I Hope She’s Got a Wheelbarrow.

I wouldn’t be bad or a mother, if I didn’t leap out from behind the armoire I’ve been hiding behind, to comment on Michelle Duggar.

It’s old news by now, but she’s pregnant with her twentieth child.

Talk about a show off. Six or more kids gets you in the “Wow” club. Ten or more yields the “Pinafore and bad hairdo” society. But twenty? It seems that gets you in the “Wow that’s a bad hairdo AND pinafore” guild.

I think it’s time to reveal my long-guarded (until now) dieting secret: Picturing those two actually participating in the getting pregnant process. It will put you off the feed bag for a long time. Glad I could help you during this holiday season.

I like to give credit where credit is due: that is one well-behaved bunch. At least on camera. At home, there have to be real moments.

“Everyone who has Jim or Bob in their name, get off the kitchen table and sit down!” I’d like to think that happens.

She does need the wheelbarrow. How else is she going to tote her uterus around?

We all love babies. We’d all like six million of the little darlings. But a few things stop us: 1). They actually require a fair amount of time, money and thoughtful parenting 2). They become teenagers and most of us don’t like living with too many scornful people under our roofs. Scornful people who want your money and all the donuts.

Battle Hymn of the Bad Catholic Mother

Unless you’ve been trapped in the basement watching re-runs of “21 Jump Street” you have probably heard of the latest mother in hot water. And I don’t mean the hot tub.

A martyred soul named Amy Chua has written a book called Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother.

Let it be known that I have not read it (“21 Jump Street” isn’t going to watch itself).

But it seems she is making the rest of us look bad (if you want highly achieving robot-like children) or good (if you are a fun-loving lay-about-the-house American child).

From what I can gather, she makes her children practice their musical instruments for three to six hours a day, and that’s the fun part.

Not only are they plunking or bleating on their chosen instrument, she is sitting right there with them taking notes. Clearly she has never even seen an episode of 21 Jump Street, and I’m not even sure she wants to.

What in the name of putrid mothering is she doing? Where’s the down time? Where’s the good old American lollygagging? We know we’re falling behind in math and science as a nation but we’re falling behind in a relaxing “take a load off after school” sort of way. Sheesh lady, chillax.

But the rest of us are looking pretty darn good, let me tell you.

Thank you Ms. Chua!  Mothers everywhere have never appeared so free-spirited and jolly in comparison.

I’m doing something right as a Bad Catholic Mother because yesterday, Larry, gently insulted me while employing use of the correct Saint in doing so.

Me: (scratching the dog) “See, Otis likes it when you scratch under his left  jaw line.”

Larry: (eating non Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother snack of cupcake): “Thanks St. Francis.”

My heart soared! St. Francis is the patron saint of animals (take that Tiger mother).

All those hours spent with flash cards of the saints really paid off.

She’s got “hymn” in the title of her book, so I had to take her on.

You know that.

It’s that time of year again.

We, as mothers, must make it a magical season.

Now, please make note of the fact, that we love making it a magical season. Within reason.

You want a few show-stopping gifts, great stocking stuffers, cookies, and a house filled with decorations? We’re on it.

But, and this is a big but (kind of like a before-retouching Oprah but) maybe we have gentle dreams about the holidays too?

What! A mother with dreams and wishes of her own? What in tarnation?

Did a donkey just give birth to Satan somewhere? What kind of crazy talk is that?

Mothers, Catholic, bad and otherwise, are here to serve. We know. We know. But we’ve heard tell that some mothers don’t feel that they must make the holiday season a vomitorium of wonderment for the entire world. They set boundaries to retain their sanity.

We are Catholics, so this is news to us. We believe that if it feels pleasant, you just not giving enough to others. So give until it hurts. Put down that cup of coffee and cookie and STOP BEING SO SELFISH. You’re not here to enjoy life. You’re here to make sure everyone else does.

So pick up another wish list, volunteer for 12 HOURS at a function of some sort that may or may not include books, and just don’t sit down. For any reason. Ever.

The Mormons Are Gaining On Us!

I was under the impression that the Roman Catholic Church had the most members of any organized religion on earth.

Well you sure wouldn’t know it if you’ve been watching TV of late. Mormons are everywhere! And they are interesting and kind of un-Mormony. You know what I mean.

I saw the first ad featuring a world-class surfer who happens to be a woman and (wait for it), a Mormon!

“Well, what do you know?” I thought and went on about my business. Little did I know that the Mormons have deep pockets when it comes to TV ad campaigns. They were about to saturate the airwaves with Mormons. And not because of the Rapture.

Then I saw the ad with the artist, the Library of Congress dude, the motorcycle dude, the attorney. I had no preconceived notions about  how Mormons make their living etc. But this is an impressive group.

Most importantly, they are all doing an outstanding job of recruiting. We’ve got to catch up. Catholics, grab an incense burner, some holy water and a few votive candles-let’s roll!

I’m just concerned we’re not going to be as interesting.

Sorry.

Amen and all that.

I’m praying that you will forgive me (even if He won’t) for not posting much here lately. I have been writing up a storm elsewhere.

Here’s the evidence:

http://www.more.com/4950/24030-daughter-as-fashion-police

There’s MORE where that came from (get it?).

My new project. All the flavor with only 1/16 of the Catholicism.

Easy now. Put down the St. John’s Wort and Ambien. And the wine cooler.

Bad Catholic Mothers isn’t going anywhere. But in the name of shameless self-promotion, I discretely direct your attention to my new project, Dysfunctional Scrapbooking  http://dysfunctionalscrapbooking.wordpress.com/

I will still be posting here and at Dysfunctional Scrapbooking.

Please take a look when you have a chance!

Lucia

The Future is Covered in Dirt and Plays Laser Tag.

I believe the children are our future.

Whether we like it or not.

Lately, I’ve made peace with the fact that someday, Larry and Felicity’s friends may have some sort of sway over me. Since Felicity is in college now, I can’t really look over that talent pool.

But Larry’s group is one I can begin to cultivate now.

It’s snapped me to attention, let me tell you. And I’ve been keeping an eye out for who to be nice to.

“Jimmy, have you ever thought about going into Elder Law?” I asked Larry’s friend recently.

“I dunno.” He answered as he gripped his paintball gun.

Hmmm. He’s playing it cool. I like that.

“Maybe you’re more of a financial services type, eh Jimmy?” I needed to figure out what I was working with. For the future.

“I dunno.” Jimmy said. “Do you have any more Cool Ranch Doritos?”

“Yes, Jimmy. There are plenty more Cool Ranch Doritos for children who display an interest in Estate Planning, or maybe Geriatric Care.”

“Larry! Your mom’s super weird!”  He said running off to play.

My talks with Liam and Caldwell didn’t reveal much either.

When I asked about their plans for the future, Liam revealed a desire to see the new Shrek movie, and Caldwell pretended not to know what asset allocation was.

Well- played gentlemen. Well-played.

That’s OK. I’ve got time to figure out who my future orthopedic surgeon and accountant might be. Who will fondly remember Larry’s mother as “The Nice One.” And so, slip me in without an appointment, or overlook a billable hour or two.

But until then, I’ve got my eye on Billy. Ah, Billy of the overstuffed backpack. That child is prepared for any eventuality.

I believe Billy is the future.

Oops, there’s a baby on my shoe.

I have a new favorite TV show. This will come as quite a blow to the Real Housewives and Bachelor franchises. But they will limp along.

The TLC show, I Didn’t Know I was Pregnant, has captured my imagination.

The very title begs so many questions. Really, you didn’t know?  You thought it was the cauliflower you had last night? You missed the “talk” with your mom in 6^th grade? The one that made you laugh for a week?

Of course I am sympathetic if it’s a young woman caught by surprise.

But most of the women have given birth before. They are surprised when a trip to the loo turns into a blessed event. This confuses me. I said loo because I am British.

No I’m not.

Last night’s episode, (which by the way captured the attention of my husband who actually forgot about the Stanley Cup for a few minutes), featured a woman who already had a nine month old and awoke in the middle of the night with severe pains. No duh.

Fast forward to the hospital where she is admitted and next thing you know, she feels “pressure” and looks down to see a head.

I believe the re-enactment went something like this,

“Nurse! I see a head!”

OK, my motto when I see an unexpected head in that region is

“Call a priest, and maybe an exterminator!”

So many jokes just beg to be added here, don’t they? But this is a family blog.

At this point in the journey of unexplained abdominal pain, it’s time to make reality your new best friend.

The show does an excellent job of setting up the fact that the mom was really in the dark.  I love the fact, that even during the “reveal”, she is often still mystified.

“I had been feeling uncomfortable for a few weeks, and my husband mentioned that I had gained some weight. Anywho, I happened to glance at my shoe one evening, and what do you know? Little Lester was just laying there!”

The shoe reference is real. The teaser for a recent episode tempted us with a voiceover saying, “I looked down, and the baby was on my shoe.”

Say no more! I’m tuning in.

Babies on shoes. This is what I’m talking about.

You thought elegance was learned? (That’s an inside joke for RHNY fans). Well so apparently is pregnancy.

Are there any more shows for me? Please leave me a comment if you think I am missing out on more greatness.

Garden of Broken Dreams. Those would be mine.

Some people say there are no new ideas under the sun. And when I see photos of Justin Bieber and Donny Osmond side-by-side, I’m inclined to agree.

Anyone involved in creative pursuits is somewhat invested in being original.

Imagine the disappointment of the person who had written a series of children’s books involving a boy with a zigzag scar on his forehead, who happened to be a wizard, when she discovered that a gal named J.K. had done the very same thing.

I was devastated to say the least.

My point is (and God forbid I could get to it right way), that in today’s world, you want to indulge in a bit of due diligence as a writer before you leap into a new “original” project.

I’m working on something right now where I’ve discovered that a few of my top title choices were already taken. Infidels! Wait. That’s when I’m mad about something else.

But it reminded me of the days when the intrawebnet was new, and we all used to just give a creative project the old college try without knowing what else may be going on in the world.

Years ago, I was struggling with infertility (go ahead and laugh Catholics who have a baby every time you stay home from Mass. We know why you stay home!). Despite my tendency to get all Marx Brothers about most things, I didn’t find any of it the least bit funny.

So to soothe my jangled nerves I took to writing depressing tomes about unrequited desire for a child; the loneliness of my path etc…

I wrote what I felt was an extremely moving essay comparing what I was going through with planting a garden: all your neighbors have beautiful gardens. They make it seem so easy. You try and you use Miracle Grow, and have cute gardening clogs and a big fat nothing!

It was a lot more poignant than that.

But I really felt I had a gem on my hands. Now remember this is “pre” all kinds of modern conveniences (like at-home DNA tests), so I relied on the annual Writer’s Digest to look up the submission guidelines for various publications.

Just wait until Parent Magazine or Woman’s Day got a hold of this.

I was soon to discover that in the guidelines of multiple parenting and women’s magazines it actually said, “Please, no pieces on infertility making garden analogies.”

What! My newfangled idea was so common it had to be forbidden in the guidelines?  It was so egregious a common theme, that it had to be actually highlighted? Wow. I was way more uncreative than previously feared.

Is it any wonder that I abandoned creativity for years in favor of writing about serious topics like Holiday china and changing bedding linens with the seasons?

Seriously, Victoria Magazine was my best relationship as a freelancer for a long time. It’s hard to imagine me writing for a magazine that featured leg o’mutton sleeves on dresses and cameos pinned non-ironically on overcoats. (I got your cameo right here, mister! That’s how I roll).

Thank God my son Larry was finally born and I could put all that seriousness behind me.

I just forge ahead with projects knowing that I may find out my super original idea has already been super done. I came up with a phrase that kind of captures that idea, “Been there, done that.”

It’s pretty catchy, don’t you think?

Summertime Savior (hint: it’s me).



I know it’s helpful when I give you guidance. How else would you know to shave your big toe?

Managing the family summertime schedule is an area that many of you have asked me to weigh in on. As always, I am happy to take a moment, dust the flour off my hands, get the UPS man off of me for two seconds, geez, and help.

Here is the rough outline of how I structure our day during the summertime. Kids are home, the days are lazy, and so is my left eye, so it’s a special time.

Weekday morning:

7:20am- Rise and engage in gentle stretching accompanied by cleansing breaths for eleven minutes. Then actually wake from dream state and wonder why there is a rotting corpse under bed. The smell, what on earth?

7:40: Check on children. Wonder why there are rotting corpses in their rooms too.

8:00: Make coffee and take it out on the side porch to enjoy the morning. Marvel at the beauty of God’s work. Then stop looking in the mirror, and prepare for the day.

8:45: See that children are still sleeping (please note that the word “child” is used in nostalgic terms for the one who is legally an adult. And almost 6 feet tall. And a girl). Notice that both are still in contention for “Most Clothes Worn in a 24-Hour Period” award. Fingers crossed for a big family win this year!

9:15am: Sit down and open yesterday’s mail. See an invitation from a friend who has a friend who comes from a farm family of like 11 and they all worked their way through college and law school and are now federal judges.

10:15: Continue to obsess unhealthily about boot-strapish family who are all federal judges and apparently took turns swearing each other in according to age. Really, this is an actual family.

11:00: Hear that children (including large adult child) have risen. Vow to become federal judge at earliest possible convenience.

11:20: Explain that thoughtfully conceived summer work chart (ie: empty all garbage-$2, Sweep kitchen-$3), does not mean claiming to have emptied the garbage five times yesterday and twice today.

11:30: Endure child-delivered lecture on the unfairness of this system and the poor job you did in explaining exactly how the payment would work.

11:45: Patiently explain that if we were a farm family with 11 children, we wouldn’t even be having the discussion about whether to get lunch at Chipotle or Jimmy Johns.

Noon: Endure child-delivered lecture concerning the fact that we are not a farm family of eleven, and so why should we hold ourselves to this standard? Be reminded by children that they are sick of this mythical family and how do they know they even exist?

12:05: Proceed in an orderly fashion to Chipotle while fantasizing how easy life would be if you had been one of eleven children and were now on the federal bench. Glance at big toe and realize it’s time to shave.