It’s been two and a half months now, but I can still vividly remember the burdens of pregnancy–the first trimester exhaustion mixed with nausea, the second trimester hormone fluctuations and headaches, the third trimester aches and gasping for breath.

Today, on the Feast of the Visitation, let us remember to pray for all pregnant women, our sisters in Christ who are doing heroic work and making personal sacrifices every day:

Dearest Mary, compassionate mother of all suffering mothers on earth, intercede for all expectant mothers. Let them remain ever conscious that they are privileged to be the instrument through whom God brings another life into the world. Encourage them for the good of their children and the glory of the Lord of life. Amen.

Let us follow Mary’s example. If you know an expectant mother, today would be a good day to give her a phone call and let her know you are praying for her and her baby. Maybe she could use some company or a helping hand?

Being one of the only large families in a rather small town, the Bean family has acquired somewhat of a celebrity status around these parts. When I meet another mom at the playground and attempt to introduce myself, more often than not she responds by telling me she already knows who I am. I am left to wonder exactly how she knows who I am. Were we out in public at some point when a friend elbowed this woman and whispered “That’s the crazy Bean family. They have seven kids and they homeschool!” followed by gasps all around? I guess I don’t want to know.

The clerk at the post office also seems to know me. “Good morning, Mrs. Bean, how’s the baby?” she greeted me the other day.

“You’re Catholic, right?” she asked as she stamped the packages I was mailing.

When I answered yes, she looked at me straight in the eye and said, “And you really believe, don’t you?”

At first I was annoyed. What on earth was she talking about? Of course I really believe! Anyone who dares call himself Catholic ought to really believe. But then I know there are plenty of “Cultural Catholics” out there who claim the title but don’t really believe. I suppose that if our outward appearances make it clear to the world not only that we call ourselves Catholic but that we also really believe, that’s not such a bad thing, is it?

So Jesus said to them, “Truly, truly, I say to you, unless you eat the flesh of the Son of man and drink his blood, you have no life in you; he who eats my flesh and drinks my blood has eternal life, and I will raise him up at the last day. For my flesh is food indeed, and my blood is drink indeed. He who eats my flesh and drinks my blood abides in me, and I in him.
John 6:53-56

Click here to visit EWTN’s information page on the Eucharist.

I like old-fashioned play. After days of sickness and endless rain, the kids finally got a moment of dry, warm weather yesterday afternoon and they made good use of it by giving baths to the chickens, of course.

Kateri, who does not normally lean toward the domestic, turns downright motherly when it comes to her “sweet little hens.” So, we needed a tub (an old discarded storage container), some Baby Soap (thanks for sharing, Raphael), and plenty of towels. Let the bathing begin.

A couple of the hens panicked when we first placed them in the warm water. They flapped their wings frantically and soaked us with soapy sprays of water. But Kateri held them firmly in her grasp and spoke to them in soothing tones. They settled down. Then they stood still, blinking calmly, as she scrubbed the mud from their legs and rinsed the dust from their feathers. Each was bundled into a warm towel before being released to forage through the clean grass while their feathers dried to a glossy sheen.

In this morning’s sunshine, the hens still look radiant. God bless them. And God bless the girl who loves them so.

Lord,
Make me an instrument of Your healing love;
Where there is vomit let me bring Lysol;
Where there are boogers, Kleenex;
Where there is fever, Tylenol;
Where there is boredom, library books;
Where there are chills, warm blankets;
And where there is whininess, Scooby Doo.

O Divine Master,
Grant that I may not so much seek
To be well-rested as to provide clean sheets,
To be appreciated as to disinfect the house,
To be showered as to give warm baths,
For it is in scrubbing out the bathroom that we are cleansed,
It is in sharing laps that we find comfort,
And it is after resting that we will return
To a normal life.

Sleep is a funny thing. When you’re getting enough of it, you don’t even think about it. But when you aren’t, it becomes an obsession. Courtesy of our friendly local stomach virus, I’ve been on the obsessed side of this equation for the past couple of days. So far, Stephen and Gabrielle have each spent wakeful nighttime hours in my bedroom with fevers and intermittent bouts of vomiting.

This morning, as I buckled Juliette into her seat belt in the van, I took advantage of the opportunity to rest my head against the car seat and close my eyes for a moment. “This is pathetic,” I thought to myself. “And it’s all Dan’s fault.”

That’s right. I blame my husband for this particular virus. Not that he was the one who went to Walmart and let the kids play on the germ-infested kiddie firetrucks inside the store–that was me. Not that he was the one who took the kids to the dentist and actually encouraged them to make use of the disease-ridden playthings in the waiting room–that was me, too.

What Dan did do, though, is make the proclamation not less than a week ago, that our family had “made it through the winter” without contracting a major stomach virus. He claims no memory of making this statement, but I am certain I heard him say it. And now here’s proof that the stomach virus fairies heard him too. I am not usually a superstitious kind of person, but how can one argue with such scientific evidence?

Maybe I have had too much coffee this morning. Maybe I really am becoming one of those “Nervous Nellie” kinds of mothers people laugh at on television. I don’t know and frankly I don’t care. How on earth could any person be expected to keep her cool when she finds this thing staring back at her from behind the toilet?

I saw a famous actor interviewed on television recently. At first he was about as interesting to me as most famous actor-types, which means not very. But then one thing he said did capture my attention. He said, “Every day I have to ask myself, ?Is this real?’ because I am doing exactly what I want to be doing and my life is even better than I hoped it would be.”

My first thought was what an amazing thing it must be to feel that way. In this world where so many people seem to be struggling and wanting and yearning for more than what they have, where so few are satisfied with what they’ve been given, what a rare thing it is to hear from someone who admits he is content. Someone who says he has even more than he hoped for. Someone who is blessed and knows it.

My second thought was that I shouldn’t wonder about it because I feel that way about my life. I am doing exactly what I want to be doing. When I slow down enough to recognize it, I know that I am blessed. It has nothing to do with fame or fortune, though. It has everything to do with my faith and my family. And it is an amazing thing to feel that way.

One of the unintended side effects of homeschooling our kids is that they are all learning disabled. On the playground, that is.

“Push me, Mama! Push me!” 5 year old Juliette begged from the playground swings the other day.

A gang of playground mommies turned on me, their eyebrows arched in surprise. “Doesn’t she know how to pump?” they asked. Well, shocking though it may be, no she doesn’t. Still more embarrassing is the fact that her older brother Ambrose doesn’t either. Without the benefit of daily exposure to playground equipment, it seems my children come up a bit short among the sandbox set. As a matter of fact, it was only last fall that my oldest learned the art of swinging solo.

But in our defense, I must point out that we homeschooling types have other life skills. Kateri can single-handedly round up and wing-clip an entire flock of flapping chickens. Eamon can cook breakfast for a family of nine. Ambrose can soothe a fussy baby. Juliette can fold and put away a load of laundry.

I am a practical mother. I say, so what if they’re a little “delayed” on the swings?

Ever notice how you never notice when you are driving too fast? Until you pass a police car, that is. Then, quite suddenly, you know that you are driving too fast. The only problem is the policeman knows it too. You might hit the brakes in a futile attempt to impersonate a reasonable, safe, competent, responsible, law-abiding citizen, but it’s too late. The cop already knows better.

This happened to me yesterday afternoon. I had all the kids in the van and we were making our obligatory bi-weekly trip to Wal-Mart when suddenly I realized I had just passed a police cruiser. At least I thought it was a police cruiser but it was hard to be certain because I was going awfully fast at the time. My suspicions were confirmed, though, when I saw blue lights in my rearview mirror. When I pulled over to the side of the road a chorus of “What’s going on?” and “Why are we stopping here, Mama?” immediately erupted from the backseat.

“Cool!” said Ambrose as the officer approached my window. “Maybe we’ll get arrested.”

Officer Cop glanced cautiously into my van before asking me if I knew how fast I had been driving.

“Ummm, too fast?” I guessed.

Phew! Officer Cop smiled. Then he told me exactly how fast I had been driving and reminded me of the speed limit. Then, just in case I was slow on the math, he figured up the difference between the two numbers for me. It was a big number. In fact, it was such a big number that I will not share it here for fear of prompting my husband to revoke my driving privileges. Just know that it was a big number.

Officer Cop asked me if I had any particular reason for driving so fast. I told him no, and that was the truth. I just do everything fast. I think most mothers do. Quickness seems like a natural consequence of years spent hurrying to accomplish everything that needs doing during a baby’s nap. But I didn’t try to explain any of this to the nice young man. I just waited to see what he would do with me.

After leaving me alone for a while to ponder what my punishment would be, Officer Cop returned to my window, handed me back my license, warned me to pay more attention to the speed limits, and wished me a pleasant afternoon. Imagine that! My only punishment for my major infraction was that for the rest of the day the kids kept track of the speed limits and continually asked me how fast I was going.

“No rounding off!” Eamon cautioned. “We need to know exactly how fast you are going.”

I guess I deserved as much.