I've been following the "never worked a day in her life" story with a sense of dread  -- not because I think that Hilary Rosen's opinion is especially significant, but because I knew I was going to end up writing about it.  How dreary, how tedious, to have to say one more time:  no, stay-at-home moms aren't all lazy, or parasites, or fabulously wealthy.  No, feminism doesn't mean that women should be forced to earn a paycheck, rather than forced to stay at home.  And no, you really can't manage a household (especially a single-income one) without learning exactly how money works, even if it's not your name on the paycheck.

I hate writing about this kind of thing, because I'm always...READ MORE

It must be kind of weird to be Mitt Romney right now.

There are people who won't vote for him because they actually, actively, enthusiastically support Obama, because they are Death Eaters oh pardon me, nuanced, neo-patriotic intellectuals who courageously support a global progressive agenda.  And there are people who actually, actively, enthusiastically  support Romney because they trust him and believe in what he stands for.

But hundreds of thousands of conservative voters who intend to vote for Mitt Romney are at their doctors' offices right now, begging to be signed up for the next clinical trials of Propranolol, a drug which may help people forget traumatic events.  Such as...READ MORE

This morning in the shower, I reached for the wash cloth, and realized that I had left out my Special Soap -- a bar of expensive, creamy, scented stuff, pale pink, molded into proportions that would make a tubby bar of Ivory weep and vow to join a gym.  This bar of soap was part of set of four.  It was a thank-you gift from a dear friend, and it had come in a decorative box, which I had been storing, unopened, on the highest shelf in the house.  I had been saving it.

But last weekend, after a very, very long week of cooking, sewing, cleaning, scheming, shopping, and general festive berserking, I decided to take a real, live bath.  A bath at home, without any rubber duckies or Barbie...READ MORE

For You

by Mitali Perkins, reprinted with kind permission of the author 

for you,
whose Hand made salty water swell
and burst upon the sand, shaping mountains into shells,
here is the hand that slapped you.

how dusty, clumsy, weak
this hand, twisting thorns into a crown for you,
whose Head imagined panther, peacock, pomegranate,
here is the head that screamed with rage
when Pilate brought you forth.

how frail and dull
this skull, these eyes, this mouth of spit for you,
whose Face set like flint to see
my fist
my sneer
the crooked iron sharpness of this heart
for you.

Ah,  Holy Week.  Ah, tradition.  How many of these ancient rituals do you follow in your parish?

Confession Line Noisemaker

A middle aged Knights-of-Columbus-type with an expression of bland good cheer on his face will station himself at the end of the pew closest to the confessional to perform the following traditional chant, to the accompaniment of clattering car keys, while you are trying to examine your conscience:

ff, rubato, un poco agitato:

JINGLE, JINGLE, JINGLE
harumph, harumph, harumph
mutter mutter JINGLE JINGLE
cough cough cough

sotto voce:

Hey, hey, how's it going?  How's it going? How's the wife?
Nice buncha kids you got, God bless, God...READ MORE

It seems that my charmed life as a driver has come to an end.  In all the years I've had a license, I've never gotten a ticket, no matter what boneheaded, irresponsible, inexcusable things I do behind the wheel.  But last month I got a ticket for forgetting (um, for three months) to get the van registered and inspected; and the other night, in the dark and the rain, I got pulled over for crossing the white line repeatedly.

The officer wanted to know if I had been drinking, taking prescription drugs, or maybe I had lost my glasses?  None of the above.  It was just the end of a long day, in the middle of a long week, in the middle of a short life crammed overfull with too many things to...READ MORE

In response to “What Else Do Pro-Lifers Do?”, reader writes:

I’ve been told that mothers with young children do their charity in the home; that it’s more important to nurture those under your care than divide your time and energy by doing/going to other charitable things. While I agree with this to a certain extent, it seems a bit like…well, bs. An opt-out of those of us with kids under the age of 3 or 4 or whatever.

Reading your article made me realize I don’t do much—that I talk a big talk, but maybe I am one of those pro-lifers the pro-aborts says doesn’t do anything.  Could you give some direction to a young mother with only 2 under 3 right now? I don’t want to fall into the delaying...READ MORE

Pro-lifers only care about fetuses before they’re born.  If they were really pro-life, they’d work to care for the mom and her children after the delivery, too!

If you’re pro-life, you’ve heard this comment a thousand times.  I heard it again last night on Facebook:  a pro-choice fellow scoffed, “‘Pro-life’ is such a misnomer these days.  I’m more pro-life than most self-proclaimed pro-lifers.”

Genuinely curious, I asked him to be more specific.  He responded:

I tend to focus more on the lives of nonhumans, which are no less precious or important, and I make it a point to preserve life wherever and whenever I can. I’m vehemently and vocally opposed to war, genocide, the death penalty,...READ MORE