Only today, I didn’t feel like I made much progress. The bills are sitting in a huge pile, dwarfed only by the laundry that covers two couches and is on top of the dryer that is being replaced on Friday for not working; it is overflowing. The paperwork to be filed has sat neatly in the study untouched for two weeks. The vacuum upstairs quit after 8 seconds and then wouldn’t work for 3 hours. Apparently cleaning my carpet is the equivalent of riding a bull at the Texas Rodeo. My dishwasher needs to be unloaded so I can reload and the car needs its oil change…and has needed it for at least 857 miles. Sigh. Today, I felt the clutter won. I’d made my list and you know what? I still didn’t want to tackle it….at all. I want to say, “Bleah.”

Then my five year old called me to the kitchen. Train’s “Drive By” was on the radio and she insisted we have an impromptu dance party. She, my 16 month old and I rocked out for a song and the piles and chores fell away in that moment. The five minute kitchen abandonment made the rest of it doable. Their laughter and faces broke through the boredom.

So hang in there. Even if all your appliances quit on you, even if there are scads of annoying errands to manage, do those small things, like reading stories, playing crazy 8, going for a walk with your kids or getting a shower (heavens). Little things with great love do make all of life bearable and even bring about the greater joy and success you were hoping for in the long run. The yoke becomes easier, the burden lighter, even if the to do list isn’t yet done. It really does.

So this week:

1) We celebrated our son’s first communion Saturday. It was lovely!
2) Took my daughter to get her finger checked. (She slammed it in a car door). It’s not broken. (Sigh of huge relief).
3) Made it to confession.
4) Worked on Helen (on page 221) and did more research/reading.
5) Threw out the broken vacuum that seems to work great when I’ve lugged it to the store (twice) for repairs but give me two minutes tops of labor when I put them to the test at home. I also tossed two broken fans. (Why did I keep these? I don’t know…but no longer…adieu to the three of them). I feel better with them just sitting waiting to go away in the trash.

Leave your list on your blog and list your blog in the comments or leave your small successes in the comment section itself and thanks for being part of Small Success Thursday!

Editor’s note: Congratulations to commenter “DK” who is our winner of the first Small Success prize package. Be on the lookout for a new SS Thursday contest very soon! LMH

Copyright 2012 Sherry Antonetti

Editor’s note: It’s Thursday, which means that Sherry Antonetti is hosting our weekly celebration of “Small Success Thursday”. To celebrate it’s launch here at CatholicMom.com, I’ve gathered a prize package full of goodies (including two holy cards blessed by Pope Benedict XVI at the beatification of Blessed John Paul II). To be entered to win, simply share your “Small Successes” in the comments section below — if you’re listing those on your own blog, feel free to share the link to your personal blog in the comments section. Each commenter will be entered to win our drawing. One winner will be randomly drawn from last week’s and this week’s entries at midnight on Wednesday, May 16, 2012. LMH

Small Success Thursday

It’s Thursday so it’s time to look back at the past week and assess all the ways in which we did little things with great love.  We need to take stock of all those little moments because those little moments add up to all of life, and being busy, we can sometimes blur the time we should be breathing into our hearts.

Christ says, “Be still and know I am here.”  Parenting is about being present, being still for our children, being fully at the table, fully in the conversation, fully part of their lives.  Small Success Thursday helps us remember to be still and be present, and to celebrate those moments when we did just that!

So please join in and invite others who you think would like to participate.  You can use your blog or the comment section below to be a part of this meme. Thanks as always for sharing your successes, and I look forward to seeing what all of you have been up to this past week.

To start it off, this week I:

1)Had a date night Friday with my husband to see “The Avengers.”  Perfect popcorn movie except I advice not drinking soda because it’s so action packed, you won’t want to miss any of it.

2)Celebrated my oldest daughter’s sweet 16 on Saturday by hosting about 15 girls who came over to eat pizza, watch the Princess Bride, sing songs from Wicked and eat cake.

3)began planning our trip to Texas for my brother’s wedding. Should be a blast.

4) Strayed from diet on Sunday and thus did not lose more weight, but haven’t lost ground either. So a victory against backsliding.  I’ll take it.

Now it’s your turn! Remember that by sharing your Small Success, you’re not only celebrating, but entering to win our prize package. Leave your small successes and links in the comments below.

Copyright 2012 Sherry Antonetti

Editor’s note: Today, I’d like to thank Sherry Antonetti for bringing the great weekly feature “Small Success Thursday” here to its new home at CatholicMom.com. Our readers may be familiar with this feature, which first found its home at Faithandfamilylive.com. To celebrate it’s launch here at CatholicMom.com, I’ve gathered a prize package full of goodies (including two holy cards blessed by Pope Benedict XVI at the beatification of Blessed John Paul II). List your link below this week and next week, and one lucky linker will be randomly selected to win this package. Link twice and you’ll be entered to win twice. And I reserve the right to add more goodies to the package you see below. Here’s to counting our blessings! Lisa

Small Success Thursday

This new feature is designed to help all of us busy parents to stop and recognize how in the past week, we’ve poured out part of ourselves for others. Because parenting can begin to feel like one chore after another if one doesn’t recognize that this process is growing little human beings into adults educated and polished and steeped in the faith, it is important to stop and count the little victories. Too often, life blips by with the errands and the to-do lists and the paperwork and daily chores that must be managed like homework and bath time and bedtime and meals. The micro events of our lives often go unmarked, but here is a place to feel free to trumpet your small steps towards a more luminous life.

Small Success Thursday is about all those triumphs over minutia, over chaos, over clutter, over laundry, over homework, over dullness and monotony. It is also about the macro events in one’s life, like births and growing up, driver’s licenses, graduations and sacraments, date nights and moving. So join in, brag a little. List a few of your triumphs of the day on your blog and link here. Then go visiting the others who participate. You’ll meet a bunch of neat women who are out there working and trying just like you, to do little things with great love. Be sure to leave a comment. It’s part of the fun!

I’ll start:

This week I:

1) Survived being a solo mom from Wednesday to Sunday owing to husband’s business retreat.
2) Stayed on my South Beach diet despite #1 and the very strong temptation of leftover Easter chocolate in the house. Down 9 pounds, 10 to go.
3) My daughter was in a play and my other daughter opted to babysit so I could see it and pay attention. It was a lovely treat and her acting chops and comedic timing were pretty awesome.
4) Edited my WIP, The Book of Helen. My goal is to have her finished by the end of May.
5) Had the conk on the head thanks to a fellow blogger’s post to reach out to my friends more and it was like fresh air blowing through my brain and heart, why I forget what a source of joy they are to me, both old and new, I’ll never know.
6) Paid the bills and conquered half the laundry.
7) Preparing for my daughter’s confirmation. Please pray for her as she becomes an adult in the Church.

Now it’s your turn! Remember, by listing your link you not only spread the good news but you’re entered to win our prize package! Please note that commenters who leave a “small success” will also be entered to win.

I fretted that it was my small minded heart. We’d sing and I’d be there, and then there would be things which simply weren’t Catholic, which within the church with a priest officiating, left me flat. This was like my friend though, exactly like my friend, for she had fallen away from her faith, choosing the seasoning of the Church over the whole meal. I worried that my soul was somehow shriveled because the disconnect kept bapping me in the head. Part of my grief was steeped in that knowledge, part of my hope was she now was fully whole, fully healed, and that this hard life that she had lived with deep desire and deep love had opened her to a greater life with Christ.

I loved my friend, and I promised her I would go to mass for her because part of my grief observed for her required that I go.

I’d picked today. Monday would be ideal, as my son did not have school, so I would not be hamstrung by a schedule about where I needed to be. We’d go to Saint John’s which had a cry room so I could be there with all three of my littles, Gina (4), Paul (3) and Anna Maria (1). Because I’d be safe in the sound proof room with the speaker, I hadn’t packed my stroller. This was an easy walk from the parking lot to the church to the back room for an unobstructed view where the kids could look at their books or play quietly. Such was my plan. I briefly toyed in my head with also receiving reconciliation, yes this would work. Perhaps I could even finish the rosary and go to adoration to receive an indulgence for my friend. A gift from her uber Catholic friend, what I could give back.

We made it on time with time to spare only to find once I’d unloaded that Mondays are the only days that this church does not hold a 9 o’clock. At this moment, turning back might have been wiser, but I had mass tunnel vision. I wanted to go, for my friend, for me. Alright, more for me. So reloaded in the van, I drove to our home parish. I love our home church but it is not modern. There is no cry room. There is a barrier in the back such that sound is sort of muted but if you find the sweet spot, it is amplified. You peek out towards the altar from the middle and side aisles, but I figured, it’s my home, it’s the 9, they’ve eaten, this won’t be too hard.

Stop laughing. No really.

On Monday, it is free grocery day so the parking lot was full and the only van sized spot on the opposite end of the parking lot. Crunching my daughter into my chest with one arm and sporting a death grip on my son with the other, I am verbal chirping at my 4 year old to hold her brother’s hand. We braved the seemingly longer than I ever remembered parking lot. I admit, I kept hoping I’d spy a friend who would take pity on me and help out. It didn’t happen.

Despite having arrived before mass, we walked in and they were already at the first reading. Walking to the back with three squirmy littles, I told myself this would still be okay. In the back, the three dispersed instantly, with no one wanting to have exclusive mommy time at the expense of surrendering freedom. I kept offering to hold them and they kept squirming and making louder noises than I would have thought possible. Finally getting them shushed, it was time for the Gospel.

Then the homily came. My 4 and 3 year old had decided it was laughing time. They were giggling simply being in each other’s company. I kept shushing but they thought that was hilarious too. A woman came back to me and gently said, “Some of us want to hear the homily.” Message received. They were getting a bit loud.

I scooped up Paul and Anna and got Gina to follow and we now went into the entrance area, flanked by the doors to the outside and the heavy wooden doors to the inside of the church. I kept my foot in the door. Anna and Paul and Gina continued their laughing fest at my feet, rolling on my coat and theirs, pulling up on my pant leg while I strained to muffle their noise and still hear snips of what Fr. was saying. The reading had been about King David showing forbearance when he was cursed non stop by another, accepting the rebukes of this soul that others wanted to behead, as penance. Humility. Humility. Humility. The gospel was about Christ expelling the demons that were legion into the herd of swine.

The priest talked about recognizing the nature of how possession takes place, temptation, obsession, possession. He spoke of the soul needing grace, seeking it and how the demons that are seek to distort, destroy, pollute, warp everything, even our best impulses. I chaffed at being stuck with my foot in the door. I’d come and I wanted to hear, I wanted more than a sliver of the mass and giggling children were now keeping me stuck. Honestly, it was a grave pain, I felt stupid and mad and irritated and agitated and wanting to go back in and have my children be awesome or have people recognize that it was okay if they weren’t awesome, my brain spun everywhere until it stopped. I wanted pity, I wanted help. I wanted a break. I wanted to leave. I wanted to feel free to stay. Here I was at a Catholic mass not being able to be at the Catholic mass because my children were distracting others from prayer, while I was trying to go to mass because I’d been distracted from prayer while seeking to pray for my friend. The irony was not lost on me.

The theme of this year for me is “Be still and know I am here.” “Why am I here?” my brain kept asking. “Why is it so important for me to be here? It’s so hard.” My daughter and son had started another game, this time it was knock on the doors and run to the other side, and giggle loud. It felt so wrong to be telling them “SSSHUSSSHHH” when we were already almost out of the church building itself, with me keeping us in the confines of this little room, inbetween the outside world and the mass itself. Struggling with all three in the back to hear a sliver of the mass felt like a spiritual battle of the first order…even though they were absolutely happy as I told them to be quiet. It wasn’t like hell, it was …like purgatory. Purgatory.

My friend and I were both struggling souls. She’d left the door open for a sliver of the Catholic church to be in her service; I was at the mass, foot in the door, getting a sliver of the mass. Irony. Irony. Irony. God’s kind of humor. Hers too. “If I’m ever a saint, my icon will be me at the back of the church, some of my children acting like barnacles on my ankles, foot in the door.” My brain said and the pain, the ache of it, left.

I’d been tempted to leave. I’d been pushed away from prayer. There it was, my own complaint echoed to me, so I could see something of the shriveled nature of my soul. I’d even been irritated at the woman for observing that my children were a distraction. It was nearly the same complaint I’d made about the non-Catholic elements of the memorial service. Why I’d been kept from my plan is the same reason all of us get to struggle when things run amok, my plan would not have worked, my plan would have allowed me to stay comfortable living within the confines of my own soul’s comfort.

So to sum up, we scrambled up to communion, I did make it to reconciliation, and as soon as I left, a friend (who is the former DRE) spied me and said, “Let me help you to your car.” she then added, “Are you nuts? Taking all three of these guys to a daily mass?”

I had to laugh. “It beats purgatory.”

Copyright 2012 Sherry Antonetti

Then I think what my G.P.A. might be and I’m grateful that for all known purposes, there is no public record that can be seized upon in a court of law.  Unless you count this blog. Hmmmm.

I imagine a grid with each child on the left hand side listed separately as though a subject, Music, Spanish, Chemistry, English, Math, Art, PE, Religion, Social Studies and History.  Naturally, I’m better at some subjects than others, and while I’m great on the homework front for several of them, the pop quizzes they keep throwing at me kill my average and sometimes I forget to study or turn in things late.  I’ve done extra credit on every child, but the value and weight of that extra stuff varies.  In some cases, it may even be sinking my cumulative average.

The end objective in parenting and education is the picture you have in your head, the vision of your child adult, active, engaged in life, emotionally stable, intellectually curious and spiritually grounded in the reality that we are not here for ourselves, and everything we say, do and don’t say and don’t do, reflects who we are and how much we love.  But often those visions get added onto, with clattery bells and whistles of aspirations whispered, crazy dreams, ambitions that are the result of competitive parenting, pressures from the outside, and even just today I’m feeling peevish and thus persnickety about you in particular goals.

It’s so easy to get sucked into the muck of silliness, where our children become the sum of our aspirations, rather than the product of our love and their labor.  It’s my son the doctor lawyer priest varsity football player concert pianist who is trilingual and grows heirloom tomatoes.  It’s my artist Senator Olympic medalist Pulitzer prize winning former CEO who travels to far away places to give  important speeches on how to change the world.  Condensing all they are into what they do is the fastest way to kill the joy of raising human beings.

It isn’t all real, it isn’t all necessary, but it’s a dream scape version of our idealized offspring, fisked clean of all those foibles and flaws that get in the way, like the fact that a child can be a neat freak but not in any functional way, meaning all clothing he wears must be fresh out of the dryer, but he doesn’t have to make his bed or shut his drawers. Or how she is a literal brainiac who can produce pages of complex Chemistry and mathematics equations, but fears cooking anything that doesn’t come out of a toaster or microwave.  Another kid can remember everything anyone ever said, unless it was in class and about a subject.

So as I consider child 1, child 2, child 3, 4, 5, 6,7, 8, 9 and 10 and the fact that one went to school today with his hair doing a fair imitation of a cockatoo and another wrecked because she had a hot dog for lunch but I was out of ketchup and a third who stayed up late doing homework she should have done over spring break and a fourth bragging about how she studied for the state capital test by using the computer (I worry), and an email about a child freaking over a poster he has to do on Italy which is due tomorrow and which he brought in early but wasn’t finished —because he brought it in early, I’m thinking, okay I don’t really need grades. I just need a gut check to make sure I’m not auditing any of these classes.

Image Credit: http://photodaisy.blogspot.com/

Copyright 2012 Sherry Antonetti

It was for a baptism, meeting a future sister-in-law and seeing my mom and my dad who suffers from Alzheimer’s and cannot say all the things he thinks or know anymore all the things he once knew with startling ease.

We ate, we talked, we went to mass. We hugged, we did ordinary things like shopping for diet coke and jeans and making pot roast and folding laundry. We also tried to hang onto moments, to slow time. To freeze the frame when the baby smiled, to remember the words my father could get out and cram every moment with all the stories and thoughts and feelings that too infrequent visits allow to pile up.

It was a joyful luminous glorious sorrowful ordinary time.

At mass, I watched as my father followed my mother to receive. He bowed his head and took the Eucharist on the tongue. He then tried to follow his wife but the traffic to the cup was confusing and for a moment, he looked lost. Then my uncle steadied him by putting his hand on my dad’s shoulder and he received the precious blood. I breathed out.

Meanwhile, my mother realized Dad was not behind her. She was about to look about when my brother gave her a reassuring touch of the shoulder to show all was well. My dad was returning.

As a Godparent, I (along with the Godfather)was in the second pew with my sister and her husband and their newly baptized daughter. It was an unfamiliar church for my Dad, but he turned and he stopped. He looked at my face. Out of the packed pews and confusion, he pointed and nodded his head with a slight smile. “I know you.” the smile said.

In that moment, I flashed back to the first year I really knew how to swim. I’d had a tracheonmy for the first 8 years of my life and so at nine, swimming underwater was a wondrous new thing for me. I was at the YMCA pretending to be a dolphin or a seal or a mermaid. A man came swimming towards me and his face flowered into a smile. It was my dad. I had not recognized him, being lost in the wonder of being surrounded on all sides by water. When I did, I remember smiling back at him underwater in sudden recognition and then zooming upwards for a breath. Dad had been in the fog of his disease, but for a moment, saw me clearly. I was a mess for the rest of mass.

I was so grateful to see that moment, and all the moments before, the kindness of an Uncle, the comfort of a brother, the strength of a parish bursting with song and with children, the solid faith of my niece’s family, the whole of it, all of it, that it was hard not to have my heart both burst with joy and weep.

Saying those vows, receiving, and being present, anticipating a wedding feast in July, it felt a bit like heaven , in that all of time collapsed in that full moment. Yes my dad is dying, but he is still with us. Yes I live far from a lot of the people I love, they are still with us, in this family, this Universal Church.

It was hard not to want to love endlessly in that moment, despite all the known and hidden crosses in that Parish, in my own, in our nation, in the whole world and the whole history of this fallen, broken confused world. For an instant, I understood how grace breaks through the fog of our hearts and even when we are lost in our own worlds, calls us to really see each other, and come out of the fake world where we cannot last long and into the real place where we can breathe easy.

On that day, we will be walking, and we will see Christ’s face and He will smile at us. In that moment, when we recognize Him, our face will say, “I know you.” too.

Copyright 2012 Sherry Antonetti

It’s the motto of every woman’s magazine article that ever was. It’s the demand of every commercial that stumps for yogurt, birth control, a gym or a cup of coffee. “Me.” “Time for me.” “Me time.” as if all those other minutes are selfless and as such, this little oasis must be carved out of the world to ensure sanity. As always, the world has it backwards. These little emotional get aways are in addition to the theoretical mandatory 55 minutes of exercise, 20 minutes reading, and 8 hours of sleep that we’re all supposed to get every day. Weren’t those me moments too? How much is the daily recommended amount of time we’re supposed to spend on others? It isn’t that people don’t need sometimes the silence of isolation to think or to rejuvenate or to organize, but who loses during that “me time?” Whoever the you is, in your life. What does me time really mean?

“Go away because I’m sick of serving you?” “Get out of here because I don’t want to give the emotional investment you need right now?” We’re not supposed to seek “Me time.” We’re supposed to serve summa –all. We’re supposed to wash the feet. We’re supposed to pour out our lives like blood and water, to empty everything, to surrender everything. And no matter how often we might have done it, or how easy we might think it is, sometimes it’s not just hard; it’s excrutiating.

A life of love is a life of sacrifice and it isn’t just little things like coffee breaks and uninterrupted writing and reading of good books or watching a favorite television show, it is 1000 sublimations in a day, getting up before we want to, foregoing a shower, fixing food for others, unloading the dishwasher and reloading, making the bed forgotten, turning off the lights and emptying the trash including the apple core and hidden pudding cup and 10 foils from chocolate kisses. It is not going out in the evening because a child needs to talk, it is not talking when a child needs to talk. It is reading one more bed time story and holding a baby that only wants to be held for hours and hours and hours.

It is running the errand to Target and to Walmart and then to Michael’s on Sunday night (to allow for a project that got forgotten) to be finished. It is reading with the same enthusiasm for the 1 billionth time, Green Eggs and Ham and Harry Potter and those deadly summary of the plot line by line Disney books that you bought back when you could get suckered into those 1 cent book clubs. Dreams of degrees and being world famous don’t die overnight. There isn’t a moment when we say, “Die dream..Die!” because it isn’t a death, it isn’t an abandonment, it is a surrender of the self. Surrendering of the self is a perpetual struggle. Telling yourself “This will have to wait.” because they won’t doesn’t mean it doesn’t sting, doesn’t mean it doesn’t tempt, doesn’t mean it doesn’t remind one’s self that this is a sacrifice, this is a gift. Further, the battle has to be won again and again and again because the ego doesn’t like taking no for an answer.

Surrender of what one wants begins with marriage, with falling in love. That surrender continues and it extends and grows as a marriage grows, and as a family begins. The radical sublimation of the woman’s body to another is a mirror of what the soul, all souls, are supposed to orient themselves towards becoming. Every cell in a woman’s body goes into overdrive trying to protect and feed and nourish the baby, even allowing for the depleting of calcium from one’s teeth to make sure the new bones grow. Nothing is withheld even if the mind and heart of the mother is not yet fully on board.

Then we see that little face and wonder how we could ever love so much, how we could bear not looking at him or her, how we could bear not holding them, how our hearts could bear so much love and not burst for joy. Time stops for a moment, when the heart and mind finally catch up to the body that has just delivered everything that it had. The rest of life is learning to reorient all three towards that perpetual complete surrender and the battles of appetites and prior selfish habits to reassert themselves. It is ugly, halting, clumsy and fierce. Even when we think we’ve reached a moment, we haven’t. We’ve just come to a momentary plateau. More surrender is in the works. There is always more to give, always more to surrender, always less we could demand for ourselves. Absent love, it would all be drudgery and frustration. Love changes everything. Love makes even the most meaningless of tasks –like laundry and dishes and diapers, meaningful, because it makes those acts gifts of time, of attention, of sublimation of self.

This isn’t to say that a life so ordered won’t be filled with feasts or epic moments of sheer awesomeness, only that we aren’t called to make our lives such that they read like an Epic or a Resume of the beautiful, successful and accomplished. We’re called to live for others, to be successful at creating beauty, to accomplish the beatitudes today and every day, and that if fully embraced, leaves no “me time,” only time for others, and a cup brim filled of memories of the daily labors of love.

This weekend I read a story about a boy with Down Syndrome in the U.K. who is seven and has been denied the ability to receive first communion, because he cannot speak and cannot sit or tolerate the length of a mass. Based on my reading of the articles and analysis, the refusal is based on the fact that he cannot communicate sufficient understanding of the nature of the Eucharist. That is a legitimate reason for denial, but the parents thought the church was being cruel. Having been on both sides of the door, as the teacher telling the parent, you child cannot do this, and now the mother who faces that possibility, I can see how perhaps the mother thought that, and how perhaps the priest thought otherwise.

I understood that mother. My brain says, “I know that hurt.” I also know that theologically, it is correct to not give communion to someone who is insufficiently capable of comprehending the nature of Holy Communion, if they cannot or have not in the past indicated the ability to know.

It smarts and smarts and smarts and smarts to hear a door shut on one’s child, whether it is because they did not make the team, they weren’t invited to a party, or they cannot participate more fully in the mass. Having a child with Down Syndrome means you have to anticipate that there will be shut doors.  More accurately, having any child means you know there will be shut doors, but having a child with special needs means you are more acutely aware of some of the doors that might be shut.  Will he go to college? Will he be able to live on his own? Will he need care the rest of his life? Will he be able to find a job? These things can wake you up in the middle of the night if you let it.   Will he be able to receive the Eucharist?  It is something I’ve wondered since I had him emergency baptized at two months.

So I get it.  I hope hope hope that four years from now, my son can go through the preparations and receive.  But I do not want him to receive incorrectly.  I do want him to receive.  I worry that I will let what I want, supersede my Catholic sensibilities.  Being human, it is quite possible that the mother ache will override my brain should he be denied.

What gives me hope is this father and his son that come every Sunday to 8:30 am mass. The son is at least 18 and has severe autism, he does not receive, but he goes to mass. He stands and sits and kneels with his father. He is present, as present as his abilities allow.  He even turns and shakes our hands.  He wears headphones to drown out some of the noise if he gets stressed.  Christ meets us half way, 3/4 of the way, 99% of the way.  We are the 1 percent.  He’ll even give us .05.  Christ will meet us wherever we are if we but try. For this son, coming and being at the mass, was his 100%.  It was all he could give.  This son and his father come. So Christ comes to him.  Spiritual communion counts. I know this, and it gives me comfort.  I may have to make my peace with this if when Paul is 8 or 9 or 16 or what have you, he still cannot reveal knowing that this food is not regular food.

So I pray for that mother and father and their son and the Parish, because I do not want any enmity between those who love the Eucharist.  Hopefully, their son will mature to be able to receive fully, and if not, that they will come to understand, that this is their son’s 100% and Christ will meet him there.

Copyright 2012 Sherry Antonetti

Today, sugar and chocolate chip cookies caused a great deal of emotional pain.

One child loves sugar cookies and another is a devotee to only chocolate chip. In the interest of inter family peace, I’d purchased two bags, one of each of the slice and bake variety. Alas, even this bit of forethought was insufficient to prevent what followed.

After school, one daughter baked said cookies. Envisioning my children screaming as they tried to suppress the desire to spit out the hot chocolaty goodness because it was leaving chocolate chip sized divots on their tongues from the heat, I made them wait for the little suckers to cool.

Then I served 8 plates (the baby didn’t get one and the oldest was at school for an exam), 6 with one of each kind, 1 with 2 sugar and 1 with just chocolate chip. The children came to the table in shifts to get their snacks. I was pouring milk and thus did not monitor seating arrangements and here the mischief began. The double chocolate chip got consumed by an unknown player, but evidently not the person designated for the two-fer. Having witnessed the outburst, none of the others volunteered to admit if they’d done the deed. Besides, they got extra cookies by staying silent.

My son went back to the kitchen for a refill but alas, he would only be able to have one chocolate chip and a sugar, he’d lost out on the opportunity for a double dip of his favorite cookie. This grievance had to be avenged and addressed. He turned on his sister (his first/foremost and most often) target. She claimed innocence. I pointed out there was no proof and that I had a solution if he’d allow. He kept attacking. In frustration, he kicked her in the ankle. I separated them, no longer interested in the investigation. I sent her to play and him outside to cool off.

Now I’m fairly certain that she might have had a part in this, (I’m envisioning two sisters or a sister and a brother came in and impulsively ate each one cookie extra) but kicking ruled out any further discussion. When he rang the doorbell, I sought to reestablish peace.
“I can solve your problem.” I offered.
He wasn’t interested. I re-shut the door.

He rang the doorbell multiple times. It is obnoxious.
“Look. I have the ingredients to make home made chocolate chip cookies.” I explained. “I’ll make you some.”

He muttered about blaming his sister. I shut the door again.

After trying each of the entrances and discovering I’d also locked the car door so he couldn’t sulk in the van, he knocked once more in a hard angry manner. I opened the door just a hair and explained things. “You can have Revenge or you can have cookies. Home made Chocolate chip cookies warm from the oven. I’ll even let you make them.”
“Revenge.”

It is ever thus, the human soul when offered paradise and hell, often thwarts itself. It was cold outside but I shut the door once more thinking back at my own brother and how we specialized in tormenting each other, but only if our blood was truly up, would we not have gone for the cookies. It was hard not to let my own psyche start to be pulled in; I wanted to say “Bah!” and wash my hands of the whole mess but then it occurred to me (and I consider this grace because my first instinct was to say, fine, no one gets anymore cookies, we’re done, kitchen closed….) kind of rant. My son’s blood was truly up, he felt his grievance keenly even if it was trivial and like all the souls at Christmas, he needs the grace of this, of lavish giving anyway and started baking.

He peeks in the window near the kitchen and then miraculously, there is a meek knock at the door.

For the record, he apologized to his sister for kicking. We never found out who ate them originally but my son even shared the chocolate chip goodness afterwards. I deliberately decided not to do an investigation. Cookies on a plate, the raw dough goodness, all of it once he allowed himself, erased the need. For a kid, he’d been given the option of fire and water, and after some deliberation, finally chosen life over death. Cookies. Revenge. Christmas. Sin. Why do we chose otherwise? Thank goodness Love ignores our stubbornness and offers Himself anyway.

Copyright 2011 Sherry Antonetti

Most recently, there is a poised polished mother of eight who serves as a spokeswoman for the local Giant grocery store.  As such, the question was floated out by one of my own children, “Why isn’t that us?”

Why isn’t that us?  I didn’t answer.  But I thought about it afterwards.

Why isn’t that us?

Ummmm.  I’m not that organized?

I don’t want to document my parental errors with indisputable film evidence?

Went shopping at Safeway because they have the inside Starbuck’s where I can slum and get a hot chocolate?

Currently our kitchen table is covered with pumpkins, a plastic skull, a box of markers, and a shoe.

Visualizing being immortalized cleaning the kitchen with my shop vac.  bleah.

TV would add ten extra pounds.

My kids think ketchup IS a vegetable.

We’d have to use the good plates.

The kids need hair cuts.

Not sure I could bribe the finicky eater not to say, “Ewwww! We’re eating that?”.

The mountain of unsorted socks is a deal killer.

Casual trumpet practicing is still very very very loud.

I’d have to organize the pantry so it looked photogenic.

Three children began chasing each other around the dining room screaming lines from “My Little Pony.” and they’re all Pinky Pie.

So we will not be doing commercials children.  That fig leaf of dignity that the virtual world affords, this blogger intends to keep.

Copyright 2011 Sherry Antonetti

Chances are, even if we were to win the lotto tomorrow and be able to finance all our existing bills, we would not consider whether we ought to reconsider our budgets and appetites. Chances are, if someone came and wrote a blank check for us, we’d still continue to fumble and spend and fret and forget ourselves in the moment. Chances are, as grateful as we’d be for a write off of all we’d done to dig ourselves into a hole, we wouldn’t necessarily love the sources of that forgiveness that lodge in the banks and corporations and government offices if they acquiesced to the demands such as they are, of those who currently protest in various cities across this country and abroad.

We’d more likely congratulate ourselves on escaping and being able to start over and then promptly carry on as we had before. It is hard to change one’s habits and become more disciplined when it is not required. It is hard for us to sacrifice in our own lives when temptation to buy, to spend, to borrow is everywhere and nearly effortless. Businesses and governments exist and demand their full measure for services rendered and penalties for tardiness, for failure to pay and for failing to live up to one’s obligations. The world as manifested by businesses and Caesar, does not yield easily to the cries of the poor or necessarily the rich, the sick or the well, only the expedient, powerful and financially supportive that are at the moment present and writing the checks. The non gods of Wall Street and Government, do not love any of us, they only have use of us or not. The only entities that willingly forgive us our debt, are those that give freely, that come from family, from friends, from relationships born out of love. Their love and generosity and forgiveness of debt is reflective of the one who is love.

Consider now, in the context of our nation, of our world, that God forgives us the whole of our debt which is even greater than all we as nations and individuals and a world have amassed. He has already paid our bill in full, allowing us to perhaps consider freely loving Him. This second chance at life and communion with Christ requires we learn how to discipline our appetites and impulses so that we only love and love in generous measure during times of both feast and famine, in suffering and success, in times of joy and sorrow. This imperfect fallen world and its imperfect fallen systems of economic growth and governance, perhaps helps us recognize what an outrageous debt Christ willingly paid and how profound that gift is. If we want to experience the fullness of that forgiveness of our debt, we don’t need to occupy Wall Street or picket the government; we need only let Christ occupy our hearts.

Copyright 2011 Sherry Antonetti

The other morning was off to a bad start. People were moving slowly. Lunch was cobbled together with the obligatory, “I don’t like that.” and my response, “You get what you get.” It’s not that I wanted to serve my children chips they didn’t like; it’s that I didn’t like kids complaining about chips for crying out loud. They had grapes, pineapple cups, sandwiches and chips. I basically was in my, “It’s morning, I’m making lunches, deal with it.” mode.

But the day slogged on and getting into the car was a challenge. As I’m changing the baby, I spy four children outside the car drawing pictures in the dew on the windows. “GET IN THE CAR!” and “YOU, Come load her!” as I scrambled for the next child. I could not find shoes for my son. I found two left shoes and some red boots. I opted for the red boots.

My son did not like the boots. I locked him down in his car seat. He flipped them off, they hit my eye. Bad mood growing.

There is no diet coke for me. Bad mood getting worse.

Two children go back inside…for no reason in particular. I bark them back out and finish making a bottle for the baby. I’m tired, I’ve made 12 lunches, 7 breakfasts, without making one for me and we’re going to be late.

Shredded self is done with civility. I get in the car and procede to rant all the way to school about self pitying things. “I’m the only one who gets up…the only one who can find the clothes, the backpacks, the lunch bags, who makes lunch…blah blah blah blah. Me. Me. Me. Me. Poor Me. Mad at you. Bleah. Bleah. Bleah.”

My rant prevented morning prayers except for one, mine, which is the Act of Contrition. And I stopped. My children would have this memory of me having a pity party. Ugh. Boo. Not fun. I rattle off the prayer, I tell my children I love them and they disembark. The whole ride home is horrid as I sit there thinking about how petty I’d just been. I drive home to look for my son’s shoes.

Going inside to look and knowing I’ve already searched before to no avail, I decide to enlist Saint Anthony. God is sitting there waiting for that one, “Ha!” She asked. “Saint Anthony, help me find Paul’s shoes.” I’m still in a bad mood. So I add, “And my sense of humor….and while you’re at it, my patience. Saint Anthony, help me to serve these children better. Help me find a way to be a good mom…” It kept pouring out. My rant/demand of one of my favorite saints had turned into a real prayer. The moment I realized this, I walked into the computer room. There, on the floor, were the two right shoes.

I started laughing. Laughter broke over everything that was.

So I called my mom this afternoon to tell her the story, I started, “I don’t remember you ever yelling at me like that.” “Oh Honey, Thank you!” she said. And laughter broke out again, over what gets kept, what deliberately gets lost, and what our souls remember forever, not pain, not anger, not sin, but love.

So now, twenty or forty years from now, I hope my children won’t recall mom popping off on the drive to school. Hopefully, they’ll remember that she had a merry laugh, a good relationship with Saint Anthony and could find things like shoes, very quickly if she just held the right spirit about things.

Copyright 2011 Sherry Antonetti

“When Elizabeth heard Mary’s greeting, the baby leaped in her womb, and Elizabeth was filled with the Holy Spirit. ⁴² In a loud voice she exclaimed: “Blessed are you among women, and blessed is the child you will bear!⁴³ But why am I so favored, that the mother of my Lord should come to me? ⁴⁴ As soon as the sound of your greeting reached my ears, the baby in my womb leaped for joy. ⁴⁵ Blessed is she who has believed that the Lord would fulfill his promises to her!”

Each member of that little moment in Christ’s life teaches us something about how to recognize Christ.  We are to observe Christ in our words, which Elizabeth and Mary do.  We are to imitate Christ in our acts; as Mary goes to Elizabeth.  And we are to recognize Christ in our midst; in family relationships, and Christ in the unseen and the vulnerable; in the unborn.

And then, there is Mary’s beautiful response
⁴⁶ And Mary said:
“My soul glorifies the Lord
⁴⁷ and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior,
⁴⁸ for he has been mindful
of the humble state of his servant.
From now on all generations will call me blessed,
⁴⁹ for the Mighty One has done great things for me—
holy is his name.
⁵⁰ His mercy extends to those who fear him,
from generation to generation.
⁵¹ He has performed mighty deeds with his arm;
he has scattered those who are proud in their inmost thoughts.
⁵² He has brought down rulers from their thrones
but has lifted up the humble.
⁵³ He has filled the hungry with good things
but has sent the rich away empty.
⁵⁴ He has helped his servant Israel,
remembering to be merciful
⁵⁵ to Abraham and his descendants forever,
just as he promised our ancestors.”
⁵⁶ Mary stayed with Elizabeth for about three months and then returned home.

Mary in modern times is often depicted as silent, with her lips in a permanent thin peaceful smile; but if we look at the gospel, she speaks.  Mary says these words.  She has an understanding of what she has submitted to; she has assented to be used by God.  We don’t think of her talking but that means we aren’t really listening to the Gospel. Mary talks and what she says is filled with understanding of who Jesus is.   If we would know Christ as we should, we should adjust our ears to listen to his mother.  She brings us all the history of the Old Testament in this song, while attuning us to the new words to come.  She prepares us to “wait in joyful hope” with this poetic Holy Spirit infused song.

Finally, the scene when read in Luke’s gospel of Mary going to visit her cousin Elizabeth, evokes a warm sense of family, of service and of both intimate familiarity and great mystery.  Here, we get a verbal snap shot of the incarnation.  We are treated to the hidden presence of Christ within his mother’s womb.  Present, real and yet veiled, known and unknown, alive and growing, Christ is still Christ though in utero.  Christ is still recognizable to Mary, to Elizabeth and to John and through Luke’s gospel, to us. As Catholics, we know we are to know the Eucharist in just the same way and are to receive Him with the same welcoming heart as Mary, the Blessed Mother and St. Elizabeth do.  And if we need further understanding of how we are to receive Christ, there is that wonderful moment of St. John leaping in the womb; a primal experience that every woman who has ever carried a child to term knows; and every person who has ever had the privilege of putting their hand on a mother’s abdomen to feel the baby kick and had that moment of joy, understands.   We are to tremble with joy at His presence.

The angel responds, “The Holy Ghost shall come upon thee and the power of the Most High shall overshadow thee. And therefore also the Holy which shall be born of thee shall be called the Son of God.” She takes the angel’s words into her heart.  She then makes a choice to trust God’s plan, to obey willingly.  Think about  knowing what you know now ten years ago.  Would you have had the courage ten years ago to undergo whatever has passed since if you knew ahead of time what it would require? Gods plans for us are always bigger than our own for ourselves. Think about being willing then to walk forward on that path.   It would take tremendous strength to consent to all that the angel presents in that simple scene. It would also require absolute trust.

Only obedience steeped in love could allow one to act so courageously, to allow one’s self to be so intimately used for our salvation.  “Behold the handmaiden of the Lord.  Let it be done to me according to thy word.” This is how she becomes the new Eve.  She chooses to follow God’s plan where it takes her.  She is not compelled to follow God’s plan, she chooses to embrace God’s plan in all of its intimate detail.   Eve chose not to trust God’s love for her as a sufficient reason to submit to His words. Eve said “No.” Mary said, “Yes.”

The first joyful mystery is a blue print for how we are to try to live our lives; to be in as much as possible a state of grace while carrying out those tasks and jobs our daily life requires; to be open to hearing the whispers and messages of God; to take these whispers into our hearts, and to then joyfully, willingly follow God’s plan wherever it leads.  We are called to develop a trust in God that mirrors Mary’s in its full obedience, love and courage.  For each of us, God’s plan is different, but the end objective is the same, to bring us to know Him better, to call us to a more love filled sin free life, and help still more to find their way to salvation.

Next week: The Visitation

Copyright 2011 Sherry Antonetti

As Catholics, we are called to imitate Christ, and what we profess, do, think and believe becomes who we are, what we are for others. We are the body of Christ. Our goal is to be the Eucharist for others. What does this mean and how does this happen? God gives us a blueprint in Christ’s words and His Life, and in the life of Mary, Mother of God and all the Saints. God gives us further elaboration in Scripture and in the lives of the Saints through the Holy Spirit. It is a tremendous tremulous thing to seek to love God better, and the journey always comes to us embracing that paradox that is the beauty of the gift of His Crucifixion.

Because God is love, the starting point of growing one’s heart is addressing the issue of sin. Sin remains the great destroyer of relationships, beginning with each of ours with God. Sin is what keeps us locked on ourselves, our eyes fixed squarely on our navels and filtering all things good, great, miraculous and beautiful, cruel, hard, difficult and overwhelming, according to our desires and fears. We cannot love well steeped in sin.

Ergo we must seek to shed all opportunities for sin, all temptations of sin, and be vigilant about when we sin, availing ourselves of the gifts the Church has in abundance waiting for us if we want to better know Him. Reconciliation is necessary often if we are to deepen our trust in God and knowledge of His Divine Mercy and Generosity. Christ came to give us this great gift of the forgiveness of sins, greater than being given the gift of sight or the cure of leprosy or the ability to walk, is this gift that all of us can receive, to be forgiven our debts.

Christ gives us His body so that we may grow like Him. Our bodies need healthy food to grow best. Our souls need holy food to grow best. It is that simple. Receiving the Eucharist often requires we make time for God, we come and we hear His word and we are present at the mass. Coming to God at the mass is like walking the road to the Father’s house. God sees us loading up the car, struggling with finding the keys or the hassle of carving out time and has already begun preparing a feast in delight at seeing us far off but coming His way. When we fail to attend mass, it is like skipping a wedding. We have robbed ourselves of a beautiful lavish feast, and all the guests including our beloved Host, of our presence.

Become more knowledgeable by consulting the dear friends of Christ who have already walked this Earth and endured the battle with being broken human beings and become known as saints. They know how the hardness of sin and suffering and death can grind down a person’s faith. They know how easy and swiftly we can succumb even in an instant. From Saint Peter’s denial out of fear to Blessed Mother Theresa’s darkness of the night, Saint Augustine’s struggle with desire to Saint Paul’s wrathful persecution of the Early Church, all of the Saints have a story that reveals how loving God, being faithful to Christ required everything and yet was possible for the greatest of sinners. We would not know of the older brother who fished for a living if Simon now called Peter had not followed Christ. We would not know Augustine’s keen mind had he not finally fully converted. We would not know Saul; but nearly everyone knows First Corinthians. These people are not famous for who they are, but for who they loved.
Read their lives, read their writings. Read scripture, Old and New Testament. Become aware of how our faith is a story of thousands of thousands of thousands times thousands seeking to love Christ, and of Christ completely loving each of those thousands of thousands of thousands times thousands, no matter how flawed or broken or lost each one of us might be.

Pray. Pray daily. Pray routinely. Pray often. Make it a mandatory and regular part of your daily life, even more important than checking emails. Allow yourself to consider prayer non negotiable and you will find you seek out more opportunity to pray; the need for prayer will come to you more often, and the gifts of prayer (grace) will be lavish. The Rosary, the Divine Mercy Chaplet, the Liturgy of the Hours, the Psalms and all the devotions, novenas and petitions that have been crafted over the years are means to strengthen our relationship with God and grow our capacity to love. Ask and ye shall receive. How much beauty and grace is seeking to flood the earth if all of us earnestly prayed for peace in the hearts of all men?

Serve. Do little things with great love. Listen. Look around. The Holy Spirit will place you where you should be and give you the words, the impulse to act if you allow yourself to be a willing instrument. Most of God’s work is the washing of feet. Look in your own life to see how today, you can wash someone’s feet. Then get on your knees and wash them. In our modern world, we tend to put service first as we are a practical people and we like the idea of getting things done, checking off a list, and we feel good if we’ve accomplished something. But if we want to be Holy as our Father in Heaven is Holy, service must be the product of love and not self satisfying. We need the checks and balances of prayer and the Sacraments and scripture to keep our souls from being side tracked into “I’m a good person.” When we are seeking to live out the Beattitudes.

Taken in concert, these habits will become necessary components of ourselves and thus define us. Over time, these actions will make us aware of how we fail, of where we fall down and lead us to further know how much we must trust and depend on God’s grace. Over time, these actions will help us understand how much deeper we can love than we’ve allowed ourselves up until now. Each degree to which we love more and sin less, renders us more like Christ until we are made translucent in God’s love, ablaze with God’s love; like matches that never snuff out.

Copyright 2011 Sherry Antonetti

This week I’ve been struggling with writer’s block. Thankfully, or not so much, my kids have opted to provide today’s story.

We went to one of our not so regular masses, at the church near our prior home. The church has an theatre in the round sort of feel to it and arriving as the opening music was in its second verse, we scooted along the back wall to the side pew that gave us an unobstructed and unshared pew that buttressed the far wall of the building. This gave us a side view of the priest and the entire congregation, it also meant leaving the mass for any reason would also be visible to the entire population, so perhaps we chose poorly.

My husband and oldest son each holding one of the diaper set opted for the back of the back of the church where other people with squirmy babies and noisy toddlers hang. I didn’t feel I’d been cheated, after all I had the 15, 13, 11, 9, 7, 5 and 4 year old. I figured we could manage. Admittedly, I’d preemptively short circuited my five year old’s temper by refusing to allow her to wear a baseball cap or bring a hot wheel into mass.

Two minutes in: The five year old decides she can’t sit with me and walks to the very end of the pew so that she’s a good 20 feet from all of us. It is purposeful and even masterful as she’s at the edge of the altar, almost daring me to come and get her. I opt to hope this is the full extent of her rebellion. Prayer is my best defense and since we’re in church, I go with it. Please God let her behave. Please God let her calm down. Please God let her just sit there.

Sometimes the answer is No. I look over. She’s mad that I’m not in hot pursuit. She tries swinging her legs. I’m still not moving. I’m not even mouthing “Sit still.” So she ups the ante. She lays down. She’s wearing shorts and she’s laying down on the pew. We have now crossed my threshold toleration point for naughtiness. I try to calmly like “there’s nothing to see here people” walk over and take her hand. She’s not interested in obeying so she assumes the floppy boneless child pose. I pick her up at which point she begins protesting aloud and loudly, “I don’t want to go with you.” I get a few sympathetic head bobs from the dads and moms as she kicks at the pew. I opt for the coward’s way out, I take her to her dad.

Five minutes in: The four year old taps me during the first reading. I have to go to the bathroom. Not wanting to walk back out after I just came back in, I send the 13 to escort the 4 during the responsorial psalm.

Ten minutes in: 11 year old asks if he can go get water. I say “No.” because it’s the homily.

It’s Offertory time. My purse is the source of great distress as I don’t have enough bills to go around. Seven year old son is sulking. Nine year old daughter is preening because she got to put in the check. The next round of sibling aggression has begun. We kneel.

Now I know kids can fight over anything. I’ve heard the “Mom, she’s looking at me.” and the “Mom, she’s breathing in a sarcastic way.” complaints before. But today marked a new low in passive aggressive non virtuous displays of piety as my son and daughter begin inching down the open aisle where once my five year old lay, each trying to silently hiss at the other not to edge in front. It is a battle that proceeds for a good five feet before I noticed because I’d momentarily attempted to give my full attention to the mass.

Now I’ve got a few options as they continue kneel walking and glaring at each other. I can ignore. Not ideal as the scene is public and not without audio. “Stop trying to pass me. I’m praying!” she whispered loudly. “I’m just trying to watch the priest.” the other deadpans with an overly arch look of I’m-so-holy-and-you’re-not as he inches past her. “I beat you. I win.” he adds. She’s stiff arming him as she knee walks further. I’ve tried signaling for them to stop but they’re deep in sibling irritation right now and so mom is on the ignore button.

There is nothing for it so I get up for the second time this mass and march forward to grab with a hug one of them and a hand the other and march them back to seats in between two of their sisters and me. It’s near the consecration so I can’t give them the “I Will Kill You or Worse” look, I opt for the more effective though not as heart felt, “If you act up again, it’s bedtime as soon as you get home.” whisper. They are in mental lock down as I deliberately speak aloud the Our Father with decided emphasis on “FORGIVE US OUR TRESPASSES.” and “LEAD US NOT INTO TEMPTATION.” One of them properly recognizes the editorial within the prayer from his mother and gives me a guilty “I’m sorry” look. The other, I squeeze her hand when the priest says, “I give you peace, my peace I leave you.” and they shake with the coolness that only recently fighting brothers and sisters can muster when adults are watching.

We always stay through the last song and so I do, though several of mine are ready to bolt. They’re hungry and a few saw friends in the communion line and some are just wanting to get back outside where they can resume hostilities. I make them stay, if only to give me a few moments more with the allies of the Church and the mass against kid wars. A man comes up to us smiling and compliments me on how well my children behaved during church and speaks of how he raised seven. I decide either he wasn’t watching or maybe he was and wants to make sure I feel better. “Thank you,” my children get out before I can respond.

And then, basking in the glow of an unsolicited compliment from a stranger, the kids ask, “Hey Mom, since we were pretty good at mass, can we get donuts?”

Copyright 2011 Sherry Antonetti

Paul has Down Syndrome.

Most of the time, he wears this disability quietly.  It doesn’t pinch the day, it doesn’t dampen his mood or ours,and the actual quietness of his world is masked to me by his ever present and sometimes overly helpful next two older sisters.  Paul says very little, but he expresses much.

However this past month, the audiologist has indicated that he is struggling with a hearing loss that is the result of fluid in his ears (common for kids with his condition), and we are taking steps to remedy it. At these moments I’m reminded of what he faces and how everything is actually affected at some point by having that little extra chromosome, teeth, eyes, heart, hair, weight, height, speech, what he will understand, what sports he must avoid to prevent the likelihood of spinal injury, thyroid issues, and those are just the little things I remember from the instructive video “Your Down Syndrome Child” the hospital sent home in the complimentary diaper bag when we took him home.

“Kids like Paul” have these sorts of issues. But these sorts of issues can be dealt with, by modern medicine, therapy and vigilance.  Children with Down Syndrome have bigger problems than all that come from having one more than everyone else.  That moreness is often fatal.

“Kids like Paul…” have historically been left out of society in a hidden home somewhere or institution, they used to be hidden out of shame. One wonders if that shame ever was eliminated as now-a-days, kids with Downs are eliminated before they ever get to show how much love can be packed into a smile. It is an ugly fact which even some people who work in the field of Special Education do not want to believe, but there are statistical studies including analysis by the Guttenmacher Institute that indicate 90% of all children diagnosed with Down Syndrome in utero, are then aborted.  Because their condition can be known, people have the luxury of deciding, “I don’t want a handicapped child.” ergo I will not allow myself to love a handicapped child.   For those who say that’s harsh, I recognize it’s an agonizing decision, it should be because choosing to kill a child rather than love it should cause agony –I’d be more appalled if it didn’t.

There are 5000 “kids like Paul” born each year in this country, thus there are 45,000 other children that were discarded. 45,000 ghosts that would have reminded all of us to slow down, to smile more broadly and to enjoy the great gifts of everyday life. 45,000 families each year that have willing allowed themselves to cut off a limb because they did not think that limb productive or necessary or perfect.  That’s a lot of invisible loss. That’s a lot of scarred wounded hearts walking on this Earth unable to address an ache they chose to inflict.

The thing is, for a society that promotes inclusion and having broad compassion for the poor and the weak, we have remarkably little patience with the perceived imperfect; be it age, disability, weight.  How are we as a society to become accustomed to differences if the range of possibilities is being ever more narrowed?

If science discovers a gene for diabetes or autism, will these folks simply get erased from the future as the 45,000 of 2010 have been?  Human nature and past evidence would seem to indicate “Yes,” that all flaws that are detectable should be eliminated. What about ADHD, Parkinson’s, MS, MD, Cystic Fibrosis and Turrets?  Somewhere in that list is a someone that you know, maybe even love. Imagine a world without all those people peopling it. As knowledge of the human genome expands, will our tolerance of the genetic possibilities lessen?

There are certainly voices willing to say that we ought to spare these folks pain by eliminating them before they are born. There are certainly voices today that openly advocate abortion for children who have physical and mental defects when compared with “perfect children,”  sometimes even after birth and these are the so called smart people of our society who work at universities and write op-eds in the New York Times and  hold positions of authority and power in government. This attitude presumes the value of a person is economic and other dependent and thus only additional with effort having to be less than reward to make the proposition of care worthwhile.  The value of an actual person is always universal and multiplies out the value of others, people exist to grow the hearts of all around, each person adds to life simply by being.

None of us who have children with special needs wish our children needed special education to manage things.  None of us say “Yippee! My kid has a disability.”  We do however rejoice daily in our children regardless of their ability and thank God for each of them.  We learn more and have more people in our hearts than our lives would have held if we hadn’t been forced to rethink everything from dressing to feeding to school because we had a child with a disability.  It’s said when you have a kid with Down Syndrome, you join a club of other families that have kids with Trisomy 21.  More accurately, you become part of a great adoptive family with special educators, speech therapists, occupational therapists, physical therapists, and all the other families you never would have met except for the fact that you see in the eyes of their child, your child’s own.  Who couldn’t do with more family, community and support in this world? This is the little extra that children with Down Syndrome bring.

It is sad to me that 45,000 “kids like Paul” will not get to be loved as Paul is loved by his brothers and sisters, friends and family.  It is sad to me that people decide sight unseen that it is better to never be born than to suffer being born known to be by others as ”less than perfect.” I’ve never known anyone to meet my son and say, he’s less lovable because he’s less than perfect.  They’ve met him and loved his smile, his eyes, his happy happy, happy spirit.  His spirit is not suffering, and those who spend time with him find, their spirits are not suffering either.  His joy, (not his condition) is contagious.

Finally, being less than perfect ought to be known as a universal truth for all of humanity regardless of genotype, but being less than perfect, we forget that also applies to ourselves.   By the logic of perfection and no suffering, the whole human race ought to die out, for to live is to struggle and even suffer a whole host of pains.  To be human is to feel that emptiness as if one has never eaten even if a feast was set, to be able to be alone in a room full of people, and to in a moment sense how still time can stand when we ache and wish the ache would stop.   We cannot exist and breathe without knowing that this life is fragile and the relationships within it all the more precious.  The only thing that lessens suffering is love in action. Love in action comes most quickly and perfectly through others.

No wonder our world struggles with pain so, we’ve thrown away a lot of others. We’ve rejected a lot of “kids like Paul”  and called it anything but what it is, a waste of a whole town worth of love a year; and we’ve done it out of fear of the other, fear of love, fear of service, fear of having our lives directed beyond our vision, and fear of how our lives would be altered.  How frightening to face a lifetime with people who have gentle natures and whose natural response to everything, is to smile and be happy and yes, dump one’s Cd’s from that one particular bookshelf.

From a spiritual sense, the world would be deathly afraid of more “Kids like Paul” and prefer they never be seen, heard, known, born.  Each “kid like Paul” that survives the gauntlet of the womb softens a bit of the edges of life and brings that community of his or her larger adoptive family.  Each ”kid like Paul” brings the corner of the world they live in a bit more love, a bit more proof that while we all naturally sin, our default desires in the deepest of our hearts is to love, to serve, to be part of a larger body than the island of our own selves.

Copyright 2011 Sherry Antonetti

For the fun of it, I started crafting my own commencement speech for the kids for when they finally leave home.

Children, for you will always be our children, we hope you will treasure your innocence. It is often not recognized as the gift it is until it has been eroded entirely. It came with you when you were born and we have shepherded you to this point as best we could, knowing that this lightness was important and beautiful and easily blown out by the world.

We hope you will recognize that your life is sacred. We have known this since before you were born.  When you were small, we wrapped you in blankets and kept you warm, fed you good food and took delight in exposing you to beauty and truth and joy.  Now you are grown. You must shepherd your own faith, mind and body. Do not abuse your body, mind or spirit. To protect yourself, pray daily. Be kind.

Stay close to the sacraments; they will keep you strong.

Recognize that every second we draw breath, is a gift for each of us. Recognize that we are called to be examples to each other in all that we speak, write,
think and do, but that because no one looks as good under a microscope or viewed through a magnifying glass, be charitable to others when they are being scruitinized.  It is better to be kind than to appear clever.

Be engaged in your own life. The memories you cherish about adulthood and growing up won’t be the times you spent playing video games or watching
television or surfing the net.  They will contain stories about people and places and doing things; fishing and getting skunked, or eating an extra ice
cream cone, watching the fireworks on top of a car or hiking into the mountains and seeing an eagle, snake or just the world differently. Real live involves seeing family and feasting with others. It’s hard and fattening and bubbling over and messy. The computer world is very pristine, neat, easy and
controllable, but a life filled with virtual victories and face book only friends is a virtual life, ephemeral and wasting.

Try things that are hard, that you are not naturally good at doing.  Take on challenges, then do what is expected and more.  Be enthusiastic.  People will
appreciate and remember your energy even more than your competency. Take classes from people in love with their subjects. Read everything you can.

Vote.

Volunteer in some capacity somewhere on a weekly basis. Avoid becoming seduced by your own talent. You can do this if you laugh well, laugh often, and most of all, are able to laugh at yourself.

Be unafraid to taste new things, to listen to new music and to go new places.

Welcome new people into your life and listen to others.  They often have fine ideas worth hearing. Seek out friends that will build you up and be honest at
the same time. Just remember, if you want astonishingly good friends, you have to be one.  If you wish to live a life without regrets, you must govern your
mind, heart, body and spirit now, and seek all that is good. You must also know what is good and if you don’t know, start asking. Say when your heart is
troubled or your spirit is low, those that love you will hear and provide comfort.  Be ready to return the favor.

When a child asks you to play, say yes. When dessert is offered, take it and say thanks. When you see someone needs help, give it. When someone asks for prayers, pray. These are the hallmarks of a well feasted life.

You are entering adulthood. You have and always have had, our permanent love and prayers. Don’t forget that when you leave, you will take part of us with you and we miss that part that is you, so call home.

Finally, if you want an extraordinary life, you can’t give a mediocre effort. A full life involves a fully invested heart. Be open to God with your whole life
and I promise your life will be overflowingly full.

Copyright 2011 Sherry Antonetti

Given his state, I opted to stay home with the toddlers and go to mass at five. His dad left in a flurry of activity with six of the kids. Meanwhile,
Paul was still screaming with hunger. Quickly as possible, I toasted and buttered an english muffin, poured his soy milk in a sippy cup and placed it
before him. He immediately quieted down and I began to make his next older sister’s breakfast.

But then I noticed. Paul wasn’t eating. He was staring at me. He had his hands together and shook them at me. “Oh!” he said.

Sudden dawn of thought appeared in Mom’s head. “Blessing. He wants Grace before meals.”

I rattled off “Blessed Our Lord for these thy gifts which we are about to receive through thy bounty, through Christ Our Lord. Amen.” He nodded his head, unfolded his hands and began eating.

Habbit? Sure but also something deeper. He had been starving. He had been uncharacteristically angry and crying and FOOD was what he wanted more than anything else. Yet this little two year old with developmental delays was willing to deny himself those few moments to pray.

I finished making my daughter’s and my own breakfast. We sat down to eat with him. He put his hands together again to make sure we got it.

I got it.

Oh!

Copyright 2011 Sherry Antonetti

So far, I’ve managed to determine that my capacity to deny myself is woefully lacking.  I’ve gained four pounds.  Fridays have been particularlly hungry days when I haven’t exactly put on the joyful mask for fasting or even abstaining. The rosary I planned to say daily, well I’m about a week or two behind, let’s say three days to four out of the week it gets said on the fly while I’m driving or taking out the garbage or making the beds and adoration only made it onto the schedule because it was prescribed as penance.   Three pages of the spiritual book I’d chosen as a guide for the 40 days have been skimmed but I cannot recall a word. (I fell asleep).  Flailing like crazy does not sound like the way one should be when seeking to go out in the desert of one’s spiritual life, but it aptly describes my Lenten journey thus far.

The other day, getting everyone dressed was a major ordeal.  Someone couldn’t find their shoes, another couldn’t find socks, a third needed a different shirt and the fourth was running low on skirts she liked wearing.

The next day fixing breakfast was hard. We’d ordered groceries to be delivered for that evening, but had to limp through breakfast.  Some had leftover flan. Some had oatmeal.  With such limited options, I still had one daughter who will not eat oatmeal or flan. I offered to make eggs.  Four eggs were frozen and two were cracked and frozen to the carton, but we limped through.  Naturally, two others at home wanted eggs too.  While I was fixing eggs, my five year old daughter tried to be helpful. She took the last of the cereal and poured it in a paper bowl for her brother who was sitting in his high chair awaiting his meal. Within seconds of her good deed, the bowl and it’s contents were scattered across the kitchen.  He dumped his sippy cup of soy milk for good measure.

As I frantically tried to clean up, he rubbed the remainders of his drink and food in his hair.  Now the night before, a tomato pot fell into my bathtub
killing the seedling and making my bathroom a dirty mess.  I forgotten about that until this morning when I went to give my son a quick bath to get him ready for a 10 o’clock speech appointment.  Instant mud.  Scrambling to get them all dressed and wiped down, the floor clean and table at least not sticky before she arrived, I can’t say I offered it up.  I can’t say I prayed through it.   I can say, it got done.

Loading the car today was hard. We needed gas, we were running late and for the third time, I’d stowed all the winter coats only to get socked again with a 40-60 degree pouring down nasty rainy day. Today God, everything stunk even though I could see that everything did not in fact stink, that it was me having a hard time because I just wasn’t feeling particularly dutiful.  Today everything I didn’t want to do needed immediate one on one careful attention or it would implode.  And eventually, that everything included me. We know that suffering can bring us to Christ; and I know I suffer the least, mine is an easy burden to care for a lot of people that love me; but for all that, all this mess and minutia can bring me to my knees.

But the poorness of my Lenten attempts to be less worldly culminated in mass on Palm Sunday with me alternately whispering in less than dolcet tones at my younger ones that were playing with the palms, and glaring at the older ones who were doing the same thing. I know, I am not ready.  Next weekend is Easter and I know I know I know I am not ready for that but at the same time, man the one thing I do know is how do I need Easter.   How I need Easter.  And that moment of knowing, of thinking how I needed Easter, brought the peace that doing everything properly could not have (for I would have perhaps been proud of making a good Lenten sacrifice), and the grace of knowing that screwing up was why we needed Easter in the first place.

Copyright 2011 Sherry Antonetti