Kathleen M. Basi's Blog, page 107

He’s Cranky? Run Some Bath Water!

People are always asking me, “Is Michael always this happy?”

The answer is basically yes. He’s a very smiley baby, and if he isn’t it’s because he a) needs a diaper change, b) is hungry, or c) is tired. I credit the NICU. If ten days being poked, prodded, and forced to lie for hours on end on your tummy doesn’t make you easy-going, nothing will.

But on those odd occasions when Michael does get fussy, I know a sure-fire way to make him happy again:

Bath time in our house is not the parental activity of choice. We don’t bathe kids every night, not because we hate it (although we do), but because kids don’t need to be bathed every day. Bath time in our house involves lots of screaming and bickering and above all, a lot of WORK. The work centers, as you might imagine, around the middle two. Alex goes off and takes a shower. And Michael? The instant his feet touch the water, his eyes light up.

I love giving Michael baths. LOVE it. First of all, it takes about ten seconds to wash a baby. And second, it just makes me happy to see him play with such serious concentration.

Christian tells me the babies have always basically liked baths, except for Julianna, who was so terrified of the water I had to get in the tub with her, washing her on my legs to keep from traumatizing her. And I remember the kids liking baths, but I don’t remember looking forward to baby bath time the way I do now.

Doesn’t all that baby fat just make you hungry? Doesn’t that smile make your day?

You’re welcome.

Spring Makes Me Happy

The smells, fruity and heavy and spicy, and the colors–oh, the colors after the rains have passed through, when everything seems sharper, like the difference between an old point-and-shoot and a brand new DSLR.

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And my favorite blossom of all:

Looking For A Line

Photo by LucasTheExperience, via Flickr

I wasn’t there. I was supervising the little ones at Children’s Liturgy. But Alex, my thoughtful, empathetic Alex, was riveted to the missionary’s story of life in Haiti, of poverty so intense that children eat “cookies” made of clay.

When church was over, we drove home to a building that would house dozens of people in other parts of the world, but which shelters only six, a house filled with Stuff we rarely use but can’t or won’t get rid of, and a refrigerator stuffed with food, which we often stand in front of and sigh heavily, “There’s nothing to eat!”

In the days before, we bought a new DSLR camera for which we’ve been saving for well over a year, as well as solar lights for the front and a lovely arbor for my climbing roses. Each of these purchases, long anticipated, fills me with quiet happiness every time I look at them.

“Therefore I praised joy, because there is nothing better for mortals under the sun than to eat and to drink and to be joyful; this will accompany them in their toil through the limited days of life God gives them under the sun.” (Ecclesiastes 8:15)

But now there’s an undercurrent of disquiet in my soul. The umbrellas and brooms in the coat closet fall over for the umpteenth time, and I growl, “We need some sort of closet organizer!”–and I think of children eating clay. “I hate all my clothes,” I complain. “As soon as I lose this baby weight I’m going shopping for things that actually look good on me!” And then I remember this picture, and I recognize my supposed necessities for the vanity they are.

We live in a world defined by our consumption. If we don’t consume, everything will fall to pieces, and everyone will be in dire straits, not just those in developing countries. Yet I look at the list of things I want to purchase, and I can’t help thinking how much better spent the money would be going to a place like Haiti, to keep people alive instead of feeding my need for more, more, more. Everything I want to do–travel, home decor, scrapbooking–in the face of such poverty, it feels vaguely immoral. It feels like a scam for me to earn money for singing or writing music or stories, for instance.

I know it isn’t. Beauty is built into the human psyche. What we need to stay alive is only part of the story; God made us to be fulfilled, not just survive, and art, music, beauty–all those “luxuries” are part of that. Somewhere there must be a line between using money to affirm and enjoy the beauty of the world…and gross waste of resources.

But I don’t know where it is.

How do you reconcile consumption and care for the larger world?

Julianna, Unlimited

We made the decision on the spur of the moment. “Julianna, do you want to go to Children’s Liturgy? Like story time at church?”

“Yah!” she said happily, and Alex, beaming with pride, led his two younger siblings out of the church with the rest of the kids.

He returned fifteen minutes later, wearing that long-suffering expression that means little siblings are a pain in the neck. “Did Julianna try to run away?” I whispered.

“Well, a couple times. I had to take her to the bathroom.”

Oh, my. That’s way above and beyond the call of duty for a seven-year-old.

Big surprise: the next week, Alex decided he had outgrown children’s liturgy. So I followed the other two at a distance, giving them the space to go on their own. I sat at the back and kept an eye on Julianna. (Why the 5yo, and not the 3yo? Hm. Keep reading, and thou shalt understand.)

For a while, she did great. But then she saw two boys crawling under the TV cabinet and thought that looked like more fun than stories about Jesus. The leader redirected her, and she settled back down. Two minutes later, she clambered to her feet and began circling the outer rim of the crowd, bopping people on the head: duck…duck…duck…duck…

I intercepted her before she reached “goose.” I made her sit down, and I retreated…but not far. Three minutes later, she looked around, stood up, wiggled her bottom, and plopped down in the lap of some poor little girl two years younger than herself. By the time I got there, the girl had the shell-shocked look of one whose personal space has been summarily violated.

Julianna sat with me for the remainder of Children’s Liturgy.

Aside from the speech delay, the thing that sticks out the most about parenting my daughter with Down syndrome is how difficult it is to teach her limits. She doesn’t “get” it. No, I take that back. She understands that you have to take turns with toys. But when she sees something belonging to an adult, or something left unsupervised, she thinks it’s free for the taking. If she’s thirsty, she’ll go grab someone’s glass, even if it’s a complete stranger. If she sees someone’s purse (oh, how she loves purses…thank the Lord I don’t carry one!), she will stealthily and swiftly empty its contents to the far corners of the room. She chooses random people in any crowd and gives them huge hugs.

Adults deal with it well. They think it’s cute, and sometimes I think she has a sixth sense about who most needs something. How else to account for all those touch points?

But kids are another matter. Kids don’t have the understanding and tolerance their parents do, because those are learned skills, acquired values. I can hardly fault them for regarding with suspicion a person who steals their food, and then the adults yell at them instead of her. She doesn’t exactly fit in anywhere. She’s too old to play with the toddlers, and she can’t keep up with the big kids–those her own age. They tolerate her presence, they take her in stride…but she’s clearly not a part of the group.

It is sad, and unfair, that those I most want her to be able to connect with are the ones least equipped. Yes, it’s great that she creates warm fuzzies with people who can influence her larger future, but that’s a global thing. As far as she’s concerned, her peers are more important.

Understand, I’m not going for a “woe is me” theme. Yesterday I got to meet several self-advocates and teens with Down syndrome, as well as children of all age ranges. I’m still on a high, seeing the community I knew had to be in my area, even if we couldn’t find them for the first several years. But I have to keep it real, too!

Later this week, when I’ve fully processed everything, I might share more about our DS group kickoff event.

Weekend Carnivals

It’s another weekend and time for another Sunday Snippets, hosted by the awesome book blogger, RAnn of This, That & The Other Thing.

This week at So Much To Say, So Little Time, I…

…re-posted some thoughts on prayer

…reflected on how we can’t divorce concern for others’ opinions from our own self-identity

…shared a cuddle with Julianna

…showed off my class clown in training

…scolded a driver

I also tried to sneak a little TOB into my fiction offering this week. I’m not sure it worked, really. However, I’ll just blame the kids pulling on my arms and legs and shouting in my ear while I wrote it. That’ll do, won’t it?

It is also the first Saturday of the month, so I’m linking up with Elizabeth Esther’s Saturday Evening Blog Post carnival, with my favorite post for the month of April, for which I chose to share “Core.”

Fiction Friday: Body Language

Photo via Wiki Commons

His crossed arms answered her question before he spoke. “I’m sorry,” he said. “There’s nothing more we can do.”

Molly placed her hands palm down on her thighs and rubbed down her legs, then crossed her arms and slid her palms up opposite arms. “Well,” she said. “Well. In the end, it comes to us all, doesn’t it?”

“Mrs. Folk?”

She looked up, met his gaze. “I’m all right, doctor. It’s just…it’s so beautiful. I never realized.”

“What’s so beautiful?”

She blinked. “My body.” She held out her hands, opened and closed them. “Look at that. Until today, all I saw was freckles and calluses. But think of the meals these hands have made. The babies they’ve rocked. The rows they’ve hoed.” She shook her head. “It’s just beautiful, that’s all.”

Dr. Wheeler ran his tongue over his lips. “Mrs. Folk, would help if I brought in someone for you to talk to?”

Molly expelled a sound, one part sigh, one part laugh. “You think I’m in shock, don’t you?”

He raised his eyebrows and tilted his head. “Well…”

“What kind of people do you normally see?” she said, exasperated. “You act like you’ve never told a woman she’s going to die before.” Molly fiddled with the sloppy hem of the examining gown, fat and skinny side by side. “At times like this, you look back on your life. You wonder if you’ve done everything worthwhile you could. If you’ve done anything worthwhile at all.”

He clicked his pen three times. His Adam’s apple bobbed. “You’ve done worthwhile things, Mrs. Folk. Think of the library, and the scholarship.”

“Oh, I know.” She waved it all away. “I’ve used my money for good. But I never really did anything. Myself–with my own body. My own hands, my own feet.” She held them up, flexed her toes. “Just marvelous,” she said softly. “I never even paid attention. I could have done so much more with all this.”

He cupped her elbow and ducked his head to meet her gaze. “There’s still time, you know.”

She looked up then, and he was relieved to see at last the shine of tears in her eyes. “You’re right, doctor,” she said. “Six months is long enough to make a difference.” She drew a deep breath and smiled. “I think it’s time I join my boys at the mission in Haiti.”

Note To The Driver of the Red Sports Car (a 7QT post)

Highway (Photo credit: bibendum84)

Note to the driver of the red sporty car on the interstate:

1. I have three small children in my van, and it’s raining. Hard. I can barely see out my windshield.

2. I am going two miles per hour over the speed limit. The truck in the right lane, six car lengths ahead of me, is going the same speed as me and spitting up an impenetrable wall of mist.

3. I am not going to pass it. Refer to #1.

4. I am not going to drive in its baffles. Refer to #1.

5. I am not moving out of the left lane, no matter what gestures you choose to throw at me upon passing me.

6. Besides, you don’t even have your lights on, Mr. Arbiter of the Rules of the Road. In this rain, you became invisible before you cleared the truck.

7. I get your irritation, but that’s too bad. My family’s safety is more important than your need for speed.

Sincerely, the mom in the blue van.

(BTW, I have a fiction prompt up today too, if you’re interested.)

Class Clown In Training

Remember this picture?

When Christian saw this picture, he shook his head and said, “I’m telling you, we’re gonna have trouble with that one.”

That was a year ago. When Nicholas was barely two years old. Now just imagine what life is like with this child at three.

“Mommy, I a goofball,” he says to me as I’m putting him down for nap, his eyes dancing. It makes me want to chew him to pieces, which frankly is a much nicer desire than the desire to pull my hair out, which follows me around most days as he refuses to eat and turns everything into a battle with me and with Julianna.

In the post-baby fog, we got to a point of running through rote prayers without catechesis or depth, and just this week, I’ve taken a deep breath and stopped settling for “good enough.” So we’ve been taking time to do petitions and thanks this week. Nicholas doesn’t quite get it. “I pway for Awex and Juweanna and Michael and Mommy and Daddy and the pwaygwound,” he says, pointing around the room.

“You want to pray for the playground?”

“Yeah!”

“Okay, what do you want to say thank you for?”

“I want say thank you for my ear infection.”

(Um, kiddo, I don’t think you’ve quite got that distinction clear.)

And then, the Mischief Eyes come out. “And…I want say thank you for PICKLE!”

Christian, who is flopped face-down on the bed, raises his head and looks at me as if he’s not sure he really just heard what he thinks he heard. And then starts laughing.

Perhaps I need to explain. I’m sure everyone is familiar with this book:

Front cover (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

The last page, with the list of all the junk food he ate? It takes us five minutes to finish that page, because the kids point at every food, sometimes in order, sometimes not, while I say them over and over. And I always yell “PICKLE!” because it makes them laugh.

Yup, that’s my son, turning bedtime prayers into an opportunity for clowning around.

I have to echo my husband. We’re gonna have trouble with this one.

Related articles

Nicholas Is A Comic Strip Waiting To Be Written (a 7QT post) (kathleenbasi.com)
The Very Hungry Caterpillar (cakesbycathy.wordpress.com)

When A Non-Cuddler Cuddles…

When a non-cuddler cuddles on a cool, wet spring night, it’s Heaven.

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We Are Not Rugged Individualists

Photo by Melvin_Es, via Flickr

A couple of weeks ago, I posted a piece of fiction called “Makeover.” It’s about a woman whose life is a mess–grown son dead, marriage in shambles. When she sees her reflection in a storefront, she realizes she doesn’t recognize herself anymore–and she goes to do something about it.

The most thought-provoking comment I received on that story raised the question of whether her desire to change was for her own sake or for her husband’s. In the post-feminist era, we women are always being urged to prioritize self. We should take time for our own interests instead of impaling ourselves on the Mommy Martyr stake;  weight loss and beauty regimens should be for our sake, not so we look good for catching (or keeping) a man. If we consider others’ preferences or opinions, it’s almost as if we’re betraying ourselves.

There’s a certain truth to this. It’s all too easy for us to define ourselves the way others see us, and a healthy sense of self-respect depends upon independence of mind, the strength to hold our convictions and not be blown about on the vagaries of other people’s opinions. Yet that’s not the whole picture. In any healthy relationship, both parties have to give way to each other. If I kept my opinions to myself and took my husband’s as Ye Ultimate Truth, it would be bad news; my husband is a flawed human being in need of growth that sometimes can only be pointed out by someone else.

But so am I. If I consider any decision that accounts for his preferences and observations as tainted…well, that’s just as unhealthy as the opposite extreme–not only for the marriage, but for me as a human being.

It seems paradoxical that to find ourselves we have to empty ourselves. But as human beings, we have a huge blind spot where self is concerned. We’re too close to measure objectively, and if we try to go it alone we’ll find ourselves perpetually dissatisfied with the world, seeing everyone else’s splinters through the moat in our own eyes.

Quite apart from companionship, human beings need each other. We are made, hard-wired if you will, to connect, but those connections are only possible when we allow someone else to become part of us. We are not autonomous.

In childhood, my sense of self was tied to family, then friends. In adulthood, it is tied to my husband and my children, my Church and to the larger community within which I work–you, my readers, my friends, the larger readership I reach through magazines and other projects. I make my decisions on what to write based on a give-and-take between my wishes and what I know about you.

Perhaps, then, it’s time we laid to rest the idea of rugged individualism. We need each other; we always have, we always will. Trying to pretend otherwise undermines the very connectedness that we need to grow and be healthy and whole.