The Happy Homemaker

Ok... I don't really know what that means. But, when I was growing up, my mom who did not work outside of the home was often referred to as a "homemaker". Even now, when I meet people for the first time and they ask me what I do, I struggle to put into words my job title and instead just give my job description. "Everything. I do everything." I kid, I kid....

Tonight I shoved "everything" aside and I made time to do my very favorite thing in the world. I made a pie. I made (what smells like) a damn good pie. I put Little Sister to bed, let the boys zone out to Sponge Bob for an entirely inappropriate amount of time and I. Made. A. Pie.

It's a brand new recipe that I've never made before. I was so touched by a response to the responses made by the woman who submitted the recipe that I felt compelled to give it a go. You see, this is her Grandma Ople's recipe. She said that she misses her grandma very much, but feels that her spirit is still here because so many people are making her pie and sharing it with loved ones. Her grandmother's legacy is living on in the joy shared among everyone enjoying this pie.

As I rolled out the pie's crust and carefully wove together the lattice top, I thought about my home and what memories my children will have of our family. I thought that I am not a home-maker, because my children are who made this house a home. I believe that everyday this "home" is forming and making me into more of who God wants me to be.

For so long, I worried and thought about what my life was supposed to be, what I would be when I grew up, and how I would make it happen. And tonight as I slid that gorgeous caramel covered pie into the oven, I realized that for a while now, that worry has disappeared and my life is slowly but surely taking it's own shape... And I know who I am, and I know what I'm supposed to be doing, and I try to do it to the best of my ability.

So, tonight, I am happy. I am satisfied. I am going to eat pie.


The butter has to be cut into the flour until it makes pea sized crumbles.


I roll out the dough to fit into a deep dish 9 inch pie plate.



This recipe calls for a lattice top so that the caramel glaze can get inside and blend beautifully with the apples. Yeah, it's pretty!


But wait... it get's better!! Butter, sugar, cinnamon, oh my!


If you could only smell my house right now....


I'm ready to dig in!

When it was just you and me

Jack: Mommy, will you sleep with me tonight?
Mommy: No, Jack.
Jack: Why not?
Mommy: Because, I snore and I will keep you awake and you kick and you will keep me awake.
Jack: But, you used to sleep with me. Remember? Before you had your little boy and your little girl and it was just you and me.... remember?
Mommy: (Climbing into Jack's bed) Yes, honey. I remember....

It's a Wonderful Life

For Jack

Dear Jack,

Yesterday, your sister was baptized. The last couple of weeks, I'm sure that you have overheard your father and I discussing our invitation list for the baptism and for the party afterwards. You probably heard us talking about what kind of food we wanted to serve, who had RSVP'd ... who had not... what we were all going to be wearing, etc., etc., etc. In the midst of all of this planning, you very innocently asked me, "Why do you want Lily to be baptized?"

Hmmmm.

At the time, I think I gave you a quick answer of, "Well, Jack, it's what we do. When each of you kids were babies, we got together with our family, went to church, and together promised to teach you about God and Jesus and to help you become good people."

You were satisfied with that answer and walked away. But, I was unable to just walk away from the conversation. I had an image of you in my mind at 16, grumbling on a Sunday morning about not wanting to go to Church and saying to me, "But WHY? Why, Mom? Why do we do this?" I knew that someday you would not be satisfied with a quick answer. You would want to know why, in my heart, was our religious and spiritual life important.

At the most basic level, Catholicism is important to me because it was the chosen faith of my family before me. It was the rosary and a devotion to the Blessed Mother, Mary, that helped my Grandma Warmelink after the tragic loss of her young daughter; it was a deep faith and the Passion of the Christ that God would provide when my Grandpa DeSoto took a stand and went on strike even though he had a large family at home to take care of. This love and belief in the Holy Church was passed on to my parents, then to me, and now, I hope, to you and your brother and sister.

I had your sister, and brother, and you baptized because I believe that becoming your mother is not just the result of biological processes, but a spiritual calling. I take this opportunity to announce before God and our loved one's that I accept this calling with a deep appreciation and awareness of all that it entails, and it seems appropriate to me that this be done in a quiet, thoughtful, formal ceremony. I brought you all before God and you were welcomed into a family much bigger and greater than just our own. You were washed in the waters and announced a new, clean person. All of us that were lucky enough to be witnesses to this sacrament you were receiving saw not just a sweet, chubby baby chewing on his hands, but we recognized the everlasting soul within you, and we made a vow to nurture that spirit and fill it with love, because, God is love.

So, I don't know if this is now, or someday will be a good enough answer, but hopefully, it's the beginning a conversation we can have. And, I want to thank you, Jack. As you have in every moment that your presence has filled my life, you gave this experience of watching my daughter be baptized more depth because you asked me a simple question with a not so simple answer. You continually challenge me to dig deeper and to live with intention and purpose. I am grateful.

love, Mom

Two Year Olds and Tantrums

Trying to shower and get ready in the morning with a crying baby in a bouncy seat and a two year old tearing apart your bathroom is no fun. It's probably the reason why a clean Susan is so hard to come by these days. All I wanted was to put on some blush... blow dry my hair... maybe put on some mascara. Sam was pulling my clothes off of hangers in my closet and Lily let it be known - loudly- that she was hungry and she wanted to be held. Now.

I felt my blood begin to boil. Was I asking for so much? Could I not have just 20 minutes in the day for myself? I could feel Sam pushing against my leg as he, on tip toe, began to pull my makeup brushes from their case. I lost it. In anger, I grabbed the largest brush out of his hand and said - okay, yelled - "STOP IT!"

His little face crumpled. He cried. My heart sank. My tantrum ended his.

I picked him up and cradled him in my arms. I kissed his face and pretended to nibble his neck. In typical Sam fashion, the tears turned to giggles instantly. I caught a glimpse of us in the mirror and it hit me. I'm his mommy. I'm the only one he gets. He didn't get to choose one of those moms who manages to discipline quietly and gently... a mom who has endless patience and boundless energy. He got me. A mom whose vanities occasionally take priority... a mom who has been known to frustrate easily and publicly... a mom who isn't anywhere near the emotional maturity level she would like to be at. So, I held my little boy a while longer. I kissed him a few times more. And, in my heart, I made the promise that moms like me make,

"I'm going to do better next time."

Oh, my daughter

My sweet baby, Lily, and I took a bath together for the first time. I patiently tempered the water; the final degree a gentle reminder of her time spent inside my tummy. I carefully climbed in with Lily tucked tightly in my arms. As her soft, chubby skin touched the water for the first time, her sleepy eyes popped open and looked to me for reassurance. Very quickly she adapted to this wet, warm, wonderful new experience. With my forearm underneath her back, and my hand cupping her fuzzy head for support, I slowly swished her across the water. She kicked her feet and splashed her hands happily, while I gazed down upon her china white skin and counted the rings of chub on each arm and leg. She smiled up at me saying "uh-kuh". I looked back at her and replied, "uh-kuh". We sang "You are My Sunshine" and I giggled at her shocked little face after she splashed herself with water.

After a while, I pulled her up close and she quickly found me and began to nurse. We stared in one another's eyes and I thought, "Thank you God for this little person!" My heart was in my throat and I knew it was a moment in my life I would never, ever forget. Lily pulled away from me, and again said, "uh-kuh". Before I could reply, she scrunched up her little face, pulled her knees up to her round little tummy and pooped. And then pooped a little more.

"ETHAN!!" I yelled to my husband. "ETHAN!!"

Downstairs I could hear my little boy say,

"Daddy, Mommy is calling for you..."

"Jack," I said. "Jack, tell your daddy it's an EMERGENCY!"

Ethan and Jack both came running up the stairs at that. They wore matching worried expressions as they entered the bathroom and saw me sitting in the tub, holding a wet baby Lily up into the air. Then, they noticed the curious yellow floaties surrounding me in the water and started laughing.

"Poop soup," said Jack.

Farmer's Markets

Mom suddenly became interested in farmer's markets, and she insisted that we seek out a new one each weekend. After breakfast each Saturday morning, she would strap my bother and I into our car seats where we would be on the lookout for animals grazing in the endless country fields while she consulted her Mapquest printouts. That summer we became familiar with the smell of chicken farms and freshly tilled soybean fields and small Indiana towns named after small German towns. Mom familiarized herself with the varieties of heirloom tomatoes and artisan's cheeses made locally.

There we would be, my baby brother strapped to Mom's chest in a brown, soft cotton sling, chewing on his hands, Mom finishing her coffee, now, long gone lukewarm, and me, holding onto my mother's free hand, kicking at rocks. Mom was always pointing out to me the different flowers and plants people had displayed to sell. "Smell this, buddy," she would say. "This is lavender." The experience was so much more than grocery shopping for her. It was an escape. The three of us would walk through the parking lots, looking at each vendor, tasting their goods, sometimes Mom would ask questions about how to cook some of the more exotic vegetables, but inside, Mom could imagine that she was in a crowded open air market in Paris. She would pick through the rhubarb as though she were an experienced chef who could discern a quality stalk from a lesser. She liked the image she felt she was projecting, that of an Earth mother, surrounded by her children amongst fresh vegetables and fruit and flowers. She felt that this was someone her everyday life, with it's trips to Target, pick-ups from the dry cleaner's, just didn't allow her to be. She found joy in sharing a fresh strawberry with me as we walked through all the people with their excited dogs on leashes. In some ways, in some moments, she felt closest to who she wanted to be.

Although we always took home fresh green beans and asparagus, our bags would inevitably be full of fresh blueberries and strawberries. For us, a pint would never do. Mom would buy the fruit by the quart. And if someone was selling a dozen ears of corn for three dollars, mom wouldn't stop to consider that there were only three people in our family to eat the corn, she would take all twelve. As we would make our way home, my brother and I would nap, our stomachs full of homemade croissants and honey, and Mom would go through her mental catalogue of recipes. Towards the end of the summer, after consulting his bathroom scale, Dad had to finally beg her to not make any more pies. So, for a while, our neighbors became the lucky recipients of her latest passion.

Mom eventually took up other hobbies, she found other avenues down which she would chase that glimpse of herself she had seen once or twice in her mind's eye. But, I will always remember that summer, driving through Indiana's homegrown markets, and the smell of lavender.