Us v. Them
Tithe. A simple, innocuous word.
A tithe is a tenth of something. It’s commonly used to refer to giving a tenth of one’s income to the church, as in, “I pledge to make good on my tithe this year.”
Evidently, there are those among my fellow Catholics who object to tithing. Oh, not to the concept. To the word. Yes, you read correctly. To the use of the word.
It’s too, well, you know. Too Protestant.
It’s so Protestant that the parish to which I belong has purged the word “tithe” from a parish publication and substituted “stewardship of treasure” in its place.
Upon reading of this crisis, I rejoiced. Surely the “tithe” crisis could only mean that the “tithe” police had run out of good works to perform. Faced with a dearth of hungry, naked and lonely brothers and sisters, the “tithe” police searched elsewhere and discovered a worthy cause.
A minor issue? Perhaps. Perhaps not.
Differences among religions are neither new nor insignificant. But instead of invoking our differences, something tells me that God would rather we spend our precious time on this earth taking care of business. You know. Loving our neighbors as ourselves, for example.
We shake our heads at the atrocities coming out of Iraq and Lebanon. We recall with a touch of American arrogance the violence in Northern Ireland. How can they, in the name of religion, spew such hate over minor issues? Don’t their religions teach them differently? How did they grow so intolerant?
Maybe from the seeds of tithing.
Last White Dress Shirt Shopping Spree
To iron or not to iron. That is the question.
My how-many-days-until-I’m-eighteen year old son has to wear a uniform to his parochial high school. He’s done this for the past three years and two days.
The uniform consists of a navy blazer, gray dress slacks, a white dress shirt buttoned to the collar and a tie. Unless you’re going for a varsity letter in demerits, this rather dapper attire must be on and in place from the time one’s butt crosses the threshold inbound until it is granted egress midafternoon.
I, however, as the woman whose uterus was contorted like playdough for nine months, and whose lower half was asked to do things that would cause nightmares in grown men a la twenty-three hours of labor, an epidural and a C-section, have not been allowed to see my son in full Catholic high school regalia.
No. Not me. My status as incubator and loin launcher entitles me only to my son’s just-pulled-this-stuff-from-the-pile-in-the-middle-of-the-floor look.
Which is one more reason I gave up ironing those damn shirts two weeks into freshman year.
Sanity Eve
‘Twas the night before Sanity, and all through the house
not a person was stirring, not even my spouse.
School uniforms were lost in the house without care
the Teens’ thoughts of tomorrow too painful to bare.
The Teenagers were grudgingly prone in their beds
while visions of homework invaded their heads
And hub in his boxers and I with my wine
had just settled in and were feeling just fine.
When down in the kitchen there came such commotion
The mom in me bolted with a single swift motion.
On down the stairs I flew in a blaze
Then stopped - half-asleep, still in a daze.
The bulb on the stove shed just enough light
to illuminate the setting now clearly in sight.
When what to my misty eyes did appear
but two toddlers in pjs, grins ear to ear.
With tippy cups of oj and blankies in hand
they whispered and giggled, then away they both ran.
But sure like the sunrise the bickering appeared
and they shouted and whined, they taunted, they jeered:
“No, Hannah! Thomas Tank Engine!
Me first! It’s mine!”
“No, Cabe! Want Barney!”
More shouts, oh God, more whine.
Then almost as quickly as the bickering commenced
the chaos subsided, their voices less tense.
As I peered ‘round the corner to take just a peek
They were cuddled and quiet, peaceful and meek.
The alarm broke the silence, the coffee is on
The noise in the kitchen soon will be gone.
Sanity, while elusive, can wait with its start
Damn thought of tomorrow takes a piece of my heart.
George Goes to Camp
George and his favorite Econ 101 kids are at Camp David this weekend high fiving each other over the robust American economy.
White House spokesman Dana Perino announced that topics on the agenda include the budget, tax policy, the macroeconomic picture and the “E” word - entitlement programs.
Economics is a bit tricky for me, so let’s take these one at a time.
Budget.
Minimum wage in our land of iPods and cell phones is $5.15 an hour. Put in 40 hours a week, 52 weeks a year, and that’s $10,700 a year. If you’re a single parent with one child, that’s $2,130 below the Poverty Guidelines set by the Department of Health and Human Services. If you have the audacity to be a single parent with two children, you’re $5,390 short.
Tax policy.
George already harpooned the federal estate tax in 2001. A slow phase-out and temporary repeal. Nice. The estate tax rates continue to fall and and the amount of wealth exempt from the tax increases. Translation. Billions of dollars sucked out of the federal budget and put back into the pockets of the wealthiest 2% of our fellow citizens.
And showing that they’re no strangers to common sense, George’s boys and girls in the House voted last month (H.R. 5970) to link a hike in the minimum wage to a decrease in the estate tax. My, we’re big boys and girls now, aren’t we?
Macroeconomic picture.
I had to look that one up. My trusty dictionary.com defines macroeconomic as “the study of the overall aspects and workings of a national economy, such as income, output, and the interrelationship among diverse economic sectors.” George and the Econ 101 kids need more than a weekend at camp for that one.
Finally, that nasty “E” word.
Those darn entitlement programs do need some revising. Let’s start with George’s estate tax cut.
Doo-Da Doo-Da
The Summer Parent sings this song
Doo-da, Doo-da
Back to school in 16 days
Oh, doo-da day!
Homework time at night
Classwork time all day
School uniforms all day long
La La doo-da day!
Multitasking Teen
Just in case you were lying awake at night wondering ……….
It is, in fact, possible for a sixteen year old female to operate a lawn mower and read text messages and/or incoming caller ID numbers on her cell phone.
It Is Written
In the beginning, when God created the male child, the parents were naive and a perfect contentment protected their minds.
Then God said, “Let there be infancy”, and there was infancy. The parents saw how good and pleasing infancy was and desired to remain with the male child.
Then God said, “Let the male child bring forth the terrible twos: every kind of sound that yields babble and screeching.” And so it happened. God saw how good the toddler was for the parents.
Then God said, “Let the male child teem with an abundance of preschool, and all kinds of grade school adventures.” And the parents saw how good it still was, albeit a bit trying from time to time.
Then God said, “Let there be hormones.” God saw how good and necessary the hormones were, and God blessed them saying, “Be fruitful and multiply, and fill the male child with adolescence.” And so it happened.
Attitude came, and lip followed — the first day.
Then God said, “Let us make The Teenager in his father’s image, after his mother’s likeness. Let The Teenager have dominion over the sanity of the mother, the car insurance of the father and over both their debit cards.”
And so from the male child God created The Teenager; in his parents’ image he created him.
Attitude came, and “the look” followed — the six hundred ninety-second day.
The Teenager brought forth all manner of intelligence and wisdom: every kind of rationalization and distraction covered the cerebral abyss.
Attitude came, and moodiness followed — the fifteen hundred thirty-seventh day.
Then God looked at the male child and at the parents and all that they had done.
And God found everything as it should be.
If It’s August, This Must Be the Back to School Countdown
Twenty days.
The Dog Days of summer did not earn the tag for mere heat alone. The Summer Teenager was part of the equation.
Sad, tired eyes. Drooping tails. The horizontal, coma-like form. And the crabbiness. A bit edgy, are we?
Summer Parent is positively giddy.
A little song. A little dance. A little seltzter down your pants.
Prelude to Senioritis
It started three weeks ago. The seventeen year old announced the senior year countdown. We’re not talking mere diploma delivery date here.
The dizzying whirlwind of “lasts” begins August 23rd. Last high school book day. Last first day of school for high school. Last time to buy a student parking permit.
Last Homecoming dance. Last first, second, third and fourth quarter exams. Last semester exams. Last Prom.
Last football game. Last Homecoming foot ball game.
I pointed out that he’s been to two games tops in the past three years. Undeterred, he divulged senior year plans that include every game in full green and white body paint. Loin cloth optional.
I feel a sacramental wine moment coming on.
