen our resolve, clarify our goals, and remind us of our ultimate purpose.  Yet, we are often at a loss as to how to respond to them.  It may be because we feel undeserving of praise, or are afraid of coming across as self-righteous if we simply accept praise without first emphasizing our personal unworthiness.  One could say that words of affirmation are like hot potatoes:  warming and comforting, but hard to handle.

Because their vocation calls for frequent acts of self-denial, mothers are unaccustomed to thinking of themselves, and as a result, tend to be wholly inept at accepting praise.  Many of us behave as Anne Marie did, making excuses for the good that we do, or trying to convince the other person that we’re really no great shakes.  What we ought to be doing is following the example of St. Gerard Majella.

St. Gerard Majella

St. Gerard, a humble and holy Redemptorist brother, had a reputation for working miracles. One day a certain noblewoman, having heard of St. Gerard’s great sanctity, approached Gerard in church and begged him to help her sick daughter.  Gerard promised to pray for the girl, and a short time later, she was cured.  The noblewoman was overjoyed, and returned to the church to offer her fervent thanks to the saint whose prayers had miraculously saved her daughter’s life.  Gerard’s response?   He did not say, “Aw, shucks, curing her was no big deal. All she had was consumption.”  He did not say, “A miracle?  I don’t think so. Talk to my superiors; they should set you straight.”  He did not say, “Sure, I’m pretty good at obtaining miracles, but I’m not much of a housekeeper.  You should see my cell!”  He did not say, “Well, you picked a good time to stop in with your appeal, so I saved your daughter. I’m always happy to help after I’ve had my morning coffee.”   Instead, Gerard responded by simply pointing to the tabernacle.  It was God who had wrought the miracle, he said, and Gerard was nothing but the vehicle through which He had worked.

Although they may not realize it, all mothers are evangelizers.  Whenever and wherever we are with our children, we are silently evangelizing. We evangelize in every grocery aisle, in every church pew, at every Little League game.  We evangelize at the zoo, at the doctor’s office, at the playground.  And as evangelizers, we need to take a tip from St. Gerard.  Instead of writhing under the admiring gaze of those who compliment us, we should take the opportunity to direct their eyes towards the tabernacle.

St. Paul said, “It is no longer I who live, but Christ lives in me.”   When others notice the good that we do, they are really beholding the Spirit at work in us.  Our task is to make them aware of that, and in so doing, give honor to the Source of all goodness.

And isn’t that what evangelism is all about?

***********

The time:  A weekday morning

The place:  A parish church

The scene:  A young mother, holding her baby and leading several older children, is leaving the church after Mass. The mother’s name is Anne Marie.  As soon as she exits the church, Anne Marie is approached by a recently married young woman.

Young woman:  Excuse me, I just have to ask:  Are all those children yours?

Anne Marie: Yes!

Young woman: How wonderful!  You must be a saint.

Anne Marie (with a laugh):  It’s a family project.  We’re all helping one another to become saints.

Young woman:  I think you’re such an inspiration! How do you DO it all?

Anne Marie:  With the grace of God.  He writes my to-do list and then He helps me get it done.

Young woman:  It’s great that you get to Mass with your kids.  I hope that, when I have children, they’re as well-behaved in church as yours are.   I can see that you taught your kids well.

Anne Marie:  Kids who understand what Mass is all about are naturally more attentive.  And since God is pleased when the little ones come to Him, I’m sure He’ll bless my efforts to get the kids to behave in church!

The young woman smiles at Anne Marie.  She has enjoyed their conversation, and says that she hopes to meet Anne Marie another day.  The woman waves to the children, and then, still smiling, walks away. She can hardly wait until she’s a mother!

-Finis-

Copyright 2012 Celeste Behe

Celebrating Advent as a Family

Just a few short years after my first child was born, I began to rediscover my faith, and in particular, the joys of living the liturgical year.  I went on a mission to learn everything there was to learn about the feasts and seasons of the Church calendar.   I read every book and article that contained the words “Advent” or “Lent”; I studied up on Paschaltide and Pentecost, Corpus Christi and Candlemas;  I got to know the saints of summer, winter, spring, and fall, and all of the Marian feasts besides.  I discovered a liturgical calendar so rich in tradition that even Ordinary Time was quite extraordinary.

With so many feasts and ferial days in the church year, coming up with meaningful ways to commemorate them could have been a huge task.  But I was fortunate enough to have Catholic friends who were already following the liturgical year with their own families.  I took many of their suggestions for observing special days and seasons, added to them some of the practices I’d read about, and ended up with a wealth of ideas for living the liturgical year.

Over time, as our family has grown, we’ve adapted and modified many of the practices that we borrowed so many years ago. But our Advent celebrations have varied little, because my kids have such fond memories of Advents past that they won’t allow any changes to be made!

Every family has its own special traditions, and there is no single “proper” way to observe any given feast or season.  Having said that, I’d like to mention some of the Advent traditions that my own family enjoys year after year.

Lights:  We don’t put up any Christmas lights, either indoors or outdoors, until Christmas Eve.  However, our cats do have a tiny artificial Christmas tree of their own, under which they find catnip and cans of tuna on Christmas morning.  The cats’ tree is illuminated with a single string of lights on December 13, the feast of St. Lucy, in honor of the “Saint of Light.”  It stays lit until Christmas, tickling the cats’ fancy and pacifying my husband, who, if he had his way, would keep the house festooned with lights all year long.

Music:  During Advent, we don’t play or sing Christmas carols.  Enforcing this rule is easy, since it channels the kids’ love for the “Gotcha!” game.  Pity the poor child who plinks out the opening chords of “Hark!  The Herald Angels Sing” on the piano while Advent is still in swing.  All siblings within earshot will descend upon the hapless musician, causing him to hastily switch to a more seasonal selection.

Advent wreath:  We light our Advent wreath every night when we sit down to dinner.  The first week of Advent, we sing one verse of “O Come, O Come, Emmanuel” before lighting one candle on the wreath.  The second week, we sing two verses of the hymn before lighting two candles, and the third and fourth weeks, we follow suit by singing the same number of verses as there are lit candles on the wreath.  Although we have the verses memorized, we still put out the photocopies of them that I made almost twenty years ago, when my youngest children were new readers.  The papers are worn, stained, and discolored, and there aren’t nearly enough to go around, but they are an indispensable part –albeit a homely one – of our Advent table setting.

Gift-giving:  As students at Our Lady of Mt. Carmel Elementary, my classmates and I would draw names at the beginning of December for a “Kris Kringle,” someone for whom we would pray during Advent.  I have continued the tradition with my family, making a few changes along the way.  On the first Sunday of Advent, we write the name of every family member on a slip of paper, and then jumble up all the slips.   Each of us then draws a slip to find out the identity of his “Kris Kringle,” the person who will be the recipient of his prayers, good deeds, and small gifts throughout Advent.  Part of our Advent display is a pretty basket filled with slips of red and green paper, each pre-printed with either “I said a prayer for you today,” or “Here is a surprise from your Kris Kringle.”  A slip bearing the latter message is often left behind when someone completes a chore in place of his Kris Kringle.  Sometimes it’s taped to a treat and placed on a Kris Kringle’s desk or pillow.

Jesse Tree:  A wiry tabletop tree serves as our Jesse tree, a 3-D depiction of Jesus’ ancestry.  (Read all about the Jesse tree at http://www.catholicculture.org/culture/liturgicalyear/activities/view.cfm?id=545) On most days during Advent, we read the designated Scripture passage for that day and hang the appropriate symbol from one of the tree’s metal branches.  (The Jesse Tree booklet we use is no longer in print, but there are several good ones currently available from Catholic publishers.) We made a few Jesse tree symbols from construction paper, but many are objects we gathered from around the house:  An old brooch designed like a jeweled crown represents Solomon, a rainbow we made out of fusible beads stands for Noah, a homely camel appropriated from a set of safari figurines symbolizes Abraham, a ladder from a toy fire engine signifies Jacob, an earring shaped like an apple denotes Adam, a tiny golden mandolin is re-imagined as a lyre representing David.

Calendars:  Each member of the family has his own Advent calendar with a religious theme.  Our favorites are a do-it-yourself calendar available from Emmanuel Books, and a particularly beautiful calendar which my daughter gave me as a present one year (originally from the Metropolitan Museum of Art, but sadly, no longer available).

St. Nicholas’ Day/ St. Lucy’s Day:  December 6^th is a festive day at our house.  The fun begins the night before, when the kids line up their shoes in a place where St. Nicholas and his horse Schimmel are sure to notice them.  At dawn on St. Nicholas’ Day, the kids wake to find that, sometime during the night, the generous saint filled their shoes with chocolate coins, treats, and small gifts.  Everyone spends a little while time looking at his surprises.  Then we set our St. Nicholas statue on the dining room table, light a candle, and pray to St. Nicholas before enjoying a breakfast of hot chocolate and tortilla snowflakes.  In the evening, the family constructs a gingerbread house from materials that St. Nicholas thoughtfully left as a “family gift.”

Every year on December 13, the feast of St. Lucy, we are honored by a visit from the saint herself (who invariably bears a strong resemblance to one of our four daughters).  St. Lucy always wears a white frock (symbolizing purity) and a red sash (symbolizing martyrdom).  On her head is a crown of candles.  St. Lucy gathers the family around to listen to her story, and then usually fields a few questions in an informal Q & A session.  Afterwards, St. Lucy serves store-bought gingersnaps (a less expensive alternative to Swedish pepparkakor, the traditional treat for St. Lucy’s Day) and equally inauthentic pirouline wafers (which bear no connection whatsoever to the feast, but which are incredibly delicious).

Decorations:  The Jesse tree, Advent wreath, and Advent calendars make for a lovely low-key decorative display.  But, since the family spends so much time in the dining room (I am Italian, after all!) we also decorate its windows.  The four windows are hung with green wreaths, three tied with purple bows, one tied with a rose-colored bow.  The first Sunday of Advent, a purple-ribboned wreath is illuminated by an electric candle, and on each successive Sunday, an additional wreath is lit by another electric candle. By the fourth Sunday of Advent, the four lit candles provide enough light to dine by.  They create such a beautiful, serene atmosphere that, rather than take the wreaths down once Christmas arrives, we just replace the purple and rose-colored bows with festive metallic gold ribbon.

A most blessed Advent to all Catholic moms and their families!

Copyright 2012 Celeste Behe

Called to Be Stewards

In their pastoral letter “Stewardship:  A Disciple’s Response,” the U. S. Bishops defined the Christian steward as one who receives God’s gifts gratefully, cherishes them in a responsible manner, shares them in justice, and returns them with an increase to the Lord.

How is gratitude linked to good stewardship?  Well, stewardship is gratitude in action.  It is a visible response to the boundless gifts God has given us. In returning a small portion of those gifts to God, we are fulfilling the desire to express our love and gratitude to Him.  Our generosity doesn’t depend upon the promise of a reward or punishment, but on the need to communicate our heartfelt thanks.

One way that Catholics can be good stewards is by giving monetary support to the Church.  And, thanks to the new media, financial stewardship has become simpler and more efficient.   Many parishes and dioceses have their own websites, and a number of them have content relating to stewardship and tithing, such as monetary guidelines for giving.  Some are set up so that Catholics can make online donations, either to their church’s weekly collection or to a special cause, such as a building fund, the St. Vincent de Paul Society, outreach to the poor, etc.  The sites may also provide information designed to help Catholics understand the Scriptural origins of stewardship and how and why we are expected to give of our time, talent, and treasure.

Good stewardship also requires that we cherish the natural world.  Unfortunately, controversies related to the environment, such as global warming, have created divisions among Catholics. These divisions are negatively impacting the notion of stewardship.  Some people have come to identify stewards with the more radical element in the green movement.  Because of this, many people dismiss true stewardship as an activity for ‘tree huggers’ and ‘whale lovers.’  The sad result is that many good Catholics have distanced themselves from legitimate conservation efforts, and are limiting their own stewardship efforts to the recycling of their plastic milk jugs.  But Pope Benedict himself has spoken and written forcefully about the necessity of respecting creation and of our personal responsibility to be conscientious stewards of God’s good earth. In fact, in his 2010 Message for the World Day of Peace, the Pope wrote of the “covenant between human beings and the environment.” His choice of the word “covenant,” which means “a solemn promise,” conveys the seriousness of our duty as stewards.

Another impediment to good stewardship is simply the widespread trend towards negativity.  Our modern society has lost sight of the fact that Jesus came to serve and not to be served.  Christians are likewise called to serve by following the example of Our Lord.  It’s a countercultural way of life, and one that takes real commitment and perseverance.   After all, it’s never easy to swim against the tide.

Our society works to convince us that we never have enough. It tells us that, no matter how much we have, there is always something else we need. If we buy into that message, the act of giving is going to hurt, regardless of the state of the economy or of our personal financial standing.  To make sacrificial giving a priority, we need to take a critical look at our possessions and balance them honestly with our needs.  Not only may we find that we can manage without the items on our wish list, but that we could also donate some of the stuff that we already own.

Before taking up the challenge of good stewardship, it helps to put things into perspective.  Think of it this way:  Stocks go up and down, employment levels increase and decrease, but God’s Word and God’s Law do not change.  The Book of Proverbs tells us that “He who gives to the poor will lack nothing, but he who closes his eyes to them receives many curses.”  Note that there is no proviso included for hard economic times!

God expects us to be generous regardless of our situation, and in return, He promises that we will lack nothing.  With so much uncertainty in our day, economic and otherwise, that assurance should be very comforting.  In fact, people who are committed to the stewardship way of life claim that it has brought them more peace and joy, and that their lives are more fully balanced.  So the fruits of the Holy Spirit can actually be increased by good stewardship.

We as Catholic moms are called to a special kind of stewardship.  We recognize each of our children as a gift of God to be received with heartfelt gratitude, cherished in a responsible manner, sent into the world as salt and light, and ultimately, returned to the Lord in a state of grace.  Simply by living out our vocation in accordance with God’s will, mothers are practicing stewardship of the highest order.

No matter what our state in life, we are called to be stewards.  Good stewardship consists of both praise and privilege.  Praise, because it is an imitation of Christ Himself, and privilege, because it allows us to become partners in the mission of the Church.

How are you answering the call to stewardship?

Copyright 2012 Celeste Behe 

Another One Bites the Crust

You know how it is.  One of your kids likes chewy whole-grain bread.  Her brother prefers fluffy white bread. The health-conscious teen will eat only sprouted wheat bread.  One will go hungry if the crust hasn’t been trimmed from his sandwich bread.  Another one bites the crust.

And then spits it out.

It’s not hard for a woman to be a good steward when all she needs to do is be mindful of her own actions.  But when she is a mother in charge of a household, good stewardship becomes a bit trickier.  Especially in the kitchen.

In their pastoral letter, “Stewardship:  A Disciple’s Response,”  the U.S. Bishops define the Christian steward as “one who receives God’s gifts gratefully, cherishes and tends them in a responsible and accountable manner, shares them in justice and love with others, and returns them with increase to the Lord.”

A family reciting grace before meals is showing gratitude for God’s gifts of food and drink.  A father who has built a pantry suitable for long-term food storage is showing both parental responsibility in caring for his family, and accountability to God for the sustenance He has provided.  And through the simple act of slicing a home baked loaf and dividing the portions among her children, a mother is sharing the work of her hands “in justice and love.”

For decades, mothers have sternly reminded their picky eaters of the “starving children in Africa” who would be very grateful for the broccoli stalks languishing on little Johnny’s plate.  But it was long before these motherly admonishments came into use that Luke told us, “And the Lord said, ‘Who then is the faithful and wise manager, whom his master will set over his household, to give them their portion of food at the proper time?’”  God calls us to manage our homes wisely, and in order to do so, we must not squander His provisions, lest our households lack their “portion of food.”   Proverbs 21:20 tells us that, “The wise store up choice food and olive oil, but fools gulp theirs down.”  Food that is gulped is not properly broken down for use by the body, so nourishment that the food is meant to provide goes to waste.  To be good stewards, we must eat and drink mindfully, and see to it that every bit of our food and drink goes to good use.

So what do we do with those soggy Cheerios?

That’s one of the challenges of good stewardship. Practicing accountability in the kitchen demands that we think up inventive ways to make use of all kinds of leftovers.   In our large family, I found that, in our haste to clean up after a meal, it was too easy to scrape plates clean of food that could have been reinvented as a different meal.  Admittedly, some readers might be repulsed by the thought of taking a half-eaten chop off someone’s plate and putting it into tomorrow’s pot pie.  That’s understandable, and anyway, since every conscientious mother will find her own method of accountability, her family will steward its own resources in a unique way. But the “recycling” of food works for our own family, and I’ve even given the practice a cutesy tagline.  I call it “going green with scrap cuisine.”

Here are just a few ideas for practicing Scrap Cuisine Cookery at breakfast time:

1-    Salvage hunks of muffin from the breakfast table and crumble them. Toss the crumbs with melted butter, and then with cinnamon sugar.  Lightly toast crumbs in a slow oven, stirring every couple of minutes.  Layer crumbs with plain yogurt for tomorrow’s breakfast parfait.

2-    At our house, sweetened cereal is served once a week, only on Saturday morning.  All of the cereal is usually consumed in short order, but if there is any left in the boxes, I set it aside for Crazy Mixed-Up Cereal Medley.  To make Crazy Mixed-Up Cereal Medley, I take a handful of nuts or seeds, run them through the food processor with some raisins and a little cinnamon or vanilla until the nuts are finely chopped, and dump the mixture into a big bowl.  I process a handful of old-fashioned oats the same way; ditto the leftover cereal.  I stir the oats and cereal crumbs into the nut mixture, sometimes adding toasted wheat germ or shredded coconut.   The resulting medley of flavors and textures – and hues, too, if the sweetened cereal was one of the colorful varieties – makes a jazzy addition to cooked oatmeal or bland cereals like bran flakes.  Use your imagination to think up other scrap ingredients for your Crazy Mixed-Up Cereal Medley.  If you’re doing it right, it won’t ever taste the same way twice.

3-     Small amounts of leftover cooked oatmeal can be pureed with a little milk or juice and added to pancake batter.

4-     Reserve leftover scrambled eggs for the next morning’s breakfast tortillas.  Line a heated tortilla with scrambled eggs and warmed salsa, top with shredded Mexican blend cheese, and serve.

5-     About those soggy Cheerios:  Dump them into a plastic container and place in refrigerator overnight to allow the milk to be absorbed by the cereal.  Mash the cereal until it’s the consistency of baby food, and then use it to substitute for some of the banana in your favorite banana bread recipe.

Copyright 2012 Celeste Behe

And One in Heaven

“And how is the little one enjoying vacation?”

I was lying on my back on a hotel room bed, with one hand holding the phone to my ear and the other hand resting on my pregnant belly.

“He’s liking it just fine, Mom,” I answered.  Then, feeling a small quiver of movement below my navel, I added, “And he says ‘hello’ to his grandma.”

Exactly three weeks later I was again lying on my back, this time on a hospital room table.  I was afraid to look at the monitor, so I fixed my eyes on a corner of the ceiling and tried hard to think of pleasant things.  It was a sunny August day, and my seven children were probably having a grand time at my friend Jean’s place.  Jean and her family lived in a huge old house with lots of good hiding places, and a backyard with an in-ground pool.  I imagined the kids splashing happily in the pool, and then drying off and heading indoors for a round of hide-and-seek…

“Mrs. Behe.”

A woman materialized in my line of vision.  She spoke.

“Mrs. Behe, there isn’t any…  We can’t find a…”

“It’s okay,” I managed.  “I understand.”

I felt sorry for the soft-hearted nurse, who was struggling to find the words to tell me that my son was dead. But it wasn’t okay.  And I didn’t really understand.  My baby’s heart should have been beating.  I was 24 weeks pregnant, and miscarriages weren’t supposed to happen after the first trimester.  Besides, I’d already had seven problem-free pregnancies, and my babies, thanks be to God, had all been healthy and beautiful.  It wasn’t okay.  Not at all.

I dreaded telling my children that their brother Nicholas had died.  I dreaded the pain of childbirth without the reward of new life, the heartache of arranging for Nicholas’ burial, the anguish of resuming day-to-day life with an empty womb.  But what I feared most was that Nicholas would be lost to me forever.

Nearly every mother is familiar with the terror that strikes when she loses sight of her young child in a public place.  In a matter of seconds, her panic will escalate to the point where she fears she will never see her child again.  It is one of the worst tragedies that can afflict a mother, the tragedy of being separated from her child.

So my separation from Nicholas was a heavy burden, made even harder to bear by the fear that it might be eternal.  Until Nicholas died, I hadn’t thought much about the question of whether unbaptized babies go to heaven, but the answer to that question had suddenly become very important to me.

It was the first thing I asked my pastor, as my husband and I sat in his office that evening.  My labor was not going to be induced until the next day, so Mike and I had the opportunity to speak with Monsignor before the actual delivery took place.

Monsignor was very solicitous.  He took the time to explain the Church’s position on the salvation of unbaptized babies, which is found in the Catechism of the Catholic Church:

“As regards children who have died without Baptism, the Church can only entrust them to the mercy of God, as she does in her funeral rites for them. Indeed, the great mercy of God who desires that all men should be saved, and Jesus’ tenderness toward children which caused him to say: ‘Let the children come to me, do not hinder them,’ allow us to hope that there is a way of salvation for children who have died without Baptism.” (No. 1261)

And while “the Church does not know of any means other than Baptism that assures entry into eternal beatitude,” the Catechism also states that “God has bound salvation to the sacrament of Baptism, but he himself is not bound by his sacraments.”  (No. 1257)  This means that, although we are bound to receive grace through the sacraments, God is not constrained to dispense sacramental graces only through the sacraments; in fact, He can do so in any time, place, or circumstance.  This is why “baptism of blood” and “baptism of desire” have the same salvific effects as ritual baptism.  Monsignor’s words gave me both reason for hope and strength for what was to come.

The next morning, soon after I entered the hospital delivery room, the prep nurse asked if I wanted to hold Nicholas once he was born.  I hesitated, afraid that doing so would bring home the cold reality of my son’s death, and cause me to completely fall apart.  But my doctor gently encouraged me, so I consented.  Once labor began, I prayed that the doctor and nurses and technicians had all been wrong, and that my baby was still alive and eager to be born.  But some hours later, I gave birth to a still, silent baby that my doctor quietly baptized.  Nicholas was wrapped in a blanket and handed to me.  I couldn’t bear to look at him, but I held close his small form, still warm from my own body.  Thankfully, I didn’t fall apart.

Both the funeral Mass and burial took place the following day, and as often happens with sad memories, my brain did not retain a clear recollection of either. But I do remember standing by the little white casket and speaking to Nicholas in the silence of my heart.  The words I spoke then are the same ones I’ve repeated over and over in the fourteen years since Nicholas’ birth and death.  I tell him that his mama loves him.  I ask him to watch over his sisters and brothers.

And I say, “Arrivederci in cielo,” meaning, “Until we meet again in heaven.”

Copyright 2012 Celeste Behe

Pinning a Tale by Celeste Behe

I’d like to pin you a tale. This particular tale-pinning requires neither a paper donkey nor a blindfold. It needs only a handful of very special pins, the kind that are usually worn on lapels.

I store the pins in a memory box in the attic. They mean a lot to me, because each of them marks a point on the path I’ve traveled from childhood to motherhood. I’d like to describe the pins, and share with you the significance that each one holds.

The first pin is made of leather and portrays a red penguin with a green-painted belly. If its colors and material aren’t enough to set it apart, let me mention that the pin is actually stuffed, just as a teddy bear would be. In fact, a close look reveals the hand stitches that my mom put in when the seam split and the stuffing began to slip out. The pin is almost fifty years old. I have a picture of myself at age five, sitting in the snow on our New York City fire escape, wearing the penguin pin on my winter coat. The pin is analogous to a teddy bear, not only in the way it was made, but in its sentimental value. After all, as an accessory to my winter coat, the pin was my companion on many snowball fights, snow fort constructions, and sledding adventures.

A few winters after that fire escape photo was taken, I was sporting a new coat and a different pin. It was 1967, the year of Penny Lane and Strawberry Fields Forever. The girls in my class at Our Lady of Mt. Carmel – at least those who had older sisters – were wearing Beatlemania and “I Love Paul” pins. I was wearing an enameled pin of a spotted blue giraffe. (It seems that my mom had a thing for pins of animals in funny colors.) Anyway, I remember being asked by a classmate what my pin was supposed to be. Well, my mom had told me that the creature was something called a worrywart, so that’s how I identified it to my classmate, although neither she nor I had any idea what a worrywart actually was. It was just around the time that I was forgoing “Ringo for President” buttons in favor of worrywart pins that I unwittingly began to set myself apart as being a little different. The reputation would follow me throughout all my years of schooling, and even a bit beyond.

But my older brother Joe had no such reputation. Joe was funny, clever, and engaging, and I idolized him. On his bedroom wall was a Manhattan College school banner, and pinned to it was a button that said it all: I Am the Greatest, You Are Next. To me, it was no brag, just fact: my brother was the tops. In fact, at the time that this pin was broadcasting Joe’s awesomeness, I was a student at an all-girls high school. When my friends came to my house to visit, I’m sure that it was more in the hopes of meeting up with Joe than of wanting to spend time with me.

Socially, my high school years were a fail. But at least I enjoyed my classes, especially Italian. My teacher, whom we fondly called Miss G, loved her students the way a mother loves her own daughters. One day in my senior year Miss G came in with an assortment of Italian-themed trinkets and distributed them among “her girls.” I got a pin reading “Sorridi in Italiano,” which means, “Smile in Italian.” Although smiling in Italian was a rather nebulous skill that I never mastered, I nevertheless pinned the button to my plaid uniform and wore it right up to graduation.

After I hung up my plaid uniform for the last time, I went through several outfit changes before donning a wedding dress in 1984. Soon my husband Mike and I were the parents of a beautiful little girl. Among our newborn daughter’s gifts was a pink diaper pin with a tiny Miraculous Medal dangling from it. We couldn’t pin it to Grace’s lapel, since her stretchy didn’t have a lapel, but Grace nevertheless wore it day and night. Often it was pinned to the back of her stretchy, where the tiny medal would be out of Grace’s reach and therefore, less likely to end up in her little fist and, ultimately, in her stomach! In those early days of motherhood, when I handled my new responsibilities with total ineptness and no small amount of dread, that wee Miraculous Medal was a welcome reminder that, no matter how badly I might botch up, my baby would always be under the protection of her heavenly Mother.

The last pin I’d like to talk about, and the one that was most precious to me, is no longer in my memory box. I bought it when I was in college, and gave it away five years after I lost my unborn son Nicholas halfway through pregnancy. At the time of Nicholas’ death, I was 39 years old and afraid I’d never conceive again. My obstetrician Dr. Stevens, a pro-life doctor, joined me in prayer for another child. With his help, and through St. Gerard’s intercession, Helen was born when I was 40 years old and Gerard Pius when I was 43. It was to Dr. Stevens – who had delivered Helen and Gerard, plus four of my other children – that I gave a pin reading “It’s Great to Be Alive.” It seemed an appropriate gift for a man who had devoted his own life to helping others bring life into the world.

So here ends my tale. It didn’t impart any useful information, or express a well-considered viewpoint, or raise a controversial issue. It’s not going to be tweeted or blogged about. It doesn’t even have a moral, except perhaps, “Save all your lapel pins, because you might want them some day.” But writing it gave me the chance to reflect on some of the times of my life. I hope that every reader of Catholic Mom will find time today to do a little reflection of her own!

Copyright 2012 Celeste Behe

Take Snap, Crackle, and Pop of Rice Krispies fame.  Originally a fresh-faced trio of elfish characters, the guys now look as though they’ve undergone some kind of trauma.  Their toothy smiles border on the maniacal, and they all have the wild-eyed look of Mom fueling up the family van. What can account for such a radical personality change?  I don’t know for sure, but the characters’ oddly overdeveloped fingers hint at too many hours spent working the controls of Gears of War.

Sad to say, it’s not only landlubbers who have suffered mascot morph.  Cap’n Crunch, commander of The Guppy, has for over 40 years adorned the box of his namesake cereal.  But even those of us who are too old to enjoy his wares have to feel the captain’s pain.  His eyebrows are stuck smack on the front of his admiral’s hat, and his eyeballs dangle from its brim.  Will Turner he isn’t, and, despite his dapper moustache and dashing uniform, I doubt that the captain wins over the ladies at any port of call.   Admittedly, the Captain’s little anomalies have been part of his image since 1963; his expression, however, is very 2012. The original Cap’n Crunch had heavy-lidded eyes that suggested the tippling of too many bottles o’ rum.  In contrast, the captain’s transmogrified self shares the lidless “The apocalypse is NOW!” look of his Krispies kounterparts.  Which causes one to ask:  just how many cups of coffee are part of your balanced breakfast, Cap’n?

Animal mascots, too, are not what they used to be.

On single-serve boxes of Kellogg’s Corn Flakes, the sleek rooster mascot known as “Corny” has been displaced by a goofy green bird with drooping crest giving the thumbs-up – er, spurs-up – sign next to a bowl full of flakes.  Unlike his classy predecessor, the new Corny looks like the ne’er do well fowl you’d find loitering near the chicken coop, checking out the hens.  In keeping with his wrong-side-of-the-chicken-yard image, Corny even sports a tattoo on his wattle:  his name in vivid yellow script.  If this is what Kellogg’s promises with its tagline “the best to you each morning,” then mothers should be serving Post Toasties to their kids.

So, which breakfast foods can Mother buy with a clear conscience? Well, on my own pantry-stocking spree, I left the breakfast foods aisle with only a jar of wheat germ and a touch of paranoia.  The marketing phrase “Crunchatize me, Cap’n!” was sounding more and more sinister, and I’d formed a creepy mental image of skewed and unsavory mascots banding together in the dead of night.

But we mothers can take heart.  After all, the Quaker Oats guy remains his staid old self, and the young fellow on the Cream of Wheat label is still the picture of wholesomeness.

And toast for breakfast is always an option.

Copyright 2012 Celeste Behe

It was the tail end of a springtime Saturday.  The weekend schedule was packed, but so far, everything had come off without a glitch.  As I tucked Gerard into bed, I told him what was planned for the following day.

“Wow,” Gerard said, “are we really going to do all that?”

“Yes, we are,” I answered, and then added impulsively, “and do you know why?”

Gerard shook his head.

“Because,” I confided, “the fun never ends.”

The fun never ends. Gerard, captivated by the phrase, repeated it a few times. The next day, he repeated it to his siblings.  Before long, “the fun never ends” had become something of a catchphrase in our family.  Eventually, looking for fun became a daily habit.  Sometimes the fun is easy to come by, such as when there’s a birthday to celebrate.  At other times, the fun has to be concocted out of precious little raw material, much like the fabled Stone Soup.

Some may argue that, by teaching children that there’s fun around every corner, we are encouraging self-indulgence.  But God created us to live in such a way that our lives might be what St. Theophane Venard called “a perpetual jubilee, a prelude to the festivals of eternity.”  The joyful Christian family shouldn’t hesitate to seek out and take pleasure in the many things God has placed here for our enjoyment, as long as we remember to “praise God from Whom all blessings flow.” In fact, having fun is practically a duty when the fun is rooted in the liturgical calendar, whose feasts, holydays, and seasons provide endless opportunities for both leisure and learning.

Why are we hiking up a mountain on a weekday morning? How come we’re sitting on a blanket on the lawn and eating strawberry shortcake?  Why are we still celebrating Christmas in January?  Because “the fun never ends,” of course, but also because of the rich traditions of our faith.

Climbing a hill or mountain on Ascension Day is one way of commemorating Our Lord’s Ascension.  Making a picnic of strawberry shortcake can be a twist on the Rogation Day custom of enjoying the fruits of the earth.  And how appropriate is it to express our joy over the birth of Our Savior by sustaining the Christmas celebration until Epiphany, or even Candlemas?

During “ordinary time,” introduce some fun by following one of these simple ideas:

1)    Change the location – Do everyday things in unconventional places.   For example, we sometimes say the rosary sitting in our car, beside an illuminated fountain in the town square.  Of course, some activities– say, a visit to the grocery store – can’t be relocated.  In that case, try out a different route when you have somewhere to go.  I once drove down an alley on my way to the supermarket, and was taken aback by a life-size St. Michael statue in a glass case standing in someone’s backyard.  Even if you don’t make any discoveries, a new route will add interest to a routine trip.

2)    Clip and redeem – At certain times of the year, some fast food restaurants sell one dollar booklets containing coupons for free food items like hamburgers, fresh apple slices, and ice cream cones.  There’s nothing like a treat to add an element of fun to the daily grind, and with these coupons, it can cost next to nothing.

3)    Be a cheapskate – Look for programs that offer low-cost or no-cost deals on family activities.  One of our favorites is Kids Bowl Free, a summer program which entitles its members to daily free games at participating bowling centers.

4)    Get corny – Quaint parlor games may be old-fashioned, but that doesn’t mean they can’t be as much fun now as they were in Victorian times.   Guessing games, riddles, and conundrums can inject some fun into the dreariest of days.

5)    Check your resources – Sarah Reinhard’s   Catholic Family Fun: A Guide for the Adventurous, Overwhelmed, Creative or Clueless belongs on the shelf of every joyful Catholic home.   Older game books are also available for small change at library sales and used book stores.  Some of our favorite family fun ideas have come from outdated books.

The fun never ends, but it has to begin somewhere!  Starting now, resolve to make every day “a prelude to the festivals of eternity.”

Have you had your fun today?

Copyright 2012 Celeste Behe

Besides water, coffee ice contained only two ingredients:   espresso and sugar.  Mom would make it often, especially in the summertime, and I would consume it as fast as she could turn it out.  My dad must not have realized the potency of the stuff, because he never kicked up a fuss when he saw Mom scooping up a serving the size of a grapefruit and putting it in front of me.  Like Jell-O shots – those colorful jiggly squares that pack a wallop – the ice looked innocuous.  It could have come off an ice cream truck, in a little paper cup.

Then I married and became pregnant.  My doctor told me to avoid caffeine, so for the duration of the pregnancy I had to go without espresso in any form.  I didn’t think it was that big a deal, but Mom did.  Not that she ever said a word to that effect.  But when my daughter Grace was born, Mom entered the hospital room with a pan of coffee ice.  No flowers.  No candy.  No baby merch labeled “I Love Grandma.”  Just a beat-up old freezer tray full of brown ice, and the ice wasn’t even etched with the message, “Welcome to the World, Little One,” or even a simple “Congratulations!”  I think the Labor and Delivery ladies felt sorry for me, but I didn’t care.  I was in a caffeine-driven state of euphoria.

Up until that time, I had enjoyed espresso more for its flavor than for its stimulating properties.  But the usefulness of those properties became apparent after the birth of Grace, who entered the world with her eyes open, and alternately nursed and gawked for what seemed like days.  Maybe it was a scene conjured up by my sleep-deprived brain, but I think that, after 72 nonstop hours of wide-eyed baby wonderment, my obstetrician came into my hospital room and beamed, “Congratulations, Mrs. Behe!  Your daughter is the first child in the history of mankind who requires no sleep at all!”

In the hazy and discombobulated weeks that followed, I dropped in on my parents pretty often.  My excuse was that I wanted them to see the baby.  Mom and Dad would fuss over Grace a bit, and then my mom would concoct an errand for my dad.  Once Dad had left the room, Mom – bless her soul! – would slip me an espresso shot, and I was good to go for a few more hours.

When it got to the point that I was “dropping in to show my parents the baby” several times a day, I decided to do away with the pretext. From then on, Mom would surreptitiously pour a day’s ration of espresso into a jar, put it into a brown lunch bag, and leave it outside her front door, hoping that my dad wouldn’t notice it.  Dad didn’t have much of a chance to do so, because soon after the drop I’d drag myself over to my parents’ door like a sun-stricken desert nomad to an oasis, seize the goods, and sluggishly skulk off.

But that was 26 years and many pregnancies ago.  I eventually grew tired of the alternating cycles of pregnancy-related abstinence from espresso and post-partum indulgence.  I came to realize that I could do without the shot in the arm that espresso would give me. I could adapt my sleeping pattern to accommodate the needs of my nursing babies.  In short, I could deal with the vicissitudes of motherhood without leaning on artificial stimulants.

Now pass me a handful of those M&Ms, would you?  I just can’t get through the day without them.

Copyright 2011 Celeste Behe

Clearly, this was a job for St. Francis. Helen started praying, and she kept on praying. And it wasn’t long before St. Francis was sending all manner of creatures our way.  He gave the younger children a baby mourning dove to look after until the bird could fly on its own. He surprised us with a litter of baby rats born to a pair of pet rats whom we had thought were both female.  (We had noticed the one rat growing chubby, but figured she was just eating too much.)  St. Francis even moved me to take the feeder fish that were supposed to be my pet turtle’s dinner, and put them into a tank instead.  (Blaise, Caesar, Tigger, Majestica, and Comet are currently thriving in a blinged-out fish bowl on Helen’s nightstand.)

While we loved and appreciated all of these creatures, we couldn’t help but notice that none of them was a cat.

Helen in particular was perplexed.  What was wrong?  Could her prayer have been too vague? Maybe St. Francis hadn’t heard her clearly.  Maybe he was the sort who, like a couple of Helen’s own siblings, sometimes had trouble understanding things that were said to him.  Maybe…maybe he just wasn’t an auditory learner!  That must be it, Helen decided.  The logical solution, then, was to put the cat into St. Francis’ hands, where he could see it, feel it, and think C-A-T, cat.

So Helen tried a novel method of prayerful appeal.  She made a wee little drawing of a cat and taped it to a small statue of St. Francis.   What better way to place her request “in the hands of St. Francis”?

Sure enough, a few weeks later St. Francis delivered Sam to our family.  Well actually, he delivered him to my son Leo as a present for his 20th birthday.  Since then, Sam’s presence has been a constant reminder of the power of prayer, and especially of St. Francis’ intercession.  Sam himself is happy to be here.  He’s an affectionate creature who has love enough for all eleven family members – plus one kind-hearted saint!

“Thank you for my new home, St. Francis!
Lemme give you a hug….”

Copyright 2011 Celeste Behe

Kitchen – yellow

            Bathroom – pink

            Bedroom – green

            Living room – blue 

“Oh, that’s so that the shower gifts can match the room they’re meant for,” explained my mom.

That made sense. This was, remember, the days before Club Wedd, online wish lists, and Amazon Gift Central, so how else could a bride get what she wanted?

Back then, it was a pretty safe bet that, once she unwrapped a gift of pink bath towels, a bride could drape them over the towel bar and smile approvingly at the way they coordinated with everything else in the room. At that time, “pink” was universally understood to mean the color of Elmer Fudd’s bald pate. The yellow of the day usually matched that of banana-flavored Bonomo Turkish taffy. Blue was a classic “sky blue” and green was unappetizingly close to the color of pistachio pudding.

But the halcyon days of limited color choices are gone. I found this out a few weeks ago, when I decided to do some springtime sprucing-up of our home. I asked my daughter Grace to stop by the local paint store and pick up some color chips. She returned an hour later with enough cards to fill Martha Stewart’s bathtub.

“I took one of everything they had,” she told me.

I have friends with decorating know-how. They could land an igloo in the pages of House Beautiful. They crave paint chips the way I crave chocolate chips, and what’s more, they know which of those 492 shades of green will best accent the rug.

But when you have the decorating savvy of an egg roll, more color choices mean higher anxiety, and a higher likelihood that the entire house will wind up … Classic White.

Fortunately, though, I have recently reached that mid-life point where meek women do uncharacteristically daring things like take up barefoot skiing. I felt empowered. I seized the paint chips and began my personal adventure.

The first chip I looked at was “Interactive Cream.” The color appealed to me, as it was similar to that of a White Russian — a lovely little drink composed of vodka, Kahlua, and cream. But I had to wonder why the standard designations of light, medium, and dark were inadequate in pinpointing the small variances in the color “cream.” How many shades of cream could there possibly be?

And what made this particular shade “interactive,” anyway? Maybe the more Kahlua and vodka you added to your cream, the more interactive you became with your paint. “Talking to the walls” could take on a whole new meaning.

Believe it or not, “Interactive Cream” was one of the more sensible color names. Pity the poor bridal shower invitee who might be expected to work with these helpful tips:

Kitchen – Dragon Fruit

            Bathroom – Inner Child

            Bedroom – Nervy Hue

            Living Room – Synergy

I’d imagined that my foray into interior decorating would be like stepping into the opening sequence from the old “Disney’s Wonderful World of Color” television show.  Instead, the experience put me into a blue funk — pardon me, a “Briny” funk — from which no “Humorous Green” or “Comical Coral” could pull me.

There are no limits to the color palette of God’s creation, but I found out there were indeed limits to my own capacity for picking through them in search of the perfect hue. Call me an old fuddy-duddy (my kids do), but I happen to think there’s value in keeping things simple. When it comes to interior design, I’ll let wilder women go chasing the fleeting, fashionable trends, and I’ll stick to the basics. That’s where I’m sure to find my old favorites: peace and contentment.

In the end, as mid-life crises go, my trial of the colors was not so terrible after all. I came away with a thrilling sense of accomplishment. My goal was to paint the entire house, both inside and out, and I did exactly that.

I think I did a pretty good job, and you’re welcome to come and see it. You’ll find my house easily enough. It’s the one in Classic White.

Copyright 2011 Celeste Behe

It’s staying asleep that’s been a problem.

Let me explain.

When Mike and I were first married, we enjoyed watching the quiz show “Jeopardy.” One
Jeopardy challenge was to guess the subject of this saying:

Nature needs but five,
Custom gives thee seven,
Laziness takes nine,
Wickedness eleven.

Hmm. Vacation days? Hot tub soaks? Martinis?

The answer was hours of sleep. The human body, it was said, can function on a mere five hours
of sleep nightly.

Remember, now, Mike and I were newlyweds at the time, making the transition from single to
married life. My own single life had consisted of forty hours of work per seven days, with the
remaining time divided between sleeping and disco dancing. Married life, I found, was not much
different; I just replaced disco dancing with housekeeping activities, while maintaining a rather
indulgent sleep schedule. So, naturally, when I learned that I was supposed to be able to function
on a nickel’s worth of sleep each night, I was incredulous. One year later, though, I couldn’t
muster feelings of incredulity for all the z’s in dreamland. I was just too exhausted. If “nature
needs but five,” my lifestyle had become downright unnatural.

I’d become a mother.

Little did I know that my hands-on education in sleep deprivation had just begun. It took nine
children and 10,000 wakeful nights to earn my degree. Here are a few of the tough lessons I
learned:

1) “Sleep like a baby” is a contradiction in terms.

When I was expecting our first child, my mother-in-law told me that newborns sleep
22 hours per day. And maybe they do…on Pluto, where a day lasts 153 hours. In our
corner of the galaxy, however, newborns don’t sleep; they simply switch to standby
mode. The closed eyes, relaxed fists, and angelic expressions of infants in standby give
the appearance of total shutdown. However, the sounds produced by such things as hand
embroidery, the folding of bath towels, and the practice of meditation will cause instant
reactivation.

2) Mommy and Daddy’s bed is the center of gravity.

Girls’ bedroom sets feature pastel princesses and enough frilly accessories to keep
Cinderella dusting past midnight. Boys’ ensembles flaunt unnaturally-colored
dinosaurs embedded with computer chips that “roar” each time Junior springs out of
bed. Appealing, yes, but the kids won’t stick around long enough to enjoy such finery.
Most nights they’ll abandon their charmed quarters for their parents’ fuddy-duddy
posturepedic. Even if Daddy does end up doing some roaring of his own – without the
aid of a computer chip.

3) Once Dad starts packing, the kids begin hacking. Or worse.

No sooner had Mike departed for a business trip to England than a stomach virus intruded
on our family, taking down everyone under age 12. While Mike was toasting London,
I was home toasting Wonder bread to settle queasy stomachs. Seventy-two hours later,
I stood among the dirty laundry and dry toast crusts, trying to wish myself into some
condition which would require complete bed rest and a call to the local maid service. I
never made it into bed, but I did come down with the stomach flu – at a more opportune
time. (See #4.)

4) Husbands need their blankies, too.

Your husband will suffer acute pains of loneliness while you are off feeding Baby at
2:00am. He may even swipe your blanket in a touching attempt to recreate the nearness
of you. Don’t disturb his slumber by taking back your blanket when you return to the
bedroom. Instead, get down on the dark floor and feel your way among the articles of
work clothing which he has been tossing there every afternoon for the past 5 days. Try
to locate something snuggly and warm – a terrycloth piece, perhaps- and wrap yourself
in it before climbing into bed. With luck, you’ll experience a sudden, violent episode of
stomach flu while nestled in Hubby’s plush monogrammed bathrobe.

5) 3:12 on a Tuesday morning is a good time to redecorate.

Just you and your wee nursling, in the wee hours, cuddling in your own special recliner.
And since the clutter was shoved under the sofa when Mom came to visit last evening,
the furniture is free of its usual veneer of books, blocks, and burp cloths. Never mind
that the late hour has you feeling more like Rip Van Winkle than Martha Stewart; there’s
no better time to uncross your tired eyes and take a critical look at the living room decor.
May as well make the most of those twenty-five minutes in which you’re confined to a
chair with nothing to do but stare at your surroundings while your little one is snacking.
Besides, the creative thinking might even stimulate your brain cells enough to prevent
you from lapsing into semi-consciousness and letting Baby roll off your lap and onto the
floor.

Yes, my eyes can be as puffy as my hardly-used pillow. But I like to dwell on the thought that
one day I’ll have the chance to catch up on the sleep I lost through years of “nighttime parenting.”

It WILL happen.

Eventually.

On good nights she gets five
If she’s lucky, maybe seven
And the only time
She’ll merit nine
Is when she gets to heaven.

Copyright 2011 Celeste Behe

It was time to make a trip to the appliance store, and some of the kids were coming along. After all, this was one purchase that Mom wouldn’t be making at the thrift shop, and the kids wanted to be there to see it happen. (Actually, I think they were motivated by the fear that, if they weren’t there to steer me in the right direction, I might forgo the refrigerator and instead pick up an icebox at Clete’s Hole-in-the Wall Mart.)

When we entered the appliance store the kids immediately dispersed, each looking for the awesome refrigerator that he/she deserved. Vincent sought out the fridge with the neatest features. Helen and Gerard hunted down the model with a built-in ice cube dispenser that would conveniently supply cold stuff for slipping down the backs of siblings. Dominic simply honed in on the biggest price tag.

While the kids were off fantasizing, I quickly narrowed my choices to two models: the cheap one with the dent, and the cheap one with the scratch. If I hadn’t been wavering between the two, I might’ve had a fridge bought and paid for before I was found out. No such luck.

“You’re not thinking about buying one of those, are you?” Vincent asked. He had returned from his jaunt among the pricey appliances to let me know that he’d found the refrigerator.

“Why, what’s the matter with them?”

“They’re defective.”

“Exactly. That’s why they’re discounted.”

“But you don’t want a defective refrigerator,” Vincent said in his best sales voice. “You want this refrigerator.”

He led me out of the bumps-and-dings department and right up to a huge side-by-side refrigerator. It had, Vincent explained, all of the features we needed: an ice maker, a water dispenser, and an in-the-door can rack. The color LCD controls were a bonus.

Vincent made a good pitch, but in the end, I settled on the cheap refrigerator with the dent. A sharp-looking number with a black textured finish that helped conceal the dent, it was delivered to our house this morning. The kids have been sizing up the fridge for the past hour, and I daresay that they’re beginning to like it. Of course, Dominic would have preferred the fully loaded monster fridge, but he is placated by the fact that this refrigerator’s pre-dent price was a respectable four figures. Dominic also likes the appliance’s roomy inside which, he noted to my dismay, could easily accommodate a body. Helen and Gerard have made the thoughtful observation that the refrigerator’s black finish will help hide their smeary fingerprints. And Vincent is thrilled that the fridge door opens in such a way that it will be easier for him to stay hidden when taking swigs from the gallon milk jug.

Maybe I should have bought that icebox after all.

Copyright 2011 Celeste Behe

Editor’s Note: This article originally appeared in Faith & Family Magazine and is reprinted with permission. LMH

Years ago I decided to pay a visit to my brother, who had just moved with his wife and young daughter to a new house.  I rang the bell and my sister-in-law answered the door.

“Joe’s upstairs,” she said, “in the closet.”

The closet?   I climbed the stairs and followed the sound of turning pages.   Sure enough, there was Joe, sitting crossed-legged on the floor of a walk-in closet with “National Review” on his lap and a cup of espresso in his hand.  Beside him were a Snickers wrapper and an outdated box calendar with a cartoon on every page.

“Welcome to my space,” he said.

He and his wife had finished unpacking, Joe told me, and were settling in nicely.  But my niece was having a bit of trouble adjusting to her new home, and her crankiness was starting to wear on Joe.  Besides, Joe was having problems of his own at his workplace.

“I come in here when I’m feeling stressed,” he explained, throwing affectionate glances at the bare metal clothes bar and exposed ceiling bulb. “It’s a great place to unwind.”

This, I thought, is bizarre.

But that was then.  Since that long-ago visit to my brother’s “space,” I married, moved to a new apartment, gave birth, moved to a new house, gave birth again, started homeschooling, birthed more babies,  homeschooled more kiddies, shed tears, pounds, and brain cells, and gained wisdom, cellulite, and a robust appreciation for the gift of leisure.

Now I’ve come to understand the need for a woman to have a place of her own.

A place where she can read Tolstoy, read comics, or read the Bible; trace her genealogy or trace a picture;  pray the Hours, pray with tears; write a love letter, write a novel, or eat ice cream straight from the carton.  Or just lie on her back and stare at the ceiling blankly without hearing a little voice cry:  “Everybody come here; I think Mommy’s dead!”

A woman’s special place doesn’t have to be attractive.  Before I created my present place (see below), I’d scuttle downstairs into the furnace room when the going got rough.  It was a dingy spot that smelled like oozing tar, and it contained a furnace that, without warning, would periodically let out a startling clang followed by a thunderous roar.  The furnace room was disagreeable enough that family members, especially skittish children, usually stayed clear of it, even when Mom was hiding out there.   But I liked it because it was always nice and warm, and besides, it reminded me of my South Bronx childhood home, whose ancient furnace would produce an all-night-long rumble that worked on me like a lullaby.

One’s cozy spot can even be out-of-doors.  Although a garden nook would be perfect, a more homely setting would serve just as well. I have a friend who, when she needs to get away, grabs a handful of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups and absconds to the back seat of her van, which is parked in a gravel driveway.  She pops some praise music into the car’s CD player, delves into the Reese’s, and always comes away both spiritually and physically refreshed.  A bonus to her taking haven outside the home is that her kids can’t detect the smell of the chocolate which, as all mothers know, has the attractive force of a Pied Piper call.

The components of her special place are the lady’s choice. My own space centers on a massive wooden desk that sits in the corner of my bedroom.  On top of the desk are my laptop, little love notes from my children, two icons, a prism to look through, a monogrammed wine glass for use in emergency situations, and an encouraging email message from a friend that I printed out in 28 point type and framed. The desk drawers hold your usual desk-y stuff, plus a few surprises.  (There’s some peanut brittle zipped into the case of my Franklin Planner.  Don’t tell my kids.)  Hanging above the desk is a “nostalgia board” which displays, among other things, my fourth grade school portrait (sparkly cat’s eye glasses and all), a sketch of Iron Man that I drew in the 1970s, an Art Garfunkel autograph, and a leather peace sign pendant. My preferred way to unwind is to reminisce, so, besides dating me more effectively than Carbon-14, the nostalgia board’s funky stuff can whisk me away from here faster than the, um,  Millennium Falcon.

I love my nook.  But it took me a while to learn how to enjoy it without guilt.  I used to fret about the unmade bed, the untended garden, and the unfinished lessons, even while gulping Tension Tamer tea and whizzing through the Serenity Prayer.  No wonder that peace eluded me.  The Lord manifested Himself to Elijah, not in the mighty wind or in the earthquake, but in the “still, small voice.”  As difficult as it may be in the course of a busy day, I’ve got to pause and dispose myself to receive the refreshment that, like all good things, comes from God.

Copyright 2011 Celeste Behe 

For one thing, they have a splendid motto: “Be prepared.”  It’s a motto that’s relevant, not only to scouts, but to everyone else as well.  The value of preparedness is universally recognized.  So are the consequences of unpreparedness, which are often borne by the mother of The Unprepared.  After all, she’s the one who ends up battling noonday traffic in order to deliver a pair of shorts to a forgetful daughter waiting at the gym, or finds herself kneeling among the petunias at 5:30am, digging up and bagging worms for a son’s early-morning fishing trip.

Of course, we mothers can have our own issues with preparedness, and I’m the most guilty, at least when it comes to menu-planning.  The employees at my local supermarket can attest to this.  They often see me at 5:00pm jet-propelling a shopping cart with two kiddies in tow, frantically scanning the shelves for packages labeled “Ready in minutes!”   Last March, during one of these lighting-strike forays, a grandma noticed that my youngest child, having earlier been whisked away from his Matchbox cars and lashed into his booster seat in 54 seconds flat, wasn’t wearing socks under his sneakers.  “Oh, my!” she exclaimed, addressing Junior as if I weren’t there.  “Your little feet must be so cold!”  It wasn’t easy, but I managed to quash the very unscoutly desire to bean Grandma with a box of Jiffy muffin mix.

I guess I can give myself a little credit for managing to navigate supermarket aisles.  But finding my way to the Hamburger Helper is a pretty puny skill compared to those of your average Boy Scout.  After dark, a scout could find directions simply by locating the North Star, or by looking at the constellations.  On a hot summer day, he could find his way to the ol’ swimmin’ hole by casting stick-shadows.  Or, in the absence of suitable sticks, he could locate south using just his wristwatch and a toothpick.  (I’m not making this up.  It’s on page 115 of the official Boy Scout Handbook.)  I remembered this little fact during a recent errand-that-became-a-road-trip, in which I was making my way back to Bethlehem, PA from Trenton, New Jersey.  Somehow I took a 64-mile detour and ended up driving through the heart of Philadelphia with a quarter tank of gas and a headache.  All the while I was desperately wishing to be the object of a Good Turn by a corn cob-gnawing scout wearing a Timex.

Clearly, I don’t have what it takes to be a Boy Scout. And even if I could tie a sheepshank knot with my toes and bugle Reveille with my hands tied, there’d be no getting around the fact that I’m too old and too female to join the hallowed ranks of the Boy Scout Association.   But at least I get to look on in admiration while, as members of Troop 311, three of my five sons learn to use fuzz sticks, identify animal tracks, scale crags, and pulverize clay birds.

It’s called vicarious living.

Copyright 2011 Celeste Behe

“You can use this,” he said.  “It will make your game more enjoyful.”

en.joy.ful    adj.  1. Simultaneously inspiring both enjoyment and joy

n.  en.joy.ful.ness

synonyms:  none known

An accidental coinage?  Yes, but also an interesting one.   The word “enjoyful” – apparently a cross between “enjoyment” and joyful” – alludes to two emotions which are so alike that they appear to be almost inseparable.  Would it be possible to experience enjoyment without joy?  How about joy without enjoyment?

I think we can look to St. Augustine to answer the first question.  As a young man, Augustine had the means to indulge his senses at will, and that’s exactly what he did. He enjoyed a “life of loose living, which included parties, entertainment, and worldly ambitions.”   But in opening the door to every sensual indulgence, Augustine closed the door to authentic joy.  The things that he enjoyed gave him pleasure, but they did not – could not – give him joy, which comes from living a life in conformity with God’s will.  Augustine came to realize this after his conversion to the Faith.   About his relationship with God, he wrote, “And what is our Joy, which He says shall be full, but to have fellowship with Him? And this joy we rightly call our own, this joy wherewith we shall be blessed; which is begun in the faith of them who are born again.”

What of “joy without enjoyment”?  It’s a notion with which I became all too familiar during my college years.  I was away from the Faith at the time, believing that I had outgrown religion.  Determined to be happy without God, I faked joy.  Not only did I manage to convince others that I was happy, but I also managed to convince myself.  But I wasn’t able to derive any real enjoyment from campus events and extra-curricular activities.   My superficial joy existed independently of enjoyment, because its presence relied on an act of the will.

God can use the most mundane things to get His message across.  In this case, He used a little green pawn and a childish neologism to remind me of the source and meaning of Christian joy.   True joy is not merely a reaction to the things which please us, but a fruit of the indwelling Holy Spirit.  It is more than human; it is God-given, the joy of Christ fulfilled in us.

“He had perfect joy on our account, when He rejoiced in foreknowing and predestinating us; but that joy was not in us, because we did not then exist; it began to be in us, when He called us.”

                                                                                                                          -St. Augustine-

Copyright 2011 Celeste Behe

Attic of the Wind, by Doris Herold Lund

“It’s not an attic you reach by stair.

 It’s past the clouds and the stars somewhere.

And what will we find when we play up there,

In the Attic of the Wind?”

We’ll find autumn leaves from the four corners of the world, snowflakes that didn’t alight, straying butterflies and blown dandelion heads, and of course, balloons.  Lots of balloons.

“Yes, the Attic of the Wind can store

All the world’s lost treasure, and even more…

The handkerchief you forgot to hold,

The spelling paper with the star of gold,

The picture you drew for Mother’s Day,

All the things you somehow let drift away

Aren’t exactly lost.  So before you cry –

Why not look in the Attic in the sky?”

Attic of the Wind is a lovely, imaginative book with evocative illustrations and an innocence that’s not often found in modern children’ books.   It is out of print, so you’ll want to be on the lookout for a copy at used book sales.

A Pocketful of Cricket, by Rebecca Caudill

“With a stick Jay knocked a nut from a low branch.  He picked up the nut and smelled the tight green hull that enclosed it.  The smell tingled in his nose like the smell of the first frost.  Jay put the nut in his pocket…”

“Jay picked a bean pod.  With his thumb nail he pried it open.  He shelled the beans into his hand.  They were white, striped with red speckles. The stripes on every bean were different from the stripes on every other bean.  In Jay’s hand the beans felt cool – like morning.  Jay put the beans in his pocket.”

A six-year-old farm boy is enjoying the last days of summer before school begins.  In the hollow where he lives, he walks forward and backward, wades, hurries, and climbs, collecting interesting bits of nature all along the way.  His prize find is a cricket, which he takes with him on his first day at school.

A Pocketful of Cricket was written by the author of the popular Fairchild Family stories.  It’s a gentle book that captures a young child’s natural fascination with the world around him.  Whenever I read it to the kids – or to myself! – I’m inspired, at least for a short time, to take child-like pleasure in the ordinary things of life.

Yonder, by Tony Johnston

“There is the plum tree growing year by year,

Loaded with the fruit of early summer.

Young man makes a cradle on the old tree’s shade.

There.  Just over there.”

“By and by the mother has become a grandma.

By and by the father is a grandpa.

Holding hands together as the sun goes down.”

A “farmer on a jet black horse” and his brand-new bride dig a hole, plant a tree, and say a prayer on the land where they will build their home. The tree will be one of many, since the couple “plants a tree for every child who’s born.”  Yonder is a book I’ll often choose when the kids ask for a bedtime story.  They can’t figure out why it should be a favorite of mine, since it always makes me cry.  But with its sweet tale of a strong family and its beautiful portrayal of the rhythm of nature, Yonder is genuinely moving.  It also conveys a simple pro-life message that young children will easily understand.

 Attic of the Wind, A Pocketful of Cricket, and Yonder are must-reads for a child’s summertime book list.   If you want to see for yourself, come and join me under the overgrown privet in my backyard, where the tips of its branches touch the ground.  There’s plenty of room in its shady alcove, and I’ve got a pitcher of lemonade.  The cicadas are calling.

Copyright 2011 Celeste Behe 

The thought makes me shudder with delight.

First, because a workday ending at 5:00pm is a gift that no mother is likely to receive this side of heaven.  Second, because it means that now – right now – somewhere on God’s good earth there is a mother who didn’t just step on the cat while sweeping up shards of the glass that was accidentally knocked over by the defiant teen who poured himself the milk that he’d been told he couldn’t drink right before the dinner that should have been served to the company who’ve been loitering around the rutted remains of a cheese ball for the past hour.  And even though that mother isn’t you, it’s strangely comforting to know that she, at least, is having a nice day.

But the “5 o’clock somewhere” saying is more than a soothing thought or a bon vivant’s motto.  It has special significance for Catholics, to whom the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass is vital.  Back in the days before there was such a thing as www.masstimes.org, Catholics relied on a Mass Clock to tell them where in the world Mass was being celebrated at any given hour. The Mass Clock could be an actual clock with a world map on its face and names of countries corresponding to the numbers.  More often, however, it was a simple chart giving the information that would allow Catholics to unite themselves at any hour of the day or night with the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass.   The recommended “prayer for every hour” is this:  “Eternal Father, through the Immaculate Heart of Mary, I wish to unite myself with Jesus, now offering His Precious Blood in (name of country) in the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass for the needs of Holy Church, the conversion of sinners, the relief of the souls in Purgatory, and for the special grace I here implore.”  According to the Mass Clock, there are four chalices lifted up every second, for a total of 300.000 Masses offered every 24 hours.  How awe-inspiring is that?

If attendance at daily Mass is an unattainable ideal, try using the Mass Clock as a means of enabling your family to participate in the Holy Sacrifice. If more Catholics regularly unite themselves to Jesus in this way, imagine the benefits, not only to their own families, but to the entire world. After all, Saint Pio of Pietrelcina said, “It would be easier for the world to survive without the sun than to do so without the Holy Mass.”

It’s 5 o’clock somewhere.  Lift up your hearts!

Copyright 2011 Celeste Behe

“Hey, Dad, can you buy us some fries?”

“Us” consisted of Leo and his eight brothers and sisters.  “Some” would mean three large cardboard bucketfuls, totaling in cost about a third of a day’s wages.

“Yeah, Dad!  Look, the sign says -” Dominic, seven years old and proud of his reading ability, squinted at the painted wooden board swinging above the snack stand “- they’re ‘famous.’ Please, Dad?”

“Famously expensive, they mean,” I whispered to my husband.  “Imagine! Six dollars for a carton of fries!”

I turned to the children. “I’m sorry, kids.” I said aloud.  “Daddy can’t spend that kind of money on…”

A giggle from Helen interrupted my words.  Suspicious, I looked over my shoulder to find Daddy opening his wallet.  He grinned at me.

“Aw, Mom, this is a vacation.  Lighten up!” he said.

Humph.  The only thing bound to lighten up was his wallet, I thought, as my husband Mike plunked down eighteen dollars for some greasy potato strips.

“Look, Dad, they have vinegar to sprinkle on the fries!”

Vincent, the child with the cockeyed taste buds who likes to eat lemon wedges and drink dill pickle juice, was bouncing with glee.  “Mmm!  Good and sour!”

“Yeah, well….not quite as sour as some other things I know,” remarked Clare, glancing at me. I pretended not to notice.

“Vinegar on French fries?” puzzled four-year-old Helen, with a pretty wrinkle of her nose. “Eeewww, gross!  I’m having regular fries.  Can I have the ketchup?”

While the kids busied themselves at the condiment bar, my husband sauntered up to me.

“Want some, Mom?” he asked, proffering a cardboard bucket.  Having first made sure that it wasn’t coated with – eeewww, gross! – vinegar, I grudgingly accepted a fry.

Suddenly a squeal of delight rose from the kids.

“Mom! Dad!  The seagulls like the fries, too!”

They sure did.  Gulls hoping for a fumbled fry or two had gathered on the boards near the children.  Helen, who had been nibbling daintily on a fry, impulsively tossed them its remains.  Suddenly the birds were everywhere, winging up from the boards and swooping down from the sky to catch the fries which the children had begun to fling into the air with abandon.  I watched as the fries disappeared into the birds’ gullets.  They looked like little dollar signs.

“Watch this!  I’m gonna throw this fry to that bird way up there!  No, wait, that wasn’t it.  Watch THIS!  Shucks, it hit the telephone pole.    Okay, now, look at this!  Aaawww, he missed it!  Dumb bird.  Hey, Dad, can I have a few more fries?”

I checked my wallet to see if I could cover the fare for the train ride back to our apartment.  Then I sat on a bench and waited.  I closed my eyes and listened to the soothing sounds of the ocean waves washing the shore, washing, washing…

“Oh, I’m sorry! Here, I have a napkin.”

I opened my eyes to see Rose standing anxiously beside a woman who was dabbing at her forehead with a paper napkin.

“I was throwing the fries to the birds.  I didn’t mean to hit you with one.”

“It’s all right.”  The woman smiled reassuringly as she handed the napkin back to Rose. “I like French fries,” she added with a chuckle, before resuming her stroll down the boardwalk.

“That lady was hit by a flying French fry,” mused Helen, as the woman walked away. She reflected a moment, and then declared, “It was huh-LAYR-ee-us.”

Rose was eager to change the subject.

“Look, all the gulls on the boardwalk are facing in the same direction.  Why do they do that?”

“Because they’re watching for somebody who has better aim than you do to come and feed them French fries,” teased Ben.

Rose took a playful swipe at Ben, then chased after him as he sprinted away.  The rest of the group followed, scattering a clique of gulls.  The kids certainly were having fun, I thought.    But was it eighteen dollars’ worth of fun?

“Hey, Dad!”

Vincent walked up, licking vinegar from his fingers and smelling like a tossed salad.

“Those French fries were great.”

He wrapped his arms around Mike.

“This whole vacation is the best.   Thanks, Dad.” Vincent dropped a tart kiss on Mike’s shirt, then dashed off to join the others.

Well, okay.  It was eighteen dollars’ worth of fun.

Mike sat down beside me.

“Didn’t get many fries, huh? Would you like me to buy you some?”

“Well…”

“Lots of salt, and just a drizzle of ketchup, right?”  He winked at me.” And positively no vinegar.”

I glanced over at the children, who had tired of their raucous play. They were standing serenely, like a flock of gulls, all of them looking out at the ocean.  They had shared their snack with the birds, and were now quietly sharing their contentment over a vacation that was simply “the best.”

“Sure,” I replied, “sure, I’ll take some. I like French fries.”

Copyright 2011 Celeste Behe