Do You Speak Caveman?

Oh the joys of what it means to have a teenager in the house.

Okay. That was totally sarcastic.

But really, how have we raised a caveman? Lately our son doesn’t talk, he grunts; he answers questions with one word; he slouches. Really, all he needs is a bone through his nose.

Then there is the fact that he is also grumpy. He is a grumpy caveman.

AND he is so moody. He is a moody, grumpy caveman.

I am getting whiplash from trying to keep up with his moods. Is that a happy face? Grumpy face? I’m not really sure … they all look the same.

Part of the problem is the stress of this first week of school: classes, homework, football, and his stint as a writer for the Teen Board on the Augusta Chronicle all started THIS WEEK. Going from the nothingness of summer to a full schedule is not fun, so we are trying to be understanding and supportive.

But Geez Louise.

Anyway, I know my limitations, so today I searched for advice from several Catholic Parenting Web sites.

Yes, I am perfectly willing to admit when I need help.

One site had an entire section on teens, and one point that was emphasized was that the responsibility for developing a healthy parent-child relationship rests primarily with the parent; that (like it or not) it's really up to us to keep the peace and maintain open lines of communication.

Okay, I get that. We’re the adults, we’re mature, we know how to take the higher road. In other words, we are bigger than they are.

Then there were Biblical references concerning the "rod" of discipline (Prov. 13:24; 23: 13-14). In Biblical times the rod was the staff used by shepherds, not as punishment, but as a way to corral and guide wayward sheep.

What a beautiful image. That’s exactly what my husband and I are trying to do as parents … guide our son in the ways of the world.

Unfortunately, as I was letting this beautiful image run through my mind, I happened to glance at my watch. The time in which my son was supposed to call home to check in came … and went. No phone call whatsoever.

Truthfully, in that very moment, I just wanted to take that rod and whack my son over the head with it.

Now who’s the caveman?

Ugh.

Be nice ... or else (the bathroom incident)

Yesterday's post resulted in my brother, David, the upright and compassionate doctor that he is, turning into a tattle-tale about his wife, Leah, and the "Bathroom Incident."

Here ... in his own words:

Leah’s bathroom story in a nutshell:

1. Leah is in bathroom at restaurant in Italy, tries to flush toilet by pulling the “panic cord.”

2. Toilet doesn’t flush, therefore #1 gets repeated multiple times.

3. Panic bell is ringing like crazy wherever the employees are hanging out, they therefore rush into the bathroom.

4. Leah doesn’t speak Italian.

5. Said employees don’t speak English.

6. Toilet is still not flushed (awkward…)

7. Everybody hugs and eats food.

That pretty much covers it.
Dave

Be nice ... or else.

As the only one in my family who blogs, here is what I have to deal with:

-are you going to put that in your blog?
-hey, I am going to tell you something, but don't put it in your blog.
-you're going to blog about this, aren't you?
-I read your blog today ... I'm telling Mom what you wrote.
-is this what you call a blog-worthy moment?
-uh,oh ... she has that look ... she's going to blog.

Oh, they tease me, but the exact thing they tease me about has now become my secret weapon.

As in ...

If you guys don't stop laughing at me I'm going to blog about ...

-the time David put Laura's box turtle in his mouth;
-Laura's bubble on her nose that all the doctors took pictures of;
-Leah's bathroom incident in Italy;
-the time David "ran away" from home;
-Nonno's fire safety demonstration while camping;
-Nonna's interview with channel 6;
-Joe's golf ball trick and resulting black eye;
-Nonno losing his pants while fishing w/ Nicholas;
-the time Peter spit up on Christopher's head;
-Laura's dentist - I mean - dental appointment;
-Laura's doctor appointment ... cough, cough;
-Mom and her flying shoe;
-Patrick driving around, and around, and around, and around, and around the traffic circle in Italy.

See? I have plenty that I could say.

So you'd better be nice to me ... that's all I'm saying.

Well, duh . . .

A few weeks ago (or months? summer does something to my sense of time) our blogging Catholic School teacher, Laura, wrote this post about how the purchase of a pair of rubber gloves turned her into a super scrub woman (minus the cape).

And that post got me thinking: why in the heck am I not wearing rubber gloves?

Despite applying lotion to my hands on an almost hourly basis, my hands are always dry. I guess applying lotion and then submerging my hands in water is counterproductive.

Yes, I see that now.

Then I thought about my zia Tiziana who has just lovely hands. While we were in Italy this summer she cooked, washed dishes, cooked, and washed dishes for us incessantly . . . and no dry hands. Why? She wore rubber gloves.

So that's it. BASTA! No more dry hands for me. I bought myself a pair of rubber gloves.

Purple ones.

And I am a new person.

I see what Laura was talking about . . . I am a superwoman wearing these gloves. I no longer leave a cup in the sink "for later" just because I don't want to get my hands wet. No! I slip on my purple rubber gloves and deal with the matter right away (see? they even help with procrastination).

Overnight I have become . . . everyone sing along now . . .

a two-eyed, no horned, standing purple-handed cleaner!

I think the ring adds a certain flair, no?

The Last Quote Says It All

Quotes from my nephew, Christopher, who survived his first overnight summer camp experience ... a week which included 100+ degree heat and many severe thunderstorms.

"I loved it!"

"I need to buy a battery-powered fan for next year."

"I held a snake around my neck and I wasn't even wearing a shirt!"

"These strange designs on my arms were drawn by my counselor in permanent ink!"

"Don't worry about this rash on my torso and back; everyone has it."

"We had a mud pit fight Saturday. Want to see my shirt?"

"My favorite part was the dance Friday night."

"Let me show you how to do the sprinkler dance."

"Gosh, it's cold in here!"

"Go away; I'm napping."

A Hankie for My Pocket

A Hankie for My Pocket

by Maria Novajosky

*published in the July/August issue of Canticle Magazine, 2009

For one week this past summer our family had a nun from Tanzania stay with us in our home. To prepare for her visit I cleaned, made lists, and lectured my three sons on the importance of table manners (elbows off the table) and good behavior (no arguing, no name calling). I was nothing if not organized. What I wasn’t prepared for was what she would teach me.


Once Sister Gaudiosa arrived, it didn’t take long for everyone to be drawn to her enthusiasm and zest for life. She visited our sons’ school and taught the class the “Our Father” in Swahili. She watched football with my husband, giggling when he got too technical in his explanations. She often sat down on the floor and had lengthy conversations with our toddler (no language barriers between those two).


As the week progressed, I stopped consulting my lists and started enjoying just being with her. We were two women from completely different countries, with different callings in life, and yet we had marvelous heart-to-heart conversations. I loved how she spent an hour ironing her veils, how she danced for us when we found some Tanzanian music on the internet, how she always had one helping at the dinner table and never, ever had seconds, and I loved how she laughed with complete abandonment when I took her to see “Hairspray” at the movie theater.


One day we decided to take her on a day trip to Atlanta. That morning I rushed around gathering maps, coupons, and our itinerary. It was cloudy, so I found some umbrellas. I pulled out my biggest purse and packed it with necessities:  wallet, makeup, sunglasses, eyeglasses, camera, snacks for the boys . . . by the time I was done my purse must have weighed twenty-five pounds.


And Sister? As we headed out the door she quietly slipped a hankie into her pocket.


On the way to Atlanta, as I thought about that hankie and compared it to my stuffed handbag, I recognized the freedom that can be found in simplicity. It took almost the entire week, but spending time with Sister helped me see simplicity as a gift, a peace of mind and heart uncluttered by the craziness of our lives. Sometimes all we simply have to do is decide we want it.


Now, I am not naive. I have three sons, one of whom is a toddler, and I do need my purse. But I am learning to make things less complicated and to recognize the beauty of God’s gift of simplicity. A walk in the woods, a child’s laughter, a rainy afternoon, or a meal with a neighbor are simple things that say more about the gift of life than all the running around we do to live it. So now, when I leave home my purse no longer weighs twenty-five pounds . . . it’s down to fifteen.


And I always, always slip a hankie into my pocket.

One Journey

This has been a summer of travel for our family and this past Thursday we embarked on yet another trip to Virginia Beach . . . but this time to say goodbye to Nana who had passed away last week.

This was our second trip there within a one month period, and the contrast between that first trip and this one is a study on life: three weeks ago we were full of plans that included swimming in Nana and Papa's pool, going to Busch Gardens, visiting cousins.

This time we were full of thoughts on how it was going to be to enter Nana and Papa's house with Nana gone. After 54 years of marriage, how would Papa be? How would the the boys and their cousins handle it? How could my sister in-law, who said goodbye to her husband a mere two months ago, now say goodbye to her mother?

But a wonderful thing happened over the course of the weekend: it was all okay . . . beautiful, even.

To be sure, tears were shed; however, there was an overwhelming peace in knowing that it was okay to smile and laugh; that in gathering together we divided grief; that death can be a source of blessings and graces.

When Nana was diagnosed three months ago with pancreatic cancer, she knew exactly what she was facing, and she was dreading the ravages of the disease. But when she suddenly passed away from a stroke last week, she bypassed all the awfulness that comes with a stage 4 cancer. We were able to see her death as the gift it was, one free from suffering and pain.

Then, over the past month her four children (my husband, his brother, and two sisters), their spouses, and nine grandchildren (8 grandsons, 1 granddaughter) had wonderful visits with her. We were all given the gift of being with the Nana we know and love - which is how she would have wanted us all to remember her.

Finally, Nana had made it very clear to her husband and her children that she did not want any extraordinary measures taken to prolong her life. When the time came, her children had been given the gift of knowing when to let go . . . and accepting it.

Acceptance is a beautiful thing because it converts the internal struggle of it's not right to this is the way it is, and it's okay. Accepting God's will. Accepting the sadness. Accepting that, somehow, it is all good.

I used to think of life as one journey and death as another, and yet they are part of the same journey. Two trips, one journey.

Life . . . in all its stages.