The Twelfth Day of Christmas

We focused this year on making sure we didn't have the Great Deluge on Christmas Day, and instead stretched out the Christmas season, both as a sort of silent protest against the secular pre-Christmas bedlam that starts at Halloween and climaxes with a crashing halt on December 26 that is lifted only by the promise of the Valentine's Day paraphernalia that is put out by ill-natured drug store elves during the early-morning hours of the day after Christmas; and as a consciously Catholic recognition of the importance of the Epiphany. It went quite well, really. I think the kids are still young enough that the promise of one present each night excites giddiness, rather than irritating materialistic tendencies. Tonight, they opened their final presents. Buddy Monster got some lovely blocks; Bear Cub got some fun princessy Halloween costumes for dress-up; and then there was a final joint gift of play doh. Who wouldn't love that? Of course, the prospect of sharing the play doh resulted in a regrettable meltdown, but I suppose that goes with the territory. And a lovely bath was had with the new "water dolly" given by Gramma and Grampa. She so desperately wanted a dolly who could be in the bath with her. What she got was this truly bizarre mermaid-like critter with a tiny body and a head of such immensity it's almost troubling. But she can go in the bath and she is dearly, dearly loved. And she has been named Tinkerbell Emma Kluvitt (pro. Kloovit). I have no idea.

As we listened to the wind whipping about the house and anticipated markedly sub-zero temperatures and high winds, we felt the warmth of family life with which we have been blessed. We are truly, truly blessed on this Epiphany, both by our temporal comforts and our eternal hope.

And so we welcome the Gospel in the western world, and we recall the true meaning of Christmas, which, as Father Matthew Pfeiffer has pointed out, is always overshadowed by the cross, our true salvation and victory. Just as we have done our best to shun the secular Christmas Holly Jolly madness, we likewise recognize that Christmas is not utter rapturous joy. The God of all became a human being -- one of His own creation, and lower than the angels -- so that He might die for us. God in a manger -- a feeding trough. Heavenly host rejoicing that their Lord had become one of those who was beneath them. God as man. All a contradiction, just as Simeon had predicted. And God -- God as man -- would hang on a giant contradiction before the mocking crowds. And by his death, He would bring life. But that tiny baby in the manger whose virginal mother watched over Him -- over her own God whom she had just borne -- though entirely innocent, would die, as God knew. May we remember each year that the joy of Christmas must give way to the agony of the cross, and, in so doing, may we embrace our Saviour's incarnation with fervent hope, faithful joy, and eager anticipation for our salvation.

Deo gratias.

Curious beyond her years

I will never really understand my husband's choice of reading material for our daughter, but it seems to work for both of them. It's what allowed her to be able to say that she'd read all of The Lord of the Rings "except the appendices" by the time she was 3 1/2. I suppose that's some sort of badge of honor.

Right now he is reading her a children's version (actually, probably more a teens' version) of Canterbury Tales. I would be scandalized but it's pretty tame, really. The Miller's Tale was censored quite a bit, which set my mind at ease. He last read it to her about a week or so ago.

Yesterday in the car, she said to him (out of the blue): "Daddy, will the world really be destroyed by water at the end of time?"

He was surprised by the question. As I would've been. "What, honey?"

"Will the world really be destroyed by water at the end of time? Like in the story you were reading me the other day."

"You mean Canterbury Tales? The Miller's Tale?"

"Yep. That one," she said.

"Well, honey, that was kind of a trick in the story. One character was trying to fool another one. But that's really good that you noticed what was happening. And you know, honey, the world will never be completely destroyed by water because God promised after the flood that He would never do that."

"Noah's ark, Daddy?"

"Yes, sweetie. Remember the rainbow that came, and how God promised he would never destroy the world with water?"

"Mm-hmm. I do. But Daddy, where was Jesus during the flood, because sometimes I see a cross on top of the ark in the Bible story books."

And she's right. There is a cross on one of the arks in a Bible story book we have. We chose not to inundate her already hard-working mind with the idea of the ark as the prototype of the church building, and the timelessness of the cross, etc. I think it was a wise move.

Poor kid. I'd like to just get her not-even-four-year-old-psyche past the idea that the world will be destroyed at all!

Sending 2013 out in style!

Because of the generosity of some wonderful friends, BC now has a lovely new bed! It's a loft bed. This one, to be exact. And the sheer giddiness of it all . . .

We recognize that the warning on this bed says no children under 6. We also recognize that this is an assumed risk. However, we recognize yet further that our child is sort of the inverse of Frederick in Pirates of Penzance: somehow, our child is markedly older than the number of her birthdays might indicate. Perhaps this is poor planning on our part, but I feel pretty safe about the whole thing. This is, after all, the same child who, for the first year and a half she was in a big girl bed, never got out of bed without Daddy's or my coming in to get her. Because we told her she couldn't.

Now, of course, I'm kicking myself for not realizing what an easy child she was when she was her brother's age.

On that topic, her brother now has her old bed. We have an insomniac 22-month-old in a big boy bed. I think we need to have our heads examined.

While BC has had an ongoing commentary about the advent of the cottage loft bed (which was a total surprise to her, and her daddy gets huge kudos for taking the kids to the sitter's, going to pick up the bed from our friends, bringing it home, rearranging all of the bedroom furniture for the kids, and assembling the bed -- all while the kids were at the sitter's house and I was at work), she has made time for other commentary as well. Tonight we stopped for Chick Fil-A, where we discovered that, not only could we not get the kids' meals free on New Year's Eve, but we also couldn't get them free if we went through the drive-thru, which is not the case at the Chick Fil-A we normally frequent. BC became terribly concerned that, because we couldn't get the meals for free, we wouldn't feed them. I thought that betrayed a serious underlying lack of trust.

All the way home, I spent time putting receipts into our budgeting app, a task on which I was far behind. Matt and I discussed the use of money for much of the ride home. As we pulled into the driveway, BC piped up, "Um, that little promote control car [read: remote control car] that you bought for my brother was a waste of money because now it doesn't work. So you spent money on that toy but now that money is wasted and you can't get it back." I felt as if I was being lectured for poor spending. I was inputting the last receipt, and congratulated myself aloud for doing what I should have done two weeks ago. BC piped up, "Mommy, why do you have a budget?" I told her that we had a budget so we didn't spend money we didn't have, because we all know she hates wasting money. She asked incredulously, "Mommy, do people spend money they don't have and *like* it?"

Here's to a new year of good budgeting practices, frugality, and new beds for free! The year of the Scot! Happy 2014!

My daughter never ceases to amaze me. She says remarkably . . . old things.

As she and Daddy were starting out for their walk the other day -- a time that Daddy often uses to tell her stories or talk to her about what he is reading -- she said to him, "Daddy, tell me more about Lewis and Chesterton."

Brown noser.

Later that night, Matt gave BC a copy of the Great Illustrated Classics version of Ivanhoe. She eagerly leafed through it and looked at all the pictures while I was making dinner last night. On their walk later that evening, she said to Daddy, "Daddy, Ivanhoe has lots of battles in it, doesn't it?" He sounded surprised when he affirmed that it did. "Oh, okay," she said. "I read the whole thing tonight before dinner. I thought so."

This morning Matt very generously watched the kids while I got a little more sleep. Apparently my daughter, who is an 80-year-old in size 3T clothing, ate several prunes with her father and enjoyed them heartily. She told me all about it while she was in the bath. I told her it was time to get out and the old lady responded, "Oh, Mommy. I'd like to stay in and soak a little longer."

The cuteness

Daddy: "I just can't get enough of my Elker Pelker!"
Ellie: "Thank you, Daddy. I can't get enough of myself either."


Ellie: "Look, Daddy! My dolly is cute!"
Daddy: "But my Ellie is cuter.
Ellie: "Yes. I am very cute."


Ellie to Mommy: "My dolly is going to come to Mass with us. But she is very quiet. She is much quieter than your son."

JK Rowling, step aside

So my kid wrote a book. (Thank you to her sitter for recording it for her. You're like Milton's daughters. Truly.)

It's a book about a dragon. That would be charming, except she named the dragon . . . wait for it . . . Elisabeth. That's right. My kid thinks I'm a dragon.

It's okay, though, because she makes a point of noting that this is a "nice dragon." In fact, she's such a nice dragon that she rescues a little girl named Eleanor and a little boy named Matthew. Together, the three of them go on to rescue other little children. 

And the best part? (Sorry. **SPOILER ALERT**)

THE DRAGON DOESN'T EAT THE CHILDREN!

Given its inauspicious start, the story ends about as well as I could've hoped. Stay tuned for a sequel, in which the dragon has a really crappy morning and DOES eat the children. Perhaps Matty will survive to dictate that one. If he ever starts talking.

Struggles

I continue to wonder what it takes to "offer it up." Clearly I have gotten no further than to have posted the desire to know earlier in the summer. But I wonder if it doesn't have something to do with recognizing when I've been had but refusing to accept the spiritual results of defeat. In my case, that means not responding to my child's fixations and tantrums and attitude problems and general unpleasantness in kind. (Not that I fixate in response to her fixations, but I certainly can have a bad attitude.) I can't do those things alone. I have to seek strength from Our Lord for it. So I have to give him the situation either to fix or to make bearable. 

I have to offer it up? 

Yes, that's most certainly part of it. Now if I could just figure out the part about offering it up as a sacrifice rather than a prayer request, that would be awesome. 

In the meantime, I will have to figure out how to deal with a screaming, raging, hitting, slapping, biting toddler without wanting to do the same! 

But this will tide me over: