{this moment}: A Friday ritual. A single photo capturing a moment from the week. A simple, special, extraordinary moment. A moment I want to pause, savor, and remember.
{this moment}: first state of the union address
Reply
a colorful commendation
Dear Blythe and Olive:
As your crayons, markers, and paints, we wanted to commend you for the passionate and endless ways you have used us. Most art supplies are created, packaged, and fated to be sent to homes for ordinary purposes such as coloring books and construction paper. The majority of paints have an even darker fate: a home where the mother puts them away in a cupboard out of the children’s reach. Can you imagine? But not you. When your mother tucked us away, you faithfully retrieved us, spreading paint all over the blank canvas of your body, carefully reaching between your toes, and even the bottoms of your feet (to make sure we painted the floor when you walked). Genius! You, Blythe and Olive, knew the world needs color, and your mother must have recognized this too. Why else would someone paint their house in shades of white and light neutrals or have entirely white bedding, except to create a place for us, the tools of your artist expression, to shine? Even when she and your dad insist they intended the blank spaces of wall and cloth for their own beauty and design, you know better. Yep. You joyfully persevere in full force, swirling with varied intensity all over those forsaken places. And when they repaint the walls or use those horrid Magic Erasers, it increases your resolve to start again or try a new space, such as the windows, your clothing and toys, and of course, our personal favorite, the interior of your mom’s car. We, your loyal art supplies, want to reassure you: we value this, even when your parents do not. And of course, we will highly recommend you to our relatives, the permanent and even more versatile art supplies, who can thrive well beyond the Magic Eraser.
With deep gratitude,
your washable art supplies
p.s. Forgive us; we should have included your mother’s make-up in this letter as well. In lieu of our oversight, we’ll include a lipstick-used-as-paint picture. I don’t think they’ll mind.
p.s.s. Blythe, we’re sorry. Your parents had “discovered and dealt with” all of your projects before we could document them. We’ll try to arrive more quickly to scene next time.
when life gives you worksheets . . .
When people ask me, “How did you decide to homeschool?” I’m still stumped. Usually (because I don’t go into as much detail with everyone), I begin with you, Liam, and the conversation I had with your pre-K teacher so many years ago after you had told me you didn’t like school and just wanted to stay home. I didn’t understand: Your teacher, also an artist, adored you, always doting on your love for storytelling and art. She would tell me, “I give Liam as much time as possible in the art and writing centers because he doesn’t seem to want to do much else.” You have always been fearlessly independent, easily engaging new people, so I knew this dread of school was due to neither a fear of leaving me/home nor a lack of affection within your pre-school environment. Dad and I went back to the drawing board, so to speak. We had friends who had or were planning on home-schooling, and this was the first time I actually began thinking about it as an option for you. I started reading, of course. First, I borrowed, So You’re Thinking About Homeschooling: Fifteen Families Show You How You Can Do It by Lisa Whelchel, a fast read through several different families’ style of homeschooling. Who knew home-centered education could be so diverse? Then I read Susan Wise Bauer’s The Well-Trained Mind, and I was hooked, although I wasn’t entirely quite sure to what. You finished your pre-K year, and I began to teach you how to read at home. You’ve always loved learning, Liam. Always. Voraciously absorbing anything we would read to you, I naturally assumed teaching you to read would be easy. Nope. Lesson #1: Don’t assume. You have thus far been the most difficult of our three readers to teach, in part because you hate sitting for a formal lesson of any sort and another part because you would try to read to too fast, leading to tracking issues. We solicited help, and you spent three months meeting weekly with a reading specialist, whom you loved! You learned how to read with more confidence, and I observed and learned how to channel my inner elementary school teacher squealing voice of encouragement. Lesson #2: Always encourage. I now have to tell you to stop reading: before breakfast, at the table, when it’s time to clean up from our day, or get ready for bed. You and Burke both enjoy reading enormously (can you feel me grinning?). Lesson #3: Revel in accomplishment, no matter how small.
This brings me to our current topic, worksheets. Remember how I mentioned your loathing of most formal lessons? Well, that more appropriately applies to the “m” word — math; you languish at the very mention of it. You see, most of our “school day,” we read, recite, and discuss ideas, while you all build with blocks or Legos or draw or paint. Math is the one area of our day you have to deal in absolutes — either the answer is right or it’s not. And you desperately HATE being wrong. Lesson #4: We all fail. Trying to engage you, I’ve experimented with many things these last three years, such as standing, laying on your stomach, or sitting on a bouncy ball during our math lessons; changing the time of day; or even as of late, changing to a computer-based curriculum (enticing because you hardly get to be on the computer). But still, you wither. The truth is we learn quite differently, Liam. I gladly would sit and listen to a teacher, complete whatever work(sheet), and move on. You want to participate, always questioning. You want to touch and build and play. You still have an insatiable love to learn. You want a conversation. A story. A Lego sculpture. A play. Not a worksheet. Not a fill-in-the-blank. And certainly, not a “lesson.” I love this about you. I love how you inspire those around you to learn and explore and see the world differently. Yet, some days I am ready to pull my hair out watching you will yourself against a sheet of paper. I mean it’s just a worksheet. Why is this so hard? You understand the concepts. Just do it. Lesson #5: You are not me. And this is a hard lesson, still. The goal is not to conform you to me, seeing the world the way I do. Instead, our goal is to help mature and develop/flourish you into you (whomever the Lord has created you to be), and that requires faith. So I recite to you what I often need to hear myself: “The Lord has made us different people and put us in the same family. So there’s something in you to teach me, just like there’s something in me to teach you. And sometimes. Just sometimes. We all have to do things we don’t want to do. For you right now, Liam, it’s this math lesson.” You sweetly ask for me to pray for you. I later talk with Dad; I talk with Nina; I talk with other home-schooling moms; and I read more, wondering if this process really is for us. I read The Dumbest Generation by Mark Bauerlein, Weapons of Mass Instruction: A Schoolteacher’s Journey through the World of Compulsory Schooling by John Taylor Gatto, How Children Learn and How Children Fail by John Holt, The Montessori Method by Maria Montessori, and The Core by Leigh Bortins. I feel more resolved, encouraged, and confident. And sometimes our “great ideas” agree, like last week when we declared that from now on all of your (including Burke’s and Blythe’s) finished math worksheets and scratch paper must be used to design new paper airplanes. (And thanks to the modern era of the world-wide web and google, we have instructions.)
Below are pictures from some of our “school” days within the last year, also your sketches on our chalkboard, with pencil, pastels, or a pen. I included the picture of our geography map from last year, when we were learning the European waters, and you showed me how they each resembled a sleeping dragon, a space ship, a Pteranodon, etc., an enlightening moment for me as to how your spatial-oriented brain works.
{this moment}: Olive’s first haircut
{this moment}: A Friday ritual. A single photo capturing a moment from the week. A simple, special, extraordinary moment. A moment I want to pause, savor, and remember.
the holidays, part 2: the delightful rumpus continues!
Mark’s never been much of a dancer. He attributes it to a “lack of rhythm,” that thing that allows most people to clap and sing at the same time. And in spite of his enormous affinity for the arts in general, well, dancing would gracefully chassé to the bottom of that list every time. He did once, when we were in London, accompany me to see Les Miserable, after I swore he would love it (and because he loves me). And he did, but more for the story than all the dancing and singing, really. While my own dancing mostly resorts to the I-totally-look-like-a-fool-but-I-don’t-care style that occurs at weddings and parties at friends’ houses, I love to watch people who know how to dance –you know, the kind of dancing that convinces you that with right amount of pixie dust you might also stay on your toes that long while twirling in circles or contort your body with as much rhythm and speed as Beyoncé. Fortunately, I have 4 children who love to dance, and as you’ll notice below, they don’t even need a party, just some hats at a resale store to use for props.
So what else could be a perfect way to segue into the second part of our holiday with my family than taking Blythe to her first Nutcracker ballet at the Bass Hall? Kristen, Blythe, and I loaded into the car, while Mark and Tim loaded the other with the rest of the crew, and we headed to Fort Worth to meet my mom, Pam, the sisters (sadly, minus Kayla), and two nieces for a magical afternoon of dancing flowers and snowflakes, the Sugar Plum Fairy, and of course, the Nutcracker himself. They even had “snow” falling on the crowd this year during the Snow Queen’s dance! Again, I have pictures thanks to Kristen! Starting with Blythe sipping her hot cocoa on the way there and sleeping on the way home. Nice. We had such a restful and enjoyable time over our holiday season, regardless of what can only appropriately be called a rumpus.
{this moment}: an evening game of chess
{this moment}: A Friday ritual. A single photo capturing a moment from the week. A simple, special, extraordinary moment. A moment I want to pause, savor, and remember.
our holidays, part 1: the rumpus begins!
Semesters. That’s right, I said semesters. They still neatly organize our family rhythms into a series of intense days and nights blending to months of teaching, tutoring, homeschooling, and night graduate classes (for Mark) sandwiched between what we really work for (because you know it isn’t just the paycheck)–the holidays. And this Christmas in particular, we needed it. So to change things up a bit, Mark’s dad and step-mom gifted us with a week at a lakeside condo in East Texas with an indoor waterpark. Winter coats? Check. Warm clothing and PJs? Check. Christmas presents? Check. Swimsuits, goggles, and purple lips? You better believe it. It was freezing and entirely worth it. Mostly, the adults rotated swimming duty and the monitoring for signs of hypothermia, while the kids exhausted themselves with water buckets, spray hoses, wave pools, water slides, and a lazy river. And thanks to Kristen & Tim, I have some pics to show!
{this moment}: bedtime stories
{this moment}:
A Friday ritual. A single photo capturing a moment from the week. A simple, special, extraordinary moment. A moment I want to pause, savor, and remember. (inspired by soulemama)
loving: hard & free
Toss it up to my naiveté or young idealism that this never dawned on me before having children, but let me just say, parenting is HARD. (Yes, I can hear your laughter mocking me.) When I say this, I’m not whining because I don’t get to sleep in on the weekends any longer; although is it wrong to look forward to the day I get to pounce on my children, shouting “It’s breakfast time!” before the sun comes up? I guess that’s another conversation. Being a parent is hard because we are laying our life down. Always. Not in the child-gets-to-dictate-while-we-smile-and comply sort of way, but in the having to say, show, correct, discuss ALMOST EVERYTHING over and over and over and over and over with patience and hugs and encouraging words, when frankly, at times, I would rather throw myself on the floor, kicking and screaming. Ahem. I’m sorry, were you looking for an adult here? Parenting is hard because our CHILDREN ARE PEOPLE, who have personalities, perspectives, and emotions without the filter of maturity to hold them back. It’s hard because no matter how many books you read feeding you polarized parenting styles, WE have to ultimately decide how to love them and lead them into maturity. Even when your parenting looks different from others. It’s hard because, in the event you have more than one child, each of them will need, listen, respond, learn, love and challenge you differently. And that’s just how it’s suppose to be. It’s hard because everyone has an opinion on how you should parent (even the creepy stranger who wants to rub your belly). And since blogs are indeed mostly about unsolicited opinions, let me say if I were to write a parenting manual, well, it wouldn’t be a manual at all, but it would say something like this: There are few true absolutes in parenting: Be patient, kind, and quick to forgive, be mindful of your humanity and that you too were once a child and carved your name with a rock into your parent’s friend’s car (I’m sorry, who are we talking about here?), give lots of hugs and kisses, give yourself “time-outs” when you’re exasperated/angry, play, pray, ask for help when you (or your spouse) think you need it, and most importantly, if you ever think you’ve got it all figured out as a parent (you know, readily giving un/solicited advice to others without receiving any yourself), then you’d best pull your head out of your a** before you find yourself in a prideful pit of poo.
But, seriously, how can I begin to describe the blessing, laughter, and immeasurable delight I receive as a mother in return for what may appear to onlookers as utter insanity? Well, I just don’t know. But I do know somewhere in this process–in this laying down beneath blankets of legos, dress-up, laundry, meal preparation, potty training, lesson plans, and other miscellaneous clutter–I’m learning more about Jesus, about Love.
(this one’s for you, Tif.)
out of the dark (lest I divert or change my mind)
Ahem. Testing. Testing. Is this thing on?
Cheers to 2012 and to life! This life that pulls and fills and exhausts, only to leave me bloated with unspoken words at the end of the day. And the next. And the next. Until now. I’ve sat down so many times to record something, anything really. Maybe it was the time Olive found a grub worm in the backyard, and Liam encouraged her to eat it by asking,”Olive, do you want to live the home life or do you want to live the wild life?” (Thank you, Bear Grylls.) Or maybe it was when I had the kids at Starbucks and turned around to find Blythe had stuffed her shirt with the paper shreds from one of the buckets exclaiming, “Look, mom! I have boobies!” Or maybe it was when Burke told us he wasn’t going to work when he grows up; instead he would live in a giant hole and discover a dinosaur bone when he needs some money to eat. Or maybe when Olive covered herself head to toe in fuchsia lipstick, or markers, or paints. Or was it when the kids dug a pit the size of a small pond in the backyard? Or how about when Mark asked Burke if he sins, and he responded, “yeah. but not as much as Blythe.” Or when Olive called her younger, but bigger cousin Shepherd “a tiny guy.” Who knows. It’s now mostly lost to our personal Dark Age, a time without many words or pictures. Regardless, here we come, out of the dark. Happy New Year!
The kids celebrated by making kites out of trash bags and running in the sun–a glorious way to greet a new year.
broken silence
That’s right folks: I’m back. I can hardly believe SIX MONTHS have past since I’ve last posted. Older, wiser parents regularly state, “it all goes by so fast.” I nod at them out of habit, as my Charlie Brown-like huddle of children (complete with Blythe’s blankie dragging on the floor behind her) run by me squealing, laughing, fighting, needing — I turn and think, really? But now I know. As I look at the masthead with its new spring blooms, since fully flourished and now withering under the unbearable Texas heat, I know: Life really is a vapor. But I’ve still found myself paralyzed by where to begin, sauntering by the computer every now and again, staring, only to walk away again — too much to say, too little time. But this morning, as the kids and I were reading about ancient Egyptian hieroglyphics (far less complex than it sounds) and learning about the painstaking process of carving out stone for the sake of written word or record, we discussed some of the reasons we each value writing, and I thought, “Write! These days are worth remembering!” I don’t suppose I’ll ever forget having to wash 8 loads of laundry in a day or the inevitability of lost shoes the minute you need to walk out the door — 20 minutes later than intended — but our little family has experienced too many important things in the last six months that, sadly, will soon be lost to the oblivion referred to as Past. I feel compelled to write, to remember. I also shamefully plummeted my camera from the kitchen counter to its death on the floor this summer, and since I have a very basic cell phone sans camera — one friend recently exclaimed, “oh! that phone is real? I thought it was a toy.” I have no backup. Prepare yourself for diminishing photos for a while. Sad, I know.
Here’s a post I wrote our first warmish day at the end of February (and for some reason, never posted). It’s funny to see the kids’ pale Winter skin, now covered with Summer.
Mark and I almost moved to Scotland several years ago. We visited Glasgow in 2002 sometime in the middle of March, immediately greeted with heavy-laden clouds, cold rain, and lush, gorgeous countryside. The sun came out the next day. And the next day. And the next — an anomaly by Scottish standards. As Mark and I walked the cobblestone streets dressed in our winter gear (as it was still in the 40s) relishing the antiquity and beauty of this city, we noticed several people around us embracing the sun in tank tops, skirts, or shorts. What?! These brave souls scoffed at the cold winter air, inviting spring regardless of the temperature.
Our winter this year has felt similar: dreary, wet, cold. So last month, when the sun revealed itself for the first time in several weeks (it’s an anomaly by Texas standards to go that long without the sun), I watched as my kids stripped off their clothes, put on their bathing suits, filled up the mud pit that they created in the backyard, and scoffed at Winter as they danced like children of the sun. Welcome, Spring.
This same week, three sweet girls from Uganda (traveling with the Mwangaza children’s choir) came to stay with us. For several days we played, ate, sang, and danced with them, learning about their life in Africa and witnessing the bravery of these young girls, who left their families for a year to travel and testify to Jesus through song and dance. In spite of Olive’s first ear infection and Burke’s funny, but awkward, argument with us that we had mistaken and they (the girls) were in fact boys (due to their haircuts), we loved sharing our lives temporarily with Deborah, Rebekah, and Lanette. Due to the frantic nature of their stay and our life, I only have a couple of pictures.
happy first birthday olive.
Calling you delightful, Olive, seems like a drastic understatement or cliche (sadly, words limit us at times to describe the full measure of a person), but you are indeed delightful. You are quiet, except when you squeal/scream from your high chair to get someone’s attention — the downfall of signing, I suppose; someone must be watching you at all moments to respond promptly, an impossible quest in our circus of a home. Still, when you approve or want to say “yes,” you clap fervently with approval. Banana? Silence. Turkey? Silence. Milk? Applause. I love it. You roam our home as freely as the hens in the backyard, swish, swish, swish, gliding the wood floors on your butt, peeking around corners and into crevices, looking silently for a new secret thing or space. Your favorite place still remains your brothers’ room where you’re bound to find some tiny treasure to put into your mouth or dump onto the floor. You love the trash and the toilet in particular, two disgusting pleasures. Fortunately, you never want to eat or taste the trash, only to displace it. Piece by piece. This last month, you started walking and began a new venture in climbing, mostly book shelves and step stools, and in spite of falling off of one bathroom stool thus far, you have yet to stop (a third reason you are banned from bathrooms). Needless to say, I’m grateful for a one-story home and doors.
Each of your siblings adores you as much as we do. In spite of their occasional lab-rat mentality toward you — “But she’s having FUN playing in the toilet water I just peed in! And it’s FUNNY!” or “It’s OK if I hold her feet in the air because she’s STILL holding onto the coffee table with her hands.” or the catchall, “But, Mom. Look! THIS means SHE LIKES IT!” — they adore you, mostly doting on you with kisses and hugs and rides and safe play. You return their affection with plenty of laughter and applause, of course.
In short, we love you. We enjoy you. And we’re all so glad to be in a family together with you, Olive. Today, we celebrate you: happy birthday, Sweet One.
This year, Nina came down to celebrate your birthday with us, but we had to change plans when Liam, Blythe, and I woke up with a stomach bug. Thank God Nina was here. Fortunately, we celebrated you the next weekend; unfortunately, Nina couldn’t come back. Still, she gave you plenty of hugs, kisses, and tickles while she was here. Below are some pictures from your big evening (thank you, Aunt Kristen!): warm spring air, grilled chicken and avocado, clementines and pears, birdhouse painting, billowy tissue pom-poms (you can find out how to make them here), lights, and of course, your favorite part, white coconut cake (although you could have skipped the candle).
happy 5th birthday burke.
You are a force, Burke. Not the force, but a force nonetheless. Whether throwing your body to tackle someone or wrapping your legs and arms around another for a large hug, you play and love hard. As an infant you would nuzzle anyone who picked you up, entrusting and resting your entire self into them/us regardless of their familiarity to you. And aside from your resulting infant repulsion of having to sleep by yourself — a glitch really — we have always loved your willingness to give and receive affection. You are so bright and eager to learn, still mostly absorbing the world around you through observation. And you started reading this year (!) — I imagine mostly due to your persistence in asking me to teach you; you work diligently and patiently, thriving in independent work, although more often when it’s of your own initiative. You see, Son, you hate imperatives of any form — academic or otherwise. It’s more likely to find you lying next to your clothes than putting them on or thoughtfully playing with your toys when you need to put on your shoes to leave the house. Still, you cannot be rushed, and I admit (despite my periodic frustration) that I love this about you, Burke: you love/enjoy people without becoming encumbered by their expectations of you. Apart from when your little sister annoys you or your big brother undermines you, you are generous with kind words, frequently saying things like, “you’re the BEST mom in the whole wide world” or “thank you mom for this delicious ____.” And now, at your new age of 5, as the last of your baby chub melts off of you like wax revealing the man-boy beneath, the contrast of your ever-growing tenderness only sharpens. May you never despise your sensitivity, Sweet One, or define yourself by other people’s estimation of you. I love you, Burke, and today, I celebrate you: happy birthday.
This year, we celebrated your big day with a jedi-training party. We invited your friends over and “trained” you all on the obstacle course that Dad and I created for you guys — including a miniature Sarlac, Dad as a ball-pelting storm trooper (although he accidentally pelted you in the eye), and a light-saber fight with Darth Vader (Kevin). You all also scavenger-hunted for treat bags where you attacked a pinata with your light sabers – “the best birthday ever,” you said. Here’s some pictures of your hard efforts.
the snowy day
We don’t get much snow here in central Texas; endless, hot summer days infested by mosquitos seem to be more our thing. So when giant, icy cotton balls fall from the sky, here, it is magical. That day was today. Our very own snowy day. And just like Peter (from the book), the kids crunched away, looking for footprints (or “animal tracks”), knocking at snow with sticks, and even having their own snowball fight. Even little Olive banged her chubby little hands on the door to get outside. The kids only lasted about an hour before their non-waterproofed winter-wear wore off, and they were forced to retreat inside with frozen toes and fingers. Still, they loved it.
moths, rust, and three year olds
Parenthood is so consuming. We scour books, searching for some sort of direction and instruction; we probe friends and family, discussing disappointments and achievements alike, gleaning any sort of feedback possible; but most of all, we just want ways to improve, well — me, us, them — our family. I say this not in the saintly, I’m-the-best-mom type of way, but in the my-kids-have-fully-furnished-rooms-designed-for-creative-expression-play-and-thought-while-my-own-looks-like-a-glorified-dorm-room-with-plastic-dresser-drawers type of way. Seriously. Hence I say “consuming.” The bubble popped a few weeks ago after I put a new lamp in the boys’ room for better reading light, yet later that night I found myself reading in bed by the light shed from my closet. What the? I promptly removed the lamp to my room (much to Liam’s dissatisfaction) and bought new pillows to fill the bright white bedding that Mark and I had bought months ago. Perfect. In two very small steps, I had drastically improved the quality of my own and Mark’s life (and I suppose my kids by some sort of approximation).
You can now imagine the deflation to my new found enthusiasm when I noticed Blythe sauntering out of my new sanctuary last week shirtless and painted in red stripes like some heroic woman-warrior — only, “hero” was not the word in my mind at the time. I ran to my room to find a bloody-looking sacrifice of four lipsticks, two mascaras, one blush, one eyeliner, and one emptied bottle of loose shimmer powder sprawled out and rubbed into my bathroom rug. But the rug was not a large enough canvas. Blythe painted the cabinets and floors and walls and blinds, and since she had used her hands for all of this mashing and painting and destroying, she needed the white duvet cover on my bed to clean and rid herself of evidence. Humph.
I wish I could tell you that I laughed or calmly reprimanded my daughter, immediately recognizing the transient nature of “my stuff” — but I didn’t. I. was. angry. So angry in fact that Blythe sat in time out, oh, for maybe 15-20 minutes until Mark returned home from work. I just love “my stuff” too much; only, I suppose, moths and rust would have taken too long to reveal this secret (or not so) love in my heart. Sigh. Mark and I were able to get all the reddish, pink smears and handprints out of the white duvet: liquid dish soap. I’m so grateful — for the soap and the daughter alike (lest I not clarify).
