(This article courtesy of the Arlington Catholic Herald.)
Frequently, I find myself stuffing small items into the pockets of my jeans. At the end of the day, I empty my pockets and find in the contents much food for thought.
There is a roll of film, at least it looks like a roll of film. It’s really a chocolate I picked up at an anniversary party for the Herald, the publication for which I write. After eight years of writing this column and mailing it in (real mail at first, email now), I finally met the people whose names are on the masthead. I reflect upon how blessed I am to know them and how much I love this job. I remember that I have a column deadline and I wonder if other moms carry bits of their lives in their pockets.
There is a Lego man. I remember using it to placate Stephen as I strapped him into his carseat this morning. He screamed and I responded as I have so many times for so many screaming two-year-old fits, “I am the Mommy and you are my little boy. So, I make the rules and you follow them. I love you and I am going to keep you safe.” He stopped crying when the buckle clicked and he recognized that he wasn’t going to win this battle. I wonder if that speech works for teenagers?
There is Christian’s Tae Kwon Do medal, won at a tournament last month. I smile as I remember how proud he was of himself after months of hard work. I spent that whole day focusing on him, enjoying him. I make a mental note to take each of my children on a Mommy date alone soon.
There is a shell, left from the collection Patrick and Mary Beth gathered last week on the Outer Banks of North Carolina. I sigh. We spent three days taking our summer vacation in October. They were lovely days, too short and far too overdue. I firmly resolve to plan another longer family vacation for the early spring.
There is a tube of Desitin. I read this morning that pop star Madonna has never changed a diaper. Poor woman. No, I am not going to sing the glories of poop. But after the mess has been cleaned, there is nothing so lovely as fat baby thighs and the sweet smell of baby powder. I am smiling again, thinking of Nicholas who weighs twenty-eight pounds at ten months and is a fat, jolly baby with fat, jolly thighs. Madonna can keep her diaper-changing servant.
There is a hair scrunchie. I remember that these became popular in early 1990. I was losing my hair to chemotherapy then and was sure I’d never have enough hair to catch up in a beribbonned ponytail. I worried I’d never have children either. I have plenty of hair now, and plenty of children. Wasted worry. Will I ever learn not to waste time worrying? I say a prayer for the mother of my son’s teammate who sports darling hats and whose beautiful smile belies the real challenge she faces this year. Don’t worry, my friend; just pray hard.
Finally, there is an American flag patch I was supposed to sew on Michael’s soccer referee uniform. Oh yes, we are a country at war. On this quiet night, in this house full of children, amidst a pocket full of silly things, is a reminder that there is evil in the world. There are temper tantrums and dirty diapers and illness and terrorism. They exist in the same world as chocolate and gold medals and beautiful beaches and happy babies and ponytails. It was this way before September eleventh and it will be this way even after we “smoke ’em outta their holes.” Bad things happen. But good things do too. We thrust our hands into our pockets, take a deep breath, and whisper a prayer.