I love my family.  I don’t want to poison them.

Yesterday, I was feeling homemaker-ish, and decided to attempt making homemade whole wheat banana bread—which was not only edible (as not all of my culinary experiments are), it was delectable!  To get started, I checked the oven before preheating it.  Inside, lucky me, I noticed some unidentified goo lurking on the bottom—probably from the Stromboli eruption that oozed melted mozzarella like molten lava out of a massive fissure in a not-so-well-bundled pizza-burrito concoction (which was also yummy, despite being inside-out).

Ok, so this goop would require a side-trip to the cleaning cabinet.

But then I remembered the one time I actually used oven cleaner.   My husband had roasted a ridiculous amount of meat for a dinner party, which resulted in the oven glistening with a complete top-to-bottom inch-thick coating of shmag (a word I coined to describe something so repulsive, no existing word could express the level of disgustingness; also used for unidentifiable goo).  Upon making this exciting discovery, I did what we are perhaps conditioned to do.  I purchased a product.

I bought a metal can filled with some mysterious potion that promised to leave my oven quick-and-easy sparkly-clean.  All I had to do was “spray and wipe away.”  But the numerous instructions and warnings on the can hinted at the price we really pay for seemingly simplistic attempts at cleanliness:

Ensure adequate ventilation.  Avoid contact with skin, eyes, mucous membranes and clothing.  Will burn skin and eyes. Wear long rubber gloves.  Avoid breathing spray mist. Wash hands thoroughly after handling.  Remove contaminated clothing.  Container may explode if heated. Keep from freezing. Keep out of reach of children…

Wear personal protective equipment… Does this stuff come in a starter-kit with a hazmat suit?

Mildly terrified, I realized I couldn’t use the oven without setting off the smoke alarm.  I had to do something.  I declared war on the slime, armed with my chemical weapon.  I donned elbow-length protective gloves, stood back as far as possible in a combative stance, closed my eyes, and held my breath—not in anticipation of the mystical cleaning power I was about to behold, but to avoid breathing in the toxic cloud.

I held my breath, aimed, and pressed the trigger.  I released a fury of noxious nastiness.  Foam spurted out, and I choked.  My eyes burned.  I feared my skin might start sloughing off.  This was not nice at all.

So, yesterday, thinking of this most unsavory addition to our cooking, I decided to skip the sojourn to the cleaning supplies, and looked to my baking supplies instead.  There on the table, in its under-appreciated glory, sat a yellow box of baking soda.  My hero.

I summoned the skills of great-grandmothers past, and used this basic, odorless, magnificently unoffending powder with a splash of water to sparkle up my oven.  The baking soda helped scrub the grime and then soaked up the slime.  I didn’t need protective goggles, gloves, or a gas mask.  And I didn’t have to evacuate the neighborhood.  Brilliant.

Sorry, chemical companies, but I’m not going to buy another bottle of poison claiming cleanliness and health.  I’ve discovered I can do much better with much less.  I’ll save some money and some brain cells.  I’ll do just fine with a little baking soda, vinegar, lemon and salt—without risk of blindness or cancer.  And I can even let the kids help.

What do you think? Post a comment here! 

I sing when I’m angry.

As a mother of a two-year-old and a nearly-five-year-old, I find myself living in some kind of sporadic musical.  Aside from nursery rhymes and pre-school show theme-songs lilting through the house, I sometimes realize mid-melody that I am belting out lyrics to a spontaneous tune of my own making.  If a flash mob suddenly erupts around me one day, my musical theatre life could be up for a Tony.

I sing for fun.  I sing along with Taylor Swift, Rapunzel, and The Fresh Beat Band.  I sing about getting dressed or cleaning up toys.  I sing to distract—my children from boredom or defiance, and me from the monotony of a sink-full of dishes.  I sing to teach.  I sing to be a good example.

I read somewhere that intelligence is linked to the amount of words a child hears in the first year.  So when my daughter, Anna, was born, I started narrating my every move.  “Alright, let’s turn left and walk into the kitchen,” I’d say.  “I will use my hand to open the refrigerator door.  Now let’s look inside and see what we can find to eat.”  Fascinating conversations for the bassinet set.

Eventually, my narrations developed tempo.  Music is also said to aid in child development, so I figured adding some whirling notes to my one-sided dialogue couldn’t hurt.  Presenting strained squash in a sing-song voice just might make it seem more intriguing.  Or announcing teeth-brushing time with a stomping march and parade-like enthusiasm could make a toddler feel like this was an event not to be missed.

I started humming and dictating so much, that I embarrassed myself a few times, continuing my education of the everyday, even when I was alone.  Out of what became constant habit, I realized one day that I had just sung my way through a visit to the “potty”…in a public restroom…with other occupants.    “Ok, so let’s slide this latch, and close the door.  Now turn around.  Don’t touch the floor…da da da da…”   And then I remembered that Anna wasn’t with me; my husband was watching her.  All in the name of intelligence, though some might have questioned mine.

But, as Anna’s vocabulary grew surprisingly diverse, I pointed out, “See, Mommy’s big mouth is finally good for something.”  With progress comes new challenges, especially for parents.  Before I knew it, my darling little ladybug did something amazing and unfortunate—she developed an opinion.

It is fascinating how a squirmy little infant comes into the world with only a cry for survival, and in a matter of months, is able to discern and replicate sounds that can actually communicate thoughts to another person.  And when this happens, they use their new knowledge in a mission that is often in direct opposition to a parent’s requests.  This fun new stage often begins with the words “no” or “mine.”  So, trying to avoid hearing such rudeness from our little lady, my husband and I simply removed these words from our vocabulary as much as possible.  A lofty attempt, perhaps, but we aimed to make politeness a habit, for ourselves and our children.

I am very conscious of the fact that children learn by example.  So I try very hard to be a good example.  I’m a big believer in The Golden Rule—treat others how you want to be treated.  This old adage is especially useful in trying to foster good attitudes and behavior in children.  If I never say certain words—shut up, stupid, dumb, hate, or any four-letter varieties—I hope to never have them used against me, especially from the sweet faces of my children.

So when we’re suddenly in the midst of a showdown, I don’t want my temper to supersede my good intentions as a mother.  I don’t want to teach them bad habits that I will regret seeing from them one day.  I find my coping mechanism in song.

When I want to SCREAM, I sing.

Instead of letting my blood pressure rise and my frustration manifest in harsh words and scowls, I try to sing away tension with a dose of silliness.  Sometimes I sing about what’s happening, like serenading the siblings about their dispute—in spur-of-the-moment rhyming verse. They might even join in with a suggested rhyme, and forget all about their tiff.  Sometimes I sing instructions instead of shouting them.  And sometimes I just sing the most ridiculous things I can come up with.  When I see the resistant toddler-tough façade crumble in a giggle, I know I’ve really won the battle.

What started in giving a name to all objects and actions has become a tool to diffuse an explosive toddler tantrum, or to keep my own patience from unraveling.  It’s hard for anyone to keep up angry glares after they’ve cracked a smile.  I invite you to try it—you might just find yourself laughing instead of crying.

How do you deal with less-than-optimal situations? Please let us know in the comments box below or click here to discuss it with others at the Catholic Daily forum!

Welcome to Lisa’s blog, New Catholic Mom.  Lisa is a convert to the Catholic faith, a mother of two, and the wife of a Catholic filmmaker.

Her husband’s work has helped her travel to religious shrines all around the world, including the Vatican, Knock, Medjugorje, Assisi, and more.

Enjoy Lisa’s insights on life, faith, motherhood, health, and just generally being happy and positive.