Danielle Bean

Writer and Speaker

A Mother’s Liturgy of the Hours

by Filed Under: Mothers, Prayer 7 Comments

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I grew up with a dad who prays the Liturgy of the Hours, and as a result, the Church’s daily pockets of prayer have always held a special attraction for me. Perhaps when I am an older woman, I will live the kind of life conducive to praying the Divine Office, but for now, my own version will have to do.

Morning

Alone on the couch with a prayer book, I prepare for the day that lies ahead. My husband is in the shower, coffee is in my cup, and my children are still in their beds.

But not for long.

“Mama,” Gabby calls from the stairway. “Where are you?”

And so she finds me. And entertains me. With stories of her dreams – of princesses and butterflies. With demonstrations of a dance move she is perfecting – toes pointed and arms moving gracefully through the air. With questions about up-do hairstyles, painted nails, pierced ears, and the magic age she must reach before acquiring these worldly delights.

As I listen, I pray:

Give me your ears, Lord. Help me to hear in this small voice not an interruption, not something that pulls me away from you – but the very purpose for which you put me here on earth. Help me to hear a garrulous girl who is growing up, who needs my guidance, who craves my attention, and who – at least for now – values my opinion above all others. Give me ears to hear the gift that comes in her small, curious, animated, and admiring voice.

Midday

Finally weary of children telling me they are at risk for malnutrition, I pull boxes of pasta from the pantry and make my way to the kitchen to prepare lunch. A pile of school papers tall enough to make the fire marshal twitch awaits me at the counter. Greasy gunk and saucy splashes from last night’s chicken dinner greet me at the stove. I straighten the stack of papers, grab a nearby dishtowel, and wipe half-heartedly at the stove top while waiting for the water to boil.

As I wipe, I pray:

Give me your eyes, Lord. I want to see the blessing of “enough to eat” in my kitchen’s messes. Help me see the privilege of having my children at home in the piles of papers and chaos of the dining room. Show me that messes are temporary things, but the souls we are raising are forever. Help me to know that my own preferences for greater tidiness and order will be met in due time. Right now, I want to see only love.

Afternoon

With two of my smallest children along for the ride, I drop off one child at basketball practice, drive to the next town to drop off a second, stop at the grocery store for just a few items that somehow turn into an overflowing cart that costs $130, and then head back to the gyms to begin the picking up part of my day.

It is already dark by the time we pull into the driveway, and my head is filled with laundry to finish, phone calls to make, e-mails to write, deadlines to meet, and dinner to prepare.

But three-year-old Danny has fallen asleep. Gently, I unbuckle his seat belt, lift him from his car seat, and we make our way through the dark toward the house. The cold air wakes him, though, and he squirms, cries, and kicks.

As I hold him, I pray:

Give me your arms, Lord. I need gentle strength. Help me respond to anger with a gentle touch that soothes. I want to touch all my children in the way they need it most. Give me capable arms to hold them when they need to be held but wise ones, too, that know when to let them go. In my every touch, may others feel your love.

Evening

After dinner, cowboys take over the house. There is gunfire in the living room and a cattle roundup in the hallway.

“Settle down!” I hear myself say. “Time for pajamas!”

But cowboys don’t always listen to their mothers. And big boys sometimes grow deaf, too. Like when they are so close to beating their high score and mom says it’s time to turn that noisy thing off.

As I scold, I pray:

Give me your voice, Lord. Help me to see that the words I choose can build up or tear down. When I grow tired of repeating myself and want to give up or shout, inspire me with a better way to gain my children’s attention. Give me grace to correct fairly and inspire virtue. Help me to say out loud the things that are good and true about my children. I want to encourage them.

Night

“Mama,” someone small speaks to me in the dark. “I need a dwink.”

I will myself from the warmth of my bed and force myself to walk through the door and down the stairs to fill a sippy cup. I return, present the gift of hydration, and lead the thirsty one back to his bed.

“Stay here,” he begs, and so for just a moment I settle down next to him.

As he sleeps, I pray:

Give me your heart, Lord. In the sleeping, breathing bodies that fill the beds of this room and the next, help me to see the preciousness of the souls you have entrusted to me. I want my heart to overflow with grace and love, joy and gratitude. Help me to know that my life in this home and my days with these children are a temporary privilege.

Teach me to see you, to feel you, and to know you in the peace and stillness of this night. Touch my heart and show me where you lie patiently waiting for me – beneath the noise and chaos, in every moment of every day.

Amen.

(This is an old column of mine that originally appeared at Inside Catholic.)

Sanitized Childhood

by Filed Under: Columns, Mothers, Play 6 Comments

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I read a Curious George book to my children a few weeks ago. It was a library copy – one of the very old ones, wrapped in protective plastic with decades-old, handwritten due dates inside the front cover.

The story was typical H. A. Rey fare. The man with the yellow hat was exasperatingly clueless while George was up to no good with a family of ducks in the park. Gosh, we love that little monkey.

Suddenly, though, in the midst of the mischief, I noticed something: People were smoking.

There, on the pages of a children’s book, mothers and children picnicked on checkered blankets in the park while their fathers sat casually beside them,smoking cigarettes.

I don’t know how much time you spend browsing through the pages of children’s books, but I have put in enough hours to tell you this: Smoking is unheard of. Grownups do not smoke in the presence of children or monkeys. Not ever. That would be setting a bad example.

And yet here sat these vintage daddies, puffing contentedly away on their illustrated cigarettes, while women, children, and monkeys stood idly by.

I was enchanted.

Not because I’m a fan of smoking, mind you. In fact, a good way to fall fast out of my good graces is to light up a cigarette in the presence of my kids. And I have promised each of my children a good old-fashioned throttling if ever one of them dares to start such a nasty habit.

But I was enchanted nonetheless. Because men smoking in children’s books flies in the face of the modern day epidemic I would describe as “sanitized childhood.”

We’ve given our kids’ childhoods a power washing. We filter and sanitize their worlds and experiences in a way that past generations never thought to do.

Did you know, for example, that you can buy DVD copies of the original episodes ofSesame Street, but that they come with a disclaimer?

“These early Sesame Street episodes are intended for grown-ups,” the insert says, “and may not suit the needs of today’s preschool child.”

I think it would be far more accurate to say that classic Sesame Street episodes where Oscar the Grouch is truly grouchy, where children ride bicycles without helmets, and where Cookie Monster overindulges in saturated fats, may not suit the needs of today’s parents of preschoolers.

The needs of today’s preschool child are really not very different from those of children of previous generations. When we sanitize childhood, though, we run the risk of neglecting some of these needs. Here are three basic ones I think get lost in the “sanitation”:

A child needs to get dirty.

Dirt makes mothers nervous. We worry about germs and laundry. When our children venture outdoors, we cover them with protective gear and stand ready at the door with a box of disinfecting wipes and a bottle of hand sanitizer.

But a child learns and grows when he touches, hears, tastes, sees, and smells the real world. A child has a basic need to connect with the grass, air, trees – and yes, dirt. We need to break them out of their carpet and linoleum prisons and set them free. Whatever they get into out there can be cleaned up at the end of the day with a warm bath before bed.

A child needs to fail.

Parental fear of failure is the reason things like sports try-outs, monkey bars at the playground, and academic competition have been sanitized from many of our children’s experiences.

It is by experiencing failure, though, that a child can come to know himself – his strengths and weaknesses. If we protect them from failure, if we tell them “Good job!” regardless of their performance, how can they ever aspire to improve? It is when we allow them to fail that our children learn the consequences of good and bad behavior and appreciate the value of hard work.

A child needs to know the truth.

Sometimes the truth is ugly. While we don’t want to fill our kids’ heads with nastiness, we aren’t doing them any favors either when we fail to acknowledge real-life human weakness. Kids suffer when there is a disconnect between the real world as they experience it and the sanitized version we try to feed them.

In those early episodes of Sesame Street, Oscar the Grouch’s personality had a nasty edge that has been considerably softened in recent years. But don’t we all know someone like the original Oscar? He’s real.

It gets even more serious when we sanitize painful truths about sin and divorce that can directly affect our children’s lives. When we are tempted to sanitize the truth for our kids, we should ask ourselves: Is it real? Is it true? If so, then even if it’s ugly, our kids have a right to our acknowledgement of it in an age-appropriate way.

As we parents are slathering our kids with sunscreen and adjusting their elbow pads in preparation for sending them out into the world, we need to remember that our children belong to God first. We can never fully control their experiences.

In the end, the best gift and the most priceless protection we can offer them is to be a channel through which they receive God’s love – unchanging and real.

(This is an old column of mine that originally appeared at Inside Catholic.)

But what if you don’t feel like Wonder Woman?

by Filed Under: Momnipotent, Mothers, Newsletter Leave a Comment

After receiving my first newsletter last week, a reader sent me the following:

Your message was spot on about Wonder Woman, but sometimes I forget to do some of these things and get frustrated. I had my 7th baby in January of this year and ever since, I feel more like Horriblewoman, forgetting things, feeling overwhelmed, wanting to sign up to help out at moms groups, but winding up not even going because the two I have at home with me (8 mos and 2 1/2 years) are just too much for me to now manage.

At one point in my younger journey as mom, I had 4 under the age of 5 and could get 10 things accomplished at once! My five school age children (15, 14, 12, 10, 7) are so busy at school and each have one activity they’re involved in (we really only can handle one activity per child and it seems they all are fall sports/activities this year), but I can’t shake this feeling of inadequacy. It’s really as though baby #7 sucked all the desire, ability, and action out of me.

I think every mom can relate to these sentiments. And truly, when I write about every mom being Wonder Woman, I do mean every mom — especially those who are struggling and feeling inadequate. That’s when we most need the reminder that we are everyday heroes in our homes and families.

Sometimes being that hero means nothing more than getting yourself out of bed in the morning and signing on for another go-around on the ride of life. Sometimes being a hero means “just” nursing that fussy baby or “just” folding one more basket of laundry or “just” managing to keep everyone fed and clothed in whatever way you can manage that day.

We all have times in our lives where we feel on top of things and in control. And we all have times in our lives when we feel inadequate, overwhelmed, and desperate for support. It’s during the more trying times that we must admit something that’s been true all along — that the feeling of control we sometimes enjoy is only a pleasant illusion. Every one of us is dependent upon the grace of God every minute of every day. We are nothing, we accomplish nothing, we are worth nothing without Him.

As for your personal situation, I would encourage you to accept the fact that there is not a lot of “extra” you can manage right now. Personally speaking, I find having older children at the same time as having younger children and juggling multiple outside activities to be absolutely depleting in a way that the “many babies” years were not. It’s okay to admit how hard it sometimes is.

Each stage of motherhood and family life comes with its own unique challenges and joys. What you describe your family as right now sounds like a very full and demanding life! Being Wonder Woman right now does not mean taking on more responsibilities or helping out anyone but your own family.

God has uniquely qualified YOU to be a perfect gift to your family. You are the wife and mother he means to be the heart of your home. He has given you unique gifts of strength, compassion, love, and sensitivity that you are meant to use in the service of your family right now.

WW2

The devil would love to use this opportunity to convince you that you are not a good mom and you are failing at the important stuff. He lies. You need to be too busy living out your vocation and loving your family to hear anything he has to say. Focusing on working for your family and offering it up for the greater glory of God makes you a super hero, my friend.

Wear the bracelet, Mama, and wear it proud.

Saving Grace

by Filed Under: Mothers

My Gold Mine post below, and people’s responses to it, have reminded me of this blog post I wrote back in 2005, about all the precious “stuff” my mother-in-law saved from Dan’s childhood. So here I am, re-posting, and remembering Dolores …

We had a quiet Thanksgiving, home on our own yesterday. Just the nine of us. Just as we had planned. With all the busy-ness of our day to day living here in this house, it was indeed a nice change of pace to just spend a day making a special dinner and sharing it together. The steady snowfall we awoke to in the morning would have spoiled any plans we might have made for traveling anyway.

After an early afternoon dinner, though, the snow had let up and so we headed over to Dan’s father’s house to bring him and Dan’s brother some pies for dessert.

The mood at Grandpa’s house was relaxed and cheerful. The kids always seem to sense the “happiness” of special days and modify their behavior accordingly. They recited their Thanksgiving poems and watched football with the men. It wasn’t until after double servings of pumpkin and apple pie with heaps of ice cream that the children remembered Grandpa’s basement. Grandpa’s magical basement.

You see, Dan’s mother was a keeper. A saver. A never ever ever throw anything away and if anyone else does take it out of the garbage and pack it away-er. It used to drive her family crazy. And I must admit that I never quite understood it myself. I need my space. It keeps me sane. And I am the first to admit that I can be rather reckless with the black garbage bags. I would rather throw ten things away and wind up missing one of them eventually than keep all ten things piled up in stacks or squirreled away in boxes on the off chance that one of them might possibly come in handy some day.

But Dan’s mother thought differently. She figured if it was good once — or if it might be good ever — it was worth holding on to. And hold on she did. She was astonishingly organized about it. She kept things in their original packaging, with their original receipts, wrapped and labeled, in giant storage bins in the basement.

Which brings us to Grandpa’s magic basement. Though we lost Dan’s mother over 8 years ago, out of respect for her memory, Grandpa has held onto her basement full of “stuff” through the years. And so it was that after double desserts yesterday evening, the children begged Grandpa to bring them downstairs. He consented and the entire gang of them disappeared for nearly an hour.

When they emerged at the top of the basement stairs, their arms were filled with goodies. A guitar. A Mexican marionette with only slightly-tangled strings. A dancing plastic smurf. Hardy Boys books. Unopened cereal box prizes from cereal they don’t make any more (Remember Crispy Critters?). And — here’s the best part — Dan’s entire boyhood collection of Battlestar Galactica and Charlie’s Angels trading cards.

Oh yes. Jackpot.

The kids were positively gleeful. “I can’t believe how cool these are!” they shouted. “Grandpa has all the best stuff!”

I reminded them that they have their late grandmother Dolores to thank for all the cool stuff. And I have to wonder at God’s providence in these family matters. No one understood why Dolores was so intent upon stashing away every little thing she came by. I often wondered if her deprived childhood had something to do with it. Perhaps even she did not understand the motivation behind her drive to save, to keep, and to hold onto.

But I get it now.

What she didn’t know was that she was saving cool stuff for her grandchildren — children who would never have the pleasure of knowing their Grandma here on earth. Grandchildren she would have loved with immeasurable love. Grandchildren she would have given and given and given to, if only she been granted the opportunity.

It is only through her saving, her compulsive holding on, that Grandma Dolores has managed this connection with her grandkids. These are the things she deemed worthy of saving. These things stored in their dusty 1970s packaging. These things wrapped in plastic and faded yellow paper. These are the things she cherished and she packed away lovingly.

Grandma’s precious stuff is her precious bond to this next generation. She just knew someone would need this stuff someday, and it turns out she was right. We do.

So Let’s Start Giving

by Filed Under: Mothers

I have had “We Are the World” running through my head all day. Don’t ask me why. Maybe I heard it somewhere or maybe I caught a glimpse of a man wearing a bandana on his head all Bruce Springstein-like and my brain got the subliminal message to sing about “saving our own lives.”

I don’t know.

Finally, this afternoon I got annoyed with this particular ear worm and got the great idea to just let the song out — you know, sing it. Really sing it.

So I did.

I got only part-way through my rendition, though, before I felt the burning sensation of many eyes. I stopped mid-performance to see three of my children, lined up before me. All of them looked just a little bit … horrified.

“What is that you are singing?” one of them demanded.

“We Are the World,” I answered. “You know … um, that song? The one that all the stars sang for charity … uh … never mind.”

I departed to clean the bathroom. And finish my song.

Maybe I’m getting old. But I prefer to think that my kids are still just too young to recognize how AWESOME I am.

Touched

by Filed Under: Mothers

When we were at the store today, Daniel noticed a mark on my arm.

“What happened?” he asked.

“Oh, I burned myself,” I told him. “I accidentally touched my arm to the hot cookie sheet when I was baking yesterday. It looks funny, but it really doesn’t hurt anymore.”

Daniel studied the spot and then touched it, ever so gently with the tips of his fingertips. In his soft touch there was such care, such concern, such genuine love and hope for healing that even an older lady standing nearby noticed it.

She gave me a knowing smile and I smiled back. Because what the two of us saw and felt in that tiny touch was real.

My boy might not always show me such tender care, but today he does. And I am holding onto that. Real tight.

A Fable

by Filed Under: Mothers

A hawk swooped into the hen house, narrowed her eyes at a small brown hen she found sitting in a nest box, and held her feathered head high.

“I’ve been across the world,” the hawk sniffed. “I’ve seen miles of ocean brimming with bounties of fish. I’ve seen tropical islands where bright-feathered birds sing and play. I’ve seen the world. Don’t you want to see something more than the dingy gray walls of this old coop?”

Little Brown Hen smiled. She smoothed her feathers and clucked. The hawk flew away.

…

The next day, a dapper black horse stopped by the hen house. He tossed his glossy mane and whinnied to gain Little Brown Hen’s attention. His muscular back shone in the afternoon sun.

“I’ve been to the races,” he announced. “Stylish ladies and gentlemen stood in line and paid money to see me run. They cheered as I ran swiftly in the wind. When I crossed the finish line first, they covered me with blankets of flowers and took my picture for the papers. I conquered the world. Don’t you want to do something more than peck around this farmyard?”

Little Brown Hen nodded shyly. She stretched her wings before settling back on her nest. The horse galloped away.

…

The next morning, just as the sun was waking the world, Little Brown Hen felt a tiny tapping. She lifted one wing and saw a tuft of downy feathers peeking out from under her.

At last. The ball of feathers blinked its shining eyes at her, opened its beak, and peeped loudly.

“Cluck, cluck,” Little Brown Hen answered softly as a well of pride rose up beneath her breast. “Cluck, cluck.”

…

Moral: You don’t need to see the world or conquer the world to be the world to someone. Be what you are meant to be.

Note: This post was written as an entry in this contest — and it was a lot of fun to do!

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