So True.

Elliott: Henry is a big ball of joy!

Augie: Henry is a big ball of awesome.

Risking Kindness

My brother got married last week, which raised to three the number of weddings between the Swenson and Balducci families since September. That leaves us at three down, one to go, with one more brother getting married this fall.

In the midst of all these celebrations, my family has been on the receiving end of a lot of love – not necessarily grand sweeping gestures (though there were some of those, too) but mostly a hundred little ways that friends and neighbors have shown kindness and support. People have been quick to offer help in anyway we need it, and many times I have been desperate enough to say yes.

Last week, as I was preparing for the rehearsal dinner (which Paul and I hosted), I got a call from a friend. Is there anything I can do, she asked, what do you need? And the only thing I could think of was my bridesmaid’s dress and how it needed ironing. I hesitated to ask, it seemed like such an insignificant thing. But then I thought of all the other things on my To Do List, and how ironing my dress kept going further and further down that list.

I took a deep breath and admitted that yes, there is this one thing but if it’s too much don’t worry about it. And before I could talk myself out of asking, my friend quickly said yes and that was that.

The next morning I was running to the grocery store in a frantic last-minute haze. My cell phone rang -- another friend, another offer of help. Again I hesitated, but then admitted my need.

“I know this is silly,” I told her, “but could you make guacamole for the luncheon?” She quickly said yes and I dropped off the ingredients on the way home. Such a small thing – but then again, not really.

At one point, I needed something from a shop in a small town 30 minutes down the road. My mom suggested I call her good friend who lives there (and regularly drives in to our city). I worried about being a nuisance, but my desperation helped me work up the courage to ask her anyway. The friend was so happy to help, and thanked me for allowing her to serve.

Service in time of need, I am learning, takes two things – it takes a desire to serve, but also a willingness to offer (or to ask). We may have the best of intentions, but usually it takes picking up the phone to make your intentions known.

And sometimes that can be risky.  

I have this tendency, when friends are in stressful times, to pull back. I start to fly under the radar. It’s not that I don’t want to help or to offer support. But I worry about being a bother, about being just another phone call in a sea of phone calls. What if I call at a bad time, I worry. What if the last thing this person needs is someone else calling to see what can be done when all she really wants is the phone to stop ringing!

As I have walked through this season of festivities and celebrations and stress, I’m recognizing the incredible need to risk kindness – to risk calling at a bad time instead of not calling at all, to risk asking for help instead of going it alone. And while this certainly carries a degree of common sense along with it, I think in the end the kindness will be more appreciated than the distance.

Latest Addiction

Nice Try, Though.

Elliott, eyes closed and each thumb touching a middle finger: Meditation feeds my soul.

Me: You still have to eat your dinner.

Elliott: Rats.

How Green Was My Monday

Earlier this year, I started noticing all the cardboard boxes and plastic bottles I was throwing out, perfectly good containers with the nice recycle symbol on the bottom that I was instead sending to our local dump. My parents had recently gotten a recycle trashcan from the county and my mom told me how surprised she was at the amount of their "trash" that could actually be recycled. She described her experience with recycling as "empowering."

I was caught off guard by that sentiment, by how strongly my mom had reacted to which trashcan she used for what stuff. But I had to admit I was starting to feel a pinch -- the thought of the local landfill, getting higher and higher with junk -- that image made me feel tired.

I decided to call the county, and the next day I had my own recycle can. I very quickly realized that over half of our trash could actually be recycled -- and I felt a similar reaction to my mom. It felt so good to be making a little difference on the world around us.

Since then, I'm working on other ways to "Reduce, Reuse and Recycle" (as the song from Curious George tells us). I've bought reusable bags for the grocery store, I wait until dishwasher is totally full until I run it, and each week one boy has the chore of "turning off the lights" throughout the house to make sure we aren't needlessly burning electricity. I've also started keeping track of our resources more fastidiously -- and I've been amazed at how this is helping me want to buy less. I don't want to be a "consumer," in a haphazard, pave-the-earth kind of way. Watching where my money goes helps me want to use every last bit of what I have before I go get more.

As John Paul II said, we have "a grave responsibility to preserve [the earth's] order for the well-being of future generations."

What about you? What are a few things you are doing to take care of Mother Earth?

 UPDATED TO ADD: If you want a recycle bin and live in Richmond County, call Augusta Solid Waste. They will deliver it to your curb.

Important Life Lessons, Vol. 29

"Don't pick other people's noses," Ethan tells Henry. "It's impolite."

To Henry, To Mark His Ninth Month

Dear Henry,

You are now nine months old! How can that be? I want to somehow express the incredible joy you bring to our life – to put into words all the love and happiness we as a family have experienced because you are here.

In some ways, nine months seems like such a long time. I feel like I’ve blinked and here you are – pulling up and scooting around and putting every imaginable object in your mouth. Henry, I owe my clean floors to you. Even your brothers are fastidious about making sure there is nothing there for you to eat. And then, somehow, you always find something, that one last lego or cheerio or microscopic leaf that you quickly grab and plunge into your mouth. You are a miracle worker. Where do you find these things and how do you deposit them so deftly?

But a nine-month-old Henry, in many other ways, seems not long at all. How can you be only nine-months-old when I’ve known you my whole life? I barely remember what life was like before I had your sweet smile in the center of my heart.

Today we bought your first pair of shoes. I’m not sure if the other boys had shoes when they were so young, but you are ready to go! You have four big brothers to keep up with, and you need shoes to get you there faster.

As we walked around the shoe store, I delighted in how tiny your feet are. I looked across the shop and noted the bigger shoes and I got a lump in my throat. When I was buying these tiny white shoes for your older brothers, I didn’t believe they’d ever fit into those big shoes across the way. I thought – in moments of frustration and of glee – that they would be little forever. But here they are, my other babies, and baby shoes are a distant memory.

I looked down and realized that too soon, your chubby toes will expand, your little feet will start to lengthen. One day, we will look at these shoes that we bought today and we will laugh with amazement that they ever fit you. I had that thought, standing there in the store, and I pulled you closer. I held you tight with a sense of awe that you will indeed grow to be big and strong and fast like your brothers. You will be able to run across the room and then across the yard and then up the street to play with a friend.

Somehow my heart felt delight and sadness at the same time.

What I want to express to you, dear sweet Henry, is the overwhelming gratitude I have that you are here. When your brothers were little, so many of them so close in age, I could not imagine ever wanting another baby again. Life was so very full.

Somehow, those years went by and while your brothers are by no means grown and gone, they grew up enough that your dad and I realized that what people said was true – babies do not stay babies forever. Somehow, God put you on our hearts, and I thank him for that every single day.

While I realize that having another baby will not always be the answer (every family has a youngest!) – I’m sure glad it was the answer for us. The love you give to us, with your sweet kisses and tender hugs, is a tiny glimpse of heaven.

But even better is the love you draw out of us – your presence in our midst is a never-ending excuse to love extravagantly. You are wonderful, Henry. I love you.

On the Subject of Milk

Today's topic: Milk!

For several years now, I have been an ardent supporter of organic milk. I can't remember what prompted me to make the switch, but I did and we all seemed to notice a difference. The milk tastes delicious and I feel good about serving it to my family.

Well, I recently started another kick -- that of keeping close track of our spending habits. When we had reached our proposed food budget on DAY 10 OF THE MONTH I realized a) I have a very compromised understanding of how much money I spend on food (which is what I'm working on) and b) it would be good to see where, if possible, I can try to cut costs. Because that's a good thing to do, right?

Which brings me to the milk. In general, I'm paying $6/gallon for the organic milk. Please don't judge. It's a lot, but I've always felt it was worth every penny. But now I have come across this research leading me to believe that I could make the switch back to "regular" milk and start applying those very significant savings to other things, like more produce or possibly a vacation home in Tuscany.

One other possibility -- water for dinner. Right now the boys drink only milk, constantly, with some juice on occasion. Oh they love their Co-cola, don't get me wrong. But we buy those as treats when out and about, not for at-home. So maybe starting to scale back how much milk we drink. But then again, can you ever drink too much milk?

My Own Personal Philosophizer

"Not everyone who has a cape can fly." -- Augie

Bride of Testosterhome

My brother is getting married this weekend! Hooray! We are so excited for Josh and Carolyn. It's going to be fun and wonderful -- and Carolyn is a perfect addition to our family, and we all love her dearly.

I don't know if I've mentioned this, but we are hosting the rehearsal dinner here, in our backyard, Friday night. What's that? I have red wine stains on my teeth? Where did those come from?

Yesterday, I took a picture of this incredible list I've been carrying around for the last two days. It is long and impressive. I was going to post it here for your viewing pleasure and then decided that might be more of me than you really wanted to enjoy. Just know that a) I have a List! and b) it is long! and impressive! (also, I have pretty handwriting.)

Here's another list, Valid Concerns Going Into The Weekend:

What if: The guests are in my backyard for the rehearsal dinner. Despite filling in the giant dirt hole, the boys have managed (in the time between getting home from school and leaving for the rehearsal) to dig another giant hole. A guest falls in. He is never heard from again.

What if: It is one hour before we should leave for the wedding. We start to get the boys dressed and discover I have not picked up their black pants from the dry-cleaners. The earth stops revolving, which in turn ruins the wedding.

What if: I slip on the marble floor as I walk down the aisle. I fall forward, breaking my teeth and (even worse) my dress flips up in the back. Time stands still, the earth stops revolving, the day is ruined.

What if...hmmm can't think of another. The falling thing really takes it out of me.

In other news, we ran out of milk yesterday! And let me tell you right now that "cutting back" on milk is going to take some serious effort around this joint. "No milk," one boy declared loudly. "What are we supposed to drink?" I explained that the clear liquid that comes out of the sink faucet is something they can (and should) use to quench their thirst.

It's going to be an adjustment, this whole quote Water Drinking Initiative unquote. We'll manage, I know. But I'm guessing they'll be even more of this sort of thing than before.

Future Gentlemen of America

One afternoon, the boys and I were taking a stroll through our neighborhood and enjoying the spring weather. As we walked, we were discussing some less-than-desirable behavior one boy had recently exhibited, and how we as a family have standards for how we treat others.

“A gentleman,” I explained, “doesn’t treat other people that way.”

“I,” said one boy, “am no gentleman.”

And while I agreed with that sentiment, I told that boy he would be by the time his father and I got through with him.

The art of parenting treads a fine line between allowing a child to be who God made him to be and also training a child in the way he should go. I sometimes get frustrated with certain qualities my boys exhibit, until I remember that children are not born as miniature adults. Children are fearfully and wonderfully made, but they are certainly a far cry from who they must be when they grow up (and I’ll be acutely aware of this next year when Henry becomes a toddler).

“Many parents,” writes James Stenson in Lifelines, “mistakenly believe that their task is to preserve character, not form it. That is, they believe that children come into the world with beautiful traits, admirable innocence, and that the job of parents is to maintain these as the children grow.”

Of course, there is a degree of truth to that notion. As the author notes, children exhibit a beautiful love for God and for his creation. They have a deep love for their parents and siblings and grandparents. And children love truth. These are all important character traits that we as parents strive to nurture and maintain in our children. With my boys, I recognize that each one has his own unique personality, including plenty of positive traits that he will, God willing, carry into manhood.

But in the midst of all this, there is an equal amount of fine-tuning and correcting and training that must occur in these formative years.

Sometimes, when I watch my boys interact, I fast-forward to when they are young men and that image is delightful. I love the thought of my grown sons shooting hoops together or working in the yard or taking their grandparents out to dinner. Other times, I realize that if certain negative behavior is not nixed, it won’t be a pretty sight – when you’re an adult, I explain to them, you can’t put a co-worker in a headlock because you disagree.

For the recent Diocesan Vocations newsletter, I had the opportunity to talk with Bev Firmin about her son Fr. Daniel, our diocesan Chancellor. One question I asked Bev was about Fr. Daniel’s behavior as a boy, and if he was always well-behaved.

“When Fr. Daniel was young,” said Bev, “he had a very hard head. When complaining to God about that one time He told me that He needed Daniel's head to be hard. My job was to train that head towards the truth.”

I am always so encouraged when parents with grown children share their stories. Those of us with young children need to be reminded to fight the good fight. It’s encouraging and inspiring to think that the world is filled with gentlemen – well-behaved men who love God and stand for truth – who were once wild and crazy little boys.

While negative behavior must be addressed, I find so much freedom when I recognize that some of my boys’ frustrating traits can eventually lead to very good things. Scaling the pantry walls shows motivation. Constant questions show a love of learning. If channeled correctly, this energy can inspire great things.

Gentlemen, the good Lord willing, they shall be. I just have to keep pointing their head in the right direction.

Mother of Boys

I came across an interesting study recently that suggested humans produce the gender of children they are most suited to raise. The study, spearheaded by a reproductive scientist in New Zealand, proposed that women with higher levels of testosterone were more likely to give birth to boys.

Of course, the minute I read this article I felt the urge to go outside and climb something. Or maybe whittle. Either way, the article left me feeling rather manly. And for some reason, it certainly felt like it rang true.

So often I feel perfectly suited to be the mother of boys (a good thing, I suppose); I’m proud to be raising tomorrow’s men. I’m learning, to a degree, what makes boys tick and how they roll and more or less what to expect on any given day.

That’s not to say it’s all smooth sailing. There are moments when I’m tempted to question God. Lord, I want to say, I’m not so sure! Did you really think I’d be able to handle their love of sharp objects, and extreme wrestling, and running into trees (even when it’s only an accident)?

And when I do ask, how quickly I am soothed by God’s mercy and love. Most days I am in awe of His generous wisdom in the details of my life – in the lives of us all. He is certainly a God who loves us.

As I thought about this scientific theory, I quickly realized most people reading the article could anecdotally dispute what this researcher was suggesting. For any bit of support one might choose to offer it, I’m sure there are ten-fold examples of why this proposal simply does not hold water. (And for those thinking about the millions of women around the globe who have children of both genders, the theory explains that most women have an “average” testosterone level, and thus produce out of 50-50 odds).

And here I am, the mother of five boys. What does that say about me, and the many, many women I know living a similar existence. As a woman who has repeatedly and exclusively birthed males, I am fairly confident that I don’t fit the bill as the "manly woman" this study has in mind. If you had a line-up of women and had to pick the one with the most testosterone, I wouldn’t be the winner. Unless it was me, Cinderella, Aurora, and Belle – but even then it might be a close call.

The bottom line is this – yes, I am a perfect mom of boys. I'm a great mom to boys because God has given me boys to raise. In that order. God didn't give me boys because I was already suited to care for them.

The truth is that the issue is more about the children God has given me – which just so happen to be all these boys. I'd like to think if He had seen fit to throw in a Balducci girl, there would be grace for a daughter, too.

I think we do produce the children we are most suited to raise – and thankfully, God in his infinite wisdom knows exactly who those children are. I think about the women who pray desperately to get pregnant, or the pregnant woman who prays desperately to have a girl (or a boy). Sometimes these prayers don’t seem to be answered. Until of course a couple adopts, or a couple has another boy or another girl – and they realize that this baby was indeed the answer to their prayers.

The best any parent can pray for is the grace to care for the gifts God has given us, be they boys or girls or some of each. We work hard, do our best, and pray that the grace continues to flow.

Bathtime at the O.K. Corral

Last night during our evening rituals, I heard one of the boys yelling about how someone had shot him in the rear. The reality of my life is that despite the loud noises, I figured (correctly) that there was really no need to run into the bathroom for more details, that I actually didn't want more details unless someone was injured or being inappropriate. And that second thought prompted me to go ahead and look into this.

I walked into the bathroom to find a nerf dart suctioned to the outside of the frosted shower door. There, on the inside, was a perfectly positioned bum pressed against the glass.

Dude.

Have you seen this commercial? Take a look. I'll wait.

So that commercial says So. Much. about what life sometimes feels like around here. Not all the time, because we certainly have deep and meaningful conversations about life and love and my feelings on a variety of subjects. Or maybe I have that mixed up with our talks about weapons and war and the size of Chuck's pecs. Either way.

So I recently decided, in light of how that commercial feels eerily Like My Life, to purchase my own Mother's Day Gift. I look forward to hours and hours of navel gazing and talking and hugging. With some hair-braiding thrown in. But that last one? Probably not.

In a perfect world, all athletes would be this honest.

"I'm a little bit of a ball hog," says Charlie. "I mean, I try to pass it when I can. But Elliott's not always open, so I have to just shoot it myself."

The Proverbial Chicken (or egg)

"Owwww, owwww, owwwww," cries Augie, hugging his legs after jumping on the spare couch, flipping forward and then lunging backward onto the floor, "I'm always getting hurt."

The Madness of March

As I write this week’s column, I am dealing with the fact that my life has been greatly affected by a little something I like to call “What? More Basketball?” You might know it by its more common name, March Madness.

March Madness is when a whole bunch of college basketball teams play each other. And then the winners of those games play the winners of other games. And then all those winners play each other. And so on and so forth until the end of time and the Lord has returned to take us all back to heaven with him. The End.

I’m not really down on March Madness. While my tone may signal a bit of agitation, I think it could be better described as amazement with a hint of fatigue. It seems that right now, college basketball is inexplicably available for our viewing pleasure 28 hours of the day. How can this be? While our family watches considerably less than that, I continue to be amazed by two things – I am amazed by the many, many games there are to watch every single day; and I am amazed that neither my husband nor my sons seem to tire of watching them.

This year, as so many people have noted, Easter came early. This meant March Madness got geared up during Holy Week. The timing worked out well for the Family Balducci. With one of our main Lenten sacrifices being an abstinence from television, that would have made for an even more painful fast. But as Holy Week is not technically a part of Lent, it seems that those who set up this year’s calendar smiled upon us and set us free to watch all the basketball we could stomach.

“What would you have done,” I recently asked my husband, “if March Madness had started during Lent?”

“Every year that I have given up TV for Lent,” he told me (as we watched a game), “I include a clause that says it does not apply to March Madness.”

For the past week (which I’ll admit doesn’t sound like much now that I’ve typed it), I have gone to bed, alone, to the sounds of five cheering fans bellowing from the front room. The boys are thrilled to stay up late with their dad. The last few nights, they have been allowed to watch the games and root for their team. One night, Elliott’s favorite team played against Paul’s favorite team. It was a thrilling showdown for everyone.

All moans and groans aside, I’ll admit I really don’t dislike March Madness all that much. While I try to watch as much as I can take – far, far less than everyone else around here – what I love is how much my boys all enjoy it. And most importantly how they enjoy it together. We have our things we do together as a family, but this is certainly something special for my husband and sons.

Growing up, my family was into baseball. I have so many fond memories of all of us sitting in the front room watching our favorite team. We were hardcore fans (my dad and brothers especially so), and these days, whenever I hear a Braves game on A.M. radio, I am immediately rushed back to summer afternoons of my youth, sitting by my dad as he cheered for his team. I love those memories.

I think about March Madness, and how when my boys are older I bet they’ll feel a similar nostalgia. They’ll remember the end-of-basketball season as a string of days featuring never-ending games and the luxury of staying up late, cheering for their team and – most importantly – precious time spent with their dad.

There Will Be (Cold) Blood

"Mom," Elliott says with exasperation, "I don't understand what it means that a reptile is cold-blooded."

"It means," says Ethan, "that they shoot people when the people aren't looking."

High Society

Charlie won't eat from the big vat of El Cheapo ice-cream I recently purchased (to throw them off the scent of my good stuff, hidden behind the frozen veggies) because "it doesn't taste thick enough."

Next he'll be telling me his Oysters Rockefeller have a compromised consistency.

To Which We All Say: Thank You Lord

So a certain blog reader was hanging out at my house this afternoon, and she started giving me a bit of a hard time about the um, brevity of my posts of late.

"We've noticed," said she, "that it's becoming a picture, with maybe some words underneath." (And around here even less than that.)

This reader wasn't down on what I say. She simply noted that it's far less than in times past. To which I said, I'd like you to meet Lord Henry the Eight-Month-Old (he who I found STANDING UP in his crib this morning.). And she said, I already know Henry. He is my grandson.

I have a story I'd like to share, all about how we were watching a certain back-to-back-episodes high-quality drama last night.

But first, we go to the early afternoon, when for some crazy reason I flexed my muscles for the boys. I can't remember if I was threatening someone or stretching or just trying to impress them all with the beauty that is my (tiny) bicep. But somehow Elliott looked at me utterly amazed.

"Mom," he said, "You've got some guns!"

A few hours later, we sat watching Chuck Norris mourn the injuries of his soon-to-be-fiancee-but-not-as-yet (because a sniper tried to take her out just as he was about to propose, if you can believe that. I had to fight back tears for my darling Chuck.). At one point, Chuck was in the shower and for a rare moment we the viewer were treated to the full quan that is Chuck Norris. Usually Chuck keeps his shirt on, because I think the folks at Hallmark know that our central nervous systems could not handle seeing Chuck's pecs on a regular basis. The world as we know it would spontaneously implode from the sight of all that muscle-ly goodness.

So there was Chuck, standing in the shower, his impressive triceps and biceps glistening, and there seemed to be a collective hush come over my living room.

"Sorry mom," Elliott said after a moment, "but Chuck's guns are bigger than yours."