Day 2

Let's see. How long have you been with me? I've been blogging (and journaling) about Lenten Adventures for about a decade now, so if anyone has made it through that much huffing, puffing and whining about caffeine withdrawals and finding yet another way to cook broccoli, congratulations and I'm sorry. Usually the 40 days are a positive challenge. In the past I've elected to eliminate material temptations from my life - mostly of the edible sort. I used to eat french fries daily, so out went the french fries that year. I am a Pepsi enthusiast, so in recent years I've tried (and occasionally failed) to do without my bubbles for the 40 days. One year I went vegetarian, and that worked really well. Planning and cooking meals sort of sucked (I was still living at home and was undertaking vegetarianism alone, so I had to make my own stuff every day) but it was probably the most successful year I'd had. I didn't cheat once and I felt great at the end of it. I also discovered just how much I loved bread. Last year Scott and I did the veggie thing, and it was good for both of us, but we decided this year to just moderate our meat and fat intake. I'm also going without soda and this is making me grumpy and sickish-feeling.

At the preparation masses, Fr. Philip talked about how it's more important to subscribe to Mother Teresa's "Anyway"s than it is to give up material possessions or pleasures. He reminded us that Lent isn't supposed to be about making yourself miserable, but to purify your spirit and return to love (I'd use the word "repent" but I think that turns a lot of people off and away, it's so fire-and-brimstoney). So in addition to consuming less, I need to love more. For me, that means working harder at showing my kids that I like them.

It is really hard to show a kid you like her when her idea of great conversation is announcing, "I'm going to sharpen my pencil now," or "I had a Pop-Tart for breakfast," or "I did my homework at my brother's football practice yesterday" ... every day. I mean, every day, several times a day. During silent reading she'll look up and tell me she finished three more pages; and she can't say anything just once. She has to tell you at least five or six times in the same week that on Saturday she's going to get up early, open the new box of cereal, and eat half of it before her brother wakes up. She's so much like a needy puppy that craves that pat on the head for every little strange thing.

So maybe Lent is for that, too. Maybe there is something deeper she's trying to tell me when she gives me the pencil-sharpening announcement; maybe it's that she doesn't get any attention at home, and I need to listen for more important messages? Maybe instead of giving things up year after year, I also have to start taking more things on, like the child I don't like as much as the others. Maybe if I could scrape together five or ten minutes a day to listen to her and respond to her, she wouldn't need it so often.

Someone suggested: Maybe the big maybe is that maybe her life is just that boring. Which is a possibility. In which case I should listen even closer, because that's all she's got to share.

Maybe.