It's Hot Because It's Warm

Late last week, the temperatures here in Chicago took a drastic nosedive into a meteorological category I like to call, "stupid cold." After picking up EJ from school, and peeling off my hat, scarf, gloves, wool coat, and fleece shell, she looked up at me, tiny fashionista that she is these days, and said,

"Oh, Mom!  I love your new shirt! I like the little bit of black coming out from underneath the pink!"

I told her I sincerely hoped that she liked it, because it wasn't a new shirt, it was just my silk long underwear peeking out at the neck and the sleeves, and she'd be seeing a lot of it for the next few months.

She was thrilled. She had started wearing her white silk long underwear a few weeks before, even before it got really beastly outside, simply because she'd tried it on and fell in love with how comfortable it was. By the time I put mine on, she had worn hers enough under short-sleeved versions of her navy and white school uniform that the wrists had developed the "brown with flecks of primary color" kid stain that comes from dragging arms continually across pencil, crayon, glue, and sandwiches that contain jelly.

She'd told her friends in carpool the other day that she was wearing long underwear, and then all of them laughed, herself included, because she had said, "underwear." Then I heard her scramble to try to explain it, how awesome it was, how it wasn't like underwear at all, except that it was under your clothes, etc. You can't explain it, I'm afraid, you just have to wear it.

A few years after Mike and I moved to Chicago, one of my aunts suggested I find some long underwear, given that I was absolutely freezing all the time, and had not yet re-acclimatized to a bitter cold Great Lakes winter, after living almost a decade in Washington, DC, and Arlington, Virginia. All I could think of at the time was of the bumpy, thick, long underwear we had as kids, the stuff you avoided at all costs, because it made you sweat under your snowsuit, and then you would feel itchy and uncomfortable; feeling cold was always preferable. Then she told me about how silk is a great material for long underwear; it is smooth, lightweight, really breathable, clothes glide on over it, and most importantly, it is very, very warm.

I got online, scraped up what was then a big chunk of our discretionary funds (on a graduate student budget), and bought some. The description of it implied it was so comfortable, the purchaser of it might find they wear it all day and all night, even using it to replace regular pajamas during the winter months. That's a lot of hype for a pair of long johns, I imagined, but they weren't exaggerating. My aunt and the online catalog were right: I wore and washed my first pair so often, I wore it out. The next year, I used my birthday money to buy two pair, before they ran out of stock.

What my kid has realized this year, and I figured out a few years ago, is that silk long underwear—the fanciest and most expensive underwear I now own—is nearly magical. Yes, when it is cold outside, wear down, wool, or fleece, or a combination of the three. Cover your head, your face, and your hands. Wear warm boots, preferably something lined and/or waterproof. But if you want to stay really, toasty warm, even when the wind hits, the answer is what lies beneath: silk long underwear.

The only thing that could make this stuff completely magical in fighting off the "stupid cold" would be if, by putting it on, the temperature outside instantly became 40 or 50 degrees warmer, or, better yet, if I was teleported to a warmer climate—someplace with palm trees—to forgo the stupid entirely. Given that clothing does not have that kind of control over time, space, and barometric pressure, I'll take it for what it is: cozy.

Long underwear, by virtue of the old-timey, folky imagery it can evoke—an old man in his pre-electricity cabin wearing a giant onesie with a buttoned flap on the backside—as well as our own personal experiences with it as kids running around in the snow, sweating and scratching and wondering why we were forced to put it on in the first place, is a hard sell. There is nothing sexy or sassy about the term, "long underwear," as opposed to the word underwear, itself, which retail giants like Victoria Secret have devoted a hot-pink fantasy world to promoting.

But I argue this: silk long underwear, made out of one of the world's finest materials, and so soft and luxurious that it makes you feel fantastic when you wear it, literally fights off frigidity. Can any other lacy or satiny underwear out there on the market make that claim? I don't think so. Silk long underwear is hot: it's hot because it's warm.

If I am ever able to move away from a climate where "stupid cold" is a regular part of the calendar, and I become delightfully soft about temperature, finding 50 degrees "really chilly," I won't have to worry. Sure, I'll have donated my down and wool coats, only keeping a fleece or two at the back of the closet, just in case. I'll never give up that silk long underwear, though, so tiny to store and lovely to wear, just ready and able to take the icy chill out of anything below 60 degrees.

With a 20 degree temperature currently outside, and wind chills predicted later that will bring things down to the single digits, a girl can dream.

Coffee going inside, silk long underwear on the outside.

Winter-fighting magic.

Holiday No-No-No, Ho-Ho-Ho

Based on yesterday's post, let me be direct: there are a few things I know right this minute I don't need for Christmas...or ever, really.

At the risk of being a giant Scrooge, here are the top three things you need not trouble yourself to share with me this December. Fa la la la la, la humbug la:

1) Photos of Elves from the Shelves Pooping.

Yeah, you read that right, and yes, that is a phrase I never thought I'd have to type. Haven't seen one, two, or a dozen of these charming shots in your Facebook feed yet? Do an image search for "elf on the shelf pooping" and you can see a bunch of them yourself. Don't do this if you aren't ready to see a lot of photos of plastic dolls sitting on toilets.

I've given up trying to fight the "Elf on the Shelf" craze; I get it now. We all have things that we really enjoy doing for our kids, that make their lives feel magical and exciting. Since EJ was little, we have loved making elaborate treasure hunts for her, since she was an early reader, and was always one to love directions, maps, etc. We—and I mostly mean my husband, who am I kidding?—can spend a few hours putting together clues, taping them around spots in the house, etc., all for five-to-ten minutes of discovery on her part, but it is totally worth it. Anyone looking in at this practice might think us nuts.

So, look, even if Santa is all-knowing and magical, and does not need any creepy spy elves to descend into your homes for a month and require parents to "help" them get into crazy high jinx every single night, and just the mention of Santa is enough to "scare kids straight" from Thanksgiving until Christmas Eve (rendering all that nightly elf help completely unnecessary), I GET IT. Have fun. Assist the elf in skiing from the top of your refrigerator down to your sink, and watch your kid squeal with delight.

And I know, I know...kids think poop is hilarious. It is tempting to show off your elf's bathroom habits, especially if you are potty-training, and you think one of Santa's minions could make your life easier.

I just don't want to see it.

For many of us, there are a lot of magical traditions that we share with our kids, and sometimes, we have to really dig deep to explain them to inquisitive children. One thing I never want to have to tell my kid is that, in order to make chocolate kisses, m&ms, or peppermint candies, we must feed one of Santa's satellite elves, then wait for him/her to defecate, at which point we can collect our candy, otherwise known as elf feces.

And speaking of chocolate...

2) I don't want any chocolate diamonds. 

Sorry LeVian. I see your logic here, but I'm not buying it. You have a bunch of dark brown diamonds on your hands, so far from engagement rings that they might as well be inset into kitchen appliances given for unromantic eleventh anniversaries. You think to yourself:

--Chicks dig chocolate
--Chicks dig diamonds

Therefore, using the marketing version of the transitive property:

--Chicks dig chocolate diamonds.

NOT THIS CHICK. Playing an ad, over and over and over, of a woman at a "museum gallery opening" of a chocolate diamond collection will not convince me to beg my loved ones to purchase the giant, brown cocktail ring you keep showing onscreen, bathed in what looks like a CGI version of melted chocolate.

Have you ever done any baking with chocolate with a ring on? Do you know how hard it is to get hardened chocolate out from under prongs? Knowing that no one will know the difference if I have chocolate in the prongs or not, because the ring is already brown, doesn't help your sales, I promise.

You aren't the only holiday jewelry offender, though. I love Jane Seymour, but her "Open Heart" collection looks like...well...boobs and butt.  Take a look. I already have boobs; I don't need people to visualize boobs right above my boobs, and I certainly don't need anyone then musing on my accompanying backside. Sheesh.

Oh, and one last one: jewelry that comes with a stuffed animal is not for adult women. Unless you are a father or mother shopping for a sweet necklace for your pre-teen, you should not buy that for me, or anyone else who can legally vote.

Was that enough of a jewelry no-no list? Do I sound grumpy and picky? Well, speaking of lists...

3) Don't ask me to make you a list of presents I would like, my husband would like, or my daughter would like for Christmas.

God bless all of you out there who are list-makers, and take delight in doing this activity—you keep the world running smoothly, I know, and I am grateful—but I am not one of you. Getting asked to make Christmas lists takes so much joy of gift-giving/receiving out of it for me.

When I get asked to make a list, all I hear is, "In addition to doing the work of figuring out what everyone on your gift list would like, and buying them presents, please do my work of figuring out what the members of your family would like." I also think: "I'm bad at making my own lists, why on earth would anyone want a list from me?"

Now, I'm not a total jerk. If you haven't seen our kid in awhile, and want to know her current likes/dislikes, I get it, they change a lot. If you are wondering if there is something special one of us would like, but wouldn't be the kind of thing we would get ourselves, ask away. If you want to see if we already have an item, I'm more than happy to confirm that for you.

But a list? A whole list? Ugh. Inevitably, any list I try to make:

--takes away the opportunity for the three of us in our immediate family to buy the gifts that we really want to give each other, because I get desperate, and put those items on the list I give extended family.
--makes us look like jerks who just can't give enough ideas—what is wrong with us?
--makes us look like jerks who only want specific things, or fancy things, or expensive things.

Those last two points relate to each other, because, frankly, we really don't want anything for Christmas most of the time. In any given year, the things we do want are the kinds of things you have to save for, and we would never ask others to buy for us.

Those things can't go on a list (hence we are jerks for not including enough items), unless the need for a list is so insistent, I tell the truth and say the big stuff (hence we are jerks who want expensive things). They are things like:

--The fancy sheets that really fit our bed, and are very soft, and yes, are crazy-expensive, but hold up for years, and work the best. 
--Money for a painter and an electrician, or for student loans from grad school, or for a college fund for our daughter. 
--Help paying for the professional organizer we have been working with to help rid us of stuff—I actually broke down in tears sitting with our organizer this week in our daughter's room, realizing that—despite the fact that we have already removed at least a dozen garbage bags full of donations from her space—in order to make the room function we still need to strip it of 1/2 of its contents, and...gasp...Christmas is coming, and the room will be piled to the rafters again, with no room for what there is now.

Crud. I think I just made a list. A list within a list. WHAT IS HAPPENING TO ME?

Please don't ask for another if you were hoping to get us a gift. Ignore the list(s) above, and give some honeybees or ducklings (or whatever animal fits your fancy) to needy families throughout the world through Heifer International, or donate money to the local food pantry we support, St. James Pantry. Or, if you really want to shop, buy us whatever you think we will like, and you'll discover that we love it when people pick things from their hearts, and are grateful for everything, especially the things we never would have thought to put on our own lists.

And if you really want it, let me know, and I might just buy you a chocolate-diamond encrusted "open heart" pendant, which comes with a teddy bear that you can stage with your elf in the bathroom. I love you that much. Just put it on your list.

Indecisively Impolite

Friends B and C are visiting Friend A, and dinner time rolls around. Friend A starts a discussion about what to eat, knowing she has nothing to serve in the house. Has this type of scenario happened to you?

A: "I'm having such a great time, I'm so glad you guys are visiting; how about we get dinner together before you go. What would you like?"

B: "Oh, I don't care, anything is fine."

C: "Me, either. I'll eat anything. I'm really hungry."

A: "I'm hungry, too, so let's make a choice so we can get food faster. Should we go out, or order in?"

C: "Doesn't matter to me."

A: "Didn't you just say you were really hungry? What do you guys think will be faster?"

B: "I have no idea. What do you think? Is there anything either of you would like?"

C: "Yeah, let's just eat."

A: "That's what I want us to do, "just eat." Please, guys, what would you like? There are so many choices: pizza, sushi, and Thai take-out; we could walk to the diner; we could get in the car and go to that place you liked so much last time...have you guys eaten any of these foods lately? Is there something you don't want?

B: "It's your place, A, why don't you decide?"

A: "Okay, sushi."

C: "Really?"

A: "Are you not in the mood for sushi? WHAT WOULD YOU LIKE?"

C: "No, that's fine." (averts eyes, crosses arms across chest.)

B: "Sushi is fine if that is what you want." (sighing)

A: "Do we NOT want sushi now, or do we want sushi? Do we want it from another restaurant? Forget it, get in the car, I'm driving us to the place we went last time."

B: "I can't remember if we liked that place or not...hmmm..."

ARGH!

I'm not sure at what point we all decided that the best way to get along in the world when asked our preferences is to say, "Oh, I don't care! Whatever you'd like would be fine."

I get the premise: if you subordinate, then you don't have conflict. If you really don't care much, why should you be the one to assert yourself, right, and "make trouble?" And of course, no one wants to be THAT PERSON, you know, the one who is bossy and mouthy and says exactly what he or she thinks. The one who "always wants to get his/her way."

You know what, though? I want you to be that person, at least when you are making a decision with me. Why, you ask?

1) People always have an opinion; not stating it doesn't mean it isn't there.

2) You cannot possibly meet anyone's needs if you don't know what any of them are.

3) You cannot make compromises, (i.e., "Jim doesn't care much about XYZ, so we'll go with Sara's plan for that, but Sara isn't even going to attend ABC, and that's Jim's favorite, so we'll follow his lead there,") if no one states what they believe, or how important that belief is to them.

4) You will always find out later how disappointed everyone was, often when you can do absolutely nothing to assuage the sentiment.

When trying to make plans, nothing aggravates me more than working to create consensus with a group with seemingly no opinion about anything. I'm annoyed by myself when I find that I'm shying away from asking for what I really want, worried to state what I would like or need in order to ensure I don't upset anyone.

In grad school, we studied the Abilene Paradox, the story of how a family, all wanting to make each other content and not "rock the boat," end up going on a miserable roadtrip in a sweltering car for a yucky meal that none of them enjoys. It is not until after arriving home that each of them realizes that none of them had wanted to do this in the first place; no one stated what their preference was, each choosing to say a variation of "Sounds good," despite the fact that they were all happily playing dominoes when the idea for a roadtrip was pitched, and none of them wanted to leave their pleasant afternoon. When we read this story in class, you could hear laughter and sighing all throughout the room—how many times could each of us describe a moment with family, friends, or coworkers that felt like a hot, dusty ride to and from Abilene that no one really wanted to take.

Have we become so decision-averse or conflict-avoidant that we can no longer state an opinion about something as banal as take-out food without feeling anxious?  And if we can't be honest about the little things, how on earth do we expect to be able to manage the discomfort of our big choices?

So, here's my decisiveness experiment, should you choose to join me: for one week, be honest about what you want/don't want.  Don't be afraid to state those preferences, politely, and see what happens. Be vulnerable, and share what you think and feel.

Don't worry, this won't mean:

1) Being a pest about everything: if you truly don't have a strong preference, and someone else has stated that they do, let people know that you are very flexible, and don't care much about what is decided, but wanted to contribute. Feel free not to fight for anything; just say what you'd like or dislike. See if others chime in once someone has broken the decisiveness ice.

2) Having a fit if you don't get your way: not getting your way is going to be the reality a fair amount of the time; being a jerk isn't any more polite than saying nothing about what you want, then simmering with resentment.

3) Giving up on being kind: honestly, if stating, "I've had pizza twice this week, and I'd really like something a little lighter,"  or "I'd like to go shopping, if others would rather rest, I can go by myself," feels offensive to others, there may be a problematic dynamic in play that has little to do with you, or anything you say or don't say. Being honest and decisive, continually, may set the stage for others to break out of the communication breakdown; if it doesn't, at least more of your own feelings and wishes will be considered.

One final note: as the mom in this household, I think the most tiring thing I have to do all day, everyday, is manage a thousand points of scheduling/decision-making/planning, all at once, all in my brain as a running monologue. At any given moment, I am thinking something like this:

"I've got to get the laundry in right away, because I have to leave early to pick up groceries on the way to school dismissal, and won't have time to run the dryer if I don't start the wash now...I was in the middle of this freelance work when I went to bed last night, so should I finish that first then run the washer?...no, start the washer now and then work, as EJ needs her ballet outfit clean by tonight—wait, I should find her gym clothes, now, too, so those are ready for Friday?—what should I pick up at the store that I can make quickly after ballet is done?...we had chicken twice this week...Mike prefers the beef from the store further away, will I have time to get that?"

IT NEVER ENDS.

So, when I have the opportunity to make decisions with others, and not have to manage all the choices and contingencies by myself, even if I don't get exactly what I want, I am so happy. Maybe that's the heart of the problem—we are all so mentally taxed with decision-making fatigue, none of us want to take charge when we have the opportunity to let others take the lead. In this way, saying "I don't care, whatever you want!" becomes our default. The problem is that, whenever anyone has to cajole opinions out of a group in order to make simple choices, everyone feels more exhausted, especially the person kind enough to try to move the process along in the first place, knowing a decision must be made. Personally, I can verify that my brain is already full, worn-out, and spinning much of the time, especially during the holidays. The kind thing for you to do for me, I promise, is to tell me what you want, even if you think I won't like it. I can take it. I won't think you are being a jerk, or emotional, or pushy. I will say, "thank you."

If we all just tried to say what we'd like—kindly, respectfully, but honestly—then dealt with whatever discomfort might follow, what could happen? Could we ease the manic brains of millions? Of ourselves? Could we find out that, more cases than not, we can all agree on something that works for everyone, and when we don't, we can find a way to make further compromises on other issues so that each person gets a turn at maximum happiness?

Join me. One week. Say what you want. Really. It is a holiday gift to everyone. Then please share stories of either your past experiences with maddening indecisiveness or current discoveries with newfound outspokenness here, in the comments section, and watch tomorrow for a post on what I don't want for Christmas this year (in the spirit of sharing the truth.)

Pop Tart

Ada the wonderdog had a good Thanksgiving weekend, breaking her old-age fasting pattern by eating up most of my folks' dog's food. As every dog knows, even if you haven't eaten regularly in a week, if you can steal another dog's food, it will be delicious every time. "Nom, nom, nom...it tastes so...stolen."

Fortified by her spoils, she even took a little sprint in my parents' big, wooded backyard. Moved by what appeared to be primarily instinct, she heard a noise—a squirrel, maybe?—then bounded twenty feet at a real clip to get to the sound. Upon arriving, however, she started hobbling; once her conscious brain caught up to her base instinct, she knew she was in trouble, and shouldn't try that kind of move again.

Now that we are home, she's resting a lot, only eating about half of her food, and retreating to the darker, cooler places where she likes to sleep most of the day. Mostly blind and deaf, it takes a lot to rouse her...unless someone is eating a pop tart.

Pop tarts are strictly a "once in a while, just for fun" junk food around here, only purchased a few times a year when they are on sale. Last week, while Thanksgiving shopping, we found a deal on pop tarts, and bought a box of the cinnamon brown sugar variety.

The smell of a pop tart in the toaster can call our dog from across the house, at which point she will stick next to the pop tart eater like glue, doing all she can to be there in case of falling crumbs. Yesterday, as I sat down to enjoy one, she ran to me, then proceeded to do the two commands she can perform without too much discomfort these days—sitting and putting her paw up to shake—over and over. She looked ten years younger, with a wagging tail and a bright look in her eye. "If only I could have just a sliver of that pop tart, I could live another fifteen years," her pleading seemed to say.

In the end, I gave her tiny, fingernail-sized piece of the the corner crust; no icing, no sweet filling, just crust. She ate it up gratefully, somewhat in shock that I'd shared, then hung around for a solid five minutes, still in begging mode, not wanting to believe that the food was all gone.

If all it takes is a pop tart to bring out the youth in this dog, I may have to regularly invest in this miracle toaster pastry. It's not like we are sparing the dog heart disease or obesity at this point—if any creature in this world can afford to eat a pop tart or two, it is Ada.

No fruit fillings, though, because seriously, that's just gross. Even humans know that.

"Hi, I'm Ada. Please hand over that toasty nom-nom."

Mean Love

Over Thanksgiving, our daughter got a little taste of heaven: she spent a long weekend in our Wisconsin hometown, visiting with all four of her grandparents. Although I don't think that either my husband or I imagined that we would end up marrying an old friend from our childhoods, that's what happened, and because of that, our daughter has both sets of grandparents living less than two minutes drive away from each other.

When EJ talks about Kenosha—which she says, Ken-OH-sha, with lots of love on the "oh"—she may as well be describing Disney World; it is all magic, fun, and joy.

Given that there aren't rides, palm trees, and life-sized cartoons characters roaming the streets there, we understand that the main draw in our hometown is her grandparents. We can't blame her.

While I loved my grandparents very much, and have some sweet memories with them, I can't ever remember a time I was simply dying to visit them, or sobbing (yes, sobbing) when it was time to leave. They were loving in a way that people who survived the Great Depression and two world wars might understandably be: they wanted to impart all of their wisdom on us, admonish our faults, and help us to have the best chance we could of making ourselves into something in this world. Their life circumstances had been painful, and they hoped that if they warned us enough, made us grateful enough, or picked at our faults enough, we could learn through their experiences. They thought my brothers and I were overindulged (possible), but underworked (they had a point). Of course, we were born in the seventies, raised in the eighties, and launched out in the nineties—Dynasty and Duran Duran are not exactly at the roots of deep thinking. Somehow we ungratefully managed to make it out of that supportive, loving environment to become decent human beings who contribute to society; I think that, despite the alleged (but unproven) overindulgence, all that support and love managed to win the day (like the lyrics from a Beatles song). I take some solace in knowing that, just as those grandparents were telling us to shape up, they were needling our parents about the same things, and we all seemed to make it through without too many years in therapy.

I've told EJ a lot of stories about my family, including my grandparents. I've told her about my Nana (my dad's mom) coming over from Italy as a little girl, and how she climbed up into the mulberry bush and stained her all-new white dress the day her grandmother had brought she and her sister to town for passport photographs, requiring them to go all the way back home again to their village and try another day, no small feat. I also have told her how Nana used to come to dinner usually once a week in her big, metallic-burnt orange car, and always brought cupcakes or twinkies in a plastic bag that she would fold up into her coat pocket; my cousins can all describe those tattered plastic bags.

I've described how Grammy and Granddad (Mom's parents) would come visit us from Colorado, typically with a bunch of carefully-wrapped breakables for us. Only about a third of these items were ever things kids really enjoy, but they had been packed up so meticulously in order to make it to us safely, they always required multiple, "Thank yous" and "I love this, thank you!" as well as a formal thank you note in the mail following their departure. I've mentioned how they travelled all over the world during their retirement, always bringing back a doll for me from each country; I loved that doll collection. I've also told EJ about how, when we'd go to Colorado each summer, we'd usually take a picnic in the mountains, and Grammy would let me lie down with my head in her lap on the van ride up as I got carsick, and she'd stroke my head and rub my back to make me feel better. Once there, she was known for yelling at us for being afraid of yellow jackets, which she would grab and crush with her bare hands, the same hands that had just been used so gently to soothe me on the way up.

Yes, I have a lot of great memories with my grandparents, to be sure, but I didn't have the kind of warm, safe feelings I know that my daughter has with my folks and my inlaws. I feel so grateful that she is lucky in this regard. Growing up, my mom used to speak of how close she was with her paternal grandfather and maternal grandmother, and I always wondered how great that must feel for a kid, to have grandparents who demonstrate that they love you unconditionally, and don't let you know what you need to do better all the time, disguising some personal hang-ups or pet peeves as loving advice. Now I get the privilege of seeing EJ's grandparents extend that type of kindness to her, and it is really beautiful.

Of course, kids are honest, and they will call things as they see them. I try to be honest back. On Friday, after spending time together making my great-grandmother's cinnamon roll recipe with my Mom, and hearing me recount how Granddaddy would be mad that we hadn't pulled EJ's hair all the way up, and how Grammy would find my glazing overzealous, EJ asked,

"Mom, were your grandparents mean?"

My reply:

"Yes...well, wait. No, they weren't mean. They weren't. They just weren't always nice."

She then laughed hysterically. "They weren't nice, Papa!" she told my dad, as if the sheer idea that grandparents could be anything but nice was the silliest, craziest thing she had ever heard.

It wasn't crazy, though, it was simply what they knew how to do to love me the best that they could. Living in the world as it is now, without the financial security that I think so many of us could not do anything but take for granted when we were younger, I get it. They wanted us to understand what that kind of worry could look like, but of course, you can't understand anxiety as a 9-year old in your city's musical production of "The Sound of Music," so having your grandparents tell you five hundred times how lucky you are to have your parents drive you to rehearsals to be Marta simply does not sink in. You have to live the trouble—now that I have the fear that we might not be able to pay for our daughter's schooling, or retire when we can no longer work, I can begin to understand. No, we aren't living nearly the trouble of their time, but we are getting our own economic kick in the pants.

I sometimes think that I am hardening more like them, with cautious admonitions occasionally accompanying my "I love yous." I feel close to them as I realize this, but I also recognize that I must learn from their examples: sharing your tales of anxiety with children does not make them better able to handle stress. Hardship is its own teacher, just as perseverance is its own reward, and if you want kids to grow into people who can manage all that comes their way, filling a cheering section for them with unconditional love is a good start. Sure, provide an example, but don't tell them what they can't do, or what they need to change about themselves to make them more acceptable or enviable. The world will do this, over and over, and you aren't the world; you are family.

My New BPF

Thanksgiving weekend has passed us by (or buy, if that's how you celebrate the holiday), and we are one purple-candlit Sunday into one of my favorite seasons: Advent.

So it seems apt today, right in the spot where a holiday dedicated to gratitude fades into a time of seeking light in the darkness and anticipation of joy to come, to talk about the man who is surprising me more than anyone these days.

Francis. He's my new BPF, or "best pope forever," as the kids might say.  Actually, the kids probably don't use those phrases anymore; I can't keep up with modern times. But hey, guess who can?  THE POPE.

I was raised in the Catholic church, by a Catholic father and a mother who was brought up as a Methodist, but converted right around my baptism. Mom never shook off her Protestant roots, at least from my perspective, which I actually thought was much to the benefit of her kids. A little thread of reformation woven into my Catholicism was really a boon to me, as I was able to participate in the traditions and practices of the church, while recognizing that not all of them were so darn important that I should get in a tailspin about them; in fact, plenty of people didn't follow any of them and seemed just fine.

I loved my childhood church, and was active in it. I started cantoring in the eighth grade, participated in youth group, and despite being a public-school kid, I served as the youth representative in the church's parish council. At some of those parish council meetings, I got to hear many adults—my "peers" on the committee—talk about how rotten it is when parents don't send their kids to Catholic school, primarily because there was such a desperation at that time surrounding falling enrollment at said schools. Public-school kid that I was, I remember being hurt by it, then thinking, "Hey, wait a minute! I'm the one here, not a Catholic-school kid—it must not be too rotten." Years later, I had a similar reaction during my year abroad when my French friends would tell me this joke:

What do you call a person who speaks three languages? Trilingual.

What do you call a person who speaks two languages? Bilingual.

What do you call a person who only speaks one language? American

Given that they told this joke to me, an American, in French, it fundamentally stopped making sense—how am I understanding this dumb joke if I only speak English?—but even so, it smarted. Much like the Catholic school jabs earlier, I didn't want to feel like I didn't belong, or worse, I didn't belong because I wasn't doing the "right" thing.

I wanted to do it all right, religiously speaking; I grew up, continued to be active in church, and did everything from teach CCD to participate in liturgy committee to be a part of the music ministry. Of course, when you are a married, liberal woman in the Catholic church, there is only so much you can do to feel like you belong in the church's decision-making mechanism, for obvious reasons. At the same time I began to hit my denomination's glass ceiling, I started to see my need to participate not as devotion, but as my own personal heresy, an idolatry to my own service, a desire to belong in the group of deserving folks, not a desire to help others who are deserving.

A quick review of church history shows that we Catholics have a historical knack for creating unnecessary exclusivity, particularly when we can use "right living" as the secret password to our club (even if none of the club members remember it once they are admitted). The global tragedy which is the church's child sex scandal, and its systematic cover-up favoring members of the priesthood over the needs of children who had been raped by the clergy, may be the most horrific recent example of how the desire to protect the inner sanctum of the church has devastated the church body as a whole. I will admit that, as I've learned more and more about the cover-ups, the pay-outs, the moving of reoffending pedophiles from one parish to another, I have been deeply disconnected and mistrusting of the people running the show at the Catholic Church; my overall relationship with the sickened church has become a defensive one.

But you know, this new pope, my BPF, he's facing this head-on. He's tired of a structure that would support that kind of gilded duplicity, and the damage and pain it causes. He wants us to stop focusing on "obsessions" (his word, not mine), or feeling safe all tucked up in our churches and schools, and to get out and feed the hungry. He means this as a metaphor, I'm sure, but more importantly, he means this literally. Get dirty. Go be with the people, 'cause guess what: we are all just one of the people. You have worked hard to earn what you have, but now, God wants you to give it away, and...wait for it...do it both gratefully and in a hands-on manner. 

This guy makes me swoon.

Pope Francis doesn't seem nearly as interested in telling people whether they are right or wrong, as he is interested in serving others. Serving others, in the framework provided by Christ, doesn't mean asking questions about who is worthy, or who will or will not squander the help offered, in order to perform service. It is unconditional. It looks like this: Show up. Be vulnerable. See others as yourself. Get ready to get hurt, because it will happen. When it does, show up again. And again. Forgive a hundred times over, then show up again.

In a world increasingly divided among rich and poor, with the rich becoming richer in an exponential way, the poor losing access to the basic necessities required for human dignity, and the middle class disappearing in plain sight, this pope seems to also understand that, practically, helping the least among us helps us all. I have been waiting for someone with great influence and a mission of caring to profess this understanding clearly and decisively on the world stage; I never, ever imagined it would be a pope.

After reading the highlight's of the pope's publication, Evangelii Gaudium, last week, I felt a sense of relief about the future of my church that I hadn't had in at least a decade. I could physically feel the weight leaving my chest, and breathe coming in, as I thought about what this man could mean for our world; I feel it again even now, as I type, and every time it comes to mind. I also desire a place to help others, in face-to-face service, in compassion delivered directly from one soul to another. I heard you, Pope Francis, and I'm thankful.

And so, I wait in joyful hope...and at the same time, I follow the lead of this humble Jesuit with Franciscan leanings, and now look to find ways to serve the people who need help the most; the hope is there, waiting to be delivered, if only we will take up the task. I'll keep you posted on my progress.

Law Spelled Out

Thanksgiving is done, but we are still thankful, as our kiddo is enjoying her first weekend without homework since third grade began. Given the sheer amount of work this year, we consider four schoolwork-free days for her, with nothing due on Monday, to be a national holiday miracle.

This was EJ's spelling list for this past week, based on the book, Holes, which her third-grade class has been reading for a few months, and which she has really enjoyed.

Notice the pattern? Fugitive. Recapture. Detainees. Jurisdiction. Pursuant. Incarcerated.

I know that these all make sense based on the context of the book, and yet, I can't help but imagine that the reason my kid has has so much homework this year is that her class is secretly filming a new series of Law & Order during school hours, and they are just making up all their academic work at night.  

Law & Order: Elementary Division could bring some Sherlock Holmes fans over from CBS if they get confused with the title.

Law & Order: Academic Crimes could help sell (or tank, depending on the sponsors) common core adoption.

Law & Order: Chicago Recruitment could highlight a whole new strategy in the fight against crime in our city: simply merge CPS and CPD, and raise tiny crimefighters from the start.

Whatever they are doing at school learning to neutralize inexplicable detainees, I hope they are union.