For seven centuries, the Near East was home to Christians, Jews and followers of other religions, excluding Islam, which had not yet come into being. And over the centuries, although some ancient Christian and Jewish communities were wiped out by the violent spread of various sects called Islamic, indigenous Christians and Jews continued to flourish in the Near East, and even northern Africa. However, for the past hundred years, Christians and Jews (except in what is now called Israel) have been ethnically cleansed from these regions to such an extent that they now have what is, unthinkably, more or less a token presence (if that) in their own ancestral lands.
This is not a part of Christian history--and Christian current events--we can forget. And these are not Christians we should forget. We especially cannot forget them if we belong to Catholic or Eastern Orthodox traditions. Anglo-Saxon Protestants may be forgiven for their ignorance of these communities, but no-one who loves the Holy Mother of God, so revered in the East, has an excuse.
We are women, very often poor women: students, Singles, young mothers, artists. As we watch and--I hope--spread the news, we may feel helpless. We want to help. But what can we do? We can pray, fast, go to Mass and, very importantly, give alms today. It doesn't matter if what we give is akin to the widow's mite. If all we Christian women--women rich and poor--gave just the cost of what today's food would cost us--that would be a tremendous sum. If you eat nothing today, offering your hunger pangs and headache for our suffering brothers and sisters, how much will you save? Five dollars? Ten pounds? Send it to CNEWA, choosing the country where you wish the money to be sent, e.g. Iraq. Let lazy armchair warriors snarl on the internet about bombs and Obama and whatnot. We women will send bread.
Earlier it troubled me that Christians' donations were being used not solely to help penniless Christians but also their poor Muslim neighbours. This made me cross because my first feeling is that Muslims have their own charities to help Muslims, and nobody but Christians seems to care about Christians, and even then, we privileged Western Christians are very neglectful of our own, or think only of central and south Africa and Latin America. (My amazement when I discovered there is a fund in Germany to help the poor of the former DDR and other former Iron Bloc countries!) However, then I heard of how grateful and amazed the poor Muslims are that the Christian aid groups feed them too, and I realized that this can help create love and respect in the now-majority Muslims for the now-few Christians in their midst. And changing hearts is just as important as feeding empty Christian tummies and giving shelter to Christian heads.
If you have an affinity for the Society of Jesus, Mike Swan at the Toronto Catholic Register tells me that the Jesuit Refugee Service is a very experienced and effective provider of aid. And in the UK, it may be most natural to give money to Aid to the Church in Need UK.
At 6:15 PM British Summer Time, I will be praying at Mass in Edinburgh's St. Cuthbert's Chapel.* If all "Seraphic Singles" readers would join me in prayer at the same time for the Middle Eastern Christians, that would be truly awesome: a real prayer storm. I will be praying especially for the safety of the girls, young women and nuns. (CNEWA Canada has a special fund for a orphanage for Iraqi Christian girls run by nuns.)
Update: Okay, done it: put our money where my mouth is. I'm sorry it's not more, but on the Day of Judgement, I will be able to raise my head for at least a moment.
*Note to Scots: It is unclear if Mass will begin at 6 or 6:15, so I recommend coming for 6.
UPDATE: Mass is indeed at 6
Showing posts with label Other People's Children. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Other People's Children. Show all posts
Friday, 1 August 2014
Monday, 14 July 2014
Auntie Seraphic and the Thirteen Year Old Reader
A comment found in my moderation box, to go under 2010's "How to Look Like a Nice Catholic Girl":
I really enjoyed this post with all of its great information!! I am trying to impress a very nice boy at my church so this article was EXTREMELY helpful!! I know I am only 13, but a lot of the topics covered I could very much relate to. Also, any tips for personal style? I love going shopping at thrift stores to find & remake old things into new. Some of my family & friends look at me like I'm crazy when I show off a new creation. Can I still be myself without getting the same crazy looks, or should I play it safe? Thanks, Mia
Dear Mia,
I am thirty years older than you, and I often think about how cool it would be to be thirteen. You see, you have something that most adults over 25 do not have: an almost limitless capacity to learn. And because your body is still growing and developing, you have the opportunity to help it become the healthiest, strongest and most flexible adult body you can have.
As a thirteen year old, you have at least seven years to go before you need to seriously think about impressing boys with your looks and personal style, falling in love and getting married. And, in fact, your entire life may very well be determined by what you do with these seven years. These seven years are very, very important.
I see that you have a creative mind, and that is wonderful. However, there are better things you can do with your creativity than shop for clothes, alter them and show them off to friends and family. The altering part, I admit, is pretty cool, if you mean that you are practicing cutting and sewing--real and useful skills.
Love of being noticed and applauded is the big temptation of teenage girls. It isn't such a problem when teenage girls strive to be noticed and applauded for your deeds, like getting an A in math, learning Italian or scoring the winning point in volleyball. It's a problem when teenage girls strive to get the attention merely by what you look like. At thirteen, as long as you are clean, healthy, happy and and wearing clean, modest clothing appropriate for your age and the weather, it does not matter what you look like.
Now you may feel disappointed and think I am either crazy or boring, but I remember very well what it was like to be thirteen. I even remember sitting on my bedroom floor trying to make "looks" out of my clothing after studying my latest thrilling issue of Seventeen magazine. I also remember the boy I had a crush on; I even remember his birthday.
But I have had thirty years to think about this, and I have come to the conclusion that the most important things you can do when you are thirteen are to learn, especially languages, to master skills, and to find a sport that you can excel in, even if that sport is chess. Instead of shopping, you could be reading. Instead of showing off looks, you could be showing your friends and family stories, poems or essays you have written on the subjects that interest you most. Instead of altering clothes, you could be doing math puzzles or learning new languages.
To be frank, you do not want to be noticed by boys right now. Any time you spend with boys that does not involve learning school subjects or playing games like chess or soccer is wasted time. At your age, boys are tempted to waste a lot of time.
My article about "looking like a Nice Catholic Girl" is one of the most popular posts I have ever written, but it was meant for women who are old enough to think about getting married in the next few years. The idea was to make women who have been unable to attract church-going men think about what messages their hair, make-up clothes might be sending.
When it comes to adult (20+) women befriending men who might make good husbands, having a nice appearance is only the beginning. It's like having a very impressive looking science project: the science project has got to be interesting through-and-through; it can't just LOOK good. People will notice the project because it looks good, but unless it involves excellent research and creative ideas, readers will become disappointed and lose interest. My post assumes that my adult women readers are already "fascinating science projects" underneath--the results of years of their own study, work and development--and just need some tips to be noticed by the people "at the science fair."
A young Catholic man once said to me, "I understand that girls are interested in me, but why do they think I should be interested in them?" He wasn't just talking about what the girls looked like; he was also talking about their interests and accomplishments. At thirteen, you are embarking on your high school career. If you excel at your studies, and if you excel at at least one sport, you may be able to win scholarships to college. This may mean the difference between a boring adult life and an exciting adult life, between meeting boring men who are not interested in creativity, and meeting interesting men who are interested in creativity. Boys and men who are interested only in superficial appearances, like the clothes you wear, are losers.
This is what I wish adults had said to me when I was thirteen--or if they did and I didn't listen, this is advice I wish I had followed at thirteen. I hope you take it seriously and find it helpful. And I hope you share what I have written (here and in the original post) with your mother or another adult who loves you. Please don't automatically trust complete strangers whose advice you find on the internet.
By the way, that guy I had a crush on when I was thirteen? While I was wasting time thinking about him, he was playing sports and studying. Now he is a wealthy accountant, highly respected in the business world of our hometown. Back then, I wished he would notice me. Now I wish I had worked harder to do what he was doing: working on becoming a better athlete and a successful student!
Grace and peace,
Seraphic
Update for Canadian Readers: Sure, we don't really have sports scholarships in Canada--not like they do in the USA, but making a varsity team looks very good on a resume because it shows you can perform, and work with others, in a competitive environment.
I really enjoyed this post with all of its great information!! I am trying to impress a very nice boy at my church so this article was EXTREMELY helpful!! I know I am only 13, but a lot of the topics covered I could very much relate to. Also, any tips for personal style? I love going shopping at thrift stores to find & remake old things into new. Some of my family & friends look at me like I'm crazy when I show off a new creation. Can I still be myself without getting the same crazy looks, or should I play it safe? Thanks, Mia
Dear Mia,
I am thirty years older than you, and I often think about how cool it would be to be thirteen. You see, you have something that most adults over 25 do not have: an almost limitless capacity to learn. And because your body is still growing and developing, you have the opportunity to help it become the healthiest, strongest and most flexible adult body you can have.
As a thirteen year old, you have at least seven years to go before you need to seriously think about impressing boys with your looks and personal style, falling in love and getting married. And, in fact, your entire life may very well be determined by what you do with these seven years. These seven years are very, very important.
I see that you have a creative mind, and that is wonderful. However, there are better things you can do with your creativity than shop for clothes, alter them and show them off to friends and family. The altering part, I admit, is pretty cool, if you mean that you are practicing cutting and sewing--real and useful skills.
Love of being noticed and applauded is the big temptation of teenage girls. It isn't such a problem when teenage girls strive to be noticed and applauded for your deeds, like getting an A in math, learning Italian or scoring the winning point in volleyball. It's a problem when teenage girls strive to get the attention merely by what you look like. At thirteen, as long as you are clean, healthy, happy and and wearing clean, modest clothing appropriate for your age and the weather, it does not matter what you look like.
Now you may feel disappointed and think I am either crazy or boring, but I remember very well what it was like to be thirteen. I even remember sitting on my bedroom floor trying to make "looks" out of my clothing after studying my latest thrilling issue of Seventeen magazine. I also remember the boy I had a crush on; I even remember his birthday.
But I have had thirty years to think about this, and I have come to the conclusion that the most important things you can do when you are thirteen are to learn, especially languages, to master skills, and to find a sport that you can excel in, even if that sport is chess. Instead of shopping, you could be reading. Instead of showing off looks, you could be showing your friends and family stories, poems or essays you have written on the subjects that interest you most. Instead of altering clothes, you could be doing math puzzles or learning new languages.
To be frank, you do not want to be noticed by boys right now. Any time you spend with boys that does not involve learning school subjects or playing games like chess or soccer is wasted time. At your age, boys are tempted to waste a lot of time.
My article about "looking like a Nice Catholic Girl" is one of the most popular posts I have ever written, but it was meant for women who are old enough to think about getting married in the next few years. The idea was to make women who have been unable to attract church-going men think about what messages their hair, make-up clothes might be sending.
When it comes to adult (20+) women befriending men who might make good husbands, having a nice appearance is only the beginning. It's like having a very impressive looking science project: the science project has got to be interesting through-and-through; it can't just LOOK good. People will notice the project because it looks good, but unless it involves excellent research and creative ideas, readers will become disappointed and lose interest. My post assumes that my adult women readers are already "fascinating science projects" underneath--the results of years of their own study, work and development--and just need some tips to be noticed by the people "at the science fair."
A young Catholic man once said to me, "I understand that girls are interested in me, but why do they think I should be interested in them?" He wasn't just talking about what the girls looked like; he was also talking about their interests and accomplishments. At thirteen, you are embarking on your high school career. If you excel at your studies, and if you excel at at least one sport, you may be able to win scholarships to college. This may mean the difference between a boring adult life and an exciting adult life, between meeting boring men who are not interested in creativity, and meeting interesting men who are interested in creativity. Boys and men who are interested only in superficial appearances, like the clothes you wear, are losers.
This is what I wish adults had said to me when I was thirteen--or if they did and I didn't listen, this is advice I wish I had followed at thirteen. I hope you take it seriously and find it helpful. And I hope you share what I have written (here and in the original post) with your mother or another adult who loves you. Please don't automatically trust complete strangers whose advice you find on the internet.
By the way, that guy I had a crush on when I was thirteen? While I was wasting time thinking about him, he was playing sports and studying. Now he is a wealthy accountant, highly respected in the business world of our hometown. Back then, I wished he would notice me. Now I wish I had worked harder to do what he was doing: working on becoming a better athlete and a successful student!
Grace and peace,
Seraphic
Update for Canadian Readers: Sure, we don't really have sports scholarships in Canada--not like they do in the USA, but making a varsity team looks very good on a resume because it shows you can perform, and work with others, in a competitive environment.
Wednesday, 25 June 2014
Family Branch
My mother has come over to Scotland on holiday, bringing a tin of homemade cookies, vegetable shortening, Tim Horton's coffee and my best red suit, which I fit into once again. Today she has a refresher driving lesson, so as to get the hang of driving on the left side of the road. This is a brilliant idea.
Yesterday we dressed in our best Ladies Who Lunch outfits and went to the Caledonian Hotel (officially now the Waldorf Astoria, as it is called by nobody in Edinburgh) for afternoon tea. My mother loves hotel teas. But it's not the tea or the food as much as the ambiance, really, that is so romantic to my mum. And "Peacock Alley" is certainly an impressively grand space. (I suppose it could be described as romantic, only this time I was there with my mother, and the one time B.A. and I sat there we were with Polish Pretend Son, and PPS looked like he was about to stab the tardy waiter with his pen knife, which is romantic only in songs.)
Tea, you should be warned, is 25 squid per person. But you do get some very yummy things: sandwiches with the crusts cut off, two kinds of scones with clotted cream and two kinds of jam, slices of chocolate jelly roll, several petites fours, and an extra plate of cookies and lemon loaf, plus multiple cups of your chosen tea. My mother and I munched our way through the plates of goodies discussing family news.
I had the vaguest sense of being a British colonist somewhere in Africa in the 1950s, hearing about home. Canada seemed very far away, and yet the snazzy afternoon tea ritual is as familiar to Canadian hotels as it is to Scottish ones. The King Edward in Toronto, for example, has an absolutely splendid tea and an equally grand hall to consume it in. And I asked eager questions of sisters, brothers, nephews and niece.
Peacock Alley was mostly populated by women, mostly slender, with excellent hair and expensive business suits. A few women had a man (and at one table a child) with them, but more often than not the tables were woman-only spaces. Afternoon Tea is a more feminine meal in Edinburgh than it is in Toronto--which I first discovered when Benedict Ambrose baulked at attending my own tea parties at home. I offer the idea of Afternoon Tea to single female readers as an excellent social activity for women, single and otherwise.
On Sunday night, B.A. and I went to the birthday dinner of a dear friend, and as usual we were the only married couple there. There were eight lifelong Singles and us--ten childless people. It was all great fun, with piano duets and singing in the sitting-room afterwards. And naturally I would have rather have been home with children because, whatever anyone says, the crown and fulfillment of married life is children.
I know that there are women with children who, being very bored and lonely, would have swapped places for me for an evening to go to a party with a lot of Single people and listen to piano duets. However, I also know that they would hasten home to their children feeling terribly glad that they had them.
Fortunately for me, one of my brothers and one of my sisters HAVE had children, so I don't have a totally "child-free" existence. I have three childish personalities to ponder, especially in the run-up to their birthdays and Christmas. And I look forward to the day when they are ready to be dumped on their Edinburgh uncle and aunt for a month in the summers while their parents see what a holiday from parenting is like.
When in Poland this year I talked about being married-but-childless, a lady asked "What about adoption?" "What about adoption" is a very painful question to the childless, particularly now that adoption is so expensive and wound with red tape. It is also wrought with bad feeling as Catholic parents lose battles to place their children with other Catholics, or even with a traditional married couple. Personally, I would have taken the Slovak Roma children in a heartbeat--although in the next heartbeat I would have remembered that I should have asked B.A. first.
I mentioned to highly politically-active friends that I would quite happily take in Christian Syrian refugee children, just as the British took in refugee children during and after the First and Second World Wars, and that I was rather surprised nobody has asked me to do this. This led my neighbour to decry the racism of the UK government and the fact that only 24 Syrian refugees have been allowed in--something like that. This confused me as Syrians are white and Christians are, er, Christians, so I don't know what racism has to do with it--other than that "race" is a highly social construct and changes from society to society.
And so this post, which begins with a delicious and expensive afternoon tea at a prestigious Edinburgh hotel. ends with the reminder that hundreds of thousands of fellow Christians are suffering horrible privations, massacres and homelessness. And I with my cash-poor but certainly circumstance-rich lifestyle am vaguely wondering why nobody has asked me to help take care of them. Oh, sure, I do get emails from a Catholic relief agency asking for money, but I don't have money: I have time, a love of hospitality and a desire to help fellow Christians. During the Second World War, I wouldn't have had to go looking for children to help; they would have been billeted on us already. What has changed?
Yesterday we dressed in our best Ladies Who Lunch outfits and went to the Caledonian Hotel (officially now the Waldorf Astoria, as it is called by nobody in Edinburgh) for afternoon tea. My mother loves hotel teas. But it's not the tea or the food as much as the ambiance, really, that is so romantic to my mum. And "Peacock Alley" is certainly an impressively grand space. (I suppose it could be described as romantic, only this time I was there with my mother, and the one time B.A. and I sat there we were with Polish Pretend Son, and PPS looked like he was about to stab the tardy waiter with his pen knife, which is romantic only in songs.)
Tea, you should be warned, is 25 squid per person. But you do get some very yummy things: sandwiches with the crusts cut off, two kinds of scones with clotted cream and two kinds of jam, slices of chocolate jelly roll, several petites fours, and an extra plate of cookies and lemon loaf, plus multiple cups of your chosen tea. My mother and I munched our way through the plates of goodies discussing family news.
I had the vaguest sense of being a British colonist somewhere in Africa in the 1950s, hearing about home. Canada seemed very far away, and yet the snazzy afternoon tea ritual is as familiar to Canadian hotels as it is to Scottish ones. The King Edward in Toronto, for example, has an absolutely splendid tea and an equally grand hall to consume it in. And I asked eager questions of sisters, brothers, nephews and niece.
Peacock Alley was mostly populated by women, mostly slender, with excellent hair and expensive business suits. A few women had a man (and at one table a child) with them, but more often than not the tables were woman-only spaces. Afternoon Tea is a more feminine meal in Edinburgh than it is in Toronto--which I first discovered when Benedict Ambrose baulked at attending my own tea parties at home. I offer the idea of Afternoon Tea to single female readers as an excellent social activity for women, single and otherwise.
On Sunday night, B.A. and I went to the birthday dinner of a dear friend, and as usual we were the only married couple there. There were eight lifelong Singles and us--ten childless people. It was all great fun, with piano duets and singing in the sitting-room afterwards. And naturally I would have rather have been home with children because, whatever anyone says, the crown and fulfillment of married life is children.
I know that there are women with children who, being very bored and lonely, would have swapped places for me for an evening to go to a party with a lot of Single people and listen to piano duets. However, I also know that they would hasten home to their children feeling terribly glad that they had them.
Fortunately for me, one of my brothers and one of my sisters HAVE had children, so I don't have a totally "child-free" existence. I have three childish personalities to ponder, especially in the run-up to their birthdays and Christmas. And I look forward to the day when they are ready to be dumped on their Edinburgh uncle and aunt for a month in the summers while their parents see what a holiday from parenting is like.
When in Poland this year I talked about being married-but-childless, a lady asked "What about adoption?" "What about adoption" is a very painful question to the childless, particularly now that adoption is so expensive and wound with red tape. It is also wrought with bad feeling as Catholic parents lose battles to place their children with other Catholics, or even with a traditional married couple. Personally, I would have taken the Slovak Roma children in a heartbeat--although in the next heartbeat I would have remembered that I should have asked B.A. first.
I mentioned to highly politically-active friends that I would quite happily take in Christian Syrian refugee children, just as the British took in refugee children during and after the First and Second World Wars, and that I was rather surprised nobody has asked me to do this. This led my neighbour to decry the racism of the UK government and the fact that only 24 Syrian refugees have been allowed in--something like that. This confused me as Syrians are white and Christians are, er, Christians, so I don't know what racism has to do with it--other than that "race" is a highly social construct and changes from society to society.
And so this post, which begins with a delicious and expensive afternoon tea at a prestigious Edinburgh hotel. ends with the reminder that hundreds of thousands of fellow Christians are suffering horrible privations, massacres and homelessness. And I with my cash-poor but certainly circumstance-rich lifestyle am vaguely wondering why nobody has asked me to help take care of them. Oh, sure, I do get emails from a Catholic relief agency asking for money, but I don't have money: I have time, a love of hospitality and a desire to help fellow Christians. During the Second World War, I wouldn't have had to go looking for children to help; they would have been billeted on us already. What has changed?
Friday, 28 March 2014
Mothering Sunday Thoughts
I have to think about Mother's Day twice a year because British Mothering Sunday is on the fourth Sunday of Lent and North American Mother's Day is the second Sunday in May. Mothering Sunday seems more low-key than North American Mother's Day, and in fact its historical roots do not wind around mothers but the practice of visiting one's "mother church" or Cathedral that day. Visiting ol' Mum and bringing her a nice treat (like a simnel cake) sprang up around that, and was revived in the 1920s.
I do not know if parish priests in the UK ever pull the "All mothers stand and be applauded" nonsense because I am always at the FSSP Mass on Laetare Sunday, and homey don't play that. I hope ordinary parish priests don't either. But if they do, I hope one day all British Catholic women over 25 get so sick of it that they ALL stand. John Paul II wrote that all women are called to be mothers, physical or spiritual, and so, really, clerics should not be making such a obvious distinction between biological mothers and all other women. Incidentally, I wonder how the bereaved mothers feel when the priest cheerfully "invites" them to stand. Or mothers with children in JAIL. Or mothers whose children have been taken from them by the courts or runaway husbands. Or women who have had miscarriages. Or women who are grieving ab*rti*ns. Mother's Day must be hard enough for them without tacked on cheer and clap-clap-clap.
Have I mentioned how much I hate it when pastorallytone-deaf silly people add all this made-up stuff to the liturgy? I have?!?!
I wouldn't mind a prayer for mothers at the end of Laetare Sunday Mass, if said over the entire kneeling congregation, especially if it mentioned all the horrors that attend maternity--the physical pains, the emotional pains, the social difficulties, the dread of what the world might do to their darlings, the anger at what the world has already done to their darlings, etc. No, what I principally object to is the mothers being invited to stand while the childless sit dumbly and are forced to applaud with everyone else their fecund (or richer, adoptive) sisters' gift of children. I do not at all blame these mothers. I blame the priests.
Poor old priests. I probably tell this story every year, but back in Toronto around 1997 or so, a priest gave a Mother's Day homily on the wonder of MOTHER. Ah, our Mothers, our sainted Mothers, ah to be sure, too-rah-loo-rah-loo-rah. After Mass, as he was talking to a male classmate of mine, a furious woman stormed up with tears in her eyes and told him that he didn't know anything about mothers and his homily was insultingly sentimental nonsense. On she raged, and the priest and my pal were petrified before her inexplicable female anger and I HOPE, although I don't know, that the priest said, "I am so sorry you are upset. Please come and talk to me in my office."
"My goodness," said my friend, who thought I would join him in marveling over this "crazy" woman, "if you can't preach a sermon on mothers, what CAN you preach about?"
Listen, chaps. Not only are women sensitive about whether or not we are mothers, we are also sensitive about our experience in being mothered. And an overfed priest rabbiting on about how proud his mother was the day he got ordained is not going to go down well with the generations of women who grew up playing second-fiddle to their brothers, or who found themselves horribly thrust in the position of rival for their father's/stepfather's attention. There are even mothers who will sacrifice their children--who will turn a blind eye to their daughters'/granddaughters' sexual abuse--for their own sex lives. Homilies on that would be great. Heavens! And wouldn't I love to hear an [X]-Canadian priest demand of [X]-Canadian women (for example) if they work their daughters too hard and pamper their sons too much. (Fill in the [X] however you like.)
Anyway. Mothering Sunday. When I don't think about it in detail, I feel more tranquil now about being childless that I have been since I married. The answer to "But does the pain of being childless ever go away?" is YES--at least in my case. Since the bitter heartbreak of the Insensitive Doctor's Phone Call, I have been feeling a lot better. The worst--and that was the worst--is over, and I can get on with my life. I am answering the question, "What would you do if you were reasonably sure you could never have children?" by praying, "God, You know I want children. Send me whichever children You think I should mother."
And lo! In the post yesterday, Mothering Sunday greetings from Seminarian Pretend Son to his "Canadian Pretend Mother"! Yay! My first authentic Pretend Mother's Day card! Such a good boy. He's in the seminary, you know.
So that is my advice to women, single or married, who terribly want children, but don't have them. Pray hard, not for children, but for whichever children God wants you to have. These could be natural children of the body, or they could be children of the spirit. They could be foster children, or they could be foreign students. They could be your own elementary school pupils. They could be, if you become a nun, your novices. (And what a shame so many orders have dropped the title of "Mother" from older nuns!) When it comes to motherhood, we need to think outside the box. If all women are called to be mothers, then motherhood is not just a biological reality, and motherhood is something more than giving birth. It is a many-splendoured gift from God to us all.
I do not know if parish priests in the UK ever pull the "All mothers stand and be applauded" nonsense because I am always at the FSSP Mass on Laetare Sunday, and homey don't play that. I hope ordinary parish priests don't either. But if they do, I hope one day all British Catholic women over 25 get so sick of it that they ALL stand. John Paul II wrote that all women are called to be mothers, physical or spiritual, and so, really, clerics should not be making such a obvious distinction between biological mothers and all other women. Incidentally, I wonder how the bereaved mothers feel when the priest cheerfully "invites" them to stand. Or mothers with children in JAIL. Or mothers whose children have been taken from them by the courts or runaway husbands. Or women who have had miscarriages. Or women who are grieving ab*rti*ns. Mother's Day must be hard enough for them without tacked on cheer and clap-clap-clap.
Have I mentioned how much I hate it when pastorallytone-deaf silly people add all this made-up stuff to the liturgy? I have?!?!
I wouldn't mind a prayer for mothers at the end of Laetare Sunday Mass, if said over the entire kneeling congregation, especially if it mentioned all the horrors that attend maternity--the physical pains, the emotional pains, the social difficulties, the dread of what the world might do to their darlings, the anger at what the world has already done to their darlings, etc. No, what I principally object to is the mothers being invited to stand while the childless sit dumbly and are forced to applaud with everyone else their fecund (or richer, adoptive) sisters' gift of children. I do not at all blame these mothers. I blame the priests.
Poor old priests. I probably tell this story every year, but back in Toronto around 1997 or so, a priest gave a Mother's Day homily on the wonder of MOTHER. Ah, our Mothers, our sainted Mothers, ah to be sure, too-rah-loo-rah-loo-rah. After Mass, as he was talking to a male classmate of mine, a furious woman stormed up with tears in her eyes and told him that he didn't know anything about mothers and his homily was insultingly sentimental nonsense. On she raged, and the priest and my pal were petrified before her inexplicable female anger and I HOPE, although I don't know, that the priest said, "I am so sorry you are upset. Please come and talk to me in my office."
"My goodness," said my friend, who thought I would join him in marveling over this "crazy" woman, "if you can't preach a sermon on mothers, what CAN you preach about?"
Listen, chaps. Not only are women sensitive about whether or not we are mothers, we are also sensitive about our experience in being mothered. And an overfed priest rabbiting on about how proud his mother was the day he got ordained is not going to go down well with the generations of women who grew up playing second-fiddle to their brothers, or who found themselves horribly thrust in the position of rival for their father's/stepfather's attention. There are even mothers who will sacrifice their children--who will turn a blind eye to their daughters'/granddaughters' sexual abuse--for their own sex lives. Homilies on that would be great. Heavens! And wouldn't I love to hear an [X]-Canadian priest demand of [X]-Canadian women (for example) if they work their daughters too hard and pamper their sons too much. (Fill in the [X] however you like.)
Anyway. Mothering Sunday. When I don't think about it in detail, I feel more tranquil now about being childless that I have been since I married. The answer to "But does the pain of being childless ever go away?" is YES--at least in my case. Since the bitter heartbreak of the Insensitive Doctor's Phone Call, I have been feeling a lot better. The worst--and that was the worst--is over, and I can get on with my life. I am answering the question, "What would you do if you were reasonably sure you could never have children?" by praying, "God, You know I want children. Send me whichever children You think I should mother."
And lo! In the post yesterday, Mothering Sunday greetings from Seminarian Pretend Son to his "Canadian Pretend Mother"! Yay! My first authentic Pretend Mother's Day card! Such a good boy. He's in the seminary, you know.
So that is my advice to women, single or married, who terribly want children, but don't have them. Pray hard, not for children, but for whichever children God wants you to have. These could be natural children of the body, or they could be children of the spirit. They could be foster children, or they could be foreign students. They could be your own elementary school pupils. They could be, if you become a nun, your novices. (And what a shame so many orders have dropped the title of "Mother" from older nuns!) When it comes to motherhood, we need to think outside the box. If all women are called to be mothers, then motherhood is not just a biological reality, and motherhood is something more than giving birth. It is a many-splendoured gift from God to us all.
Monday, 24 March 2014
Pretend Mommy Blogging
Okay, so I began this morning by taking photos of Seminarian Pretend Son in front of the Historical House. It was very sunny, so the Historical House looked more Italianate than ever! Then I wrote a very long email to Polish Pretend Son, which I finished just as Polish Temporary Pretend Daughter came into the sitting-room to hear me read Polish. And then I had to run like the wind to catch a bus to an appointment.
I had a nice chat with Seminarian Pretend Son today about the advantages of Pretend Children. First of all, you are not stuck with each other. Both parties have a choice. Pretend Children come from the ranks of young people who think older people are cool, not by definition creepy, weird and boring. And Pretend Mothers have to be cool, not creepy, weird or boring, and in tune with this whole "Pretend" fact.
Second, university-age Pretend Children are already grown up, and what you are pretend mothering is the finished, expensive product. I acknowledge that it is very unfair that Pretend Mothers get the advantage of all the Real Mothers' hard work by having the Real Mothers' creations adorn their sitting-rooms and dinner parties, but life is not fair, and would the Real Mothers have willingly missed the first two decades? No.
Third, Pretend Children have good manners and don't hurt the furniture. They may leave their toys on it, of course. But in the Historical House the Pretend Children play with coffee carafes, pipe cleaning tools, smart hats, wool scarves, badger hair shaving brushes, elegant scents, including rose-flavoured shampoo B.A. is tempted to eat, The Chap magazine and exotic liqueurs. (My Polish Temporary Pretend Daughter does not leave anything around anywhere, and from what I can see from the hall her room is as tidy as the day she moved in.)
Fourth, Pretend Children are capable of deeply interesting conversation and often have intriguing hobbies. Seminarian Pretend Son made a very clever (if slightly wicked) joke this morning and if I remembered it, I would tell you. (What was it?) Also, he gave me very good advice regarding a tweed jacket because if you have a question about tweed, SPS is your man.
Fifth, in part because this is all ruled by choice and no-one can take anyone for granted (as in Real Maternal-Filial Relationships), Pretend Children are less likely to be rude and more likely to say "thank you" for things. They beg to wash the dishes, or they bring you vodka from Poland and truffle-infused cheese from Rome. They also tend to do their own laundry, and all the Pretend Mother has to do is show them how to work the washing machine.
Sixth, they are really easy to take care of. You just give them clean sheets and stuff to eat and liquids to drink and plenty of time in the bathroom doing whatever it is to their hair , and they are perfectly happy. Of course sometimes they text at 1 AM asking you to let them in, but you don't mind because whatever they were doing, it was probably interesting and they might even tell you what it was because you are not their Real Mother, who might not survive the shock. (You can have many Pretend Mothers, but only one Pretend Mother after all.)
Sunday, by the way, is Mothering Sunday (or Mother's Day) in the UK, and I wonder if I will get a Pretend Card. (What would a Pretend Card look like? My guess: invisible.) This however does not concern me as much as if I will ever have any Pretend Grandchildren. Oh well, even if I do not, I do have a Real Niece and two Real Nephews, so they may provide them.
I had a nice chat with Seminarian Pretend Son today about the advantages of Pretend Children. First of all, you are not stuck with each other. Both parties have a choice. Pretend Children come from the ranks of young people who think older people are cool, not by definition creepy, weird and boring. And Pretend Mothers have to be cool, not creepy, weird or boring, and in tune with this whole "Pretend" fact.
Second, university-age Pretend Children are already grown up, and what you are pretend mothering is the finished, expensive product. I acknowledge that it is very unfair that Pretend Mothers get the advantage of all the Real Mothers' hard work by having the Real Mothers' creations adorn their sitting-rooms and dinner parties, but life is not fair, and would the Real Mothers have willingly missed the first two decades? No.
Third, Pretend Children have good manners and don't hurt the furniture. They may leave their toys on it, of course. But in the Historical House the Pretend Children play with coffee carafes, pipe cleaning tools, smart hats, wool scarves, badger hair shaving brushes, elegant scents, including rose-flavoured shampoo B.A. is tempted to eat, The Chap magazine and exotic liqueurs. (My Polish Temporary Pretend Daughter does not leave anything around anywhere, and from what I can see from the hall her room is as tidy as the day she moved in.)
Fourth, Pretend Children are capable of deeply interesting conversation and often have intriguing hobbies. Seminarian Pretend Son made a very clever (if slightly wicked) joke this morning and if I remembered it, I would tell you. (What was it?) Also, he gave me very good advice regarding a tweed jacket because if you have a question about tweed, SPS is your man.
Fifth, in part because this is all ruled by choice and no-one can take anyone for granted (as in Real Maternal-Filial Relationships), Pretend Children are less likely to be rude and more likely to say "thank you" for things. They beg to wash the dishes, or they bring you vodka from Poland and truffle-infused cheese from Rome. They also tend to do their own laundry, and all the Pretend Mother has to do is show them how to work the washing machine.
Sixth, they are really easy to take care of. You just give them clean sheets and stuff to eat and liquids to drink and plenty of time in the bathroom doing whatever it is to their hair , and they are perfectly happy. Of course sometimes they text at 1 AM asking you to let them in, but you don't mind because whatever they were doing, it was probably interesting and they might even tell you what it was because you are not their Real Mother, who might not survive the shock. (You can have many Pretend Mothers, but only one Pretend Mother after all.)
Sunday, by the way, is Mothering Sunday (or Mother's Day) in the UK, and I wonder if I will get a Pretend Card. (What would a Pretend Card look like? My guess: invisible.) This however does not concern me as much as if I will ever have any Pretend Grandchildren. Oh well, even if I do not, I do have a Real Niece and two Real Nephews, so they may provide them.
Tuesday, 18 March 2014
The Gift of Being the Oldest
Today I was on Skype with a faraway friend who has two little children under five, and I thought again about young stay-at-home mothers and how frustrating their lives can be. Even if they live in comfortable material circumstances, there is the difficulty of keeping the home nice long enough for their husbands to see it nice. After all, it takes small children five minutes to undo an hour-long cleaning job that in actual fact takes a mother with demanding infants all day to do. Then the tired and cranky husband comes home, sees the mess and thinks, "What have you been doing all day?"
I've read that it is actually easier to be a mother of four and more than a mother of two because a mother of four and more automatically recruits the elder children to help with childcare. My first word was "diaper" because I had helpfully brought one to my mother when she was changing my first brother. I was two.
Naturally I enjoyed the power that came along with being the eldest and in charge of making sure my brothers and sisters didn't fall down the stairs, or out of trees, or in front of cars. But nowadays I just enjoy the childcare knowledge that came from youthful experience; it means that I can empathize with mothers when they talk about the "terrible twos." My youngest sister, I can say with confidence, did not actually suffer from the "terrible twos." She was a wonderfully cheerful toddler.
What she did suffer from, as do most if not all babies, was waking up in the middle of the night from birth until about the age of two. She did not like this; it made her wail. The nursery was across the hall from my room; my parents' bedroom was downstairs. So I would get up and sing my infant sister back to sleep with the small store of appropriate songs I had learned at school. "Eidelweiss" was very helpful as were "Skye Boat Song" and "Too Rah Loo Rah Loo Rah." "Too Rah Loo Rah" is fake Irish Tin Pan Alley garbage, but it worked.
I thought it was tremendously noble and saintly of me to be the one to get up and rock the baby sister back to sleep although I very much enjoyed doing it. It was extremely good for my soul, too, to be dragged out of my habitual self-absorption to think solely of someone else for an hour. Meanwhile it is probably much easier for a child of thirteen to go without an hour of midnight sleep than a busy woman of thirty-seven anyway. And since it is increasingly unlikely as each day goes by that I shall ever have infant children of my own, I am supremely grateful that I was given the opportunity to care for my mother's in such a special way.
I don't think there can be anything better than rocking your very own children to sleep, but I was reflecting that there can't be anything worse than worrying about your child when she is sick or about to do something stupid or running around with bad friends or gaily going off to an alien religious service. Maternal types without children may not experience the great highs of parenthood, but we don't experience the horrible lows, either. We gets flashes of joy and flashes of fear, the former inspiring gratitude and the latter deep compassion for parents.
I've read that it is actually easier to be a mother of four and more than a mother of two because a mother of four and more automatically recruits the elder children to help with childcare. My first word was "diaper" because I had helpfully brought one to my mother when she was changing my first brother. I was two.
Naturally I enjoyed the power that came along with being the eldest and in charge of making sure my brothers and sisters didn't fall down the stairs, or out of trees, or in front of cars. But nowadays I just enjoy the childcare knowledge that came from youthful experience; it means that I can empathize with mothers when they talk about the "terrible twos." My youngest sister, I can say with confidence, did not actually suffer from the "terrible twos." She was a wonderfully cheerful toddler.
What she did suffer from, as do most if not all babies, was waking up in the middle of the night from birth until about the age of two. She did not like this; it made her wail. The nursery was across the hall from my room; my parents' bedroom was downstairs. So I would get up and sing my infant sister back to sleep with the small store of appropriate songs I had learned at school. "Eidelweiss" was very helpful as were "Skye Boat Song" and "Too Rah Loo Rah Loo Rah." "Too Rah Loo Rah" is fake Irish Tin Pan Alley garbage, but it worked.
I thought it was tremendously noble and saintly of me to be the one to get up and rock the baby sister back to sleep although I very much enjoyed doing it. It was extremely good for my soul, too, to be dragged out of my habitual self-absorption to think solely of someone else for an hour. Meanwhile it is probably much easier for a child of thirteen to go without an hour of midnight sleep than a busy woman of thirty-seven anyway. And since it is increasingly unlikely as each day goes by that I shall ever have infant children of my own, I am supremely grateful that I was given the opportunity to care for my mother's in such a special way.
I don't think there can be anything better than rocking your very own children to sleep, but I was reflecting that there can't be anything worse than worrying about your child when she is sick or about to do something stupid or running around with bad friends or gaily going off to an alien religious service. Maternal types without children may not experience the great highs of parenthood, but we don't experience the horrible lows, either. We gets flashes of joy and flashes of fear, the former inspiring gratitude and the latter deep compassion for parents.
Friday, 7 March 2014
Providential!
Seraphic: Listen, O Lord. I am going a bit squirrelly here. I realize we are approaching Elizabeth-and-Zachariah territory, but I need a young thing in the house. I'm starting to wonder if bats make good pets. That's where I'm at. Do something.
God: Well, this is your lucky day, for it turns out I have another Polish student with a housing cris--.
Seraphic: Awesome! When can she move in?
God: Well, this is your lucky day, for it turns out I have another Polish student with a housing cris--.
Seraphic: Awesome! When can she move in?
Saturday, 8 February 2014
With Married People With Kids
Well, I have been remiss in blogging, for I have been out and about, taking buses and trains to visit friends and family. I don't know how mommy bloggers do it, for if I had children, I don't think I'd be able to blog. As I was writing in my travel journal today, my three-year-old niece appeared in a pink leotard and tutu and began to dance. Well, who can write under such conditions?
I am a Baby Ballet slave. The Ballet Baby having, apropos of nothing, told me that "Jesus is very nice", I gave her a prayer card with Our Lady of Czestochowa on it. She ran away immediately to put it in a special box containing a miniature melon and a tiny lamb wearing a gingham dress. My heart melted, and my IQ dropped ten points.
Really, babies. A drug. Last week I was in a café designed for art-loving mummies and their babies--very much a place for Mommies who Lunch--and a little Korean-Canadian girl, about one and a half, pointed to me and squeaked, "Emu! Emu!"
"It means 'Aunt'," explained her mother, and I was blown away by the brilliance of this child.
"Yes, I am," I said. "I am an Auntie."
My heart melted, and my IQ dropped ten points.
Of course, in many cultures, an Auntie is any older woman who appears to be friendly with one's parents. This is true, in a moderate way, in English-speaking Canada, too. It's old-fashioned. I'm old-fashioned. And I love being an auntie.
One of the benefits of being an auntie is that it is usually part-time work, and I don't want to insult the small children of the world, but they seem to run their parents ragged. I don't know many mothers with little children in Scotland, so I am struck by how loving yet tired my Canadian friends with children are. Tired and sometimes frustrated. And lonely. The stay-at-home mummies are lonelier than the working mummies. The working mummies get to see other adults and have adult conversations. The stay-at-home mummies really depend on other women taking the time to cross town to see them, or to see them around children's activities. The mummy café on Toronto's Roncesvalles is not just a brilliant idea, it's a true service to the community.
Doting grandparents are extremely helpful. Occasionally grandparents take the kids away--and then some of the parents are vaguely uneasy. Suddenly they want to spend MORE time with their kids... I'm not sure I really understand parents-of-little-kids, really.
At any rate, from listening to stay-at-home mummies I have come to the not so original conclusion that the grass is always greener on the other side. Some stay-at-home mums really want to work, for the sake of money and companionship and their expensive(in time and effort as well as money) educations, but then they don't want to be away from their babies. Other stay-at-homes are fine with staying at home, but would love an extra pair of hands to help out with the endless cleaning. This married, childless aunt is in total thrall to any girl child between the ages of six months and five.
Meanwhile, once again, I find the best cure for the Childless Blues is to go home to Canada and see how the Childfull live. And the Childfull are flatteringly happy to see me. For one thing, I am good for two back-to-back storybook sessions. Last night I carted a wailing child away to a couch where I deposited her on cushions and read her the tale of "Madge the Tickling Midge." I had already read her and her brother "Darth Vader and Son", absolutely straight-faced.
Ah, it's good to be an aunt.
I am a Baby Ballet slave. The Ballet Baby having, apropos of nothing, told me that "Jesus is very nice", I gave her a prayer card with Our Lady of Czestochowa on it. She ran away immediately to put it in a special box containing a miniature melon and a tiny lamb wearing a gingham dress. My heart melted, and my IQ dropped ten points.
Really, babies. A drug. Last week I was in a café designed for art-loving mummies and their babies--very much a place for Mommies who Lunch--and a little Korean-Canadian girl, about one and a half, pointed to me and squeaked, "Emu! Emu!"
"It means 'Aunt'," explained her mother, and I was blown away by the brilliance of this child.
"Yes, I am," I said. "I am an Auntie."
My heart melted, and my IQ dropped ten points.
Of course, in many cultures, an Auntie is any older woman who appears to be friendly with one's parents. This is true, in a moderate way, in English-speaking Canada, too. It's old-fashioned. I'm old-fashioned. And I love being an auntie.
One of the benefits of being an auntie is that it is usually part-time work, and I don't want to insult the small children of the world, but they seem to run their parents ragged. I don't know many mothers with little children in Scotland, so I am struck by how loving yet tired my Canadian friends with children are. Tired and sometimes frustrated. And lonely. The stay-at-home mummies are lonelier than the working mummies. The working mummies get to see other adults and have adult conversations. The stay-at-home mummies really depend on other women taking the time to cross town to see them, or to see them around children's activities. The mummy café on Toronto's Roncesvalles is not just a brilliant idea, it's a true service to the community.
Doting grandparents are extremely helpful. Occasionally grandparents take the kids away--and then some of the parents are vaguely uneasy. Suddenly they want to spend MORE time with their kids... I'm not sure I really understand parents-of-little-kids, really.
At any rate, from listening to stay-at-home mummies I have come to the not so original conclusion that the grass is always greener on the other side. Some stay-at-home mums really want to work, for the sake of money and companionship and their expensive(in time and effort as well as money) educations, but then they don't want to be away from their babies. Other stay-at-homes are fine with staying at home, but would love an extra pair of hands to help out with the endless cleaning. This married, childless aunt is in total thrall to any girl child between the ages of six months and five.
Meanwhile, once again, I find the best cure for the Childless Blues is to go home to Canada and see how the Childfull live. And the Childfull are flatteringly happy to see me. For one thing, I am good for two back-to-back storybook sessions. Last night I carted a wailing child away to a couch where I deposited her on cushions and read her the tale of "Madge the Tickling Midge." I had already read her and her brother "Darth Vader and Son", absolutely straight-faced.
Ah, it's good to be an aunt.
Wednesday, 30 October 2013
Auntie Seraphic & the Angry Young Mum
Dear Young Mother Sitting Near the Back of the Bus,
The reason why I called down the length of the nearly empty bus to ask if the tiny blond child-- alone, asleep and almost invisible--at the very front of the bus was your son was not to judge you but to ascertain before I got off the bus that he had not been abandoned.
I didn't judge you until I saw you scowling at me through the window. Now I think you're chippy and stupid.
Fortunately for your son and other children, I am kind of woman who always looks for a child's mother when that child is alone or in distress. Your angry look will not change that.
Oh, and by the way, in the UK a child is reported missing every three minutes. You think about that the next time you take the older child with you to the back of the bus, leaving the toddler by the door, and then getting on your mobile phone. It would have been the work of an instant for someone to scoop up your sleeping son, get off the bus and run. The driver didn't even know your son was there; he had no idea what I was talking about, and I am not sure he could see him.
It's a tough world for mothers, but it will be even worse when women like me don't bother to make sure your children aren't in trouble.
Grace and peace,
Middle-aged Yank-sounding Ginger Woman in the Blue Coat
Update: I've received some "We get nagged all the time by strangers" comments from parents to my tale, so I will dial back on the your-kid-could-be-kidnapped thoughts. Only about 52 children in the UK are murdered each year, and only 532 children in the UK were kidnapped in police year 2011/2012. This still adds up to 584 horrible tragedies, but the odds were in the sleeping blond moppet's favour. But, as I said, my first thought was that he had been abandoned or forgotten there, since he was asleep and his mother was not in immediate view. And I didn't say, "Tsk, tsk, tsk." I said "Is this your son...? Is this your son...? Oh, okay. Great."
The reason why I called down the length of the nearly empty bus to ask if the tiny blond child-- alone, asleep and almost invisible--at the very front of the bus was your son was not to judge you but to ascertain before I got off the bus that he had not been abandoned.
I didn't judge you until I saw you scowling at me through the window. Now I think you're chippy and stupid.
Fortunately for your son and other children, I am kind of woman who always looks for a child's mother when that child is alone or in distress. Your angry look will not change that.
Oh, and by the way, in the UK a child is reported missing every three minutes. You think about that the next time you take the older child with you to the back of the bus, leaving the toddler by the door, and then getting on your mobile phone. It would have been the work of an instant for someone to scoop up your sleeping son, get off the bus and run. The driver didn't even know your son was there; he had no idea what I was talking about, and I am not sure he could see him.
It's a tough world for mothers, but it will be even worse when women like me don't bother to make sure your children aren't in trouble.
Grace and peace,
Middle-aged Yank-sounding Ginger Woman in the Blue Coat
Update: I've received some "We get nagged all the time by strangers" comments from parents to my tale, so I will dial back on the your-kid-could-be-kidnapped thoughts. Only about 52 children in the UK are murdered each year, and only 532 children in the UK were kidnapped in police year 2011/2012. This still adds up to 584 horrible tragedies, but the odds were in the sleeping blond moppet's favour. But, as I said, my first thought was that he had been abandoned or forgotten there, since he was asleep and his mother was not in immediate view. And I didn't say, "Tsk, tsk, tsk." I said "Is this your son...? Is this your son...? Oh, okay. Great."
Monday, 28 October 2013
I Can Die Now
A reader (or maybe a former reader) just sent me photos of her beautiful baby. In one of the photos the baby is with her handsome father. Now I am not taking a huge amount of credit for the match and the baby, since when I heard the facts it was obvious to me that the handsome man was totally into my reader, or going to be, but I am privately taking a little bit of credit! Go me!
I love babies. Have I mentioned this? I especially love them at the crawling stage---so cute! A part of me is always a little sad when they first walk although, of course, walk they eventually must! I used to love it when my baby brother and then my baby sister crawled into a room, cleverly pushing open doors with their heads. Oh, the adorableness!
Every baby is a sort of post-figuring of Baby Jesus--at least when they're happy. When they're howling, not so much. I had this revelation when I first held my oldest nephew. I told a left-wing nun (sigh) that my nephew looked just like Baby Jesus, and she barked, "Is he tan? Is he Jewish? Is he Palestinian?" Oh dear. She just didn't get it.
Anyway, babies! Yay!
I love babies. Have I mentioned this? I especially love them at the crawling stage---so cute! A part of me is always a little sad when they first walk although, of course, walk they eventually must! I used to love it when my baby brother and then my baby sister crawled into a room, cleverly pushing open doors with their heads. Oh, the adorableness!
Every baby is a sort of post-figuring of Baby Jesus--at least when they're happy. When they're howling, not so much. I had this revelation when I first held my oldest nephew. I told a left-wing nun (sigh) that my nephew looked just like Baby Jesus, and she barked, "Is he tan? Is he Jewish? Is he Palestinian?" Oh dear. She just didn't get it.
Anyway, babies! Yay!
Tuesday, 1 October 2013
Mean Girls
I found Polish Pretend Son in the sitting-room, eating full-fat Polish cheese for breakfast. He looked very much like my Polish Pretend Son, for he hadn't glued his hair down yet. We have a lot of hair in my family. If he eschewed the hair gel permanently, he could pass as one of us.
"Did you sleep well?" I asked.
"I slept okay," said Polish Pretend Son. "How did you sleep?"
Actually, I had just woken up from a terrible dream in which I had gotten out of bed and taken a bus to central Edinburgh to go the gym but changed my mind and went to a very expensive French patisserie instead. And just as I had changed my mind about buying almond croissants, I heard someone calling my name. So I looked, and lo, it was one of the Mean Girls from high school. The Mean Girls were rather less mean to me than to my friends, mind you. However, in my dream they made up for it in mid-life. Before I knew it I was surrounded by middle-aged Mean Girls, all slim, well-dressed and haughty, except for the one who was eight months pregnant. She was just well-dressed and haughty and needing to impress upon me how much more fabulous her life was than mine.
"We didn't like your book," said one of the non-pregnant Mean Girls.
"But I don't think anyone has it yet," I said to confuse her. It worked. She looked confused.
"Your Single book," she said. "I thought that part about that girl was stupid."
And they all murmured assent and looked at me avidly in that way girls look when another girl is being bullied.
"You can't bully me!" I cried. "I don't have to put up with this! I live in a seventeenth-century mansion!"
Of course, I don't own the mansion, and live in the attic, and it was built on so much by 1740 that it is rather more eighteenth-century than seventeenth, but I didn't think it necessary to mention this. Instead I fled the expensive French patisserie and its Mean Girl Tourists/High School Alumnae.
"I think you have already your blog post today," said Polish Pretend Son.
Update: Now I have put also Polish Pretend Son on the bus to catch his train for London. I'm reasonably sure this is an activity common to many real, Scottish, mothers, too. Look, look! I'm assimilating into Scottish society!
"Did you sleep well?" I asked.
"I slept okay," said Polish Pretend Son. "How did you sleep?"
Actually, I had just woken up from a terrible dream in which I had gotten out of bed and taken a bus to central Edinburgh to go the gym but changed my mind and went to a very expensive French patisserie instead. And just as I had changed my mind about buying almond croissants, I heard someone calling my name. So I looked, and lo, it was one of the Mean Girls from high school. The Mean Girls were rather less mean to me than to my friends, mind you. However, in my dream they made up for it in mid-life. Before I knew it I was surrounded by middle-aged Mean Girls, all slim, well-dressed and haughty, except for the one who was eight months pregnant. She was just well-dressed and haughty and needing to impress upon me how much more fabulous her life was than mine.
"We didn't like your book," said one of the non-pregnant Mean Girls.
"But I don't think anyone has it yet," I said to confuse her. It worked. She looked confused.
"Your Single book," she said. "I thought that part about that girl was stupid."
And they all murmured assent and looked at me avidly in that way girls look when another girl is being bullied.
"You can't bully me!" I cried. "I don't have to put up with this! I live in a seventeenth-century mansion!"
Of course, I don't own the mansion, and live in the attic, and it was built on so much by 1740 that it is rather more eighteenth-century than seventeenth, but I didn't think it necessary to mention this. Instead I fled the expensive French patisserie and its Mean Girl Tourists/High School Alumnae.
"I think you have already your blog post today," said Polish Pretend Son.
Update: Now I have put also Polish Pretend Son on the bus to catch his train for London. I'm reasonably sure this is an activity common to many real, Scottish, mothers, too. Look, look! I'm assimilating into Scottish society!
Monday, 30 September 2013
Still Pretend Mothering
I have put one pretend son on the bus to catch his train for London, his real mother, and--ultimately--the seminary, but I still have another pretend son, so I am about to make pierogis.
Saturday's dinner made it quite clear which pretend son takes after which pretend parent because Pretend Papa and Seminarian Pretend Son talked of nothing but Anglo-Catholics and Anglo-Catholicism and Anglo-Catholic architects while Polish Pretend Son and I stared at them and willed them to talk about something else.
"Excuse me," I said at last. "This 'Mass' of which you speak. Ahem. Ahem."
"Oh, er, um, yes," said the shamefacedconversos duo at that side of the table while Polish Pretend Son snickered in a Cradle-Catholic way.
Then on Sunday, as I dragged B.A. from a party, B.A. was tremendously paternal, saying "Now you chaps needn't leave the party early on our behalf! You can return to the Historical House any time you like!" while I fussed and said "What rubbish! Never heard of such goings-on in my life." Complementarity in action, peeps.
Actually, it turns out that it was only about 11:30 PM, and not 12:30 AM because I forgot that all the clocks in that particular sitting-room are wrong, including the one on the chimney-piece, because I fell dead asleep after B.A.'s stirring rendition of "The Lost Chord." So perhaps I was too premature, and also a bit too tetchy---although that can be blamed on the Romanian śliwowica the Polish Pretend Son kept pouring in my glass.
B.A.'s imitation of Dame Clara is positively haunting.
Saturday's dinner made it quite clear which pretend son takes after which pretend parent because Pretend Papa and Seminarian Pretend Son talked of nothing but Anglo-Catholics and Anglo-Catholicism and Anglo-Catholic architects while Polish Pretend Son and I stared at them and willed them to talk about something else.
"Excuse me," I said at last. "This 'Mass' of which you speak. Ahem. Ahem."
"Oh, er, um, yes," said the shamefaced
Then on Sunday, as I dragged B.A. from a party, B.A. was tremendously paternal, saying "Now you chaps needn't leave the party early on our behalf! You can return to the Historical House any time you like!" while I fussed and said "What rubbish! Never heard of such goings-on in my life." Complementarity in action, peeps.
Actually, it turns out that it was only about 11:30 PM, and not 12:30 AM because I forgot that all the clocks in that particular sitting-room are wrong, including the one on the chimney-piece, because I fell dead asleep after B.A.'s stirring rendition of "The Lost Chord." So perhaps I was too premature, and also a bit too tetchy---although that can be blamed on the Romanian śliwowica the Polish Pretend Son kept pouring in my glass.
B.A.'s imitation of Dame Clara is positively haunting.
Saturday, 28 September 2013
Imaginary Sons
I think somebody mentioned in the ever-lengthening series of comments in reply to "Do Mothers Have It All?" that the married childless can open their house to friends, or some such. That is quite true, if both married people are on board with this. Some married people think of their home as a fort, in which to barracade themselves with their spouse/hostage, who is made to watch really boring television from dinner to bed-time.
Fortunately B.A. and I agreed that--at least until we had children--part of our vocation as married people would be helping Single people. This means that B.A. is on board when he comes home to find slender young men drifting through his hallway, eating muffins prepared by his wife, who is cooking zealously in the kitchen while practicing Polish verbs. (The Single people we know tend to be Catholic, and Catholics in Edinburgh, particularly the ones having temporary housing crises, tend to be Poles.)
When I was a child, I thought it would be rather fun to be "Mrs Bhaer" aka Jo March from Little Women except that "Jo's boys" were nothing like the human piglets I knew. However, now I am grown up, and so are the temporary homeless Singles eating muffins, so it is indeed a bit like Jo's Boys minus the fulsome gratitude and German accent--except when B.A. imitates Adolf Hitler singing "Hooro My Nut Brown Maiden."
But when I was a child, I was used to there being a lot of people in the house, particularly younger people I was expected to keep an eye on, help with their shoes, etc., so it feels a bit odd to be alone in the Historical House with just one other person most of the time. So that is another reason to be happy when Singles and their suitcases land at my doorstep.
Today we get two Singles for the weekend, so I will soon break off and rush about making up beds and baking cookies for two imaginary sons, aged 25. In my set, we all act like we are the same age--an ever-youthful/sophisticated 33--so it is actually hard to imagine my imaginary sons as sons, especially when they are actually here. I always say "Oooh! It will be like having a son back from college," and then the imaginary son arrives and I am forced to reflect that even if I had had a baby at 16, there is no way he could have looked like that.
(Seraphic mulls various dimly remembered innocent high school boys with exotic names. "Miroslav...? No. Janek....? No. Tomislav....? No.")
I would love to put up photos of today's imaginary sons, but I already put up one of one of them as a Swashbuckling Protector, and none of you dashed north or across the sea to snaffle him, so he's going into the seminary. The other one has threatened to sue.
Fortunately B.A. and I agreed that--at least until we had children--part of our vocation as married people would be helping Single people. This means that B.A. is on board when he comes home to find slender young men drifting through his hallway, eating muffins prepared by his wife, who is cooking zealously in the kitchen while practicing Polish verbs. (The Single people we know tend to be Catholic, and Catholics in Edinburgh, particularly the ones having temporary housing crises, tend to be Poles.)
When I was a child, I thought it would be rather fun to be "Mrs Bhaer" aka Jo March from Little Women except that "Jo's boys" were nothing like the human piglets I knew. However, now I am grown up, and so are the temporary homeless Singles eating muffins, so it is indeed a bit like Jo's Boys minus the fulsome gratitude and German accent--except when B.A. imitates Adolf Hitler singing "Hooro My Nut Brown Maiden."
But when I was a child, I was used to there being a lot of people in the house, particularly younger people I was expected to keep an eye on, help with their shoes, etc., so it feels a bit odd to be alone in the Historical House with just one other person most of the time. So that is another reason to be happy when Singles and their suitcases land at my doorstep.
Today we get two Singles for the weekend, so I will soon break off and rush about making up beds and baking cookies for two imaginary sons, aged 25. In my set, we all act like we are the same age--an ever-youthful/sophisticated 33--so it is actually hard to imagine my imaginary sons as sons, especially when they are actually here. I always say "Oooh! It will be like having a son back from college," and then the imaginary son arrives and I am forced to reflect that even if I had had a baby at 16, there is no way he could have looked like that.
(Seraphic mulls various dimly remembered innocent high school boys with exotic names. "Miroslav...? No. Janek....? No. Tomislav....? No.")
I would love to put up photos of today's imaginary sons, but I already put up one of one of them as a Swashbuckling Protector, and none of you dashed north or across the sea to snaffle him, so he's going into the seminary. The other one has threatened to sue.
Tuesday, 14 May 2013
When Bairns Come Last
Woman On Bus (sulkily): Why don't you like staying at my flat? No internet? No telly? No three tellies?
Little Girl (quietly): I got used to sleeping at the old place.
Stranger Lady in Front of Them (thinking furiously): Here's a modest proposal. Why don't divorced/split-up parents let the children live in their old home, and they shuttle back and forth to the children's home, instead of forcing their children to shuttle back and forth between Mum's Place and Dad's Place? If the parents can't afford a bachelor pad each plus their old home, why don't they time-share a flat? Mummy gets the bachelor pad on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays (date night!), and Dad gets it Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays (date night!). They can alternate on the Sundays. That way the completely powerless children, who did not choose for their parents to split-up, don't have to suffer all the instability of shuttling back and forth. The parents do. And then there will be no more snarky "What? My flat's not good enough for you?" remarks from sadly immature adults to their sadly mature children on the bus.
Neighbours. Not actually deaf.
Little Girl (quietly): I got used to sleeping at the old place.
Stranger Lady in Front of Them (thinking furiously): Here's a modest proposal. Why don't divorced/split-up parents let the children live in their old home, and they shuttle back and forth to the children's home, instead of forcing their children to shuttle back and forth between Mum's Place and Dad's Place? If the parents can't afford a bachelor pad each plus their old home, why don't they time-share a flat? Mummy gets the bachelor pad on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays (date night!), and Dad gets it Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays (date night!). They can alternate on the Sundays. That way the completely powerless children, who did not choose for their parents to split-up, don't have to suffer all the instability of shuttling back and forth. The parents do. And then there will be no more snarky "What? My flat's not good enough for you?" remarks from sadly immature adults to their sadly mature children on the bus.
Neighbours. Not actually deaf.
Tuesday, 12 February 2013
Love of Family
So far I have written about love of place and love of music as part of a run-up to Valentine's Day. I noticed various splashes of red-white-and-pink in Montreal, where I spent the weekend, and they reminded me to keep the theme going.
The romance of place and the romance of music are less problematic than the romance of family. We can see our favourite places and hear our favourite music through a rosy haze and nothing brings us down to earth with a bump. But families, which involve assortments of personalities, rather resist the rosy glow. Although various members may not be rooted in reality, family is pretty darn real.
My parents had five children who are now grown up, and as we have no uncles and aunts living, family life revolves around us and our own children, of whom we now have three. The contrast between the lives of the children is almost amusing. In Montreal, Peanut and Popcorn ran their scientist/tech parents ragged all weekend, whereas in Toronto on Monday evening Pirate merely said he didn't want to eat his dessert right away when he was metaphorically sat upon by grandparents, uncles and aunts.
I hope you are struck by my use of the third person plural, my assertion that my parents' children have our own children and that we have three. Although families are composed of individuals, they are more than the sum of individuals, and there are certainly roles other than Parent, Grandparent, Child and Grandchild. There are, for example, Sister and Aunt, Brother and Uncle. There is even, in some households, Nanny. Families are not just I + I +I but WE, and this idea of WE is romantic enough to fuel an industry for the people who sell "family tartans." But although "We, Clan McAmbrose" is actually a polite fiction, "We, Our Family" is neither polite nor fictional. It just is for richer, for poorer, for better, for worse.
Living so far from my family as I have for almost four years, being in Canada among them is a great treat. I very much enjoy family dinner--there has been family dinner almost every evening for over 39 years--but what I like even more is everyone doing their own thing under the same roof. One of my favourite memories from Family Christmas in the Historical House was seeing everyone sitting around the living room, wrapped in blankets or cardigans, reading books or laptop screens. To me reading a book as others chat or read is peace and bliss.
And of course I also like to watch the antics of my nephews and niece and hear the stories of their adventures and bon-mots. The battle of wills between my niece and her parents over her violin practice may have been hard work for them, but it was fun for me, and we were all rewarded by Popcorn finally scraping her way through "Twinkle, Twinkle." Popcorn is two years old.
B.A. and I were rather dazed by how much work parenting (as opposed to mere uncle-ing and aunting) is. Like farmers, our brother and sister-in-law seem to work from dawn to dusk. When they are not at the office, they are shovelling one child into or out of snow pants while restraining the other from destroying the sitting-room. On Sunday mornings, my brother is a church organist, and I was quickly pressed into service in the choir loft to make sure neither nephew nor niece tumbled out of it.
One of the aspects of my life as an aunt is that I had no aunts myself, so I am making up the role as I go along. Measured by hugs, I think I am doing a pretty good job so far. Meanwhile, I hope Popcorn forgot all about me after her valedictory hug at her pre-school classroom door yesterday morning. Last year after enthusiastically waving as my train left the station, she waited for my train to come back, and burst into tears when it didn't.
The romance of place and the romance of music are less problematic than the romance of family. We can see our favourite places and hear our favourite music through a rosy haze and nothing brings us down to earth with a bump. But families, which involve assortments of personalities, rather resist the rosy glow. Although various members may not be rooted in reality, family is pretty darn real.
My parents had five children who are now grown up, and as we have no uncles and aunts living, family life revolves around us and our own children, of whom we now have three. The contrast between the lives of the children is almost amusing. In Montreal, Peanut and Popcorn ran their scientist/tech parents ragged all weekend, whereas in Toronto on Monday evening Pirate merely said he didn't want to eat his dessert right away when he was metaphorically sat upon by grandparents, uncles and aunts.
I hope you are struck by my use of the third person plural, my assertion that my parents' children have our own children and that we have three. Although families are composed of individuals, they are more than the sum of individuals, and there are certainly roles other than Parent, Grandparent, Child and Grandchild. There are, for example, Sister and Aunt, Brother and Uncle. There is even, in some households, Nanny. Families are not just I + I +I but WE, and this idea of WE is romantic enough to fuel an industry for the people who sell "family tartans." But although "We, Clan McAmbrose" is actually a polite fiction, "We, Our Family" is neither polite nor fictional. It just is for richer, for poorer, for better, for worse.
Living so far from my family as I have for almost four years, being in Canada among them is a great treat. I very much enjoy family dinner--there has been family dinner almost every evening for over 39 years--but what I like even more is everyone doing their own thing under the same roof. One of my favourite memories from Family Christmas in the Historical House was seeing everyone sitting around the living room, wrapped in blankets or cardigans, reading books or laptop screens. To me reading a book as others chat or read is peace and bliss.
And of course I also like to watch the antics of my nephews and niece and hear the stories of their adventures and bon-mots. The battle of wills between my niece and her parents over her violin practice may have been hard work for them, but it was fun for me, and we were all rewarded by Popcorn finally scraping her way through "Twinkle, Twinkle." Popcorn is two years old.
B.A. and I were rather dazed by how much work parenting (as opposed to mere uncle-ing and aunting) is. Like farmers, our brother and sister-in-law seem to work from dawn to dusk. When they are not at the office, they are shovelling one child into or out of snow pants while restraining the other from destroying the sitting-room. On Sunday mornings, my brother is a church organist, and I was quickly pressed into service in the choir loft to make sure neither nephew nor niece tumbled out of it.
One of the aspects of my life as an aunt is that I had no aunts myself, so I am making up the role as I go along. Measured by hugs, I think I am doing a pretty good job so far. Meanwhile, I hope Popcorn forgot all about me after her valedictory hug at her pre-school classroom door yesterday morning. Last year after enthusiastically waving as my train left the station, she waited for my train to come back, and burst into tears when it didn't.
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