Family as God

If I call attention to the fact that I haven't posted on my blog for two months, then perhaps I shall set a trend, and it'll be three months til I post next. So I won't make reference to that, officially at least.

While busy the last few months, researching and working on a book project about family, I've come across a lot of information related to families that makes me think, in spite of our good intentions to make healthier families, we're practicing that long-held human habit for distortion. In other words, we've made families into gods. Much is sacrificed on the altar of family -- from women's hard-won educational/career backgrounds (left behind in favour of making organic cookies and home schooling) to hobknobbing with those wholly at odds with the notion of family. A lot of stay at home moms have channeled their previous work-related energy into make-work projects with their kids -- and it's been well documented in Judith Warner's book, Perfect Madness: Motherhood in an Age of Anxiety. On the other end of the scale, there's the bubble-boy behaviour of some Christian parents to keep their kids from all that's bad in the world. Like meeting a real life gay or lesbian person, which might lead to an understanding about sexuality/homosexuality and might allow them to really get in touch with what it means, concretely, to separate sin from sinner. Or to look at the thrice married pastor of their church and wonder if, perhaps, there's something wrong there too.

We parents tend to fluctuate wildly between Hyper Parenting (or helicopter parenting as some are now calling it) to outright neglect. Mea culpa -- too worn from working all day to actively engage with my kids, I let them cruise the nintendo (my 13-year-old) while my 6 year old plays her imaginary school game, while I do "just one more email." My spectrum (which can be navigated several times a day) ranges from neglect to the lecturing, in your face, kind -- how did you play today, did your teacher say anything about your history project, if you commit yourself to soccer you have to go to every practice, dropping towels on the bathroom floor is the sign of a weak spirit, and then there's my ubiquitous work-first, play-later mantra.

It's like sculpting something from a kit, sort of like paint-by-number art, you poke and prod and chip away until it takes on some sort of shape. I've found, sadly, that the shape ends up a little like the circle I tried cutting out of construction paper when I was in kindergarten. Intent on perfection, I kept cutting round and round until there was nothing left of it.

And so it is with these false gods we set up -- when there's nothing concrete, real, and incarnate within what you're setting up to worship, it ends up on the floor in a flurry of little paper bits. Pity the poor family that's being molded into this kind of stultified and studied perfection -- high marks, professional sports development programs, extra tutoring (Kumon sources say that most kids are taking classes fully two grade levels above what they're in at school), and scheduled play.

I am desperately trying to break out of that rut and have decided that prayer, really and truly, is the only way out.

Sacred Females

It's been almost a month since I last blogged. Too busy finding candidates for a recent TV contract on grooming shaggy men and making them worthy of their women. I am the first one to say my husband could stand some improvement, but if truth be told a lot of the women who nominated their men actually had greater need of sprucing up.

There was the woman who called the show and asked that we do something with her boyfriend of ten years, who has rotting teeth. His breath stinks, she wailed. After he got his teeth kicked in, he's done nothing with them.

What happened -- was he in a fight, I asked innocently.

No, I kicked him in the mouth ten years ago, she replied.

Oh. He must have done something pretty awful to warrant that.

I was behaving badly, she admitted. That's when I was drinking.

Since the producer insisted we follow up on this "love story" I chatted next with the man who said their issues were way deeper than a shave and a haircut and that he wouldn't go back to her.

That's just one example. There were many others.

This brings me to the Da Vinci Code, and the worship of the sacred feminine. And the Last Supper, since this is Maundy Thursday, and Mary Magdalene who is supposedly reclining on Jesus' right side in Da Vinci's Last Supper painting.

The way that Mary M is portrayed in the DVC (da vinci code) is about as conniving and manipulative as the lovely lady who kicked in her guy's teeth while drunk.

The gospel accounts portray Magdalene as worshipful -- not lovesick, not queenly and presiding over the table as the chatelaine -- but emptied out. When women are engaged in an intimate relationship with a man, they simply are not emptied out, unless there's an abusive or co-dependent thing going on.

I have more problems with the DVC than just that, however. First of all, the priory which worships the sacred feminine is ALL MEN! It's a brotherhood.

Secondly, the secret rituals which are supposed to cause the divine spark are ugly romping sex acts -- imagine this: a grey-haired overweight woman astride an old gray-haired man, in the midst of a secret society of folks chanting like Druids.

Contrast that to The Song of Solomon, with its spiritually erotic verse illuminating the heart that pants after its Maker. As a mom, I have never once considered myself the creator of my two kids -- and to confuse the divine spark that occurs when we search for God with the sex act is more than bizarre.

And now to the Last Supper. The metaphysical divine consumed by the merely human. Now that's intimate.

The Religious Imagination

I am becoming very curious about the making of the religious imagination -- is it nature or nurture?

On Tuesday, A (aged six and a half) got a sliver in her finger while she was running her hand under her dad's closed office door trying to get in while he was working/on the phone. Much howling and tears, as he carried her up the stairs for me to examine it.

She was wild about this sliver -- first she wanted me to look at it, then her dad to remove it, then she didn't want it done, then questions about how much it would hurt, then lamentations on why did this have to happen to me? As I held her on my lap, preparing to investigate further, a sterilized needle cleverly concealed in the folds of my sweatpants, she set up the sobbing anew.

"I think God should do this, not you," she said. "God can make this better."

"But God gives those jobs to his angels on earth, like mums and dads, who are here to care for you and feed you and take slivers out," said I.

The howling increased, and A ran to her room to pray. She knelt on the floor, hands clasped in desperation, and directed her mumbled request heavenward. She then scuttled back and asked if the sliver was gone. I said it didn't look like it, but maybe. She ran back into her room for more prayers, all the while sobbing.

This drama continued for a couple of days until going to her grandparents. Her grandfather looked at the finger and said if she didn't get the sliver out, then the finger would have to come off. Finally, she tossed a coin, saying if it's heads the finger comes off, and if it's tails, she'd let grandad take it out. As she described it, "the first time was her finger was to come off; the second time, the finger to come off; the third time, K (grandfather) to take out." So she let him use the needle to take it out. She told me later, that during the operation, she filled her mind with pleasant thoughts -- a particularly special playdate she'd had with her little friend Sydney.

Out of the Mouths of Babes

My six year old daughter has been keeping my family and friends howling with laughter for most of her verbal (and even non-verbal) life.

Recently, she has developed a severe case of religious imagination, and in some instances has taken up evangelism with a vengeance.

She has a thing for the popes, which has caused her lapsed Catholic dad a lot of consternation -- what did he, a good and religious atheist, do to deserve a daughter who plasters her walls with pictures of old men in white robes and tall white hats? Good question.

A few months ago, she was outside on the porch by herself and my husband went by the screen door and was able to witness the following: she was looking up at the sky and saying "God? Where are you? Are you there? God? Gawd? Where are you?"

One time, she and her dad were having a conversation about Joseph -- who he was. Her dad said he was Jesus' father, and A said no, that God was Jesus father. So her dad said Joseph was the earthly father. And A said no God was that too. Then she said to him: You don't know these things, Daddy. You don't know Jesus. You did as a child, but you don't know him now.

About a week or so ago, I got after her about some behaviour, and told her that was naughty and not at all nice, that it was hurtful to one of her friends (I think she had laughed about one of the little boys in her class because he'd not made it to the bathroom and pooed in his pants.) A broke down in tears, and sobbed that she couldn't help being like this, because God had made her like this, and how could she go against what God made. I explained to her about freedom and human will, and about choices to commit either sin or goodness. She was unconvinced as she continued to sob out her excuses.

Another time recently, she asked (on the way to church) why Daddy didn't go to church, and when I said it's because he doesn't believe in God, she was shocked. "Whaaaat? He doesn't believe in God? How could you NOT believe in God?!?! He's EVERYWHERE!!!! He's in the car, beside me, he's outside, he's on the sidewalk, in the trees, in heaven,........"

What ensued was a lengthy conversation about the nature of belief, with A saying that Daddy couldn't believe in God because he didn't see Him, and that was very hard for him. She also said that sometimes some people will not believe anything unless they see it.

When we got home later she asked her dad point-blank why he didn't believe in God. (He couldn't answer.) And she struck up the same hue and cry she gave me in the car.

It says that a little child shall lead them, and I fervently hope and pray that in my husband's case this is true, because I've failed miserably. Perhaps Anna will do better.

A Rose by any other Name

Tis true that a person is still that same person no matter what their name. But I was reminded again, on Sunday, of the weight placed on names in the Bible. One of the readings involved Nathanael, who saw Jesus and knew who He was. My son's middle name is Nathanael, given to him in hopes that he, like the young man in the Bible story, would grow up to see and recognize Christ.

While names are just words, it's good to remember that words also contain meaning, and moreover, memory. Whenever I hear that Bible story I am called anew to make sure my son grows in wisdom and stature so that he'll be able to know Jesus.

My daughter's name was likewise given to her so that she, like the old prophetess who greeted Mary and Joseph and the Babe arriving at the Temple in Jerusalem.

In times such as these, it's good to remember that words can act as symbols, secrets almost, the meaning only apparent to those who have ears to hear or eyes to see.

Haute Cuisine

Oh I really must protest today! Whatever happened to the butter knife? Or even the dinner and luncheon knife? Why does one never see these around anymore? As most women will attest, it's a rare thing to see a man holding a knife at the dinner table anymore, unless he's about to stab a side of beast.

Well, I'll tell you what's happened to the lowly knife. It's been replaced by a peanut butter and jam spreader.

Yes, I saw it this morning and will paste it here if you don't believe me. I saw it, of course, in the Globe and Mail's Style Counsel, which starts off the sales job with this line:

Sometimes it's nice to own things you don't actually need.

Judging by the state of the landfill sites, we all own way TOO much of what we don't actually need. (Dinner knives notwithstanding.)

The Style Counsel goes on to say:

It doesn't, for instance, take much to make a classic PB&J sandwich: the two namesake ingredients, some bread (sliced diagonally, crusts on) and a utensil to do the smearing. But Cuisipro, the Canadian maker of kitchen gadgets for every purpose imaginable, has designed a Peanut Butter and Jelly Spreader that is too adorable to resist.

And just in case you don't know how to use it, unlike, say, the regular garden-variety kitchen knife, they explain:
It looks like a distant cousin to a kayak paddle, with rubbery silicone ends colour-coded to remind you not to cross-contaminate.

Isn't cross-contamination the whole point of PB&J?

The ad goes on and on -- after all how much can one say about a PB&J spreader and still fulfil the word count necessary for advertising this item?

They say it's packaged with "all the necessary ingredients" -- what more does one need? -- and "it's a deconstructed housewarming gift that's far more creative than towels."

I say, bring on the towels!!!!

Why Buy the Milk when You Can Have the Cow

As I sat at my desk last night, filling out my son's milk form for school, I remembered the milk cartons when I was a kid (now they come in bags with a straw attached). But my memories of school lunches and milk cartons are only seen from the perspective of an outsider. Because everyone else but me got milk. That's because we had our own lovely cow at home -- Brownie, who was either a Jersey or a Guernsey, I can never remember which.

And Brownie faithfully gave thick yellowy milk with lovely big globules of fat every day of her life. And my dad would sit hunched over the ten-quart sterilizing machine as he poured the milk in and stuck a pitcher under for the cleansed liquid. Not that it was much different from the unclean milk. It still had globs of yellowy fat floating in it. And most of the time it was still lukewarm. I'm not sure if that was because it was so fresh it still had the warmth of the cow on it. Or if our refrigerator was not operating at top speed. Likely the latter.

I never could stand milk, until I was much older and it was much colder.

I do vaguely remember the cow as well. She was large. And brown. I also remember how frustrated my dad would get with her when she would break off her rope (probably in search of greener pastures north of the house, and into Moorelands). She'd go trotting off, and my father would bring her back, usually attached by a rope to the back of the car.

One time, as he told me many years later, he was so mad he chased her until she broke into a run, and jumped over several fences. Apparently she couldn't have calves after that.

One of my first memories was being squirted in the eye by milk from an upturned teat squeezed in my dad's big hand (I used to follow him around the farm all day).