Little by Little--Instilling a Faith Life in Children

Like any parent I have hopes for my kids.  Most notably:

1)  that they grow up to be thoughtful, caring, and compassionate human beings.
2)  that they claim Christianity--any form of Christianity--for their own.
3)  and if they decide to be Catholic--well, that´s just icing on the cake!



But what am I doing to help them turn out this way?

Example

If I want them to be thoughtful, caring, and compassionate human beings, they need to see me being thoughtful, caring, and compassionate.

But I´m human, and I mess up.  I probably mess up most often with them.

So if I know I´ve been wrong, I don´t hesitate to tell them I´m sorry.

They see me reading, they see me writing.  We read together.  We talk about things--politics, religion, social situations, adoption (friends recently adopted two little girls), death, future plans, crazy stories (that´s mostly provided by the five-year-old)--nothing is off-limits.

But writing this down, I´m noticing that we might be falling short on the "compassionate" section.  I'll have to get to work on that and turn some of this talking into action--with something the kids can participate in, too!

Mass

If we want our kids to grow up to claim the Catholic faith as their own, we go to mass.  Every week.

However, this last year, our oldest led the charge in getting us to mass regularly.  Our parish has "children's mass" every Sunday at 10:30.  This year, Clara was invited to be one of the angel dancers that stand in front and lead everyone in motions to the songs sung.  She's up there with her best friends, and soaking up the fact that she gets to dance in front of everyone.

I hope she´s soaking up some of the deeper meaning of the mass, too.

But, one step at a time.

Catechism

Now that the kids are school-aged, they´re also going to catechism every Saturday.  At first, we´d send the kids every other week, and as the school year dragged on, we tapered off our participation when Lent rolled around.

Oops.

But the teachers keep track of attendance, and last year the kids with the best attendance got prizes.  So, this year, Clara is insisting on going every week.  I´m glad that she´s motivated enough to go.  It helps that her best friends go, too.  

Joey's still in kindergarten.  Sometimes I make him go.  Sometimes, when he says he'd really rather stay home, I let him stay home.

But that ties into Point #4--

Not Shoving It Down Their Throats

I really, really want my kids to have a personal relationship with God.

I really, really want them to be personally motivated to read their Bibles regularly, so they know what they believe and why they believe it.

I really, really want them to develop so many spiritual practices, but I know that one of the best ways of turning them away from religion is to shove it down their throats and beat them over the head with it.

Let's not be counter-productive here.

In the home I was raised in, we went to church regularly, we went to Sunday school regularly, and when we were older we were involved in youth group.  However, we didn´t talk about God much at home, and we rarely prayed together, apart from meals on major holidays.

By the grace of God, as adults, both my brother and I are both practicing Christians--so that approach worked!

But, let's be honest, "shoving it down their throats" goes by a case-by-case basis.  Much like everything else, we need to be attentive to our kids, let them talk, listen to them, understand their perspective, and they´ll be more receptive to being receptive to us.



Memorable Baptism

This is another carryover of my upbringing.  It´s not necessarily the right choice for everyone.  In fact, I´m not even advocating this for others.   It just worked out well in my case, and I´m hoping that will play out equally well in my children's lives, too.

When I was very small, we didn't attend church regularly until I was 4 or 5.  Therefore, I was not baptized as an infant.  Just before we moved across the midwest, my parents decided to get my brother and I baptized.  I was on the older end of 7, so I had to answer for myself whether I believed in God, renounced the Devil, and all that.

While it wasn't my idea to get baptized, I was in agreement with it, and I remember it.  While I didn't understand all the symbolism surrounding the sacrament, I knew that I was spiritually washed clean and officially a child of God.  And it wasn't that I just knew in my head that I was spiritually washed clean.  When the pastor poured the water over my head, I honestly and truly felt clean inside!  It was a great feeling, and I feel blessed that I do actually remember it.

And now, after Easter, when the priest sprinkles us all with water before mass, reminding us to remember our baptism, I love that I literally DO remember mine!

Sometimes I wonder if some of the draw for Catholics to turn to other denominations is that (in some churches) they´re encouraged to get baptized again.  It's a sacrament filled with such symbolism (in Protestant traditions--as Catholics, we tend to take things both  symbolically AND literally!).  But, either way, it's so important and so loaded with meaning that I wonder if some don't get re-baptized in other traditions just so they can remember experiencing the beauty of being baptized.

Now, don't get me wrong--I believe that infant baptism is just fine and dandy.  (OK, for full disclosure, I used to be strenuously opposed to it, now I´m OK with it, and just last week I found myself defending the practice of infant baptism to my Jehovah's Witness friend.  So I guess I've been fully converted!)  The Catechism of the Catholic Church, paragraph 1250 beautifully states, "the sheer gratuitousness of the grace of salvation is particularly manifest in infant baptism.  The Church and the parents would deny a child the priceless grace of becoming a child of God were they not to confer Baptism shortly after birth."

Oh, I feel the weight of that statement!

Full disclosure--my kids are still not baptized.

My husband and I agreed that we want them to decide for themselves.  I do feel some guilt about not baptizing them as babies.  But it's a gamble that I'm hoping will pay off in the long run.

After all, nothing has been more precious so far than hearing my son decide that he does want to get baptized.
     
        "Why do you want to get baptized?"

        "Because I love Jesus, and he told us to get baptized."

(I promise, he came up with that response on his own!  Isn't that the most wonderful and profound thing that he's ever said?)

I'm so excited that next Easter, my son will be able to remember his baptism, too--not just figuratively, but literally!  And I hope that experience will stick with him, that feeling of being washed clean and being accepted, so that when other opportunities or doubts or antipathy arise, he'll have that experience to remember and cling to.

My daughter, on the other hand, will be entering 3rd grade this next year.  In our parish, kids receive First Communion when they're in third grade.  Her friends will be doing their First Communions.  But Clara is aware that, unlike her friends, she has to get baptized first.  She's got her godmother all picked out.  She's been eyeing those gorgeous, white dresses for awhile.

But she still hasn't made a commitment one way or another about getting baptized yet.

And we've let her know that's perfectly fine.  She can always get baptized and receive First Communion the following year, or three years later, or whenever she decides she's ready.  She knows it's her choice, and we'll respect her decision if she chooses not to.

Peer pressure may pay a powerful factor here.  That may be a good thing, it may not.  I want her to both be baptized and receive First Communion for the right reasons.  She knows the decision is up to her.  And she usually makes good decisions.

Whatever she decides, she will be required to attend catechism until she finishes junior high, though!

What's Next?

My kids are 8, 5, and 1.  We've all still got a lot of growing to do.  We've all got a lot of learning to do.

It's mid-July, and we're still working our way through our Lenten prayer chain. (But, we are still working on it!)

We often forget to pray before meals.  But something is rubbing off, as about once a week, my son reminds us to pray before meals.

As the second-grader was borrowing my Bible for catechism this last year, we'll buy her a Bible of her own this summer--a REAL Bible, not one of the kiddie picture-Bibles!  It being summer, and we're not bogged down with homework, it would probably be good if we read our way through a Gospel together, too.

Beyond that, I'm open to suggestions.  I've been involved in a Bible study for years, with women of all ages.  When we're off on tangents, the comments that stick with me the most are from the moms that regret not instilling an active faith life in their children while they were young.  I take their laments to heart.

So I´ll do what I can now.


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This month, the Catholic Women Bloggers Network is blog hopping with the theme "What I Am Doing Now In the Hope of Keeping My Kids Catholic".

Learning Geography

Today I overheard my five-year-old belting out, "I´ve got Hawaii!  I´ve got New Mexico!"

Yes, my kindergartener knows his states (well, some of them)--and he doesn´t even live in the United States!

Last summer, I was at a garage sale, and came across The Scrambled States of America card game.  It´s based on a children´s book of the same name.  (I haven´t read the book.)  But I picked up the card game, as I´ve been looking for a states puzzle for my daughter (who´s in second grade), so she could start to learn her US states, as she´s not going to be drilled on that in school here.

We played it last summer, and it was a hit.

Last summer, it was a little too difficult for Joey, who had just barely turned five.  But now that he´s almost got kindergarten under his belt (and therefore knows his letters, and can count, etc.), he´s able to play on his own much better, with minimal help from me.



How to play

Each player has a set of five state cards.  There´s a stack of question cards.  On each turn, a question card is turned over, and everyone has to find a state in their hand that starts with the letter N, or touches 5 other states, or is blue, or is the closest to Missouri.  (Each player gets a US map for reference.)

The first player to answer the question correctly gets to keep the card.  The person with the most cards in the end wins.

Now, normally, the second-grader wins by a pretty large margin.  However, there are some questions, like, "which state is blue?"  or "Which state is wearing something" that are easy for the not-quite-literate set to answer correctly.  Futhermore, the "which state is closer to [insert state name]" questions aren´t timed--the person who has the closest state wins, so slower players get a shot, too.

For younger kids, this could be frustrating.  (And it has been for my own little guy.)

But he keeps hanging in there.

And it´s paying off, because he knows the names of a number of US states, and is getting an idea of North, South, East and West, and the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans!  I´m pretty impressed.

I think I´ll have to make a Scrambled States of Mexico!

¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨

Want a Scrambled States of America for your own?  Click on the picture of the game box shown above, and an additional browser window will open and connect to amazon.com.

Or, better yet, find an independent toy store or game store in your town, and if they don´t have it in stock, I bet they´d be happy to order it for you.  That way, your money stays in your community.

But if that´s not an option, I can hook you up here.

I Need Help!

I love to help people.  I suppose, deep down inside, it makes me feel needed, and who doesn´t like to feel needed?

However, the reverse of this is a bit more difficult.  I don´t know if it´s our "I-can-do-it-all" culture, or the fact that we cherish our independence above all else.  But accepting help, or admitting that I need help, is often really hard.

When I moved to Saltillo eight years ago, I was in desperate need of friends.  We don´t have family near, so anyone I could carry on an adult conversation with was a shining ray of light for me.  Slowly, but surely, I met people.

Now that I know a number of people, I´ve noticed that it´s easy to fall into superficial relationships.  We can talk about living in Mexico, and our kids play together, and that´s all well and good.  But I want more.  I´ve got a number of very polite friendships.

Sometimes, though, we all need that friend that we know we can call at any time of day or night.  That friend who, when we need someone to do us a huge favor, they don´t bat an eye.

Fortunately, I have two fairly recent examples:  three years ago we adopted a dog.  But we like to leave town on weekends, sometimes for full weeks at a time.  Nuts.  I should have thought about that before taking in the dog.  Before skipping town one time, I asked a friend who I had known for a few months if she minded watching my dog for a few days.  (I also knew she had a massive yard--very hard to find near cities in Mexico). Having four dogs of her own, she didn´t bat an eye--and even refused payment when I offered.

Man, it´s hard to be in someone´s debt.  But sometimes it´s necessary!

So a year or so later when she wanted to start working (only 4 hours a week), she told me how she really wanted to go back to work, but didn´t know what to do with her boys.  Since I was already at home every day with Sam, I didn´t think twice about it and offered to watch them.

After that, we were in and out of each other´s houses just about every other day.  While the two extra boys for a few hours kept me jumping, it was also so very satisfying.  Sharing the mundane details of daily life was a type of friendship that I hadn´t had in awhile.  And it would never have happened if either of us weren´t open to accepting help from the other.

Example Two:  Right after Sam was born, most of my neighbors told me, "let me know if you need anything!"  Since my mother-in-law came to help, and Mario´s cousin was still living with us, we really didn´t have a need to take them up on it--until the day that we went to file Sam´s birth certificate.

In Mexico, parents need to provide two witnesses for a child´s birth certificate.  Our plan, of course, was to bring Mario´s mom and cousin.  However, the day we went, Clara and Joey were both sick.  As Mario had taken the day off of work, he was ready to plow ahead.  If the kids were sick, he thought, "let´s just bring them with us!"  I made a few phone calls, and within twenty minutes, one of my beautiful neighbors had dropped everything and was ready to go with us, so Mario´s mom could stay and take care of the sick kids.

With both examples, I can´t explain how much I appreciate having these women in my life, knowing that if I need them, they´re available.  There are other people who are certainly on this list, too, but those examples have stuck out in my memory.

While I enjoy showing love to other people by helping them out, these examples are a great reminder that being open to accepting someone´s help is another way of accepting their love.  Sometimes it´s hard to love others, but in our culture that celebrates individualism, letting other people into our lives to love us is often harder.

When we let others in, we admit that we can´t do it all.
When we let others in, we admit that we need help.
When we let others in, we are vulnerable.

When we let others in, real relationships can form.

It´s hard, but it´s so worth it!

An InLinkz Link-up

Frustration to Reflection

This is the fourth year that I´ve had a child enrolled in our preschool.  Preschools tend to go all-out for holidays.  For Day of the Dead, we dress up the kids as catrinas (skeletons dressed in fancy clothes), make mini-altars, one class makes a full-size altar, dress up paper skeletons.  It´s very nicely done, but it´s a lot of work for the parents.  Because, let´s face it, while my preschooler can help decorate his mini-altar, making the tiers, and making sure it has the "necessary" ingredients falls squarely on my shoulders.

And let me tell you, nothing makes this former preschool teacher crazier than preschool homework that the parent is required to do.  (Within reason.  Cutting things out so the teacher doesn´t have to spend 6 hours cutting after school is prefectly reasonable, of course.)

So I was pleasantly surprised last Thursday when the teachers posted a sign saying, "if you´d like to bring in an altar on Monday, that would be great."

I loosely translated that to mean, "if you don´t want to bring in an altar next week, that´s OK, too."

So the weekend came and went.  We went back to school on Monday, and it turned out that the homework for the following day was to bring in an altar.  None of this "if you feel like it" wishful thinking that I had been planning on.

Of course.

So I sat down to work, making an altar.  Joey had ideas for decorating it, so after I finally got my 5 tiers somewhat solidly set in the diorama (and covered in colored paper).  I let him do his thing.

We got ready to go trick-or-treating, and it turned out that "his thing" was two odd rectangles and a picutre of his aunt who died this summer.

Knowing that he did want this altar dedicated to Tía Lili (and having a feeling that it might be a bit theraputic for him to take it in to his class, and explain about how he misses his Tía Lili), I sat down and added a bit.  And then I added a bit more.  Then I ransacked the kids´ toys, looking for little things that could symbolize interests that Lili had, things that were important to her, etc.

The more I worked on this, the more I realized that it was good for me, too.

The finished altar for Lili.  I added her computer (because she was always working!);
suitcases, because she traveled a lot; her name in Braille.  Water is
traditional to have on an altar, but I put it there because Lili loved to swim.  

After going through the toys, I found my brailler.  (Lili went blind when she was a teenager.)  It had been missing for years, and I found it again, shortly after she died.  When I found it this summer, it released some pent-up anger I had (because anger is a stage in the greiving process).  I threw it to the back of the closet, thinking "well, shoot--I don´t need THIS anymore!"  I bought it years ago, meaning to write notes to Lili, braille out some children´s books so she could read to the kids, etc.  I learned the most rudimentary braille, and then promptly lost the tools to use it.

Until a few weeks ago.

Our family altar, which Joey was
instrumental in decorating, too.  

So, putting the finishing touches on the mini-altar for Joey to take to school, I thought it could be a great teaching moment for the kindergarteners to see Lili´s name, written in Braille.  So I did it.  And, likely, the kids didn´t notice.

But it was helpful for me.  And, as Joey largely initated the project (or gave it direction), it was probably good for him, too.  After all, in essence, that´s what celebrating Day of the Dead is be about--sitting back and taking some time to remember people we love.  If we never stop to do that, we might never work through the grieving process, and that could just fester and manifest itself in all kinds of weird ways, if left to itself.

So I love that this country sets aside a day to pray, reflect, and remember.  It´s good for all of us.  And it seems that these traditions give even the youngest among us room to express their own grief and emotions, too.

I made pan de muerto this year, and was just so stinkin´ proud that I had to document it here!

As Expected

I´ve often wondered when my kids´ mastery of Spanish would surpass my own.

It´s becoming clear that we are crossing that threshold.  As I´ve been joking for years, it seems to be that I really DO speak Spanish like a second-grader.  Except now it´s not a joke.

Up until the other day, when Clara brought home this bit of homework, I had no idea that solo (Spanish for only) could--or sometimes should--be written with an accent mark. 

Thank goodness the teacher sent home a worksheet that had this grammar quirk well defined!

It turns out that when solo is used as an adjective (solo is describing the noun) it does not need an accent mark.  

Sólo requires an accent mark when it´s used as an adverb (sólo describes the verb).  After wading through 10 examples, I got pretty confident, and I´m pretty sure that both Clara and I now know the difference.  

But I´ve got my work cut out for me from here on out!

Perspective Changes Everything

I´ve been having issues with the four-year-old.

He refuses to wipe his butt.  He thinks I am always happy to do it for him.  We have gotten into power struggles over this.  Sometimes I give in.  Sometimes we get into yelling and screaming matches over this.  Sometimes I realize that he´s four, and sometimes it is hard for him to wipe his butt. Sometimes I let him know that the butt-wiping free ride ends when he turns five.

The other day, he told me, "when I´m ninety, I´ll wipe my own butt."

I was relieved to know that he had some date in mind to take responsibility for his own excrement.  (Never mind that I won´t be alive to see it.)

Then I clued him in on the ways of the world.  "Actually, when you´re ninety, you might not be wiping your own butt anymore."

Then genius struck.

"Hey Joe--do you know who´s going to wipe MY butt when I´m ninety?"

All of a sudden, I don´t mind wiping his butt anymore.

And he´s in full agreement that he´ll be returning the favor.

It never fails to astonish me how much it helps to step back and look at the larger picture.

Destination: Papalote Children´s Museum

Since we have kids, and we frequent Mexico City, I´ve been itching for the day I could take my kids to Mexico City´s Papalote Museo del Niño (Children´s Museum).  This year, with my older two being 6 and 4, I figured they were the perfect age to go.

Yes, they were the perfect ages.  (Kids around 3rd grade and older probably won´t enjoy this museum much.  It´s perfect for the preschool, early-elementary set.)

However, the museum was under construction.  They only had 3 big rooms open, plus the IMAX theater, of course.

Downside #2--we went during Christmas vacation.  Everybody and their cousin wanted to go to the Children´s Museum during Christmas vacation.  (Heads up for those thinking of going over Spring Break--I bet you´ll run into the same issues.)

Now, three big rooms full of children´s museum activities don´t sound too bad.  Except that the museum was filled past capacity.  We found a bit of breathing room in an area that was for kids 6 and under.  Joey could have spent all day with a magnetic fishing game (and threw a fantastic fit when we insisted that other kids needed a turn).

They also had a little grocery store where kids could get a cart, fake money, and were told that they could check out 10 items.  I didn´t hear the directions, and Joey didn´t follow them, so he filled that cart to the brim!  Then we had to go back and put all but 10 items away before he could check out.  It was interesting to note which items he hung onto the longest (milk and meat) and which were the first to go.

Around three o´clock, we were ready to give up.  But guess what happened?  Lots of other families gave up, too.  We hung in there a bit longer.  Clara was determined to get in on a kite-making workshop, and, after looking all afternoon, we finally found it by the IMAX.  



Kites in hand, we were about to head for the exit a second time, but we wandered into the first exhibit room, which had been packed wall-to-wall with people when we entered.  Now at four o´clock, that room had places to sit down and play, and material available to play with!  So the kids spent at least an hour in this exhibit about construction, putting PVC pipes together for plumbing, landscaping a yard, and making a habitat out of blankets and rope.

In the end, we did have a good time.  It was worthwhile.

But if we ever go again over a school holiday week, we will arrive at about 3pm.  The day we went, it was open until 8pm, which would have been more than enough time.

Then again, once their renovation is complete, it might take all day to get through there.

So we´ll try it again.  Just later in the day.  And we´ll buy tickets online, so we won´t have to stand in line for an hour.

Wearing Her Heart On Her Sleeve

I have a seven-year-old daughter.  She is old enough to express herself well, and young enough that she doesn´t censor herself.

For example, early in the school year, she was supposed to write down a goal for the school year and share it with the entire class.

Clara´s goal:  I am going to be better than everyone else.

My response:  Ummm . . . wanting to be your best is, indeed, a great goal.  However, you don´t think that maybe your friends might get offended about you wanting to be better than them?

Nah.  This thought never occured to her.  After I explained it, it still didn´t seem to make much sense.  But I did get her to tone down her goal.  (At least she´s socially saavy enough to try to appease me.)

Then, about two months ago, I found this scrawled across our message board:

Quiero que todos me quieren.
I want everyone to like me. 

How heart-wrenchingly honest.  

Do we all go through this phase when we wear our heart on our sleeve?  How long does it last before reality intervenes?  (Usually in the form of mean kids.)  How many heartbreaks does it take for us to bury our desire to express our need to be loved?  

For Clara, I sure hope it isn´t any time soon.  

Would that this innocence could last forever.

I was afraid that Valentine´s Day might shatter some of her heart-strewn reality.  Unlike in the US, where all the kids in the class buy a pack of Valentines to give to every single child in the class, Clara´s assignment on Thursday was to write one card, to a specific friend, to give to that child on Friday.  

Oh, this assignment was fraught with danger.  What if Clara gave her Valentine to her friend, and her friend didn´t give her a card in return?  What if everybody wanted to give a card to one girl and then all the other girls were left without cards?  Furthermore, Clara went another step, and after she wrote "Happy Valentine´s Day" on the card, she added, "Zoe--you´re my best friend."  

Oh, dear.  Best friend declarations.  This might be more dangerous territory than boyfriends could be in a few years.  Because what happens if Zoe isn´t actually all that attached to Clara?    

Fortunately, none of these thoughts ever crossed Clara´s mind.  And, apparently it won´t occur to her for awhile longer.  Friday´s Valentine exchange must have gone off without a hitch.   

As further confirmation that the world is still a nice place, Zoe came over to spend the afternoon with Clara.  

Whew.  They may just be best friends after all.

May these two, sweet, little girls get to live a few more months in perfect oblivion to the meanness that surrounds them.  

Multitasking While Breastfeeding

As the mother of a newborn, I  spend roughly sixteen hours a day on the couch.  Just sitting there.  Hands held hostage, because I´m holding someone whose life depends on my ability to hold him to my chest for those sixteen hours a day.

In some ways, this is the toughest part of having a baby.  While the boob and the baby may be working, the rest of me is idle.

Sure, there are ways to work around this.  For instance, I am starting to be an expert at one-handed internet surfing.  For the second and third week of Little Boy´s life, I locked myself in my room, reading my way through the War of the Roses (thank you, Philippa Gregory).

But once I polished off The White Princess for the second time, I was all read out.  And while I love the kid, there´s only so long I can stare at him in wonder.  Mostly, I just found myself thinking about all the other things I could have been doing, things I could have been doing if my hands were free.

As I kept ruminating on all those things that needed to be done, I was reminded of Philippians 4:6.

"Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God." 

Instead of worrying about those things that I couldn´t do anything about, I could pray about those things.

That, in turn, reminded me to pray for my baby, for my older children, and for the rest of my family.

With so much time almost literally on my hands, I have been reminded to pray for all kinds of people and situations I would have otherwise overlooked during my regularly-scheduled busy life.

Maybe that is the hardest thing about having a new baby--that abrupt halt of all the activities and routines that dominated our days up to the moment of the baby´s birth.  Then--BAM--life comes to a halt.  We´re forced to slow down dramatically.  We´re stuck on the couch for sixteen hours a day, feeding this new little person.

Stepping back and reflecting, it´s a huge job.  It´s an awesome responsibility--both the small person whose survival is dependant on my holding him steady, keeping me hostage on the couch, and the fact that I can simultaneously lift up numerous people, situations, needs, joys, and hurts and interceed on behalf of those directly to the God who has control over it all.

Up until recently, I haven´t been much of a "pray-er".  I like doing better.

But maybe prayer is just another form of doing.  Even though it doesn´t feel like I´m doing anything, I have faith that it is doing someone, somewhere, some good.  After all, that´s what faith is all about--the belief that prayers do work, even when there is no physical evidence to support that belief.

The Worst Word

Yesterday, Clara came up to me and declared, "my doll says a bad word."

Confident that we never acquired a doll with a potty mouth, I assured her that she must have misunderstood.  But Clara was convinced that the doll was providing a bad example.

"Want to know what she says?"

Curious what terrible word this piece of plastic was teaching my child, I agreed.  Clara drew close, whispering in my ear, in an attempt to expose as few people as possible to this doll´s poor manners.

"Stupid face."

Initially, I couldn´t believe that any toy company would sell a doll that would say "stupid face".  However, on listening to the culprit, I had to admit that Clara was right.

Oh, that made-in-China quality control!

However, the doll´s potty mouth was more offensive to Clara´s ears than mine on at least two levels:

1)  Within the four-to-eight-year-old age range, isn´t "stupid face" just about the biggest slam there is?  One might as well go all out and call someone "poopy face".

2)  Not only is my daughter six, but she´s a Mexican six-year-old.  Among Mexicans--of any age--"stupid" is the ultimate forbidden word.  There are swear words, and then there is stupid.

Now, even in English, it is pretty harsh to call another person stupid.  However, in other contexts, we throw the word around all the time.

The airplane is late?  Stupid plane.

The refrigerator doesn´t work?  Stupid refrigerator.

Any of those phrases are absolutely unacceptable in Spanish (at least, Mexican Spanish).  Therefore, under no circumstances should the S-word be applied to a person.

Or else Clara´s doll might call one a "stupid face", too.

Four Ounces of Sanity

I´m not a fan of extremists.  Or extremes, one way or another.

However, I have a newborn.  He doesn´t share my distain for extremism.

Because, let me tell you, this kid would be happy to hang on the boob ALL DAY.  And, for those who know newborns, you know that when I say all day, I mean all night, too.  It´s all the same around here, lately.

Now, there are plenty out there who get a little militant about breastfeeding.  Plenty of moms swear up and down that a bottle will NEVER touch their baby´s lips.  They happily feed their children around the clock, a lactating frenzy.  They eat with maximum production in mind.  They´ll even pump between latch-ons, stocking away "liquid gold".

If you are one of those moms, I congratulate you.  To be honest, I´d like to be you.

But I´m not.

I do believe in breastfeeding.  Having breastfed my other children, I know that pulling out the boob is much easier than heating a bottle.

And it´s free.  Can´t say enough about that.  

But during these first two weeks, breastfeeding can be really, really hard.

After all, when a mom is beginning to breastfeed, she is also:

• recovering from giving birth.  Depending on one´s experience, there may have been a bit of trauma involved.  So while the mother is dealing with the pain of recovering from her C-section, an episiotomy, or simply pushing another person´s head out of her body, she is simultaneously subjecting her sensitive nipples to being mangled every couple of hours.  

• really, really, really, really, really tired.  

• Hormonally out-of-whack, which often means that one´s emotions are all over the place.  

So if you are like me, and your child has been on the boob for five hours straight, and you´re about to throw him across the room BECAUSE he´s been on the boob for five hours, I´ve got a secret.  

It´s OK to give him a bottle.  

It´s even OK to give him a bottle of formula.  It´s not necessary to pump it out.  

Because, let´s face it--if the kid has been sucking for five hours, the tatas probably have not had a chance to replenish themselves and he probably isn´t getting much of anything anyway.  

My first child was born a little small, so the doctor suggested supplementing with formula.  Let me tell you, she sucked down bottle after bottle in the hospital.  While I did successfully breastfeed her, every bottle I gave her in those first few weeks felt like a symbol of my failure.   

My second baby didn´t touch a bottle at the hospital.  I was determined that he was going to be the perfect, breastfed-only baby. Then we brought him home.  He screamed for the first 24 hours.  I finally caved in and called the pharmacy so they could deliver some formula to our house.  I gave him the bottle and he finally fell asleep.  

Blessed relief!  

Yes, breastmilk is best for our babies.  I try to give mine as much as I possibly can.

But when he sucks away for hours at a time, I am done.  Those four ounces of magic might just be why I make it through those first six weeks on the upside of sane.*

Of course, if one does want to continue to breastfeed, take it easy--one or two bottles a day, max.  (Unless you kid is crazy, of course.)  Just keep in mind that if nothing comes out of the boobies for 24-48 hours, the magic will end.  The girls won´t work until baby has a sibling.

But if the baby has 4 ounces once or twice a day, no harm, no foul.

After a few weeks (or months, in my daughter´s case) both of my older children were exclusively breastfed.  In a few weeks, this baby will be, too.  But I´ll let him decide.

Watching me feed one of my babies the fake stuff, my mom told me in her saddest, most wistful voice, "I wish someone had told me I could haven given you a bottle now and then."

I´m passing on the secret.  Ain´t no shame.

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*This is in NO WAY a condemnation of those who´ve suffered post-partum depression.  That´s a whole different ball of wax.  There´s no shame in that, either, but do what you have to do to get through it.  And that´s the bitch about depression--it makes one not want to do anything to get through it.  Huge red flag right there.  Don´t blow it off.  

A Healthy Dose of Reality

I´ve lived here long enough that not much takes me by surprise anymore.

And then I´m flipping through my daughter´s homework and smacked up alongside the head with "Gee--we aren´t in Indiana anymore!"

Check out the illustration for a first grade test on life cycles:

Just in case you aren´t seeing what I saw, double-click on the picture.  Check out the top left corner.  

Yep, that´s a dead chicken.  

And not just a cartoon of a dead chicken--nope, that´s a photograph of a real, dead chicken.  (I just about wrote, "a real, live, dead chicken."  But that´s the point.  He is most certainly NOT alive.)  If I look close enough, I think I can see flies buzzing around it.  

Now, I´m not one to shy away from the realities of life.  Ever since Clara has been old enough to ask questions, she´s been well aware of where our food comes from.  A few years back, she was also fixated on the idea of death, or at least the realization that everything does come to an end, sooner or later.  

My sweet, little, six-year-old, whose head is filled with rainbows and puppies and glitter-filled hearts gets to stare at the grizzly remains of a chicken for her school work.  

Welcome to Mexico.  We don´t shy away from reality here.  

Death is part of the life cycle.  And well--this is what it looks like.  

However, being a sheltered midwesterner whose culture is generally in denial of the reality of death, the thoroughness of the diagram took my breath away a bit.   

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Civil Baptism?

Roughly 10 years ago, this commercial was pretty popular.  In a nutshell, it makes fun of the Mexican habit of putting lime on everything.


               


Toward the end of the commercial, where they´re squeezing lime on everything, even things that aren´t food, I thought to myself, "hmmm . . . so when Mexican babies have their birth certificates filed, do they get a little lime squeezed on their heads, as a kind of civil baptism?"

Can´t you just see it?  Mom and Dad and baby, all gathered in the Registro Civil, ink from fingerprinting still wet on their fingerprints, and as the official is about to hand the birth certificate over to the proud parents, the government offical takes a half of lime, squeezes a few drops onto the infant´s head, saying, "I now pronounce you officially Mexican!"

I love it.

As we just registered baby boy, I was really tempted to do just that.

But the comparison between filing a birth certificate and Catholic baptism is even more striking recently--because it is now necessary to bring witnesses to sign the birth certificate.

When we registered our oldest daughter, the people who worked at the Registro Civil served as the witnesses on her birth certificate, and (I´m guessing) on the majority of other kids´ certificates, too.  Or, if they Registry employees weren´t able to be witnesses, the Registry is right in front of a bus stop, so we could have just offered to pay someone their bus fare if they´d be willing to come in and sign their name on our kid´s birth certificate.

No longer.  We are now required to bring our own witnesses--no more picking random strangers off the street.

Thank goodness it worked out for us the way it did!  After all, we moved to Saltillo just two months before Clara was born--we simply didn´t have two people we knew who could serve as witnesses.  This time around, though, it was a whole other story.  First of all, Mario´s cousin lives with us.  Witness #1--check!  And Mario´s mom is visiting, to help take care of the baby.  Witness #2--check!

However, the day that Mario took off of work to file the baby´s birth certificate, both of our older kids were sick.  Since we couldn´t leave them at home alone, I was frantically on the phone, calling neighbors to see if they´d be willing to pay the Civil Registry a visit with us, taking Mario´s mom´s place as a witness.

Now that we´ve lived here for seven years, I had a number of people to call.  And at the last minute, one of my lovely neighbor friends was able to join us in a pinch.

As I told her and Paty (Mario´s cousin) as we were heading home with the birth certificate in our hands, "you guys are like Baby´s civil godmothers!"

And it´s true.  These women are, and will be, two of the more influential people in his life who will teach him, through example, how to be Mexican.  After all, as much as I enjoy and respect this country, I´m not Mexican and am therefore ill-equipped to teach him how to be Mexican.  I do my best, but--let´s face it--he needs a Paty and a Myra in his life.

His Mexican madrinas.  

Name Yourself, Kid.

So, we´re letting the baby pick out his middle name.

How does he get to choose, you ask?  It´s fairly easy, thanks to the calendar of saints´ feast days.

Now, for those who aren´t Catholic, one might not be familiar with these beauties.  But every day of the year is commemorated to whichever officially cannonized saint died that day. So most days, there are a number of names to choose from.

This may sound kind of weird and off-the-deep-end, but it used to be a traditional way of naming children in Mexico, even as recently as the 1940s and ´50s.  I´m not making this up, as I have a number of friends and neighbors in their sixties and seventies and LOTS of these fine people have about 11 brothers and sisters.  Let´s face it, when you´re faced with naming more than five children, I´m willing to bet that it gets tricky to find (and agree) on decent names.

So let´s just rely on the Saints´ Day Calendar.

While completely unintentional, my other two children were born on their saints´ day, even though we picked out their names well in advance.  For instance, we picked out Joey´s name before we got married--five years before he was born.  And then he up and decided to be born on the day we chose for his middle name.

So now when he tells me he doesn´t like his middle name, I can retort back that he choose it, not me.
And that´s true.  Mostly.

Part of what convinced us to name Clara Clara was that our book of 10,000 baby names listed her due date (and birthday) as a Santa Clara Day.  However, now that I´ve been investigating on the internet, I can´t find a single Santa Clara for January 28th.  The closest I can find is an obscure St. Cannera--a hard-headed Irish broad whose story I think is a hoot (and reminds me of Clara, even though she´s not willing to admit it yet).

But a Santa Clara on January 28th?  If anyone knows anything about her, please let me know!

Since coincidence has worked so well for us in the past, and we can´t agree on a decent middle name for this guy, we´ll let
fate take over and Little Boy can pick his own name.  I was hoping he would have been born this past Saturday, so his middle name could be Antonio.

Apparently, he wasn´t so interested in that one.

My luck, he´ll decide that he´s comfortable until November 1st, and then decide to be born on All Saints´ Day.

Then we would be forced to be creative and make a decision.   Aargh.

More Preschool Dress-Up Days

Mexico celebrated the 104th anniversary of its glorious revolution a few weeks ago.  It´s one of the more important civic holidays on the calendar, so any school in the country would be remiss not to mark the occasion, right?

Right.  However, as the Revolution was a multi-faceted struggle, one that succeeded in some respects and failed in others (and, of course, it depends on one´s point of view exactly where the Revolution succeeded or failed), it´s a complicated story to tell.  Particularly to preschoolers.

So, what should we do?  Gloss over it?  Simply have an extra-long flag ceremony on the 20th?

Nah--let´s reenact it!


Is it just me, or is it true that whenever there´s something to celebrate at the preschool, the teachers ask us to dress up our kids for the occasion.  Independence Day?  Pick a traditional dress from any region in Mexico and sport those colors!  Columbus Day--guess what?  Your little güero gets to be King Ferdinand!  United Nations Day--dress your child up in traditional dress from another country!  Revolution Day--well, let´s all be revolutionaries!

As a mom, part of me is irritated to spend so much time sewing.  (Without a sewing machine, because I did not realize that a sewing machine should be included in a list of school supplies at the beginning of the year.  Those of you with younger kids in Mexico--be warned.)  However, at the preschool stage, history and social studies are tricky concepts to teach.  Given preschoolers´ natural gravitation towards dressing up and pretending, this just might be the perfect way to have them begin to learn about these tricky concepts.

Still, how much solid information are they really pulling out of merely dressing up as a revolutionary?

I have no idea.  But time will tell.

When I was wracking my brain, trying to figure out what clothes we had on hand to turn Joey into a revolutionary, it dawned on me that we had a perfect outfit for him to dress up as Venustiano Carranza, one of the revolutionary leaders.  So I told him he was going to be Carranza.  Fortunately, he jumped on that idea, bouncing around the living room, shouting, "Carranza!  Carranza! Carranza!"
Did he have any real idea who Venustiano Carranza was?

No.

Already being the proper politician and mingling with his constituents.

However, he now can associate the guy with the big white beard (who is NOT Santa Claus) with the 20th of November.  He remembers that he dressed up as that guy.  In the future, when he hears that name mentioned, he might just be a little more prepped to pay a little more attention to find out what that guy did.

Well, it´s worth a shot.

Worst case scenario?  They´re still awfully cute.

Day of the Dead 2014

Both Halloween and Day of the Dead are popular around here and, understandably, the holidays all run together, more or less.  Being part gringo, we trick-or-treat with all the pagans in town (despite being chastized by my husband, the catechism teacher, the little-old-lady Catholic neighbors, younger protestant friends across town . . . sheesh!  It seems that anti-Halloween fervor is one of the few things that both Catholics and Protestants can agree on in Mexico).  But I´ve got new friends who also celebrate Halloween, so we had a great time!

However, in order to preserve traditional Mexican culture, the teachers at school asked that the kids dressed up as catrinas on the last day of October.  They´re the traditional, well-dressed skeletons created by José Guadalupe Posada and popularized by Diego Rivera. I support that honoring of culture. So we dressed as catrinas.  But the kids were joined by plenty of witches, Draculas, zombies, and even a boy wizard.  

The parents were invited to a Day of the Dead Open House at school.  We showed up early, during recess, and Joey was a bit frightened of all the other catrinas running around the school patio.  He clearly didn´t get a good look at his own face!  

Each class displayed Day of the Dead artifacts:  Clara´s decorated skeleton masks, Joey´s class collaborated to make a full-size altar, the students in another class brought in mini-altars, and the last class clothed little catrina paper dolls.

Halloween night, Joey was much happier to be Zorro from Dora, instead of his scary-catrin self from the day before.

Independence Day Changeroo

The kids´ school celebrated Independence Day on a Friday, with the kids all dressed up in costumes.  Joey was told to come as an Indian.  Having seen other kids, I knew that all we had to do was dress him in khaki pants, sandals, and cut a hole in a jerga (mop rag) to make him a cheap serape.  And lots of parents paint mustaches on their little boys´ faces.

That´s pretty much the whole reason I wanted to have a little boy--to paint a mustache on his face for Independence Day.

Joey liked the mustache, and he was surprisingly open to wearing his sandals.  But he hated the serape and refused to wear it.  I packed it along with him, and send him to school in his khakis, sandals, mustache and red "Made in Mexico" T-shirt.

Just imagine him with a mustache--that´s exactly how I sent him to school.

Imagine my surprise when I show up at the program for the parents and he´s dressed like this!

It turns out, he´s a good deal less adamant about having his own way when he´s at school.  Or Maestra Mary´s Indian costume was a good deal cooler than mine.  Either way, he wasn´t the only kid in his class wearing everyday clothes.    

Final Flag Ceremony

Clara is STILL in school.

I could handle the narcos running amok.  But this 205-day school year?  I may have to leave the country.

All that aside, we are in the final stretch, as today was the last flag ceremony of the year.

Every Monday morning, every single school in Mexico has a flag ceremony.  A select of that school´s oldest and best students are chosen to be in the color guard.  A month or two ago, Clara´s teacher asked her if she wanted to be in the color guard.  I beamed with pride at my little genius.

She said no.

Typical Clara.  I finally got her to tell me why she didn´t want to do it, and she said she just didn´t want to hold the flag, because it would be too heavy.  I reminded her that only one kid got to hold the flag and that a number of other just walk around it.  She could be one of those that walked with the flag.  With the added incentive that her best friend was in the color guard this past year, she was finally convinced to join.

I think they practiced every day for the last month.  And today, the last Monday of the school year, in a beautiful ceremony full of preschool-aged pomp and circumstance, the graduating kindergarten kids handed the flag off to the incoming kindergartners.  

I eat this kind of stuff up.

The kindergartners, on their final lap around the patio.

The big hand off.

The preschoolers show off the hours they spent on precision marching.

Safely turning the flag over to the principal.

The female-dominated 2014-2015 escolta.  The poor lone wolf on the right! 

Sniffy

I have a number of friends who regularly take in street dogs until they can find a good home for them.  I have other friends who just have a number of dogs from taking in so many.

It was merely a matter of time before one of those little critters took up residence in our cochera.

And last Tuesday, it happened.

This guy followed us home from school.  I gave him some turkey.  Let him into our cochera.  He has dug up some of our plants.  I´m still letting him stay in the cochera.

We bought him a collar, a leash, dog food, a vet visit.  Unless someone comes looking for him, he´s here to stay.

At first, it seemed like the right thing to do.  And, now that I´m getting familiar with this dog´s personality, I´m really liking him and think he´s a great dog for us.

But sometimes I wonder, is it really fair of me to keep him?  Are we doing him any favors?  Sure, he gets fresh water and regular meals and isn´t bothered by scary dogs a lot bigger than him on the street.  He no longer has to worry about getting run over by cars.  He gets petted and played with and a walk or two a day.

But would he rather be on the street?  Clearly, I´ve seen Lady and the Tramp too many times.  That, and he was pretty reluctant to get back in the cochera after our walk this evening.  But maybe that was because he was reprimanded from digging up my plants AGAIN this afternoon.  (The plants will be moved to the patio tomorrow.)

Am I keeping him around just to be a big toy for myself and my kids or is it really in his best interest to live in our cochera?

I´ve never had a dog before, so these questions are bothering me a bit.  I realize that they aren´t questions that necessarily have right or wrong answers.

My original reasons for inviting the dog to live with us?

      1) To scare away my schizophrenic neighbor who throws bags of nearly rotten food into our cochera because he thinks his mother lives with us (yes, that´s a whole other story).  And it didn´t work.  The dog just eats whatever David gives him.

      2) My kids are every bit as terrified of dogs as I was as a kid.  If there´s any way for them to get over this fear, I´d love to help them through it.  Keeping a dog seems to be a logical step.  Even though Joey keeps a death grip on my shorts each time we step into the cochera, we seem to be making huge strides in this area this week.  After awhile, Joey will let go of my shorts, maybe even pet the puppy, and often hop on his tricycle (which I think makes him feel bigger and braver).  Clara has blossomed marvelously and likes to feed him, give him toys, pet him, boss him around . . .

So despite my nagging doubts, I am glad we´ve got him.  I even just like playing with him myself.  And since this is a long-haul project, I´m sure the answers will get clearer over time.

It´s all just a little overwhelming now, as I week ago I didn´t have the slightest idea that we´d be ¨dog people¨.

Me Speak Spanish!

Cookie Monster has come home to roost.  Again.

Honestly, this has nothing to do with a Sesame Street obsession, on the part of me or my children.

But, six months after one child stopped talking like Cookie Monster, the next one started up.

Joey:  Me take bath no.  [I´m not going to take a bath.]
          Me hit you no.      [I didn´t hit you.]

Et cetera.  His syntax is wildly out of place.  Instead of referring to himself as a noun, he´s gramatically an object.  Always.

But he does get his point across.  At least to those of us who converse with him on a regular basis.

And this is what we all struggle with when we learn another language.  Watching my children learn both English and Spanish, and reflecting on my own experiences of learning Spanish, I´m convinced that there are stages and phases that we simply can not skip over.  We can not pick up a Learn-Whatever-Language-in-10-Easy-Steps book and walk away a fluent speaker.

Taking it all in.

Like my friend Belinda, who attends the International Church´s Bible study in English.  She needs the English practice.  She struggles with English.  Most of the time at Bible study, she spends the entire two hours just listening, trying to follow along.  Just like infants for the first two years of life.  Before kids have the physical capabilities to utter a word, they´re spending quite a bit of their energies figuring out what we´re saying.  (And don´t forget that they can hear in the womb--so don´t talk to your infants like they can´t understand you.  They just might.  And if it pisses me off when people pass me off, thinking I don´t understand Spanish, I´m willing to bet a baby feels just the same.  Respect your babies´ intelligence, peeps!  OK, end of tangent.)

And bless Belinda´s heart, she keeps coming.  And she keeps listening.  And one day, she´s going to work up the nerve and SAY something in English--because let me tell you, this woman has plenty to say!  (In Spanish, at least.)  ;)

But oh-so-frustratingly, her English is most likely going to come out sounding something like Joey´s.  He´s certainly improving with leaps and bounds and Belinda will, too.  Heck, up until this fall, Clara was still talking like Cookie Monster in Spanish.  She would literally say, ¨Me quiere una galleta.¨  [Me want a cookie.]  So when the speech teacher came to evaluate her, they were probably thinking, ¨Dear sweet heavens--why does this four-and-a-half-year-old talk like a two-year-old?¨

Up until her enrollment in school, she had limited practice at speaking Spanish, so she needed a few months of Spanish immersion for three hours a day before she could sound like a typical preschooler.  She now does.  She speech teacher is ready to release her.  However, Clara is in love with her speech teacher, so maybe I´ll teach her how to lisp so she can keep going to see her ¨Spanish¨ teacher.

This reminds me of my study-abroad semester.  In one of my classes, we were asked to write a biography of a figure from the Mexican Revolution.  It had to be about two to five pages long.  In Spanish, of course.  I was a twenty-year-old college sophomore.  Clearly, I was pretty well-versed in the process of writing, and I had gotten pretty good at it.  Two to five pages?  Please, I could do that ten minutes before class.

Fortunately, I did not put the paper off that long.  It turned out to be one of the most difficult papers I had to write in my whole college career.  Of course, in English I could analyze and synthesize, wax poetic and make all kinds of interesting points about the life and times of Francisco I. Madero.  However, in Spanish, I couldn´t reason much beyond fifth grade level. All of a sudden, it became very difficult not to plagiarize.  I couldn´t get beyond the barest facts of his life.  ¨He was born on . . . He was from . . . He did this . . . Then he did that . . . blah, blah, blah¨--for two to five pages!  Did I mention this was one of the hardest essays I ever had to write?  And it turned out to be the worst I wrote (since elementary school).  Comparatively speaking.

As an elementary education major, it was a fascinating experience to feel like I was inside a fifth grader´s brain again.  But as a twenty-year-old, it was frustrating.  Well, shoot--maybe that´s a huge part of the reason why fifth and sixth grade were so difficult for so many of us.

But the point it, I did it.  I persevered.  Just like Clara persevered with her Cookie Monster Spanish and is now talking like her peers.  I´ll take a leaf out of her book and continue to persevere with Spanish and someday--just maybe--I´ll talk like my peers, too.  (A girl can dream.)

And, for those of you who are not learning a new language, have patience with those language-learners who cross your path.  Learning a language, at any stage of life, is a long, slow process.  It´s a good deal more frustrating for those in the process of learning the language than it is for those trying to communicate with said language learner.  Have patience with us.  We´re trying.

We´ll get there someday.