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Stream-of-consciousness curriculum planning. Again.

I have sort of hit a wall trying to decide what to do for Religion in our homeschool this year.

 

All my school-age kids are enrolled in parish religious education, a good program that uses the Faith and Life series. I am confident that the basics are being covered there, but I like to supplement it at home. My second-grader is, of course, preparing for First Confession and First Communion this year, and there's so much take-home work that we're not going to do anything "extra" for her, but the others have me flummoxed. Since the "basics" are covered at church, I should have room to get into things that interest them particularly or that develop other skills, but I think I am overthinking it.

When my oldest was nine and ten, I used the Baltimore Catechism as memory work, since I wasn't doing any other sort of memorization with him. That went really well; he enjoyed the challenge and he's just the sort of kid who likes questions and answers.

My current almost-10-year-old, however, is not that kind of a kid, and H. (my partner in co-schooling) has been doing poetry memorization with all the four-to-eleven-year-olds. (She divided them up by gender and went with what they responded to. Last year the girls did assorted poetry heavy on the nature themes -- my daughter developed a taste for Wordsworth -- and the boys learned Robert Hugh Benson's Old Testament Rhymes.) So there isn't a memorization-gap that needs to be filled. He is pretty interested in stories of saints (the bloodier the martyrdom, the better) but he doesn't like to read very much even though he's quite capable of it -- he is plowing through Harry Potter and completely bored with every other book in the Entire World.

I was originally planning to have my history-buff 8th-grader do a survey of the OT but he said he didn't want to do that this year (even though we spent last year putting it in context with a history of the Jewish people...) and I am trying to be flexible. What he really wanted to do was Church history. But all the good curricula I can find are upper high school. Normally I am cool with putting together my own curricula for things but I am kinda swamped right now and would need a LOT more time for that one. I suppose I could narrow the scope. He is, I think, mainly interested in understanding the story of the Protestant reformation (both German and English flavors) and the Counter-reformation. A commendable goal for an 8th-grader. I don't know where I would start. Other than assigning him Come Rack, Come Rope!, which is sitting on my shelf waiting for the right moment.

 

Wait, I just now while writing had one idea. Maybe we could use Hilaire Belloc's The Great Heresies as a sort of "spine" and do a unit on each and attack Church history that way. If you aren't familiar with this book, it's a not-very-long one in which Belloc considers in turn Arianism, Islam, Albigensianism, Protestantism (as seen from Europe in the beginning of the 20th century -- so the American evangelical flavor is not really represented), and "modernism." The book has a number of features, though, which make me reluctant to promote Belloc as a particular, central authority. He has an opinion and he is going to give it to you with wit and clarity, which makes him persuasive and fun to read, but... I like my history resources to have a more neutral tone unless I am either (a) ready to endorse the author's entire attitude as exactly right or (b) illustrating one point of view among several.

 

(And no, I am not saying that I teach that all points of view are equal, but it is important to me to convey a strong impression that multiple points of view exist about historical events -- i.e., one should never take it for granted that there is One Acceptable Interpretation of Events -- and that reasonable, well-meaning people can hold to different interpretations.)

I have thought about using the Compendium of the Catechism of the Catholic Church simply for a jumping-off point of family discussion -- me, my 13- and 10-year-olds, my husband from time to time. Not from the very beginning, but specifically the third section, which is about living the Christian life. Just sit down a couple of times a week with a pot of tea, read what it has to say a few questions at a time, talk about why it matters, maybe assign some journal entries or writing assignments. There is definitely something about that which appeals to me -- partly because I could maybe manage both boys at once -- but it's so much more spontaneous than I usually roll that I feel uneasy about it. I might find myself brushing it off from week to week because of less time to sit down with that tea. I always get wrapped up in the things to do and write and see and plan that it is very hard for me to just sit down and spend time with the kids. Which maybe is a reason to go ahead and do it. I haven't been able to find any pre-prepared curricula based off the Compendium (or off of YOUCAT -- even though I would rather use the Compendium, anything based on YOUCAT should work too since they have exactly the same structure), which would force me to be much more freewheeling than usual. And it has the disadvantage of not being a response to what either boy suggested he would be interested in studying. Although I could maybe send each one away with different reading to do, tied to what we're discussing together, but reflecting their individual interest. How did such-and-such a saint Iive out this commandment in a heroic way? How did such-and-such a historical event present particular moral challenges to Christians affected by it?

 

If I don't come up with anything better, I may have to do it that way, if only because I won't have time to come up with anything else!

 

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Victim-blaming: an example.

Remember a couple of weeks ago I wrote a frustrated post about warrantless wiretapping (or cell phone listening, whatever) and how so many people say "I've got nothing to hide, so who cares?" and I identified part of the problem as the "magical thinking" of "bad things don't happen to good people?"

"Bad things don't happen to good people" is a comforting thought for a number of reasons.

... [T]hinking this way is a temptation to many people.  It is also called "magical thinking," because it causes so many good people to believe that they, somehow, can prevent bad things from happening to them by behaving the "right" way, where the "right" way is equivalent to "what good people do."

Go find any news story about a person who has suffered a terrible accident or crime.  Dive down into the comments.  Someone, somewhere, is convinced that the sufferer suffers (or lost his life), fundamentally because he did something wrong....

 

Found a bitterly amusing example of this today.  

Indiana Woman Shoots and Kills Leopard Prowling in Her Backyard

Last Thursday, a woman in Charlestown, Indiana and her boyfriend stayed up all night, armed with a rifle, to hunt down whatever it was that had been attacking small animals in her neighborhood. After spotting and shooting a creature prowling in the shadows by the woman's pool, they were shocked to find that they'd just killed a leopard, an animal that's not native to North America, much less Indiana.

The woman, who didn't want to be identified, mentioned the story to her friend and neighbor Donna Duke, who then told ABC affiliate WDRB about the strange kill. Officials at the Indiana Department of Natural Resources confirmed that a leopard had been found on the woman's property. Duke said the woman was worried about a recent streak of attacks against cats and dogs in the neighborhood....

"She's got cats that are basically her family," Duke said. "She was trying to protect her babies.”

...Bloom [of the Department of Natural Resources] believes the leopard must have been someone's pet, though authorities have no idea whose. The owner of a nearby wild life refuge denied that the leopard was his. So, people living in Indiana, if you're missing your pet leopard and reading this, we have bad news.

The first comment on this story?

She could've also avoided her cats being eaten by a leopard if she'd kept them inside. :\

That's right, folks.  Bad things -- like discovering your suburban-Indiana kitty eaten by an Afro-Asian wild cat that escaped from someone's private zoo, or whatever -- don't happen to good people who keep their cats inside.  Let that be a lesson to you.

 

Powerless.

A giant windy thunderstorm swept through the Twin Cities last night and knocked out power to a quarter of a million businesses and homes, including mine. We lost one tree (it landed on a neighbor's covered porch) and probably a second one (it was partly uprooted and I don't think it will be long for this world).

Losing trees makes me sad. But there are some neighbors with much bigger trees on their cars and houses, so I am counting my blessings.

I am using the McDonald's wifi to post from my iPad while the kids eat junky fast food, but I don't think you'll hear from me till the power comes back on. They are saying it could be a couple of days. I bought some ice for my fridge and freezer, but I am worried it isn't enough. Wish me luck!

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A different take on a "99 percent."

From extemporaneous remarks during a catechesis given by Pope Francis on June 17 to the Diocese of Rome.  

I want to tell you something.

In the Gospel there's that beautiful passage that tells us of the shepherd who, on returning to the sheepfold and realizing that a sheep is missing, leaves the 99 and goes to look for it, to look for the one.

But, brothers and sisters, we have one.

It's the 99 who we're missing!

We have to go out, we must go to them!

In this culture—let's face it—we only have one. We are the minority. And do we feel the fervour, the apostolic zeal to go out and find the other 99? This is a big responsibility and we must ask the Lord for the grace of generosity and the courage and the patience to go out, to go out and proclaim the Gospel.

The catechesis was reportedly inspired by these words from the First Letter of St. Paul to the Romans:  

“For I am not ashamed of the Gospel. … We who were baptized … are not under the law but under grace.” 

I find this alteration fascinating, and not a little unsettling.  Has he turned the Gospel on its head here?  Is this legitimate?  Is it a commentary on the difference between the culture back then and the culture now?  

When I think of the parable of the lost (singular) sheep, I often wonder about the ninety-nine being left without a shepherd.  Are they, in fact, safe in their numbers?  Maybe it's a sort of promise that the ones who stick together in the wilderness will, in fact, be okay, and the Shepherd will look out for the ones who have somehow struck out on their own; we should trust.  I don't know; maybe if I knew more about sheep I'd get it.

 

Matthew's version

In the Gospel of Matthew, chapter 18, the ninety-nine-and-one sheep are identified with "little ones" who, in context, are "those who believe in me" and have "become like little children:"

At that time the disciples came to Jesus and asked, “Who, then, is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven?”

He called a little child to him, and placed the child among them.  And he said: “Truly I tell you, unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.  Therefore, whoever takes the lowly position of this child is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven. And whoever welcomes one such child in my name welcomes me.

“If anyone causes one of these little ones—those who believe in me—to stumble, it would be better for them to have a large millstone hung around their neck and to be drowned in the depths of the sea...

“See that you do not despise one of these little ones. For I tell you that their angels in heaven always see the face of my Father in heaven.

 “What do you think? If a man owns a hundred sheep, and one of them wanders away, will he not leave the ninety-nine on the hills and go to look for the one that wandered off?  And if he finds it, truly I tell you, he is happier about that one sheep than about the ninety-nine that did not wander off. In the same way your Father in heaven is not willing that any of these little ones should perish."

It's all stuff about how much God values every individual person, even (especially?) the insignificant or those who choose to make themselves insignificant, and his special care for those that "wander," or sin.  It goes on with advice about dealing with sin and forgiving sinners:  

“If your brother or sister sins,  go and point out their fault, just between the two of you. If they listen to you, you have won them over.  But if they will not listen, take one or two others along, so that ‘every matter may be established by the testimony of two or three witnesses.’  If they still refuse to listen, tell it to the church; and if they refuse to listen even to the church, treat them as you would a pagan or a tax collector.

“Truly I tell you, whatever you bind on earth will be bound in heaven, and whatever you loose on earth will be loosed in heaven...

Then Peter came to Jesus and asked, “Lord, how many times shall I forgive my brother or sister who sins against me? Up to seven times?”

Jesus answered, “I tell you, not seven times, but seventy-seven times."

You get the impression that the earthly shepherds' part in going after the one lost sheep has a lot to do with instruction combined with ready forgiveness.

(I confess I'm not sure what Jesus means by "treat them as you would a pagan or a tax collector."  I assume that the inspired evangelist knew what that meant.  Sounds like a question for a historian.)

Anyway, notice the question that Jesus uses the parable to answer:  "Who is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven?"  The parable comes late in his answer; after he explains that one must become "little" and "lowly"  to be the greatest, he uses the sheep parable to explain that one individual is very valuable to God.

 

Luke's version

Luke places this parable in an entirely different context.  From Chapter 15:

Now the tax collectors and sinners were all gathering around to hear Jesus.  But the Pharisees and the teachers of the law muttered, “This man welcomes sinners and eats with them.”

Then Jesus told them this parable:  “Suppose one of you has a hundred sheep and loses one of them. Doesn’t he leave the ninety-nine in the open country and go after the lost sheep until he finds it?  And when he finds it, he joyfully puts it on his shoulders and goes home. Then he calls his friends and neighbors together and says, ‘Rejoice with me; I have found my lost sheep.’  I tell you that in the same way there will be more rejoicing in heaven over one sinner who repents than over ninety-nine righteous persons who do not need to repent."

Here the lost sheep parable is an answer to the question the Pharisees and teachers of the law did not ask aloud:  "Why do you welcome sinners and eat with them?"

The lost sheep who is found, who inspires the rejoicing, is "the sinner who repents."  I find it interesting that the Pharisees and teachers of the law only asked about Jesus eating with "sinners,"  but Jesus answered as if the question was "Why do you eat with repentant sinners?"

If they'd asked it that way, they would have seen it was a stupid question.  But maybe not; maybe the Pharisees don't really believe in repentance, so they can't see the difference.

I think this same mistake is often made today.  It's really quite remarkable how many of the interlocutors' questions have turned out to be repeated over the centuries.

The "rejoicing" Jesus identifies is over not sinners, but "sinners who repent;" not lost sheep who remain lost, but lost sheep who are found and carried home.  The ninety-nine sheep left to fend for themselves (or each other, anyway) let us know that even one repentant sinner is tremendously valuable.  It is essentially the same point made in Matthew; but the difference in context -- because the parable is in answer to different questions in the two Gospels -- gives it a different flavor.  

 

Francis's twist

... So here we are with Francis's "parable," which he turns on its head:  Now the many are missing and the few are faithful.  Now it isn't the shepherd who leaves the faithful to go in search of the lone wanderer -- but the few faithful sheep told to disperse courageously "to the outskirts" (Francis's words) where they are to proclaim the Gospel to them.

What's different?

Well, to start with:  In Jesus's version, the shepherd is still present as a walking, talking, human teacher.

In this modern-day version, we have no visible shepherd.  We've been wandering (all together, "found") in the wilderness without him.   (What's he doing?  Off finding lost sheep from the fold and bringing them back one at a time?)

There's a couple of ways we could read this.  One might be to wonder if Francis has ever actually spent any time around sheep, and if this departure from the prepared script were really all that well-considered.  

But giving the man the benefit of the doubt, we could consider it a reminder of the lessons from the original parable, flipped a little bit because of the numbers.

Back then, the "righteous" were (apparently) mainstream and the "sinners" were (apparently) fringe.  Jesus could make the point that a few sinners are at least as valuable as a whole lot of righteous people; that is to say, that value (when it comes to persons) doesn't scale linearly.  

Today (Francis says), sin is mainstream and "those who believe" are fringe.  Depends where in the world you are, okay, but fair enough.  Probably true in Italy.  But maybe when you're a righteous fringe you're especially prone to thinking yourself extra special.  Extra valuable.  The Remnant.  The One Percent.  

Maybe there's a huge temptation to turn inward and cluster into a little protective bunch.  

I don't know.  Do sheep do that?

Anyway, if the lessons of the parable of the sheep (original version) are that

    (1) greatness in heaven belongs to those who become little or insignificant on earth and 

    (2) an individual repentant sinner has inestimable worth, maybe more than a person who doesn't need to repent

then this message of Francis -- that we the "found" sheep must go out to bring back the "lost" sheep by proclaiming the Gospel -- carries with it a subtext of "do it not as a great person but as an insignificant person, with instruction and ready forgiveness, and acknowledge the potentially  inestimable worth of the sinner you seek to instruct and forgive."

If you're a "found" sheep out in search of a "lost" sheep, then the lost sheep's safe return is perhaps to be treated as if it is more valuable than yours.

Going to the outskirts is not going to be without risk for any of us.

I figured out how to eat vegetables again.

One of the annoying things about first trimester is that it becomes hard to eat vegetables, at exactly the moment when you feel most guilty about having a cruddy diet.

In my normal life, I eat copious quantities of vegetables, like four one-half-cup "servings" at a time, so it's especially noticeable when I switch to a yogurt-and-crackers-based existence.  

I think I solved the problem this week, however.  

Step One:  First, have a gigantic craving for Vietnamese food.  Stop on the way home from the gym and get a double order of imperial egg rolls (the little crispy kind, with rice noodles and pork and shreds of carrot inside, served with syrupy fish sauce with carrot floating in it) and a large order of veggie fried rice with extra veggies.

Step Two:  Eat the egg rolls.  Be immediately blissful, followed shortly thereafter by being immediately sorry.  Unable to face it, stick the fried rice, unopened in its little wax carton, in the fridge for the next day, and stumble up to bed to lie down.

Step Three:  Mix 3/4 cup of fried rice with an entire bag of steamable mixed veggies.  I chose "Asian Medley" but I believe broccoli, carrots, and snap peas would also be nice.

Step Four:  Searching for protein, top with fried egg.  Or possibly handful of cashews.

Step Five:  Sriracha!  And egg yolk all running down into the rice.  And soy sauce.

Now all I need is a steady supply of carryout Vietnamese fried rice.  Unfortunately, I have yet to make it out of a Vietnamese carryout without also the egg rolls.

 

Woenails.

A pall has been cast over the general feeling of well-being with which I started out this pregnancy.

Yesterday, I took my daughter into the Y for her swimming lesson and then, unable to get the 3-year-old to feel happy about staying in the child care for me, skipped my own workout and instead ambled around the public areas of the Y with him in tow.  

We watched the swimmers in the pool.  We peeped through the glass at the women lifting barbells to music in the BodyPump class ("They are practicing picking things up," he told me.)  We went to the snack machine to buy a granola bar, and the 3-year-old stepped backwards to get a broader look at the array of treats AND HE STEPPED ON MY TOE ALL FUNNY AND SHATTERED MY TOENAIL INTO ABOUT FIVE CRUNCHY PIECES.

"Auuugh!  Ah, just a minute... ow..."

I hopped over to a chair, reassembled my toenail without looking at it (horror horror horror) and pinched my thumb down over my toe.  As soon as my HORRIBLE UNDEAD toenail was all back together and seated properly, my toe felt happy and normal again.  

Quick peek.  No blood.

"I'm sorry, Mommy.  Can I have a blueberry bar?"  

"Just a minute.  I need, uh, some tape or something."

+ + +

So.  This is all because I went skiing in 2012 with new boots.  

Two Februaries ago, we took a lovely week out in Montana at Moonlight Basin (totally. recommend. for. families.), and before we went I bought new ski boots.  They were well-fitting, selected with excellent service from a locally owned dealer, but you never quite know exactly how to adjust the buckles until you've skied in them for a day.   I spent the whole first day moving the buckles around between ski runs, trying to figure out exactly how tight everything needed to be; since they were new, none of the settings would give that "exactly right" feeling that you get when you correctly buckle into an old, well-worn pair.   And of course the boot will continue to mold to your foot a bit as you wear it over the seasons, so you would expect it to remain slightly uncomfortable even once you get it set right.

Three ratchet-type buckles on each foot makes for a fairly large number of possible combinations of settings.  By the end of the first day I still hadn't quite gotten it figured out, but early on the first second day a telltale soreness in the top of my left foot clued me in that I had had the toe box too loose all along:  I'd been unconsciously pressing my foot against the top of the boot for balance.  I ratcheted the frontmost buckle down extra-tight, and -- like magic -- I suddenly re-acquired the ability to ski in control.   The rest of the trip was perfect skiing for me, maybe the best few days I've ever had.   I kept up with my big boys and had a great time.  Boot adjustment matters!

But the Day of the Sloppy Toe Box had already taken its toll.  Within days I developed an ugly, black bruise on my left big toenail (from pressing it against the top of the toe box).  It didn't hurt, so I kept the toenail trimmed and went on with my life.  

But then in May (we're still in 2012, mind you) one of the kids stumbled over one of my feet and applied some upward torque to my toe and OH %$&% HE RIPPED MY WHOLE TOENAIL OFF.

Horror.  Horror.  Horror.  I am not an extremely squeamish person but there are some things I cannot stand.  I do not like it when children put their spit on me.  I do not like helping anyone get a particle out of his eye.  AND I DO NOT LIKE INVOLUNTARY AMPUTATIONS.  The sensation of air wafting over my naked nailbed gave me the screaming willies.  I was afraid to look at it.  I shoved the toenail back into place and immediately went into denial about what had just happened.  Sat there and just refused to believe it.

+ + +

After a few minutes I managed to recover my senses long enough to Google "ripped toenail off" and find out what the hell I was supposed to do for a toenail until it grew back, and what I was going to do with my toe until then.  

I found this extremely helpful blog post entitled "So, you've ripped off your toenail?"  (the blog, Jill Will Run, is a pretty good distance-running/health blog in and of itself) and did everything she said.  My poor dead toenail was completely detached, but I seated it back on the nailbed anyway, figuring that it was a perfectly shaped protective shield and also because then I could remain somewhat in denial.  (My toe felt awful awful awful -- not painful, just got-the-heebie-jeebies awful -- when the nail was off, and happy-la-la-everything-is-fine-it-was-all-a-bad-dream when the nail was on.)  

I kept the toe taped up, wore a little gel toe cozy during the day, and religiously doused it with hydrogen peroxide at night to help prevent infection.  I carried a little Toenail TLC Kit around in my bag with me:  first aid tape, gauze, mini scissors to cut the gauze, an extra toe cozy, and some antiseptic wipes.  I carefully mummified my toe in waterproof tape before swimming laps, and de-mummified it after my shower, replacing the waterproof tape with air-permeable tape and gauze so the damp skin wouldn't get all gross.  A couple of times I had to get out of the pool and re-tape the toe when the tape started flapping during a swim, because it's not nice to let bandages float away into the water, and also it feels annoying.  After a few weeks I got up the courage to start running again, gently at first, and more confidently after I became certain that my toe would not poke into the front of my shoe hard enough to disturb my carefully constructed toe bandage.

I am not a high maintenance person; but gee howdy, I had a High Maintenance Toe until about January, when I finally had the courage to peep under my carefully preserved undead toenail and discover that there was enough new toenail under there that I could throw the old one away.

I nostalgically thought about keeping it, maybe putting it under my pillow for the nail fairy, but then came to my senses.  It had betrayed me, and served its sentence, and now it could be returned to the universe.

The very next month we went skiing again, and my ski boots were correctly tightened, and all was fine, and I thought my long horrifying ordeal was over.

+ + +

All right, fast forward to this week.  Sixteen months after the original ski-boot bruising, and it became extremely clear that my new toenail was not correctly formed.  The truth is I wasn't terribly surprised when one little stomp from a three-year-old shattered it, because only a couple of days ago I was frowning at the toenail because it didn't look right.  It wasn't the same color as my other toenails:  a dead-looking yellow all over instead of rosy pink back by the cuticle.  I had made a mental note to be careful when trimming it.

I guess I was right.  It was a toenail miscarriage.

I would like to say that it's going to be easier this time because I know what to do about the toenail (although maybe this time I should listen to Mark and suck it up and not baby it so much; maybe I smothered it with all my TLC, and he's right and I should just get over the HORRIBLE AMPUTATION HEEBIE JEEBIES and stop taping it up and learn to get used to living without a toenail until the new one grows back).

And I may have to do this anyway.  Because, let's face it, I do not see myself bending over to tape up my toe twice a day in the third trimester of pregnancy, as I looked in this photo from January 2010.

 

Yeah, not going to happen.

 

The hypothesis which is mine.

I have this hypothesis about parenting...

...yes, I still have some hypotheses left after four empirical children!

...that went into my thinking as Mark and I were discussing whether to go for number five.

+ + +

(MY thinking, mind you.   I don't want this to become the sort of mommyblog post where the author writes "I prayed about this" and "I deeply felt that" and "It seemed to me that we should" and at the same time leaves entirely unmentioned, as if unimportant, any hint of involvement of The Husband in the discernment.  So.  Without having to dive into other aspects of this rather complicated subject, and so preserving the proper intimacy of the marital relationship, let's just toss it on the table that this is purely my hypothesis, and if it proves totally wrong, it's me who has to walk it back and not him.)

The line of reasoning goes like this.

+ + +

(1)  Raising teenagers is reputed to be difficult and confusing, such that in the absence of any actual difficulty, the prospect of setting out on the journey with children ages 13 to 19 intimidates.

(2)  Intimidation depletes confidence.

(3) A parent who can maintain a sense of confidence is a parent who can remain assertive:  authoritative without being authoritarian, just without being judgmental, cautious without being overprotective.  

(4) Confidence comes, in part, from regularly engaging in challenging tasks that require well-developed skills:  from seeing before you a job that you know will be difficult enough to require your careful attention, while (because you know you have the skills, or perhaps because you have done it before) you fully expect you will succeed.

(4a) In other words:  flow!

(5) Suppose you're working at a job that presents you with some intimidating tasks, tasks that require yet-undeveloped skills, and you quail before them because you're not at all sure you will succeed at them.   It's nice, then, if your job also entails some other tasks which are quite routine, mindless even, and so less psychologically exhausting, a place you can escape to -- without slacking off, since those routine tasks must also be done.  

It's even better if your job entails, too, some flow-rich tasks, the kind that are psychologically absorbing in a good way; things that call on the full exercise of the skills you're most confident in.  You emerge from the other side of those not rested but energized -- feeling competent and valuable -- and with some perspective you can remember that once, too, those skills were underdeveloped, and yet you developed them, and look where you are today.

It can almost make you excited about learning new skills.  Though the risk of failure is ever-present, that is what makes new skills worth developing.  Who would care about skill if success is inevitable?  Where could you find flow?

(6)  So it's a good idea to arrange your workload to contain plenty of challenging-but-well-within-your-ability tasks, and a sprinkling of routine-and-kind-of-mindless tasks, at the same time that you embark upon a new and intimidating project with considerably high stakes.

(7) Therefore, I should have a new baby the same year my first child becomes a teenager.

 

+ + + 

So, I'll let you know how that goes, hm?

Things I am learning about being pregnant with my fifth child.

 

I keep wandering into the room where I store all my dog-eared books about pregnancy and childbirth, and pulling one off the shelf. It's nostalgia, I think: I am thinking back to being newly pregnant previous times, when I read voraciously about all the things that were going to happen to my body, tips for having a good homebirth, nutritional advice, that sort of thing. I deal with uncertainty and new situations by seeking information -- grasping a subject makes me feel like I have power over it, somehow -- and I suppose, now that I think about it, it's partly true. I remember how in my first couple of pregnancies the mixed feelings of excitement and fear blended into a mostly-positive anticipation with every new book I read and every new piece of information I could assimilate.

But you know what? THERE ARE NO NEW PIECES OF INFORMATION IN THESE $@$#%ing BOOKS.

+ + +

What with the march of scientific progress and advances in the mommy wars, there could be some new pieces of information out there by now. Possibly there is some gadget invented in the last few years that I might want to buy, or a new consensus on some type of food that pregnant women are now supposed to avoid for a non-stupid reason. (Maybe someone somewhere has written a picture book meant especially to help a toddler AND HIS THREE OLDER SIBLINGS welcome the new baby.)

But it is kind of a pain to sift through books that tell me that I will enjoy the novelty of my newly burgeoning womanhood, and that I should be understanding when my partner expresses doubt and fearfulness about his impending new role.

I think what I need is a publication that cuts through all the crap and simply lists Updates To The Standard Pregnancy Advice From The Last Four Years. Since 1999, when I became pregnant for the first time, I've definitely seen a few changes. I remember the big shift in the GBS protocol (from an attention to cleanliness after the water breaks, to "forget-that-we-just-put-1/3-of-all-laboring-women-on-IV-antibiotics"). I remember when a turkey sandwich, once a great source of convenient protein, suddenly changed to stillbirth-on-rye.

At minimum, I could probably use a rundown on what's going on in hospitals these days, since (even though I've had four homebirths now) it always pays to be prepared in case circumstances change and we choose differently.

+ + +

It's obvious that I am pregnant, even at 8 weeks, even though I can still fit into my regular clothes. But you know -- it's risky to assume. When i saw the eyes dart to the belly before the receptionist at the YMCA looked me in the eye and asked me, "How was your swim, Erin? All alone today?" last night, I took pity on her and answered "Only kinda sorta!" Might as well get the staff at the Y past the "Is she or isn't she?" stage, or it will be an awkward 3-4 months.

+ + +

So much feels like routine. I find myself saying "When I am pregnant, I [blah blah blah]," in much the same way that I might say, "When it rains..." or "When I'm bored..."

+ + +

Being longtime NFP users gives Mark and me enough perspective to assimilate and accept that at the age of 40 and 38, we are still quite young enough to have more children after this one... whether we decide to try again or not.

Nevertheless, this time around I am finding myself thinking and speaking and writing as if I were confident that this pregnancy will be my last pregnancy, and feeling comfortable with that.

This is a new train of thought for me, and I am almost surprised to be having it. Thoughts like "This could be the last time I ever have to go through the can't-stand-to-drink-coffee phase, if I want it to be," are not wistful thoughts, but relieved thoughts. I have found myself thinking, "In 7 months it is going to feel %#*%ing GREAT when I expel this placenta. Somebody better be standing there with a pitcher of margaritas."

+ + +

However, having gone through this four times before, I also know that I could well feel wistful again three years from now. Good thing it can't go on forever.

+ + +

Grand multipara, here I come. I kind of wish I could stick it after my name, like the Ph.D. Or maybe before. "That's Grand Multipara Bearing to you. I didn't give birth five times so I could be called Doctor."

+ + +

This episode of pregnancy cravings brought to you by: tomatoes. Especially in form of sandwich. Also V-8.

 

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Unmagical thinking.

Okay.... talk me down from this place that Twitter, news site comments, and FB have stranded me on.

Repeat after me enough and maybe I'll believe it:

The country has always been going to hell in a handbasket.  There has never not been a time when the country has been going to hell in a handbasket.  The country will always be going to hell in a handbasket, at least from someone's point of view.

There's nothing particularly special about the fact that right now, it's my point of view's turn.  Right?

+ + +

Andrew Jackson refused to enforce and abide by the law as interpreted by the Supreme Court and nobody did anything about it.  Local, state, and federal laws and practice, in north and south, enshrined written and unwritten policies that literally stole wealth from generations of nonwhite families well into the twentieth century.  FDR thought it would be a great idea to put a few extra justices, something like ten more, in the Supreme Court.  For forty years the most concrete manifestation of a "right to privacy" has been a license to commit murder.  And for all of these outrages and more, there have always been a large number of American citizens who said, "Fine with me," or what's maybe worse, "It doesn't affect me, so, who cares?"

+ + +

It comes down to this:  I don't think that the country has enough political will to put the brakes on the federal government's expansion of powers that arguably violate the fourth amendment.

There are too many people who espouse "If you don't have anything to hide, you don't have anything to worry about."

There are too many people who espouse "Anything that makes us safer is worth doing" without asking the question, "How will we know if it makes us safer?"

There are too many people who espouse "So-and-so wouldn't be in trouble if he hadn't done something wrong."

In my sleepless nights I worry that there are a large number of people who figure that there are a lot of benefits to living in a police state, so long as the people with the correct letter after their names are in charge of the police.  

There are so many of these people that, I fear, the anything-for-security people will win.  The political will will not be there to protect the free expression of unpopular ideas.  The political will will not be there to protect religious minorities and to guard against preferential treatment in accommodations for favored groups.  The political will will not be there to maintain Fourth Amendment protections.  And the decisions will be made in secret, with the public's blessing, because the majority of the public will never, never accept that cops and schoolteachers and tax collectors and prison guards and regulators and presidents (with the correct letter after their names) could ever use secrecy in any way except to take good care of us and all the other good people, the ones who follow the rules and like it.

+ + + 

Privilege.  Privilege.  Privilege.  This is what the don't-have-anything-to-hide, anything-to-make-us-safer, he-must've-done-something-to-deserve-it people have in common.  They are speaking from behind a cushion of privilege so soft and warm that they cannot even tell it is there.  The privilege of people who have never been singled out, who don't have something they might prefer quite reasonably to hide, who are the acceptable people.  Who have never had the misfortune to make an enemy with a government job, who have never been embroiled in the justice system or family court, who are content to play by rules without questioning them and have never had the rules come back to bite them, in large part because they belong to the class of people who make the rules.

+ + +

I don't have anything to hide, so why should I care about privacy?

I'm white, so why should I care about racism?

+ + +

The Bill of Rights -- and I confess that I'm here thinking mostly of the first, fourth, fifth, sixth, and eighth amendments -- nominally restrain the power of the federal government with respect to the individual.    

It's not hard, however, to read them as a restraint on a pervasively flawed and twisted aspect of fallen human nature, one we would all do well to root out when we find it within ourselves.

And that is our tendency to convince ourselves that bad things do not happen to good people.

If you need Scriptural evidence that this is, indeed, a Big Problem for the human race that we have been well advised to work on, please refer to the entire book of Job.

"Bad things don't happen to good people" is a comforting thought for a number of reasons.

1. Bad things don't happen to good people; bad things have not, so far, happened to us; therefore, all evidence suggests that we are good people.
2. Bad things don't happen to good people; we are good people; therefore, bad things won't happen to us.
3. Bad things have happened to those people; bad things do not happen to good people; therefore, those people are not "good people," and we have no obligation or ability to relieve their suffering.
4. Bad things don't happen to good people; good people are people who follow certain rules; therefore, if we follow certain rules, bad things won't happen to us.

You see how thinking this way is a temptation to many people.  It is also called "magical thinking," because it causes so many good people to believe that they, somehow, can prevent bad things from happening to them by behaving the "right" way, where the "right" way is equivalent to "what good people do."

Go find any news story about a person who has suffered a terrible accident or crime.  Dive down into the comments.  Someone, somewhere, is convinced that the sufferer suffers (or lost his life), fundamentally because he did something wrong.  Cyclist hit by a drunk driver?  You'd have to be an idiot to be riding your bicycle on the street at that time of night.  Injured in a fall while rock climbing, and carried out by county SAR?  We shouldn't be bailing out these thrill-seeking dummies.  Killed in a building collapse caused by shoddy demolition next door?  There's no way I would even have gone to work in that store, it was so obvious that the wall was going to fall down.  Lost a son or daughter to a drug overdose?  Maybe if she spent more time parenting and less time blogging this wouldn't have happened.  

It's an impulse that may seem merely provincial, perhaps ignorant, certainly common.  But it's a root of pure evil, because it convinces us we ought to do nothing to help the poor and suffering, because they probably deserve it.

+ + +

It's this tendency in fallen human nature that the writers of the Bill of Rights were writing against.  They wrote it to restrain the government, because the "bad things don't happen to good people" mentality is particularly dangerous when it is held by the people who have the power to enforce the "rules for being good people."

For instance:

Bad things don't happen to good people.  Being accused of a crime is a bad thing.  Therefore, the accused is a bad person.  

(I mean... just look at him.  Do you really need a jury to figure that out?)

Or:

Bad things don't happen to good people.  We are good people.  Therefore, there are no downsides to permitting random searches of private papers or property or what-have-you, because we are good people and it would be a bad thing if the government used something they found against us, or pretended to find something that really the government agent planted there, because maybe he had a quota to fill or something, and we cannot imagine that ever happening because, like I said, we are GOOD PEOPLE and bad things don't happen to good people and they wouldn't try that quota thing on us because, come on, aren't there some BAD PEOPLE out there, and wouldn't it'd be a lot easier to get away with planting contraband in THEIR personal effects?  

And before you know it, we're okay with that sort of thing.  And it all comes down to ... what?  

I thank you that I am not like other people: thieves, rogues, adulterers, or even like this tax collector.

+ + +

 As usual, human nature contains multitudes.  There is another, opposite temptation called "bad things that happen to me are someone else's fault," and since humans are nothing if not adaptable, it is entirely possible to hold both of them at once.

This complicates the proposed solutions, to be sure, to the problem of magical thinking.

Fessing up.

All righty then...

I got the impression that some of you have been wondering what's up with the posting frequency, or infrequency as the case may be, here at the bearing blog.

Time to make excuses! Or, rather, an excuse. The fifth of its kind!

An excuse which should show up, oh, around mid-January 2014, but which is already making itself -- I mean, himself or herself -- plenty evident around here.

Pass the saltines and ginger tea.

And maybe a little later, the champagne!

+ + +

How did the kids take it, you ask?

• The 12-year-old: I knew something was up when you kept skipping dinner.
• The 9-year-old: I thought you were starting to look fat!
• The 6-year-old: Mama, I'm so proud of you!
• The 3-year-old: New babies can drink cow milk, you know.

I have some time to work on that last one. Meanwhilllllllzzzzzzz.......

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