The day my mother joined Facebook, I updated my status to read: “That loud crashing sound you just heard? That was worlds … colliding.”

Imagine the noise, then, when my oldest daughter created her page and her younger siblings followed soon after. We needed to set some rules. It’s not just teenagers who need Facebook rules, though. We all do. Here are some of mine for grown-ups.

1. Less is more.

This is tricky, because I love to know other people’s details. I think it’s encouraging (and a little bit hilarious) when a friend confides to Facebook that she was mortified to hear her toddler shout out a curse word when he spilled a cup of juice at his grandmother’s house.

Once upon a time, though, people used to be demure. That was a good thing. I don’t need to know that the nice lady who sits near me at Mass is at Peak Day + 3 and her husband is making her crazy, and I don’t need to know the number of bowel movements my kids’ swimming teacher’s cat has had this morning. If you are wondering whether any particular bit of information is “over-sharing,” it probably is. We could all use a dose of good old-fashioned mystery.

2. Check your settings.

This is pretty basic, but the number of people who have no idea what the privacy settings are on their Facebook pages astonishes me. Even if you think you know what your settings are, make it a habit to check them frequently. One thing Facebook excels at is changing the rules when no one’s looking. You might have missed the memo that now sets “Everyone Sees Everything, Even that Karaoke Moment from Your Nephew’s Graduation Party” as the default.

3. Remember: It’s forever.

Yes, you can delete status updates, photos, and even “friends” who turn out to be weirdos, but a well-timed screen shot is all it takes to be your undoing – with your boss, your kid’s school, or your mother-in-law. Even if you maintain the strictest of privacy settings, remember that people love to talk and share, right-click and save. Don’t ever share something on Facebook you wouldn’t want the entire world to know.

4. Open your mind.

I had no idea how many Hillary-Clinton-lovers I knew and loved before Facebook. When people freely share their hearts and minds, you sometimes won’t agree with what you read. One of the ugliest things you can be on Facebook, though, is angry. If someone shares an opinion that reveals his deep-seated ignorance, be a loving friend. Share a positive and encouraging perspective. Point out what he gets right and what you recognize as his admirable motivations, and then – if you must – gently nudge him toward the Truth you know he is longing to hear.

5. Leave sometimes.

Make sure you log off regularly to explore the great big world beyond Facebook. And I don’t mean Twitter. Some of the most interesting and creative people I know in real life are the ones with AOL email accounts they check once a month. Real life and real relationships should feed your virtual connections, not the other way around. Besides, just think of the number of Facebook-able photos you could take if you joined a hiking club. Or a soccer team. Or your parish Bible study.

6. Protect your marriage.

There’s a lot of trouble for marriage on Facebook. That guy you married might burp at the table, forget your birthday, and grow hair from his ears, but the boy you dated in high school is forever young, thoughtful, witty, and cute. That girl you married might have put on a few pounds and developed an unearthly attachment to ratty yoga pants, but your ex-girlfriend is forever adoring, flirtatious, stylish, and svelte.

Don’t even think about it.

Be proactive and protect your marriage. Give your spouse your login and password. Leave your Facebook page open on the family computer for anyone to see. Make it a rule to never share anything on Facebook – especially in private messages – that you wouldn’t want your spouse to read or hear about.

Social media is not the enemy, but neither is it our salvation. It is a tool – a tool that many people choose not to use, but one that some of us ignore at our peril. When both my mother and my daughter are engaged in social media, I wake up and pay attention. If God is calling me to use my gifts and to be an example of Catholic living, I can do that. At the grocery store, in my parish, on baseball field sidelines, and on Facebook.

Here I am, Lord, I come to do your will. Just tell me what my status update should be.

How about you? What rules would you add to this list?

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

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I was a teenager when he died. We went to visit him one last time when I was about 14 years old. Nobody said it was “one last time” – not to me, anyway. They said we would be taking some short trips to Canada – just a few of us kids at a time – to see our grandfather.

It was their eyes, their tone, and their hushed late-night conversations that said “one last time.”

And it was the last time. I can’t remember the circumstances under which I learned that Grandpapa had finally lost his battle with cancer, but I do remember that my parents, eight siblings, and I packed some suitcases, a giant blue cooler, and ourselves into our Chevy Celebrity station wagon for an impromptu road trip to Quebec to attend his funeral.

One of my earliest memories of Grandpapa was when, on one of his visits to us at our home in New Hampshire, he brought me a gift. He always brought us gifts, but this one was particularly memorable. It was a bright red leather purse.

Despite the colorful image of Donald Duck on the front flap, I recognized immediately that this purse was no plaything. This was a lady’s purse. That very afternoon, I carried it, lady-like, on a walk around the block with my Grandpapa. My bobby-socked feet in buckle shoes pounded the pavement and my lady purse swung at my side as I kept up with Grandpapa’s longer strides.

I thought of that walk three days ago as I wrote my grandfather’s name in the Book of Remembrance at the start of my parish’s All Souls Day Mass.

When I first learned about the communion of saints in grade school CCD classes, I envisioned the souls in purgatory and heaven as largely nameless, faceless folks with whom I was somehow, inexplicably, spiritually connected. But now that I count Grandpapa and other real-life friends and family members among them, our communion has become more tangible and real.

In the communion of saints, we discover that God, like any good parent, encourages His children to work hard and to help one another. My prayers and my sacrifices on behalf of those in purgatory can bring them closer to God. Likewise, the intercessions of those in heaven can be a real help to me as I aim toward heaven. These aren’t nameless faces. These are real souls with whom we share memories, history, and DNA.

Years ago, when I became a mother for the first time, I realized that my children are concretely connected to all souls, too.

My first child was a colicky infant, and the months after she was born were like a parental boot camp for my husband and me. Each night, I spent the hours between 11:00 p.m. and 4:00 a.m. pacing the floors of our tiny apartment with a purple-faced, screeching infant in my arms.

On one of those nights, after I had paced enough floors, run the vacuum enough times, and sung enough lullabies, she finally fell asleep. Gingerly, I placed her in her crib, tiptoed away, and collapsed with exhaustion on my own bed. Before the kinks had even begun to work their way out of my back, however, I heard her cry again.

It was just a whimper really, but it was the kind of whimper a colicky baby makes when she’s about to cause a royal fuss. A mom knows these things. In my desperation and exhaustion, I could manage only a simple prayer. “God, no.”

And then I fell into sleep. Sound sleep. Drooling sleep. Dreaming sleep.

In my dream, the baby was still crying. Bleary-eyed and plodding, I made my way to her, but found her crib empty and silent. I looked up and saw someone seated in a rocking chair in a dimly lit corner of the room.

It was Grandpapa, with Baby Kateri in his arms. Her pink bundled body was perched on his sturdy forearm and her tiny head rested on his shoulder. At last, she slept.

Grandpapa rocked her gently without noticing me at first, but when I drew close, he turned toward me. His eyes smiled at me with such gentle love and understanding that I felt bathed in warmth and light. I watched the two of them rock in that glowing corner of the room and basked in the peace my grandfather had brought to me in my motherhood.

My oldest daughter never knew my Grandpapa, but he surely knows her. I am confident that he knows her and loves her well.

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

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After dinner Monday night, my husband and kids asked if we had anything for dessert. There was nothing. We rarely have an “official” dessert after dinner here, and they rarely ask, so I felt a little bad. I did remember a brownie mix in the pantry, though, and promised I could make them that evening.

After dinner, I kept busy with work while football played in the other room. I lost myself in magazine submissions and email conversations, and before I knew it, it was almost 8:00 and I had not yet made the brownies.

But you know what? I was tired …

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Last October, my 12-year-old son stood in the aisle of our local pharmacy and held up a life-like foam replica of a human skull.

“How about this one?”

I winced. My son rolled his eyes.

“Come on!” he coaxed. “St. Francis had one!”

Of course he did. I placed the skull in our cart, along with an economy-pack of vampire teeth, a tube of fake blood, and a discounted package of candy corn. Now we were ready.

I sometimes struggle against my feminine impulses to “mommify” Halloween. Many of us moms would prefer to remove references to evil, fear, and death from our family’s observances of All Hallow’s Eve, much as we would prefer our sons to skip football and pursue gentler sports instead. Like chess.

In our discomfort, some of us avoid trick-or-treating and scary props and costumes altogether, in favor of All Saints Day celebrations. It’s the very next day, after all, and it’s definitely a Catholic feast. The kids still get to dress up and eat candy, and we all get to focus on the triumph of the saints, rather than all that evil, fear, and death stuff.

But we cheat ourselves when we skip over the scary and run straight to the glory. There’s nothing wrong with celebrating All Saints Day, of course, but evil, fear, and death are real, and Holy Mother Church doesn’t “mommify” any of it.

When I happened upon some skull-shaped molds at a craft store once, I was confused. First of all that pulled me back to my Ottawa residential mold removal experience – you don’t wanna have water in your basement, trust me. Here, the clerk explained that they were for calaveras de azúcar, a traditional sugar treat made to celebrate Mexico’s Day of the Dead. I don’t know the details of how this feast is celebrated in modern-day Mexico, but the concept of remembering the reality of death, even with frightening images of skulls and skeletons, is undeniably rooted deep in the truths and traditions of Catholicism.

The Church doesn’t ignore pain, fear, evil, and death. It fully serves our human needs, not only as spiritual creatures, but as physical ones as well. Each of the sacraments, for example, requires our bodily participation. We don’t just receive grace; we taste, touch, and feel it.

Protestant celebrations of Reformation Sunday each Halloween are a timely reminder that it’s simply not Catholic to ignore or deny the physical realities of our humanity, even when they are frightening and unpleasant. The Church certainly doesn’t. She meets us right where we are, neck-deep in human weakness, and gives us a lens through which we can face the evils that we fear.

Three years ago, my husband’s cousin and his wife lost their four-month-old baby daughter to a rare illness. My human heart and mind reeled at the prospect of making sense of such a painful loss. I had no words, but the Church had many. Beautiful ones, in fact.

The joyful Alleluias we sang and prayed at the funeral “Mass of the Angels” stood in stark contrast to the small church filled with grief and mourning. The Church did not ignore our pain; she met us where we were, right there in it, and shined on it the light of truth and salvation.

I’ve heard it said that one of Satan’s greatest triumphs comes when he succeeds in convincing us that he does not exist. A properly celebrated Halloween, with its scary costumes and images of death, places evil right before our eyes. We should not celebrate Satanism, of course, but the typical Halloween props of ghosts, witches, spiders, and skeletons are appropriate manifestations of the evils that we fear. There is something authentically Catholic about spooking ourselves with these and turning them into playthings.

William Peter Blatty, author of The Exorcist, knows this. He explained that his main purpose in writing his award-winning novel and screenplay was not to frighten his audiences or encourage occultism, but to share a message of faith:

I remember thinking, ‘Someday, somebody’s got to write about this, because if an investigation were to prove that possession is real, what a help it would be to the struggling faith of possibly millions, for if there were demons, I reasoned, then why not angels? Why not God?’

We must know the cold and darkness to recognize the light. When we face our fears, we can more fully appreciate Christ’s victory over sin and death. At Halloween, when we dance with goblins and spook with skeletons, we put our human fears in perspective.

We can laugh at weakness because we know  Christ, Who alone triumphs over the evils of sin and death. We know the weight of our words when we sing: “Death is swallowed up in victory. Where, O death, is your victory? Where, O death, is your sting?” (1 Cor. 15:54-55)

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

In last week’s newsletter I asked readers to share laundry tips, and you guys sure came through! As I promised, I’m sharing some of your input here …

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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.)