Beannachtai na Nollag

That's the Gaelic Christmas greeting. The only reason I know how to spell it (though I've still no idea how to pronounce it) is due to all the lovely Christmas cards we've received from my husbands family in Ireland. I dread taking them all down next week. It's a lovely thing, the way Catholics begin celebrating the birth of Christ when the secular world has moved on to preparing for Valentine's Day (without the "saint"), or even for the arrival of spring fashions.
When I attended Mass with my husband before my conversion I was surprised that the church was bare during the weeks leading up to Christmas. Not only were there no Christmas flowers, there were no flowers at all. There was a lovely manger, but no baby Jesus. Later there appeared evergreens, but they were left unadorned. Every business in town was dressed up for the holidays to one degree or another, but here in the place that should be the most festive it was as if Christmas was no big deal.

"Just wait until Christmas Eve," my husband said.

Now I feel a thrill when I attend Mass during Advent and note how spare it is inside. I know what's coming: Explosions of poinsettia! The very columns sprouting with pine boughs! Baby Jesus ceremoniously carried to his place between his Holy Parents, quite literally bringing Light into the darkness.

It really puts the musical Christmas tree in the corner liquor store to shame.

For us Catholics, Christmas begins on the twenty-fifth of December. Of course it would. So, you see, I'm not late in passing on Beannachtai na Nollag on December 30th!

Tiffany

Giving Thanks

This is what happens when you find out your friend has a brain tumor: You look at the little orange pinch pot your Kindergartner made for you--the one you keep paper clips in--and you think it's the most beautiful thing in the world. You think that if you could take one thing with you to heaven you would choose that little work of art. You hear the demands for more Cheerios and the splash of milk exiting sippy cup and it's music to your ears. You love your husband so much that you feel panicky when he leaves for work and you smell his shirts while you're sorting the laundry. You give thanks to God for every annoying, exhausting, stressful, glorious moment of your life because those moments are reminders you are living.

My friend had surgery to remove her brain tumor. The surgery was a success, and the doctors are optimistic about her recovery. I thank God for His mercy, for giving her to me as a friend, for the time I was able to spend with her over the past weekend. Most of all I thank God for this not-so-subtle reminder to appreciate all I have.

- Tiffany

A Request For Prayer

I received some news recently that has consumed me and caused me to neglect the simple, cathartic pleasure of posting in my poor, newborn blog. One of my dearest friends has a brain tumor.

This woman and I have been in each other's lives since I was ten years old. She is the sort of person with whom I have very little in common with as an adult, and if the truth be told we may never have become friends if our relationship didn't start so long ago when we were both just forging our personalities. What we have is the shared experience of surviving childhood in dysfunctional families and navigating our broke twenties. She was there for me the long years I spent in a useless relationship. I was there for her when the father of her son died. We have fought and made up a million times and when I recently asked her why she puts up with me she said, "Because it's meant to be."

I'm going home to California tomorrow morning to be with her. All of our friends who have stood the test of time--a small, but irreplacable group--is converging on our sorry hometown of Stockton, California. We're coming from New Jersey, Reno, Idaho. We're going to hang out, tell stories, laugh that tumor into submission. And when that's over and I'm alone with no one watching but my heavenly Father, I'm going to pray.

Faith really comes in handy during times like these.

Tiff

How I Spent My Day Off, by Tiffany O'Neill

My husband and I have an agreement. We give each other a Free Day once a month. This means that one of us gets a day to do whatever we choose while the other one feeds, changes, entertains and bathes the three kids. All day long. I always half-joke that when it's my turn, I'll happily develop selective amnesia (what kids? what laundry? what dishes?). It rarely happens that way, though. I can't speak for fathers, but I feel confident that mothers everywhere understand that after those babies are born we are never really and truly carefree. Your kids are on your mind, stealing thought-space you had reserved for contemplating all the goods in Bloomingdale's you'd buy if you won a shopping spree, or for reminiscing about the very best vacation you ever took before you even met your husband.

Not this time, I told myself. I needed my break this past Sunday more than usual. I was starting to feel, as Bilbo Baggins once said so succinctly, "like butter spread over too much bread." I gave my husband a quick overview of what-to-feed-whom and what-to-do-if as he drove me to the train station. I relished boarding the train without a stroller (was there ever a creature more graceful and free?!). A few minutes later I was traipsing out of the train, and trotting up the stairs (no pee-smelling elevator for me today!). I paused to enjoy the first few seconds when I emerged from the ground and into Manhattan. I love New York. I mean, if you see me wearing one of those tee shirts (which you won't) you can be sure I'm sincere about the heart.

First I had brunch at a diner in Herald square. As I ate, I read my library book and forgot that I was not the only person in the room. No one asked me to take them to the bathroom or to pick up their crayon for the seventy-fifth time. (This could have happened; there are some characters in that part of town. But it didn't.) Then I wandered to Bryant Park and watched them building the ice skating rink. Maybe this year, I thought, the girls can begin learning to skate. I had a cup of coffee and read some more under the leafy green canopy just starting to go orange around the edges. I sat by the carousel. I watched the kids flipping through the shelves of children's books that are always out there amid the colorful miniature tables and chairs. Bryant Park is adjacent to the New York Public Libarary. My girls just love looking at books outside while they wait for their turn on the carousel. The last time we were there as a family I was certain Ronan was going to take his first steps. I checked the time. It felt like I had been away from them longer than I had. I hoped Daddy was giving them a decent lunch.

I stopped into H&M on Fifth Avenue and shuffled around the store with an armload of clothes for an hour. Then I realized everything would look horrid on me and vowed to come back when I lost twenty pounds. I decided to visit Barnes and Noble. Now, if it's one sacrifice I've felt since having kids it's the loss of movie theaters and Barnes and Noble. Okay, that's two sacrifices. I started out looking at all the cookbooks and Gifts for Writers that no one ever buys for me, but soon I found myself in the children's section. I found a wonderful book called A Treasury for Five-Year-Olds, perfect for my Elizabeth turning five in two weeks. Thinking of Elizabeth's birthday made me remember that Build-a-Bear Workshop is right next door to B&N, and that's where we've promised to take the girls as a birthday treat. The minute I went inside I smiled, because I can't wait to see the look on Elizabeth's face when she sees this place. I checked the time again.

When you find yourself Catholic and standing on Fifth Avenue in New York on a Sunday evening a few minutes before five-thirty, there's only one place you can go: St. Patrick's. No matter how many times I visit the cathedral, I'm awestruck. I just keep thinking, What faith it took to build this. Would it be built today? I sat next to a family with two little girls. I hoped my kids were as good today with Daddy at Mass as these little ones were.

Finally, it was time to go home. The few minutes between New York and New Jersey seemed to take so much longer than they had coming in. I thought, as the train pulled in to Hoboken, Maybe next time I'll only take half-a-day off. Or, better yet, maybe I'll just get a pedicure, then take the girls into the city for lunch. Yeah. I'll do that.

A House Full of Angels

Today during snack time Megan confided a Halloween fear. "I'm scared of seeing a ghost when I go trick-or-treating," she said.

I nodded, acknowledging that, yeah, that could be scary. I cherish the rare moments when the more introverted of my two daughters opens up to me in her shy, already-guarded way, and I try hard not to dismiss her feelings. "You don't have to be afraid of anything, you know. You have an angel--an angel that God has asked to watch especially over Megan O'Neill in Hoboken every single day. Your angel isn't more than a few feet from you at all times, and Jesus says that your angel talks to God about you."

Megan smiled, liking this idea. Who wouldn't? "Really? But, I can't see them."

"Well, no. But you know that doesn't mean they aren't here." This is what I love about my children, and all children. They believe without seeing. My whole life I have believed in God without needing visual proof, and I pray that my children will be the same. My faith hasn't saved me from grief and tragic mistakes, but it has saved me from feeling completely alone during those times.

I turned to Ronan, sitting in his high chair happily shoving a bananna into his mouth like a sword swallower. "Buddy, where's your angel?" Without missing a beat, he looked to his right and smiled. I asked him again, and again he grinned and looked straight at spot to his right. At nothing.

Later at dinner we talked about the subject of angels again. Elizabeth raised the question, "Are they boys or girls? Or maybe a boy gets a boy angel and a girl gets a girl angel."

Before I could go into the mystery of angelic gender she shrugged and said, "I guess it's something we don't know." That lovely blind faith again.

It occurred to me that the angels that God has appointed for my children, the angels that constantly see His heavenly face, those angels were sitting around the dinner table with us. They're upstairs, maybe, as I write this, in whatever corners of the bedrooms they hang out in while my precious babies sleep. If filling your home up with guardian angels isn't enough reason to have as many children as God will bless you with, I don't know what is.

To Barbie or Not to Barbie

When my daughter came home from her first day at kindergarten a few weeks ago I was eager to hear the details of her day. I expected her to tell me that she played with the pretend kitchen or with baby dolls, the way I did during play time. I was a little disconcerted when she said, "We played with Barbies! We dressed them up sassy." I have never heard my child use the word "sassy," and I certainly didn't expect her to play with Barbies at her Catholic school. Where is the educational value in that? This made me think of my own attitude toward Barbie and how differently I've come to view the doll, and especially her wardrobe, since I've had daughters.

I loved my Barbies as a kid. Before I had children, I never gave much thought to the bigger influence Barbie has on little girls. It wasn't until Elizabeth and Megan received a couple of Barbies for Christmas that I realized how dangerous having this doll in my house could be. Left to her own devices, Barbie dresses like a tramp. I noticed when I cleaned up the girls' room that if the dolls weren't laying in a naked, peach-colored tangle they were dressed as if they were headed out for a night of clubbing. Clearly, Barbie wasn't helping my efforts to teach my daughters modesty. I decided that taking the dolls away wasn't the answer. There had to be a way that my girls could enjoy their Barbie dolls the way I did, while avoiding the subliminal message that a girl is only pretty if she's wearing a halter mini-dress and platform sandals.

I'm not a seamstress, so making clothes wasn't an option. Thankfully, there are like-minded women out there who sew and utilize the Internet for marketing their talents. Barbee and Friends saved the day! This site has a lot of lovely modest doll outfits, suitable for taking Barbie to church or to the ball. I'll be ordering some modest outfits for the Barbies in my daughter's class. If we can't have the Barbies replaced by more appropriate toys, then maybe we can change her wardrobe to reflect the way a girl in a Catholic school should dress. Elizabeth's teacher seems sweet and committed to teaching Catholic values. She's young, though, and not a mother. She probably just hasn't taken a good look at Barbie's closet.

Many Catholic families choose not to allow their children to play with Barbie dolls at all, and that is understandable. We've chosen to let Barbie stay--as long as she stays covered up.

Missing: Family Pumpkin

Here is a picture of our pumpkins, taken only a week ago. Sadly, this photo is all we have left of the little orange guy in the lower right. Yesterday as we were all piling out of our apartment on the way to the park we discovered that someone had pilfered our Family Pumpkin (so named because it's the one that belongs to all of us, as opposed to the little pumpkins each kid has laid claim to). Someone actually walked right up our steps and snatched our pumpkin off of our stoop! Unbelievable. Moments like these make me doubt the brilliance of our "reverse migration" from the 'burbs to the city.

Elizabeth and Megan were not so much upset as they were baffled. "But why did they take it? Why didn't they just go to the pumpkin farm and get their own?" The goodness of children cannot fathom stealing. When does that change for some people? We all start out with the same innocence. I'm genuinely curious to know what occurs in the human mind that distorts that innate sense of right and wrong. I was raised in a very bad neighborhood. Our house was burgled on a regular basis. Every time it happened I felt violated and frustrated, (we had no recourse, being part of a culture that really believed it was futile to report a few worthless trinkets being lost and damage done to a rickety back door to the police) but I never got over the bewilderment. Just like my daughters' reaction to being robbed for the first time, after decades of experiencing petty theft, I'm still marveling that people steal.

Sadly, it seems that many people expect others to be dishonest. The other day I realized that I had inadvertantly walked out of the grocery store with a box of linguine in the stroller basket that I didn't pay for. When I stopped in to pay for it the next day, the cashier was amazed. "Really? Oh. Okay. Wow. Most people wouldn't bother."

The girls were with me when I paid for the linguine, and they understood that of course you couldn't just walk out with free pasta. Maybe it was good for them to see an example of honesty, especially since they now know how it feels to be the victim of dishonesty.

Instead of ranting about how much I dislike living in Hoboken and how I wish we had stayed in our boring not-nearly-as-hip town where at least we could have a pumpkin on the porch for crying out loud, I got a grip. "Let's pray for the person who took our pumpkin," I said to the girls. "They must not realize it makes Jesus sad when we steal." Daddy chimed in with, "Well, now we have an excuse to visit the pumpkin patch again!" That suggestion went over very well.

My three-year-old isn't taking any chances. "Okay," Megan said, "but this time we'll keep our pumpkin inside!"