A Reader Writes:
I am having a tough time recently and realizing the absence offriends in my life. They’ve been left behind in other cities, old jobs,etc, and I never really made any close “mom” friends. Your blog is asource of comfort in that respect, but it’s hard to beat flesh andblood friends. How do you make and keep friends when everyone is sowrapped up in their own families and duties?

Moms really do need friends. Young moms and new moms need even moresocial contact and support than others do. When I was a mother of just2 or 3 small children, I suffered through some times when I feltterribly lonely and isolated. I spent lots of time on the phone with mysisters and other nearby friends. I reached out to other mothers in myparish and sought out playgroups in my area. I had a real need for thekind of encouragement and support that can only come from other momswho shared similar values, frustrations, and experiences.

But it can be hard for some mothers to find that kind of socialinteraction and friendship when they need it most. And it can be harderstill to keep up with friends as your family and your children grow. Soreaders, share your experiences… Have you struggled with this issue?How have you resolved it? Where do you find social support and how doyou manage to maintain friendships with mothers who are like you?

It’s what’s for dinner.

Kateri was away this evening, and so it was up to Juliette and me tocomplete the usual “chicken chores” before bedtime. This wouldn’t havebeen a problem except for the fact that I dread setting foot in thechicken pen. You see, I am terrified of Rex.

Rex is Kateri’s personal pet rooster. He is a lovely-looking,multi-colored creature with a wild fluff of feathers atop his scrawnychicken head. Unfortunately, however, this bird has a mean streak.

Kateri denies this is possible. He is a perfect gentleman, sheclaims. He follows her around the pen and makes pleasant clucking andcooing sounds as she feeds and waters the flock. He simply adores her.

But Rex does not adore me. He might be a loving pet to my youngdaughter, but on my rare trips out to the coop, he turns into afiercely protective, dominant male. I am sure the hens just swoon tosee their “man” in action. He lunges. He pecks. He claws. And he crows.

Tonight, when we had finished dinner, I looked at Juliette acrossthe table and said, “It is time. We must go now.” She nodded backsolemnly.

Armed only with the kitchen broom and a large stick from the woodsnearby, the two of us strode boldly toward enemy territory. Even as weapproached the pen, I could see a rowdy Rex bobbing and leaping nearthe gate, straining his neck to get a better look at the two suckerswho might dare to disturb his domestic bliss. He flapped his mightywings and crowed.

“This is not going to be easy,” Juliette predicted.

“Not easy for him,” I replied brandishing my broom.

By the time we reached the gate, the rooster had fire in his eyes.But when Juliette unlatched the door, I was ready. Rex pounced. Iducked. Rex dove. I swerved and swiped at him with the broom.

“Down with you, monster!” I shouted and thrust the broom in hisdirection. Hens squawked and flurried. Rex danced and bobbed. I jibbedand jabbed.

“Open the coop!” I called above the commotion. “Throw in some scratch!”

Juliette complied and a flock of fat hens fluttered into the coop.Using my humble weapon with great skill, I brushed my enemy toward thecoop door. He resisted but I insisted. Ultimately, he gave up theheroics and leapt into the coop. I slammed the door shut and held itclosed with my back while Juliette latched it.

I gave one small thought to the absurdity of the scene that hadjust unfolded. I considered the idea that a wild-eyed,gasping-for-breath pregnant woman waving a broom might just appear aweensy bit ridiculous to an outside observer.

But these thoughts vanished when I heard Rex crow from within theconfines of the coop and knew that he was only pretending to be thevictor. We both knew better. This chick was champion.

What I Said:
Could you kids please pick up all of these things from the floor so that I can sweep in here?

What I Apparently Needed to Say in Order to Have the Job Done Properly:
Please pick up this Poky Little Puppy book, this Winnie thePooh stuffed bear, this purple crayon, that sippy cup, and thosesneakers. Please pick up that tennis ball and this magazine and thiscrumpled piece of notebook paper and that T-shirt and this toyxylophone and this dolly hairbrush. And finally, please pick up thisinside-out, sopping wet boy’s sweat sock, and when you do please put itin the hamper— not on the kitchen table.

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Apparently, the editors of Babytalk(a magazine specifically geared toward pregnant women and mothers ofinfants) have caused an uproar by publishing a photo of a part of awoman’s breast with a nursing baby on their cover. A reader emailed mea link to the story this morning, and now I just can’t resist responding. And giving you a chance to as well.

Gimme a break. While perhaps I would have chosen a subtler photo, let’s be honest here: We see lots more skin— I mean lotsmore skin— on the covers of dozens of magazines in the grocery storecheckout lane. And not just skin, but skin exposed and presented in adecidedly sexual fashion… with no babies attached. This is consideredgood, or at least acceptable by most. There is no public uproar. No oneis screaming “Gross!” (Well, okay except me and some other like-mindedmoms who turn the magazines around in the racks before their childrencan get an eyeful).

So when hundreds of readers of a magazine designed for mothers ofinfants respond to a breastfeeding photo by saying they think it’s”gross” and that they “shredded it,” something is seriously askew. I’llbet some of these same outraged and disgusted readers have a copy of Cosmo sitting on the coffee table in their living rooms.

In my experience, the argument that women should not nurse inpublic for reasons of modesty is a made-up one. At this stage in mylife I have likely been in the presence of thousands of nursing mothersand never once have I seen as much flesh as is shown in Babytalkmagazine cover. But I see that much— and more!— on the covers of othermagazines, on television, and at the beach on a regular basis.

I must disagree with the Babytalk editor quoted in thearticle who claims that the reason for the controversy is that “There’sa huge Puritanical streak in Americans and there’s a squeamishnessabout seeing a body part — even part of a body part.”

I think most Americans are not Puritanical. They are not afraid ofseeing body parts, as long as they are properly sexualized. And as longas that sexuality has nothing to do with (Heaven forbid!) having babies.

I have now stopped collecting PayPal donations toward the Schmiedicke Family’s purchase of a new car. In all, generous readers here have donated a total of $2,504.81 which I will be mailing to the family. Anyone still wishing to donate can send a check to:

Mike Schmiedicke
PO BOX 1963
Front Royal VA 22630

May God bless you all for your abundant generosity!

I didn’t want to get up. At 3:00 in the morning, a body at rest tendsto stay at rest. Besides, as any pregnant woman knows, a positioncomfortable enough for sleeping is a rare find. Once you achieve one,you really shouldn’t mess around with it. But there was a little voicecoming from beside my bed:

“Mama, I need to go potty.”

Since I have been thrilled beyond belief by Gabrielle’srecent self-motivation with regard to toilet training, I knew I neededto respond positively. And quickly.

“Oh that’s good, Gabby!” I managed and then down the stairs and through the darkness we went.

Once inside the bathroom, under the bright lights, Gabrielle seated herself on the potty and proceeded to make small talk.

“One day I am going to be as big as Juliette,” she began as Ipatiently awaited her performance. “And I am going to dance ballet.”

“Mmmmm, really?” I mumbled, squinting and rubbing my eyes in the light.

“Yes,” she answered cheerfully. “Princesses always dance ballet.”

During the next several minutes while my daughter discussed thedaily habits of princesses, the magnificence of ballet, and theimpressiveness of her older sisters, I was tempted to focus on how verymuch I wanted to be back in bed. I thought about my aching hip, thesuffocating heat, and my beginnings of a cold. But then, as Gabbychatted on and I thought my patience might wear thinner still, I wassurprised by a sudden sense of peace and comfort. Somehow, I foundmyself able to smile and nod at her monologue.

I know that it is only by God’s generous gift of grace am I able tomeet-meet-meet my children’s needs and answer-answer-answer their callsthroughout the day… and night. And still I do not always do this aswell as I should. But during those times when I am able to be generousand patient, kind and self-sacrificing, I am very much aware that it isa gift. It is not my own virtue that enables me to respond to mychildren’s needs with love. It is something that has been given to methrough no merit of my own:

Every good and perfect gift is from above.
James 1:17

After her potty performance, Gabrielle hopped and skipped across the bathroom tiles. She tossed her hair back with a laugh.

“When I am big, I will dance,” she told me with a twirl.

“Yes you will,” I smiled. “Yes you will.”

Me: Phew! In this heat I am good for nothing.

Eamon: Oh that’s not true, Mama. You’re pretty good at complaining about it.