Juliette likes to be “wooed.”

On Saturday of last weekend, Dan took the boys out for errands while I took the girls out for errands. We made a big deal out if it. We called it a “Boy Outing” and a “Girl Outing” and at the end of the day we all met at Friendly’s for dinner, where Dan decided to surprise us. In the restaurant parking lot, he pulled his car up next to the van and got out carrying four pink roses: One for me, one for Kateri, one for Juliette, and even one for Gabrielle.

I told Dan how sweet he was. Kateri smiled and said thank you. Gabby resisted the temptation to taste her flower. But Juliette–well, Juliette was enchanted.

“These are for us?” she gushed, her eyes wide with delight. “They are soooo pretty!”

She held out the rose and examined it from all angles. She held it near her nose and breathed deeply of its fragrance. She cocked her head coyly, smiled shyly, and said, “I never got a flower before!”

Throughout the remainder of the evening, she continued to gaze at her flower in complete bliss.

“I still can’t believe the boys brought us flowers,” she sighed dreamily as I tucked her into bed.

Yikes. I used to laugh at Dan’s insistence that the girls not be allowed to date until they’re 25, but I’m beginning to see his point of view.

Today is the feast day of Saint Gianna Beretta Molla. Click here to learn more about her.

“Be living witnesses of the greatness and beauty of Christianity.” –Saint Gianna

May her witness and example inspire us!

We can only eat so many omelets. The hens have been laying about a dozen eggs a day recently and we can’t keep up. The cartons of fresh eggs in the fridge and a 70-cent loaf of day-old bread from the grocery store inspired me yesterday afternoon. Of course I had to make bread pudding. And of course, I had to share the recipe here:

BREAD PUDDING

for the pudding:
3 cups bread cubes
4 cups scalded milk
? cups white sugar
1 T butter
4 eggs, slightly beaten
? tsp cinnamon
1 tsp vanilla

for the sauce:
1 cup white sugar
? cup butter
? cup heavy cream
1 tsp vanilla

DIRECTIONS
Preheat oven to 350 degrees F (175 degrees C).

Butter an 8×8 inch glass baking dish. Soak bread in hot milk for five minutes. Stir in 3/4 cup sugar, 1 tablespoon butter, salt, eggs, cinnamon, and 1 teaspoon vanilla. Pour into the baking dish.

Place baking dish inside a roasting pan and place roasting pan on oven rack. Fill roasting pan with boiling water to reach halfway up the sides of the baking dish. Bake for 60 minutes. Cool on wire rack.

While pudding cools, combine 1 cup sugar, ? cup butter, cream, and 1 teaspoon vanilla in a large saucepan. While stirring, bring to a boil. Reduce heat to low, and stir 3 minutes more. Spoon over warm bread pudding.

If you’ve got a gang of kids, double the recipe and bake in a 9×13 inch baking dish. Oh, and if you happen to need any eggs for your pudding, be sure to let us know!

for those of you who wrote me and asked what more we can do about Ebay:

BoycottEbay.org

Yesterday afternoon, when I stepped outside for a moment to count heads, I heard a voice from the sky: “Hi Mama!”

I looked up–way up–to see Eamon grinning down at me from the high branches of his favorite tree. He wore a plaid flannel coat and blue jeans. Late afternoon sunshine filtered through budded branches and framed his boyish face with a hazy glow. A jackknife and compass were clipped to his belt loop. His jean pockets appeared to be stuffed with what? Favorite rocks? Bits of string? Partially-whittled sticks?

As I gazed up my son, it occurred to me that a boy belongs in a tree. I don’t know if I have ever even climbed a tree, but Eamon knows this one well. He spends many happy hours perched comfortably among its branches. I suppose I used to worry that he would fall and maybe once or twice I even tried to convince him not to climb quite so high. But boyish nature will not be deterred, especially not by a fretful mother.

So today I am content to let him be a boy. And a boy belongs in a tree.

Baby Raphael really likes to be held and most days I indulge him. Even when I use a baby carrier, this makes doing regular things like housework and schoolwork more difficult and time-consuming. As a result, I find myself frequently frustrated with the fact that I accomplish so much less these days than I used to.

Yesterday afternoon, during a phone conversation with my sister, I complained: “I get to the end of the day and I think to myself, ?What did I do today?’ and the answer is always ?Nothing.’”

My sister paused for a moment before replying, “Well you held your baby.”

Of course she is right. I held my baby. He won’t be a baby for long and someday I won’t even be able to hold him anymore. He is soft and sweet. He is defenseless and innocent. Who am I to discount the value of holding this tiny, dependent, little guy when he needs me?

Now I am left with only one remaining question, and it’s a biggie: Just when exactly did my little sister become so wise?

Every time I give 8 year old Eamon a writing assignment, I brace myself for the question which inevitably will follow: “How long does it have to be?”

Usually, I tell him that he should write his story or report all the way from the beginning to the end, without worrying about its length. Of course what he really wants to know is the minimum requirement; he wants me to tell him just how little work he can get away with doing and still consider the assignment done. It’s not so much that he’s a lazy student–he isn’t. I think it’s just human nature to think about things this way.

Even I, on many days, get up in the morning and turn to God with an unspoken question: What do I have to do today? In other words, what’s the minimum requirement? Just how little can I get away with giving and still be a “good Catholic mom?”

God is a good and gentle teacher, though. There is no minimum requirement. There is no “have to.” Through our daily duties and circumstances, God quietly invites us to give ourselves over to Him and His will. Without keeping track or counting costs. All the way from the beginning to the end.

I posted a new article today: Patient Practice from the National Catholic Register. (Just subscribe, already!)

Thomas said to him, “Lord, we do not know where you are going; how can we know the way?”

Jesus said to him, “I am the way, and the truth, and the life; no one comes to the Father, but by me. If you had known me, you would have known my Father also; henceforth you know him and have seen him.”
John 14:5-7

Lord, help us to remember to put You first in all things at all times.

It’s that time of year again: Little League Baseball Season. I’ve logged many hours of study “in the field,” so to speak, and so I can share with you the following observations:

1. Baseball Moms don’t eat dinner. Not at a normal time and not at a dining room table like regular people, anyway. Instead, they snack on peanut butter crackers and slurp out of juice boxes while squatting on blankets on baseball field sidelines. Then they return home after dark to heat up and serve whatever leftovers happen to be in the refrigerator and then hurry the kids into bed one and a half hours past their bedtime.

2. Baseball Moms can bi-locate. This comes in especially handy when one child has practice at field #1 on one side of town and another child has practice at field #2 on the other side of town at the same time. Oh, and please teach the children the importance of commitment by not showing up late, and please show your support by being present at all team events in case your child should happen to hit the game-winning homerun and/or take a fastball to the head requiring a trip to the emergency room.

3. Baseball Moms don’t have little babies or any other children who don’t play baseball. This is because it is extremely inconvenient to wear a fussy baby in a sling on the sidelines in 30 degree windy weather and it can be tricky to entertain older kids who announce that they are sooooooooo bored right around the bottom of the first inning.

4. Baseball Moms don’t feel the cold. Having an eternal sense of springtime about them, they sport shorts, sandals, and T-shirts, even in the most in frigid temperatures. Through the arctic winds, they shout things like “Way to watch ?em, Aaron!” and “Nice swing, Jamie!” without ever admitting any sense of discomfort. Some of them even manage to look like they enjoy being there.

Yes, indeed, Baseball Moms are unique human beings. I am not a natural-born Baseball Mom and I don’t hold out much hope for ever becoming a real one. That doesn’t stop me, though, from attempting to impersonate one each spring. I endure the late dinners, whiny kids, and inclement weather, but it’s not for the love of the game. It’s for the love of the players.