A Better Way than Unacceptable

Conviction comes at the strangest of times.  Brushing my teeth last night, thinking over the events of the day, I thought about how sometimes when my children misbehave I correct them with an clearly annunciated, "Unacceptable."  Usually, this utterance comes in the chaos of getting four children ready and out the door or in the midst of some other activity requiring order and concentration, not my two strongest points.  Of course, I do not mean that  they are unacceptable, but that their behavior at that particular moment is unacceptable and must therefore change immediately.  I trust they know and understand that truth, but nonetheless, conviction hit from two directions.

First came the realization that however much I might say a certain behavior is unacceptable, it sort of is acceptable.  What I mean may be explained like this:  Imagine the most annoying, frustrating, maddening person in your family, immediate or extended, that person you'd like to take aside and throttle till they come to their senses.  Got it?  Now, picture a family reunion five or ten years from now.  Is that person present at your hypothetical gathering?  Barring ex-spouses and extreme dysfunction, I'm betting that person is there, and everything is peachy.  In truth, family accepts a lot of so-called unacceptable behavior.

Why?  Because family is family, and you love them despite their flaws and stupidity.  Familial love extends  the sort of grace that bears the annoying, accepts the flawed, defends the weak, and wraps the sinner in unconditional love.  Families do not shun their members, or at least they ought not do so.  Instead, they suspend their personal feelings of disbelief, hurt, and frustration to enfold the black sheep in the warm, loving protection of the flock.  Yes, there are times to be stern and unyielding, but for the most part - without ignoring or excusing bad behavior - a family accepts, defends, and is ever hopeful for its own.

Kind of like... slap of conviction number two...  Jesus.  I've been a Christian for nearly thirty years (yes, I'm old now), and while I've experienced plenty of conviction and correction, my Savior has never shunned me.  Always, He has received me with love and gentleness.  This is not because I am acceptable, but because, thanks to the cross, I am part of the family of God.  When I am stupid, stubborn, or just plain sinful - in short, when I fall down - Jesus does not say, "Unacceptable."  He does not say, "On your feet!  Straighten up!" Rather, he suggests a better way.  "No, no.. don't walk that way.  Walk this way." And his Spirit provides the courage to stand and the grace to walk in Christ's better way.

I'm sure, being thick of head, I will again tell at least one of my children, "Unacceptable," but I hope that God's grace will keep in the forefront of my mind his better way of instruction - a way that enfolds the imperfect with love and offers the struggling child a better way.  This way is love that extends a helping hand and a gentle whisper, "This is the way... walk in it."  (Isaiah 30:21)  Because whatever else they or I may be, we are never unloved.

A perfectly fitting, absolutely beautiful song by Michael W. Smith to close this post...

What Should Our Home School Look Like?

This question has been bouncing around my head for the past several months.  That image of the picture perfect family snuggling on the couch, a warm fire blazing in the nearby hearth, taking turns reading aloud from a book published in 1804, is, I am fully convinced, just that - an image.  I have a house full of varying personalities and learning styles, and somewhere between one and four of those personalities (depending on the day) are not keen on reading aloud, let alone sharing a couch cushion.  Throw a fire into the mix, and pyromania breaks loose.  I know I'm not the only one.  No, that is not a scene I care to attempt.

Likewise, the picture of everyone sitting around the table, nose stuck in workbooks isn't happening.  It might work for one or two of my children some of the time, but others, eh, not so much.  One of the reasons we chose home schooling is because we don't believe children should sit all day.  Learning should be bigger than the space of a desk, bigger even than a classroom.  Learning should be liberating, not restrictive.  The world is our classroom and all that...

Still, there are things we need to do, things they need to learn, and I'm finding that some of those things have to get done between - or in the midst of - the more pressing business of living life.  This doesn't mean, of course, that we neglect those things they "need to learn." It simply means we can put off a grammar lesson to experience the sheer joy of working together to construct a dam, water and all, and we can spend Christmas break preparing for a Geography Bee and Fair.  It means the line between School and Life can be blurry to non-existent now and then.

Somewhere deep down, a little voice whispers, "Isn't that the point?"

I'm finding the answer to my original question elusive.  What should our home school look like?  I can't seem to snap a mental photo that rightly captures every day of our home schooling adventure.  There's no telling what it will look like in a month, but at this swiftly passing moment in time, it looks like books and paper all over the dining room, an open kitchen window, and muddy, muddy children laughing together while Mom cleans up the kitchen and gets lunch ready.  Overall, it looks a bit like Life - busy, jumbled, unpredictable, and somehow moving forward.

It looks, if I may say so, simply breathtaking.

P.S. This afternoon, we'll be studying personal hygiene (a.k.a. showering), followed by the proper use of brooms and mops!  :)

One Day...

One day...

This is the mother's near constant refrain.

One day.

I want one day.  One day without fighting, bickering, complaining, back-talking, sulking, pouting, and every other make-me-want-to-pull-out-my-hair-ing.  One day of a clean house, cheerful children, completed laundry, sparkling dishes, a luxurious bubble bath, a full night of sleep, and while we're at it, a perfectly romantic husband who cooks, cleans, puts the kids to bed, and asks, "Is there anything else I can do for you, my dear, beautiful, matchless wife?"

One day.


One day I will organize all of this clutter.  I will assemble baby books and photo albums.  I will get rid of clothes long outgrown and toys long neglected.  One day I will put candles and glass picture frames at normal level rather than "I don't see how he could possibly reach this" level.  One day I will write a novel or start a business or pursue a career or further education or...  or figure out what I want to do "after kids."  Because right now, I don't have the time or attention span to formulate a plan.

One day.


In the meantime, I will take life one day at a time.  I will cherish this one day, because I cannot know what even the next moment holds.  I will take the time to read a mind-numbingly stupid children's book or engage in a light-saber duel.  I will let my kids dig in the yard, watching them bury their hands and feet in warm earth without worrying what my tub will look like after their baths.  I will even take pictures of their dirty feet, because one day...

... One day I'll wish for this day again.

Preparations

We're having a little birthday party tomorrow, and in a couple short weeks, my family will descend upon my home.  As much as I'd like to tell you that I'm not stressing out at all...

I am.

Don't worry. I'll get over it.  See, I sometimes joke about my less-than-immaculate home being "a ministry of encouragement" to other women who don't have it all together, saying that after visiting my house, they'll feel like domestic divas - or at least know that they aren't alone in the battle against clutter and sticky fingerprints.  It's a joke, but it isn't.

A few years ago, a new friend visited my home for the first time.  As I offered the obligatory apology for the mess, she stopped me with a firm, kind, "Don't ever apologize about your home."  Her point was clear. She was here for friendship, not for scenery.  Since then, I have tried to welcome people to our home with a "come as you are" attitude.  This is a home.  Make yourself comfortable.  This isn't a showcase house.  We live here, and welcome you to do the same while you are here. Don't worry about what your child might break or mess up.  Chances are, we've broken or messed it up before, and if we haven't, it was only a matter of time.

Lest anyone think me just plain lazy and ungrateful for company, I do attempt to tidy up for visitors.  Sometimes, the best I can do is to make sure everyone's dirty underwear is in the hamper.  The clean underwear might get overlooked.  (True story, our pastor came to visit one morning.  Halfway through the visit, I noticed a pair of underwear in the middle of the living room floor.  Yeah, we're that classy.  My only consolation was they were Luke's, and since Luke doesn't actually wear those Diego undies yet – since he doesn’t wear ANY undies yet – the undies in question were unquestionably clean.  Plus, when you're consoling a woman upon the death of her father, I think you kind of have to overlook undies on the floor, whether they're clean or not).  Anyhow, I do clean.  I promise.  

I was thinking about hospitality as I swept the living room tonight, and my sister came to mind - not my Wise and Wonderful Sister, but the other one, for whom I have yet to concoct a catchy moniker.  This is the sister with whom I lived for the last five months of her life, and I haven't figured out how to refer to her with the right balance of reverence and realism.  

So she'll just be My Sister tonight.

My Sister once told me that she was so thankful to God for her home that she had determined to use it to offer hospitality to others.  When I moved in, she encouraged me to help decorate, to make her home our home.  Together, we found a church we loved, and as we made friends there, we invited them to join us for Friday Food, Fun, and Fellowship Nights - dinner, games, fellowship...  fun.  It was a lovely time.

In retrospect, our home was nothing to write home about.  (Pun completely intended).  Situated on six acres of sand and weeds, the old trailer boasted a living room furnished with wicker lawn chairs and a second bedroom barely large enough for a twin bed and dresser, let alone the saddle stored at the foot of my bed and the bridles hanging in my closet.  But it was home, and we opened the doors to any who would come.  We were too busy eating chili, playing board games, and dreaming of the future to worry about what we were sitting on or how tall the weeds were.  We did stop to question why a bull was roaming the neighborhood, but that's another story...  

By the time I mopped the hallway tonight, my belief that having company has nothing to do with showing off a house and everything to do with sharing life in all its mess and beauty was firmly fixed in my heart.  With My Sister's hospitality in mind, I am eager to welcome our friends and family into our home in the coming days and weeks, whether or not I finish all the cleaning.  Once the doors open, we won't have time to think about dust and drips of milk.  We'll be enjoying life.

A History of Cake Wrecks

One of my favorite websites of all time has to be Cake Wrecks.  Okay, I should probably be ashamed to admit that, but those cakes and the accompanying comments are hilarious.

And I have to admit, I've had my share of cake wrecks in my life.  Four times a year, I chuckle to myself as I frost a cake that's supposed to be Darth Vadar or a princess or a frog or...

That's right.  A Lego cake.  Unfortunately for John, there was an accident at the Lego factory - an accident involving super high temperatures causing all the cute little blocks to melt.

Going back to the princess cake...

This is what she looked like in the later hours of the evening, just after I discovered the bowl in which I baked the cake was not quite deep enough for Snow White's long legs.  Thankfully, I'm a resourceful little mama...

A tiny, quickly assembled cake baked in a ramekin cup and some amazing work with the very little frosting remaining in my bowl produced the final product.  (My Sweet and Beautiful Sister-in-Law can testify to the absurdity of that evening.  Suffice it to say, there was a lot of laughter in my kitchen).  I left the lower shelves of the fridge in the photo to share the full freaky effect of opening the fridge to find Snow White up to her hips in bright yellow cake.  I'm glad she didn't have to stay in there any longer than she did.  It really was unnerving to see her cold, smiling face every time I wanted some milk for my coffee.

So, my children might grow up scarred.  "Remember all those crazy, scary cakes Mom used to make us?"

Then again, maybe they'll appreciate that they never had THIS cake:

If you can't read that, it says, "Welcome Home, Brad.  Best Wishes, Amy."  I thought about scanning the photo, but decided a web cam shot, fingers included, would be more to the point.  Don't want to be too classy for the occasion, you know...

Now, if you don't know the occasion, the message might be a bit confusing.  Who are Brad and Amy, and why does Amy need "best wishes" upon Brad's homecoming?  This certainly does not sound like a happy, stable home in which Snow White is swaddled in Saran Wrap and thrust into a volcano shaped cake...  Poor Amy and Brad.  I hope they find a good marriage counselor.

But that's not the real story.  

The real story is that my cousin's husband had just been released from death row, and my Wise and Wonderful Sister was on her way to college.  I swear I'm not making this up.  Even I'm not that imaginative. It just so happened that the celebrations of Brad's homecoming and Amy's departure collided on one poor cake, whose picture would be unearthed years later by a woman who has spent too much time laughing her way through Cake Wreck articles.  

Somehow, I'm feeling a little better about my children's birthday cake(wreck)s.  Not only are we making our own family tradition of laughable cakes, we are carrying on a twenty year family tradition of absurdity.  Cake wrecks are, I must humbly accept, an inescapable part of my life.

At least they taste good...

Under the Weight of Lighter Burdens

Over the past several months, I've been reminded repeatedly to be thankful for my circumstances.  It began most pointedly with the good news of Andrew's endoscopy.  Coming after a day of observing other parents struggling under the weight of their children's illnesses, I keenly appreciated his health and the health of my entire family.  Reminders to be thankful continue, most recently, with photos I've seen this week depicting nearly starved children.  Intervening events and observances have reinforced the message:  My struggles are light.

Still - and here's where I may sound extremely self-centered and petty - they haven't always felt light.  At times, only a conscious choice to take several deep breaths, entrust everything from the actual situation to my exaggerated emotions to the care of Christ, and walk on in peace have kept me from doing the opposite, namely flailing in despair.  It's amazing how much lighter burdens are when operating in a condition of willful trust.

We probably all know that, at least on some level, it's all about perspective.  Perspective, however, is not what I really want to talk about today.  I know I should encourage all the average people out there who are fed, clothed, and loved to put on their big kid panties, look around, and see how great they have it.  Instead, I want to offer them sympathy.  (Though by all means, work on that perspective thing, for your own good!)

A right perspective is a choice, and one that generally does improve one's situation.  Almost always, it could be worse, and this is where a right perspective can really come in handy in making us thankful that it isn't.  But still, whatever it is, it IS.  Perspective may clear one's mind, but it doesn't necessarily remove one's problems (unless of course, the problems are all in one's head).  A right perspective gives us the courage to persevere and the hope that our perseverance will prove worthwhile, but when the clouds of discouragement disperse, we still must tend to the garden of life - pulling up weeds, nurturing tender shoots, chasing away hungry creatures...  Life is work, however good your circumstances may be.

So while I am thankful for God's many blessings - for the love and health of family and friends, for food to eat and a bed in which to sleep, and for the tools to carry my particular burdens with confidence in the giver of all good gifts - I wish to extend the hand of fellowship to others struggling with what we might call "lighter burdens," the every day struggles of every day people that don't make the news or stir the sympathy of the masses, the struggles we are a little ashamed to confess because we know that in the grand scheme of things, "it's not that bad."

None of this is intended to trivialize the heavier burdens of our world - sickness, starvation, homelessness, war, brutality, death, etc. - nor is it intended to elevate the lighter burdens.  My desire is simply to communicate sympathetic appreciation of those diligently tending sunny little gardens, wiping sweat from brows as they wonder just what this tangle of greenery will look like when their labor ends.

Grace, strength, and peace to you.

On a Completely Self-Absorbed Note... (Or, In Defense of The Blog)

Disclaimer:  No commenters on blogging are implicated in the writing of this blog post, nor do I harbor any bitterness toward any who have expressed the same negative thoughts I share regarding the act of blogging.  

I'm a little embarrassed to admit that I blog.  Blogging is, as a few people have pointed out, somewhat self-absorbed, narcissistic, attention seeking...  Rarely does anyone say, "You blog?  Wow, that's excellent!"

I don't take offense because, truth be told, Geoff and I have shared the same views of blogging.  It is self-absorbed and narcissistic.  The very act of hitting the "publish" button suggests that one believes one has something of value to communicate to the world at large.  If you browse through a few blogs, you'll discover that some bloggers do have something of value to communicate and do so quite artfully, but some offer neither interest nor art.  (Although, interest and art are mostly subjective...)  Some are downright painful to read.

Lack of interest and art is a pity, but that's not the point of blogging.  The longer I've blogged, the more I've appreciated the process of blogging.  There is something therapeutic, something invigorating, something centering, something satisfying in translating jumbled thoughts into coherent sentences and paragraphs.  Do bloggers always achieve the goal of coherency?  No.  But we try, and I imagine the feeling of having created a solidly good blog post is akin to an artist's contentment upon finishing a painting or sculpture or - to put it the artistic context to which I most clearly relate - snapping the perfect photograph.  Blogging is, in a sense, short exercises in the art of language, completely independent of any desire for public approval.

Which brings me to the "publish" button...  Someone might ask, "Why not just keep a journal?  Why post it online?  That's where it becomes really self-absorbed."  Okay.  Granted.  But would the same question be asked of an artist displaying his work in an art gallery or, lest anyone accuse me of claiming greatness, of a child showing off his crayon drawing?  The desire to share art, whether in image or word, may be self-absorbed attention-seeking behavior, but I believe, overall, it enriches the human experience.  Trash abounds in either medium, but there are gems worth discovering in the wreckage of human creativity.

Additionally - to change the track of the argument - men and women engage in a multitude of self-absorbed activities.  We're vain little creatures, checking our looks in the mirror, tweaking our appearances here and there.  We love to talk about ourselves and can't get enough compliments.  We post blurry pictures of our dinners on Facebook, expecting others to comment on what looks to them like mush.  We do A LOT of self-absorbed things, secretly hoping to be noticed and affirmed.  Why pick on blogging?  If you don't like it, don't read it.  Just don't think you're completely innocent of the same sin as the blogger.

I'm getting to the point of not caring how self-absorbed blogging is.  I thoroughly enjoy the writing process, so until I have time to sit down and write that novel I've had in mind for the last several years, I will keep writing these little blog posts.  Whether well written or not (and I'll be the first to admit that I am perfectly capable of writing a painful mess of nonsense), it's fun, relaxing, and in the midst of piles of laundry, dishes, and children's papers (not that I'm neglecting those things, of course...  Believe me, they get plenty of my time...), my blog is mine.  Do I like positive feedback?  Of course.  Who wouldn't, and so what?  Writing a blog post is a mini-retreat, even with a kitchen band playing in the background, and if it encourages another human being in some small way, all the better.

So, yeah, I blog, and I'm not sorry.

Kindred Spirits

Our family has the great joy of getting together with my wise and wonderful sister, her kindly husband, and their four angelic children rather frequently, given the geographical distance between us.  At least once a year, often more than that, we convene for a few days of frolic and frenzy.  The children, all close in age, get along swimmingly, with the occasional exception of one or two of the second-borns acting funky upon feelings of real or imagined exclusion.  Each visit picks up where the last left off, with no need for reacquaintance.  They are cousins, magically linked to one another.

With a history of visits and a strong cousinly bond firmly established with their maternal cousins, I was glad, but very slightly anxious at the prospect of spending Thanksgiving with paternal cousins we had not seen in almost four years.  I was eager for my children to get to know their "other cousins," but quite frankly, I didn't know how they would get along.  I hoped it would go well, but one never knows.  The last time we got together with these cousins, a dispute over a toy umbrella resulted in a gash over one child's eyebrow and the confiscation of another child's brand spankin' new Christmas presents.  Talk about a merry Christmas...

As it turned out, I had absolutely nothing to fear and so very much over which to rejoice.  Almost as soon as The Cousins arrived at Grandma's house, our older boys paired off with the older two boy cousins.  Andrew and the cousin closest to his age were inseparable, as expected.  John and his oldest cousin, now eleven, were practically joined at the hip.  The younger children mingled with each other and with the adults and older cousins.

But the boys...  I hope they will forgive me for calling their cousinly friendships nothing short of beautiful.  One pair in particular touched my heart as they interacted with flawless peace and grace.  Sometimes they ran ahead, but these two, rather noted for their exuberant energy, absolutely soothed my soul.  Something in the way they walked together, talked together, stuck together assured me that they will, by God's grace and the kindness of sympathetic hearts, grow to be amazing, dynamic, compassionate, spectacular human beings...  because in the light from a kindred spirit, that's what they already are.

The Trouble with Keeping Christ in Christmas

I cringe a little every year when the old "Keep Christ in Christmas" signs and stickers come out of hiding.  It's not that I believe in excluding the Christ child from the celebration of his birth.  On the contrary, I believe He should have more prominence in our festivities, and on that point I agree with the "Keep Christ in Christmas" signs.

Additionally, in an age when "Happy Holidays" replaces "Merry Christmas," and communities dispute permissible content of "holiday displays," the "Keep Christ in Christmas" campaign has a clear, indispensable purpose.  We must not allow the birth of the Saviour to be buried under political correctness.  Nor must we allow materialistic greed to devour the wonder of God's infinitely generous gift to humankind.  Keeping focussed on Christ is a challenge in our frantic age, particularly in the frenzied month of December.  The slogan is a reminder, albeit a somewhat worn out reminder, to hold fast to Christ rather than be swept away in the festivities, to remember the Lord as we strain our brains to make sure we haven't forgotten gifts for any of our family or friends.  In this busy time between Thanksgiving and the new year, we do have great need to "keep Christ."

My disagreement with the slogan boils down the to matter of the rest of the year.  Keeping Christ in Christmas is all well and good, but what about the other 364 days?  Are we keeping Christ in January 22, May 3, August 17, November 30?  "Keep Christ in Christmas" seems a tad cliche, like we're merely paying our annual dues before going back to whatever we were doing before Santa showed up.  I may be asking a lot of myself and others, but honestly, we need to keep Christ daily, not just on Christmas.

Again, I firmly believe we should remember the birth of the Saviour.  We should keep our hearts fixed on the miracle, purpose, and grace of God assuming the form of a helpless human baby, living among us and ultimately dying to live again for our salvation.  We should rejoice deeply in Christ on Christmas.  But it shouldn't stop there.  Jesus Christ is not the wrapping paper, pretty to look at but quickly tossed aside; He is the cherished gift, the long-desired teddy bear that fits snugly in a child's arms from the first moment till forever.

It is easy, natural and good to remind ourselves and others to remember Christ at Christmastime.  The greater challenge - yes, it is a challenge - is to keep Christ throughout the rest of the year.  In truth, we need to realize that it is not we who keep Him, but He who keeps us.  When we truly realize that, "keeping" the Christ who keeps us will be our joy and strength, and we will need no reminder to "keep Christ" in Christmas or any other day.

An Occasion for Dancing

My husband and I dance together every day.  We dance this crazy little jig as old as Adam and Eve.  Funny thing is, even after all these years, no one has quite figured out the steps.  You can watch others dance this dance, read books about this dance, talk about it till you're blue in the face...  but no one can tell you exactly when or where to place each of your feet.  You have to figure it out step by step, and the music rarely stops long enough for you to look at your feet.  It's the beauty and joy of this dance called "Life."  This dance, under the providence of God and the sweetness of his blessing, is uniquely, marvelously, beautifully yours.

Sometimes, it's a gloriously elegant dance, with every intricate detail of motion, sound, and color coming together flawlessly.  Sometimes, it's a little like two people bringing four left feet to a crummy DJ's dance floor.  Regardless of what it looks like, though, we dance.  Whether graceful or clumsy, it is a beautiful dance, for beneath our fluctuating coordination is something steady, something that drives us to strive for grace and to cover bruised toes with understanding, forgiveness, and laughter.   It imparts the hope, courage, and faith necessary to dance on confidently.

As I celebrate the birthday of my love, my partner in this ancient dance, I rejoice in the love God has given us.  I am forever thankful to Geoff for his gift of contagious laughter, his ability to look beyond my flaws, and his steadiness through every step of our sweet, always-ageless, ever-new dance.

Happy birthday, Geoff.

(For the sake of our pride and the serenity of observers, I will not ask you to dance with me in the literal sense, however grateful I am to dance with you in the figurative sense!)

If They Only Knew...

A mother has many secrets, and I trust you not to reveal to my children those secrets I reveal to you today.

See, I was in the kitchen preparing lunch and I couldn't help overhearing my two oldest children, who were playing on the deck, just outside the open kitchen window.  Said one son to another, "Mom would have a FIT!"

I, being a prudent mother, slightly scared but eager to prevent said fit with an appropriately placed warning not to attempt whatever maternal tantrum-inducing plan was on the backyard picnic table, peered out the window and asked my scheming sons just why "mom would have a fit."

My oldest looked up and pleasantly answered, "If we let Captain Brownie out in the house."

Whew.  It's not so bad.  Captain Brownie is the lizard they are subjecting to observation this afternoon, and if he were to be let loose in the house, I would cheer for his escape and ask him to catch any bugs on his way to freedom.  If a lizard did have free roam of the house, and I'm not saying I'd encourage such a circumstance, I'd be far more concerned for the reptile's safety than my own.  It's a lizard, not a gila monster.  Besides, lizards and I are kind of old pals.  Little do my sons know that a major part of my South Florida upbringing involved the capture of lizards larger than the one they have made prisoner in a plastic pineapple container.  I've told them, but I don't think they believe me.  Mom?  Catch lizards all day?  Nah, it couldn't be!

They also don't know - at least they don't seem to fully grasp the reality - that I could out-burp them and any of their friends... and probably any of their friends' daddies, too.  This isn't a gift I routinely display.  As a thirty-something mother in the South, it doesn't seem quite genteel enough to go around burping out people's names.  I can do it, and I've done it for the boys.  They laugh.  They beg me to do it again...  but a week later when they burp at dinner, they look at me as if I'm going to scold them for such awful table manners. I acquiesce.  "No burping at the table."  "Say 'Excuse me.'"  All that good manners stuff.

I'm Mom.  I'm supposed to teach them good manners.  I'm supposed to be appalled when they fail to practice those good manners.  Apparently, I'm supposed to be scared of lizards, too.

But, well... between you and me, I was a kid once upon a time, and I get it.  Burping is fun, especially if you can do it better than anyone else and gross someone out in the process.  Lizards are cool, especially if there's someone around who's deathly afraid that the harmless little reptile might get loose and come within ten yards of her foot.  I guess there's some part of my boys that expects me to be that someone who finds burping scandalous and who will jump on a chair or hang from the chandelier if she discovers a lizard loose in the house.  I'm not sure I'm quite up for the job, but I'll try.  At the very least, I'll insist they keep Captain Brownie in his cage.  I just won't tell them my rule is more for the poor lizard's protection than my peace of mind...

For the Love and Trepidation of History

In any discussion of our reasons for choosing home education, whether I'm speaking with others or pondering to myself, the subject of teaching history chronologically is sure to arise.  One of the things that most attracted me to home education and that has kept me at it for four-and-a-half years is the freedom to study history chronologically.  We began with the Ancients in First Grade - nomads, Greeks, Romans, Incas, Aztecs... and are now, in Fourth Grade (Second for John), on the brink of World War II.


I've loved almost every minute of it.  History was never my favorite subject in school.  Looking back, my education in social studies seems like a hodgepodge of information.  Geography one year, American history another year, with Economics and Civics each given a semester...  It's a mess.  No wonder History bored me.  I did well in my classes, but learned very little.  (Being married to a bit of a history buff, this is all quite embarrassing to admit).


When I came across the idea of teaching History chronologically, I fell in love.  It made perfect sense.  Why wouldn't you tell the story of the world chronologically?  Stories are typically told in that fashion.  Why should History be treated differently?  


And so we began with Susan Wise Bauer's The Story of the World Volume 1: Ancient Times and have progressed through each of the four volumes, gaining for myself and hopefully for my children a clearer understanding of History than I was taught.  I have to say, I love The Story of the World.  It has introduced my children to a wealth of information and presented countless opportunities for discussion of real-life issues.  We have broached some tough subjects over the years - false gods, slavery, social injustice...  and now I'm about to introduce my sweet, little children to wretched, old Adolf Hitler.


This is when I start to hate History again.


Okay, "hate" might be a bit strong, but I definitely approach Hitler with trepidation.  How do I look into my children's big, bright eyes and tell them the horrors of committed against millions of innocent people?  How do I explain the Holocaust - why Nazis did what they did and why good people let them get away with it?  I find myself searching for more grace to teach this brief span of History than I have needed to teach the previous thousands of years combined - jaguar-headed gods, human sacrifices and all.


In realizing my need of grace, I realize something else.  It's not just Hitler who horrifies me, from whom I wish to shield my children.  Throughout History, civilizations have puffed themselves up, crushed others, and committed atrocities without remorse, and it hasn't stopped.  We've come a long way from virgin sacrifices on South American pyramids, yet arrogance and violence remain.  Slavery still exists.  The mass killing of innocent human beings continues.  Hitler may be prince among the evil leaders, but he is certainly not alone, nor did terror die with him, as the past sixty-six years have proven.


There is a saying, "Those who do not know History are doomed to repeat it."  Three-and-a-half years into our chronological study of History, I wonder if even those who do know History are doomed to repeat it.  I mean, we're still at all our old evil games, just in thinly disguised forms.  I'll admit it:  When it occurs to me that the knowledge of History might not prevent its repetition, I kind of want to keep History's darkest moments a secret from my babies.  Why subject them to History's horrors when they will have their own horrors to face?  Each day has enough trouble of its own.  Why add to their worries?  


I found my answer in Corrie ten Boom's The Hiding Place.  Early in the ten Boom family's involvement in the Dutch underground resistance against the Nazis, a Jewish mother with her two week old baby come to their home seeking a hiding place.  Corrie asks a pastor if he would take the mother and infant into his home.  His answer is clear. "No.  Definitely not.  We could lose our lives for that Jewish child."  


Casper ten Boom, Corrie's eighty-year-old father, responds by taking the child in his arms.  "You say we could lose our lives for this child," he says.  "I would consider that the greatest honor that could come to my family."  (p. 99)


In another place, Corrie's sister Betsie tells her, "There are no 'ifs' in God's world.  And no places that are safer than other places.  The center of His will is our only safety - O Corrie, let us pray that we may always know it!" (p. 67)


The example of the ten Booms and others throughout history - Sojourner Truth and Harriet Tubman, for example - and the reality that just as no place is safer than any other, so no time is safer than any other compel me to teach History thoroughly and honestly.  I do not teach my children History to expose them to the cruelty of Hitler and others, but to uphold the honor of those who stood for what was right, who honored God and their fellow human beings even in the face of great suffering, who trusted in God's sovereign providence to provide all they need in life and death.  


I do not know what horrors of History will be repeated or how they will be tweaked to avoid immediate detection, nor do I know what new cruelties man might conceive.  But I pray that whatever comes, my children will recall their History lessons and find the courage to follow the example of those men and women who shine in History, those of whom it can be said:


 ³² Remember... when you stood your ground in a great contest in the face of suffering.³³ Sometimes you were publicly exposed to insult and persecution; at other times you stood side by side with those who were so treated.³⁴ You sympathized with those in prison and joyfully accepted the confiscation of your property, because you knew that you yourselves had better and lasting possessions.  (Hebrews 10:32-34)


If we are doomed to repeat History, whether we know it our not, God grant that we remember the faithful, true, and good, and He who upheld them in their hour of suffering.  God grant that we imitate them in our own hours of suffering, and let us pray with Corrie and Betsie ten Boom that we may always know and find our safety in the center of His will.

Last Mom in the Woods

An incredible thing happens when I take my children for a walk through the woods:  I remember how very amazing they are.  It's not that I forget that they are wonderful, but sometimes, well...  yeah, I kind of do forget.  In the bustle of home and school and everything else, sometimes I forget that these four human beings are full of marvelous complexities and wonders.

But then we go for a walk in the woods.

As I watch them tromp through the woods, sometimes rushing ahead, sometimes lagging behind, peace fills my heart as curiosity fills theirs.  One stops to show a younger sibling how to use a walking stick.  Soon after, one stoops to pick up a rock that has caught his attention.  The littlest discovers the magic of pockets, secreting a rock or a leaf into his newly discovered lair.  All the while, they interact with each other and me with a strange blend of peace and excitement.  They are tiny, yet powerful parts of God's vast creation.  It is as if they know by instinct that they hold a crucial role in this amazing world full of towering trees and tucked away beetles.  All the conflicts and insecurities of daily life dissolve in the sweet air of the forest.

As for myself, I marvel at my children.  I cherish tiny milestones, like Luke's discovery of his pockets and his first leaf collection.  I promise to remember quietly observed moments of sibling cooperation and realize that these kids, however much they may have bickered earlier in the day, really, truly love each other.  I feel, too, that however much I might worry about how they'll turn out, they will most likely turn out just fine - and then some.  They are, after all, amazing little people, full of marvelous complexities and wonders.

Since first sight, I have been intrigued by the title of a book by Richard Louv, Last Child in the Woods:  Saving our Children from Nature Deficit Disorder.  I haven't read it yet, but it's on my mental list of books I ought to read.  After yesterday's walk through the woods with my children, a walk especially sweet for reasons understood and inexplicable, I wondered if someone ought write another book, entitled Last Mom in the Woods:  Saving our Mothers from Nature Deficit Insanity.  A few posts back, I wrote about making peace a part of normal motherhood, and I wonder if mothers are not in need of nature as much as their offspring.

Not having read Louv's book, I can only imagine what he has to say, but as a (sometimes worn-out, exasperated, on the brink of a meltdown) mother who never fails to feel refreshed after a walk through the woods, I say such time in nature is not only worth our time, but perhaps essential to peaceful, clear-minded motherhood.  If it comes to mothers abandoning the woods en masse, I volunteer to be the last mom in the woods.  In the meantime, I vow to be there more often, because the gifts of serenity, joy, and confidence I find within the woods are worth putting in my pocket and taking home with my children's rocks, leaves, and sticks.

Relief

It's three in the afternoon, and already it has been a long day, fraught with emotion.  I'm glad to say, though, that the day's prevailing emotion is relief.  After nine years of watching Andrew's weight and wondering off and on if his lightness might be a sign of something more or less serious, he is in the clear.  While we still await the results of some tests, his doctor is optimistic about Andrew's health.  Neither blood work nor today's upper endoscopy has revealed anything about which we need be concerned.  Subjecting him to blood work and various tests, especially today's scope, has not been this mother's idea of fun, and the thought that we can lay our concerns aside, having ruled out major disorder or disfunction, leaves me with one reigning emotion.

Relief.

After worrying that Andrew would not weather his endoscopy with grace, I smiled - even laughed - at his cheerful attitude and pleasant banter with nurses.  After fearing he would come out of anesthesia a roaring lion, I puzzled as he asked, "Where's the balloon?" and nodded as he told the nurse he was dying his tongue red with the popsicle that kept falling from his hand so he could stick his tongue out at the doctor.  "Sure, honey...  and if you don't see him before you leave the hospital, you may stick your tongue out as we pass his office."  Hey, we're adults.  We can handle a stuck-out tongue from the kid on this of all days.  Really, the boy was amazing.  I was a little worried that he would be a most uncooperative patient, but his nurses couldn't stop telling each other how smart and funny and cute he was.

Amused, proud-of-my-boy relief.

Sitting around Levine Children's Hospital, I saw parents and presumably grandparents come and go or sit together waiting to hear how their child's surgery went.  Some faces were grim, worried, teary.  One family, strain evident upon their faces, pushed a wheelchair to their daughter's room.  I almost felt like an intruder.  I don't know why anyone else was there, but we were there merely to rule out the possibility of treatable disorders that would involve nothing more than dietary changes.  Despite my uneasiness about what the doctor might find and how Andrew might feel upon waking and what changes we might have to implement, I knew that at worst we would be dealing with something life-altering - and that's a far, far cry from life-threatening.  Fretting over my child's diet is nothing compared to worrying about his very life.  And as it turns out, my kid is healthy.

Thankful, teary-eyed relief.

And then there was driving home, remembering how I woke at 5:30, showered, dressed, made my coffee, packed everything into the van, woke Andrew, brushed his teeth, put on his socks, and tucked him into the van with his pillow and blanket.  That's a long sentence for one single, incredible fact.  I woke at 5:30.  Normally, I wake up between 7:30 and 8:30, but I think I've done alright.  It was kind of, sort of fun... in a "Woo-hoo!  I'm up before the world!" sort of way.  Still, 5:30 is early, and I'm glad that my job as a stay-at-home, home-educating mama does not require me to rise every morning at that ridiculous hour of darkness.

Sleepy, looking-forward-to-seeing-my-bed-again relief.

The High Price of Creativity

This will be brief.  I've been cleaning up while Geoff and the boys are out of town camping, and one truth, in addition to the truth that I miss them like crazy, has hammered itself into my head.  Creativity is costly.  I am a firm believer in providing children with ample opportunity to create - in play, in word, picture, in random three-dimensional sculpture.  I am also a firm believer in allowing children to explore and discover nature - leaf collections, rock collections, and yes, the occasional bleached squirrel skeleton, compliments of Tiny the Ferocious Feline.

These cherished beliefs of mine, however, are not without price.

While the cat freely provides rodents to bleach and mount, I don't dare calculate the amount we spend on art supplies.  Paper, crayons, markers, paint, play dough, clay (because it's not the same as play dough), beads, pipe cleaner...  I honestly could fill a cart with art supplies and still wish for more, as could my children.  If the cost of these things was only monetary, it would be a small price.

But money isn't everything.  Sanity is at stake here, too.

Try stepping around squirrel vertebrae when you tuck in your sweet little boy.  Try finding a skull as you clean his room, or another vertebrae among your freshly washed clothing.  (At least we bleached the thing... Next time, we'll use stronger glue to mount it).  Try finding homemade books in every phase of composition, and then try to figure out what to do with them.  Try to figure out just how many sets of crayons, markers, and colored pencils are floating around the house - and then try to keep track of which ones are truly washable and thus less threatening in the hands of an "artistic" two-year-old.  Try keeping the rock collection out of reach of little hands that might rearrange the carefully sorted specimens.  Try teaching four children in varying stages of competency to distinguish between "keepers" and "tossers," and then try figuring out where the "keepers" should be kept and teaching your prolific little artists and authors to... get this... put everything away where it belongs, even and especially if it belongs in the trash can!


It's enough to make a mother understand why trash bags are made by a company called Glad.  But that can be our little secret...

The Annual "Why Did We Come Again?" Festival

So every year, our town puts on this little shindig. Vendors set up booths throughout the downtown area and the crowds come because...  because...  because, as far as I can tell, they can.  I hope local residents will read this understanding that we go every year and buy some funnel cake or Italian ice or whatever strikes our fancy, and will forgive me for saying that after eight years, we've pretty much seen what there is to see.  Eight times.  As far as festivals go, it's alright.  But it's not spectacular, and once you've been, you've been.

As I headed out this morning, I wondered as I have in years past why I was bothering to go downtown.  In the process of pushing a stroller and monitoring a walking four-going-on-fourteen-year-old, I let the question remain unanswered.  Besides, the answer would surely be nothing more profound than, "It's something to do."  Our town is a nice enough place to live, but it isn't exactly bustling with activity.  (For the most part, we like this aspect of our town).  Anyhow, I put the question out of my mind in the interest of supervising the young lady now walking beside me, now lagging behind me, now rushing ahead of me.

We made the rounds...  a new artist's shop, a bag of candy from a local church, observing and narrowly escaping participating in the pony rides (she didn't have the courage to act upon her slight desire to ride, which suited me perfectly), Italian ices, a chat with a friend, the car show (quietly appreciated by the youngest male of our clan from whom I almost expected a Tim Allenesque "Ar, ar, ar") , a minor disagreement about going in the bouncy house, and then the promised balloons, one of which caused great heartache after caressing a holly bush to its detriment.

But before the balloon popped, I looked at my big girl balancing her way along a low brick wall, her bright red balloon floating behind her beautiful, curl-fringed pink face.

And I guess that's why we go every year.  Our children won't remember the crowds, the cluttered streets, the old worn out sights of the festival.  They'll remember marveling at the old cars, watching the ponies, getting a long-sought for balloon, and mastering the brick wall balance beam.

As for me, I will remember Luke walking among antique automobiles, looking as comfortable and big as everyone else.  I will remember Elisabeth debating whether or not she wanted to ride a pony, and feeling relieved that she was content to wait.   I will remember her balancing on the wall, demonstrating so perfectly the very essence of childhood, carefree, determined, sticky, and beautiful.

And I'm sure we'll go again next year, not because the festival will offer anything new or exciting, but because our children might.

Failure, Fragility, Fear, and Faith

I came across a funny little picture the other day.  It depicted a horror-stricken woman, clutching her chest and her hair, with the caption, "Oh, no!  I forgot to socialize the children!"  As a home schooling mother, my first reaction was to laugh.  Socialization is a bit of a joke in the home educating crowd, for reasons I won't elaborate upon in this post except to say that we tend to think that what people think of when they cry out that our kids need to be socialized is a bit over-rated.  It's not like we huddle under the basement stairs, cringing with every footfall of the quickly-approaching monster called "Real Life."  Our kids get out, they have friends, and if nothing else, they have each other.  Siblings are amazing teachers of all things "Real Life."

So I laughed.  And then I didn't.  I'd had many concerns brewing in my mind that week, from one child's physical health to another's emotional health.  The socialization issue was simmering just beneath the surface as I contemplated whether one child in particular was developing solid, positive friendships.  As much as I may laugh at the whole socialization thing, I do believe friends are important in that they give one an identity outside of the family.  Family is great, but let's face it...  Sometimes family is crazy, and you just need to get away!

So the picture of the frantic mother who had forgotten to socialize her children hit a nerve.  Besides feeling like maybe I needed to do more or differently on the socialization front, I began to wonder if I should have done more or differently in the realm of another child's physical health.  I began to feel like the mother in the picture, except that I didn't limit myself to having forgotten to socialize the children.

Rather, I put my entire career as a mother on trial.  This is, for the record, a very silly thing to do, especially at two in the morning, but it brings me to something I'd been meaning to write about before I wrote my last post about, ironically, reuniting peace and motherhood.

Failure, fragility, fear, and faith...

Failure is unavoidable.  Even with careful planning and preparation, we are bound to fail.  The first rule of motherhood might as well be, "Nothing will go according to plan."  Mind you, this isn't always a bad thing.  Sometimes, it's a very good thing.  For good or ill, though, our plans almost never fall entirely into place.  And that's on a good day.  The house will never be entirely clean, nor will the children.  (And if they are, take a picture - quick!)  It isn't all that hard to look around, see all that hasn't panned out like we had hoped it would, and feel like a partial, if not a complete failure.

At other times, fragility reigns.  We may be at peace with a messy house, grumpy children, and sleep depravity, trusting that relief will come soon.  Or maybe we have managed to keep the house relatively clean, the children predominantly pleasant, and the coffee sufficiently invigorating.  We may not "have it all together," but we're content to have "this much" together and feel able to do the important things well enough until the time comes when we feel refreshed and recharged - and up to the task of tackling all the things we haven't "got together."  Peace sits precariously upon the edge of our hearts, giving us enough strength and grace to keep going, but not enough to run carelessly ahead, solving all the word's woes.  We recognize our need to live moment by moment, worrying about neither the past nor the future nor anything else beyond our realm of influence.

I found myself, not long ago, in one of those moments of fragility, feeling tentative, yet calm.  I could not deny my failures.  Everywhere I looked, I saw them.  Clothes piled up in the hallway, awaiting their turn in the washing machine; toys swept into a pile and tossed into a basket until I had time to decide whether to keep or toss; doors closed because I had not the courage to face the clutter; books unread; lesson plans altered; children running carelessly and loudly through the house...  But none of it really bothered me that much.  As I tried to figure out why I wasn't flipping out over all of these shortcomings, something quite simple occurred to me:  I was not afraid.  Plenty of times, similar circumstances have brought tumult to my mind, tears to my eyes, and knees to my floor in desperate prayer.  This time, though, I had faith that everything would be alright in the end, even if it was a complete mess at present.

And that, I believe, makes all the difference.  Fear or faith?  Will we give into our fears of failure, or have faith that even in our greatest fragility, God works for our good?  And if we chose the way of faith, will we accept the testing that inevitably and almost immediately arises to deter us from this way?  Will we stand up to the challenges of motherhood and life when they threaten to send us hurtling onto the path of fear?  Will we insist on walking in the faith that covers chaos with peace?  Life will not stop when we choose faith that gives peace.  Instead, it will throw new challenges our way (and sometimes dredge up old ones), and we must ask ourselves again whether we will fall under fear or walk in faith.

Fear or faith?  It is a choice we must make...  and make again.  And this simple choice will make all the difference.

Whales, Mermaids, and Me

A recent article comparing whales and mermaids, (i.e. large women and small women) is making a splash on the web.  I read it.  I understand the sentiment of enjoying and cherishing life being more valuable than a perfect figure.  I agree that women should worry less about appearances and live life fully, unhindered by self-consciousness.  For extra measure, I'll even say risk corniness by saying that a woman does not consist in the shape of her body but in the fullness of her heart.  I completely get all of that, and agree that it's time for us, as women and as human beings, to celebrate true beauty. 

Still, something about the article irked me a bit.  Well, more than something.  Some things.

First, obesity is a problem.  Without doubt, we women need to lighten up on self-loathing, but that doesn't negate our need, in many cases, to lighten up physically.  Health should be our goal, whatever our weight, but we can't ignore that some weights are healthier for an individual than others.  (And yes, "healthy weight" is not a one-size-fits-all).  Should we celebrate not being able to attain mermaid perfection or even our own "healthy weight"?  No, we should do what we can to live as healthfully as possible.  Sometimes, life circumstances make healthy living more difficult than we'd like.  Accept some limitations, challenge others.  Don't look at a mermaid and say, "I'll never look like that, so bring on the cake!"  Do what you can to be as healthy as you can.  Don't beat yourself up about the rest, and don't give up all hope and effort.  Live well.

Next, whales are all that and a bag of chips, a slice of cake, and a large soda...  Really?  

Some random whale facts for you:

1.  Whales gestate for 12-18 months. (That's about twice as long as I can patiently bear pregnancy).

2.  Newborn whales are weighed in TONS and measured in FEET.  (Try birthing that).

3.  Whales eat fish, krill, squid, and plankton.  Yum. (Notice there's no ice cream, coffee, or chocolate on the list).

4.  People hunt whales. (No thanks).

5.  Seven out of thirteen great whale species are "endangered or vulnerable." (Again, no thanks).

6.  Whales have holes in the tops of their heads.  (I need to be a whale like I need another hole in my head).

7.  Whales carry barnacles and lice.  (And I bet they smell as fishy as mermaids do).

I'm not sure being a whale is all it's cracked up to be, which brings me to my next issue with the article...

Why do we have to be a whale or a mermaid?  Can't we just be women?  In discussing the article with a friend, I had to admit that I'm not sure I fit either category.  I know where I would put myself most days, but I don't know that I'm being fair to myself.  If I'm honest, I'm neither thin enough to be envied, nor fat enough to garner much sympathy.  Where does that leave me?  I think it leaves me an ordinary, average woman who is no more content to settle for being a figurative whale than she is hopeful of being a literal mermaid. 

Finally, why aren't women, large and small, offended by this whole thing?  By saying that fat is the result of an overflow of knowledge and wisdom, the author implies either that large women's brains are miniscule and thus unable to contain ordinary knowledge and wisdom, or that thin women lack those two lovely treasures.  Either option is pretty offensive to someone.  Besides, the whole notion that fat is really stored knowledge and wisdom is pure scientifically-flawed baloney...  and you know how I feel about baloney.  (Insert gagging sound).  

 So, you can have your mythical creatures and endangered sea mammals.  The choice is perfectly clear to me:  I want to be a woman.

Redefining Motherhood

I was barely paying attention to the radio when a a chance phrase jolted me to attention and caused me to evaluate modern motherhood.

"A stressed-out mom..."


That was it, an oft used phrase stuck in the middle of a long list of stereotypical descriptions of members of all levels of our society.  I had heard these words strung together countless times in various discussions before, but this time, I cringed.  I paused.  And then I got just a little bit mad.

It has been said that people live up to our expectations of them.  If this is true, I'm at least mildly perturbed with our culture for holding such crummy expectations of mothers.  By promoting the image of "a stressed-out mom," running every which way as she tries to balance marriage, children, career, and self-fulfillment (not necessarily in that order), the media and society at large have given us a model that is frankly not worth emulating.  Nor is this model fulfilling in any way.  She has no peace.

I don't deny that the modern mother is stretched like the gum on her seven-year-old's fingers as she juggles her roles as wife, mother, worker, and woman.  Nor do I deny that it is hard, much harder than any of us imagined when we stared at our first positive pregnancy test.  I'll be first to admit that motherhood is filled with challenges, and that I often fail royally in every single one of my roles.

But I resent the notion that motherhood and lack of peace go hand-in-hand, and I wonder if the prevalence of this notion in media - radio, television, film - sets real-life moms up for more difficulties than they need endure.  Motherhood is undeniably full of challenges, but challenges don't require us to lose all sense of peace and order.  The mother we see on television and in movies and hear about in the occasional radio commercial is not handling those challenges particularly well.  She is, as they assure we notice, stressed-out, and I wonder if that might seep into our own ideas of how we ought to live.  After all, if the model of the modern mom is stressed-out, we must be doing something wrong, missing some huge, crucial element of motherhood, if we don't feel the same - and those mothers who do exude serenity must be doing something "extra"to experience the peace the model mom and we ourselves find so elusive.  At the least, the stressed-out model makes the frazzled condition seem normal.  This is what being a mom looks like.  I'm pulled in a hundred directions, scrambling to keep up, and I need...  a latte, a glass of wine, chocolate, a night out, a manicure, a massage.  I need something to ease the pain of being a woman with offspring who just can't do it all.  She might lead a mom to think, "This is normal.  This is motherhood.  I'm just going to have to live with feeling stressed-out for the next eighteen to eighty years."

I think we can do better, and many do.  I know what it is to be "a stressed-out mom" and how much support, encouragement, and rest such a mom needs and craves.  I don't want to downplay the very real pressures facing the modern mom or the emotional turmoil those pressures stir up.  They're real.  We can't ignore them.

But I also know that this mom gig isn't all that bad and that plenty of moms handle challenges beyond what I can fathom with amazing grace and tranquility.  Whatever our situations, I'd say most of us are pretty good moms who, despite the occasional crummy day or crappy week, have learned to do what we need to do - and to do it pretty darn well.

I want to hear more about these moms and see them more on television and in movies.  (They aren't entirely absent).  I want culture to celebrate moms who smile at the end of a long day, not because they finally get the peace and quiet of which the day has deprived them, but because they were able to create and cherish moments of peace in the midst of the busyness of the day.  Because they know their day has been well spent.  I don't want to hear about "stressed-out moms."  I want to hear about moms who are facing the challenges of motherhood head on, with grace, dignity, and peace.

Among breastfeeding advocates, there is a move to alter the language of breastfeeding.  In this article, Diane Wiessinger argues that if breastfeeding is to become more socially acceptable, people - from moms to physicians and everyone in between - must stop speaking of the "benefits of breast-feeding" and begin speaking of the "risks of artificial milk."  The reasoning is that if we speak of breast-feeding as the baseline (i.e. the standard by which all options are measured) it ought to be by virtue of being the biological norm, (that which woman was designed to do and the means by which the babies were designed to receive nourishment), then breast-feeding would regain its rightful normalcy and popularity.  (Not "jump up and shout" popularity, that is...  I mean "it's the thing to do" popularity).

I say peaceful motherhood, as much as if not more than breast-feeding, needs to regain normalcy and popularity.  I don't know how we can do it, except by real-life mothers refusing to settle for media's image of a frantic, stressed-out mom as the norm.  Let us refuse to fulfill society's (and sometimes our own) expectations of mental exhaustion and chaos.   Let us choose to say "no," to forgive ourselves when we can't get anything together, and to celebrate when we do have it all together - even if just for a moment.  Let us willfully choose to create peace in our own lives and spread it wherever we go. Let us, and especially those of us who claim to belong to and follow the Prince of Peace, make peaceful motherhood the norm.

A Lesson from John Donne

Driving to Art yesterday, a day full of tumult after unregulated consumption of brownies by one of my darling babes the previous night, I was encouraged, challenged, reinvigorated when I remembered the words of a friend, spoken years ago as she struggled to get through to one of her children: "I'm not going to lose this kid."  It may sound a bit dramatic, but it reminds me that the time to capture our children's hearts and minds is short, and that the task of capturing their hearts and minds is worth expending enormous amounts of energy and creativity, worth digging deeper into one's heart than one had imagined ever having to do - all in order to capture a child's heart and mind.  It reminded me that my love absolutely cannot be exhausted. Rather, I must show this child - all of my children, really - that my love remains steady and fully committed to bringing about good for and in him.  I cannot give up, I cannot grow weary.  I must press on, loving obviously and consistently.

In the midst of these thoughts, I remembered one of my favorite John Donne poems.

A HYMN TO GOD THE FATHER.

by John Donne

I.

WILT Thou forgive that sin where I begun,

    Which was my sin, though it were done before?

Wilt Thou forgive that sin, through which I run,

    And do run still, though still I do deplore?

        When Thou hast done, Thou hast not done,

                    For I have more.

II.

Wilt Thou forgive that sin which I have won

    Others to sin, and made my sin their door?

Wilt Thou forgive that sin which I did shun

    A year or two, but wallowed in a score?

        When Thou hast done, Thou hast not done,

                    For I have more.

III.

I have a sin of fear, that when I have spun

    My last thread, I shall perish on the shore ;

But swear by Thyself, that at my death Thy Son

    Shall shine as he shines now, and heretofore ;

        And having done that, Thou hast done ;

                    I fear no more.

I've always derived a certain amount of delight from the knowledge that my second child's name is homonymous with one of my favorite poets of all time.  Yesterday, I felt an even greater joy in the never unnoticed coincidence.  (We didn't set out to name him after Mr. Donne, but I was not disappointed that it happened so).  The lines, "When Thou hast done, Thou hast not done, for I have more" echoed in my mind, a reminder of the Father's unending, undespairing love...  a love to which I must turn when I would rather throw my hands up in despair than wrap them around a frustrated child or allow them to rest at my side, a quiet reminder that when he has done growling, pestering, shouting, or otherwise making himself thoroughly unpleasant, my love hast not done.  I might change the poem a little - "When thou hast done, I have not done.  I have more."  As I commune with my children and with any who share or cross my path, may I faithfully and forever follow the example of the One whose mercy and grace outlast my sin and wretchedness.  May I in ways small and large communicate the reality that God's love is full and free - and forever.

Some Things You Just Can't Get at the Grocery Store

If you've ever gone grocery shopping with four children, you know the sort of comments such an adventure elicits.

"Are they all yours?"  


"Wow!  You've got your hands full!"  


"Bless your heart..." 


"I don't know how you do it."


Yeah, it gets old.

What you might not know, especially if your routine generally involves taking four children to the grocery store, is that a trip to the grocery store without children brings its own set of comments.  Recent gems include:

"You have enough in there to feed an army." (This said as a complete stranger peers into my shopping cart and I silently thank God that I'm not buying feminine hygiene products or anything of an equally delicate nature on this particular shopping excursion.)


"A bunch of people are going to run out of the house to help you unload those groceries, right?"


The givers of the comments above were both late-middle-aged people, apparently shopping for themselves alone, and were actually rather nice folks who didn't speak maliciously.  However rude it is to comment on the fullness of someone's shopping cart, neither was mean about it.  They simply pointed out that my cart was full...  even though it didn't seem all that full to me on either occasion.

I'll confess, though.  Um...  I can be a bit snarky now and then.  Maybe, just maybe, it crossed my mind to look into the cart of the next person who tells me how full my cart is, and say, "Aw, eating alone tonight?"  What better way to highlight how rude it is to comment on the contents of a fellow shopper's buggy?

But I don't think I'll ever do that.  You see, driving home from the store this past Saturday, I realized a few things, starting with the fact that a bunch of people would come running to help me unload the van.  I also realized that for me, a solo trip to the store is more a break from real life than it is an excursion into real life.  I don't go to the store for contact with other (adult) human beings.  I don't go for adventure or excitement.  I have ample adventure and excitement at home.  I go to the grocery store because we need food for all these mouths, and I go alone to enjoy the peace and quiet of a rare outing by myself.  (But mainly because we need food).  The store - this place bustling with people - is not the hub of life.  Home is the hub where everything exciting and marvelous and chaotic happens, and a wonderful hub it is.

Two blocks from home, when I realized that life -rich, crazy, busy, demanding, glorious life - was about to resume, all snarky thoughts of what I might say to the next person who told me I could feed an army melted into thankfulness for my little army, for the ability to feed them, and for the eagerness with which they would help unload the groceries.  (Ahem, the eagerness with which some of them would resign themselves to running bags of food to the back door and drop everything into one huge heap of food and plastic bags while others would take the opportunity of an open van door to plant themselves in the driver's seat and pretend to drive, but hopefully not push too many of the wrong buttons on the dashboard...)

I am thankful.  My crazy-full shopping cart, whatever anyone feels compelled to say about it and whatever it costs me at the checkout counter, is a gift.  And the reason it is so full...  this crazy-darling little army I'm feeding - is a greater gift, one you just can't find at a grocery store...

...Unless Geoff's not home, and I have to take them with me.