Milk: It Does a Body...

Good?  For most of my life, that's what I believed - that milk does a body good.  For most bodies, it may be true.  There are those, however, who argue that cow's milk is unnatural and unhealthy for humans.  When I first discovered such people, I thought they were nuttier than nuts, but now I wonder if they might be onto something.  I am not so passionate about the evils of milk that I would try to persuade anyone abandon it, but I am passionate about a little boy to whose body milk cannot be said to do good, and in light of certain very positive comments about that boy, tonight I will share our family's journey to (almost) dairy free.

If I had to pick a "first step" in this journey, I would go back in time about a year.  John was in the middle of an outbreak of eczema that landed him prescriptions for antibiotics, oral steroids, steroid cream, and Zyrtec, as well as over-the-counter dry skin lotion.  He's had eczema for years, but this was worse than it had ever been.  A physician-friend of ours recommended removing milk, and possibly gluten, from his diet.  We replaced yogurt with kefir and played around with almond milk, coconut milk, and rice milk.  Then summer came and our efforts at dietary modification fizzled.

July brought concerns in another arena, as my pediatric gastroenterologist brother-in-law advised us to get Andrew tested for celiac disease.  I'm glad to say that particular concern has been laid to rest and Andrew is doing well.  But between my brother-in-law's recommendation and the relief of finding out that Andrew is okay, I spent a lot of time reading about gluten, which led to a lot of time reading about dairy, which led to discovering that a lot of John's (ahem) "unpleasant" behaviors fit the descriptions many parents gave of children with milk allergy, intolerance, or sensitivity.  Reading descriptions of other children who had been helped so much by going dairy-free led me to consider that option, but honestly, I felt a little crazy and a little like I was making excuses for my own bad parenting.  Surely, milk couldn't be causing my child to be so difficult that we wondered if ADHD medication might be in our future.  I could make a long list of things I could do better as a parent, from instituting a more regular schedule to being more consistent with discipline to sending him outside more to enrolling him in an art class (which we did, and it was amazingly therapeutic for him).  I had so many reasons why milk couldn't be the answer, but I had an increasing desire to ban it, just to see what happened.

When Geoff's parents visited in September, we had enough outbursts for me to decide it was time to go dairy-free.  A week later, I was stunned by how much calmer and even-tempered John was.  A few slip-ups in which a glass of milk or milk on his cereal turned our pleasant home into a raging battlefield convinced me that milk did indeed play a role in the behavioral concerns we'd had.  And here's the sweet part:  Geoff agreed.  Generally, Geoff's a pretty cut and dry, no excuses kind of guy.  He's kind, considerate, and forgiving, but he also recognizes that out in the big bad world, nobody cares why you're acting up... You just have to have your act together.  So when he recognized that milk was wreaking havoc in our child's system, it was such a relief.  I wasn't crazy, and I wasn't making excuses!

Our pediatrician confirmed our suspicions.  She didn't do any allergy testing on him (something I suspect is in his future), but said that the sugars in milk can trigger hyperactive episodes.  Due to something in the processing, cheese is not as great an offender as milk, ice cream, and yogurt.  So far, cheese has retained its spot in our refrigerator.  The rest has gone.  Once in awhile, I'll sneak in some yogurt for myself or some ice cream for a special, very limited treat.  But most of the time, you'll find our shelves stocked with almond or soy milk and kefir, a yogurt-like drink that does not send John over the moon.

And John is learning.  We've talked about how his body responds to milk, and he's beginning to understand that he is much better off passing the milk carton.  When I tell him he can't have something, he casually asks if it's because it has milk, and accepts the affirmative answer without objection.  The other day, he brought a candy wrapper to me and said, "It's milk chocolate, but I think it'll be okay."  He's also figured out what brand of almond milk he likes best and asked to have jelly beans instead of ice cream.  As for his skin, the original prompt to go dairy-free, the jury is still out.  He's had a couple outbreaks this spring, but nothing a little cream and allergy meds can't handle.

So we're in a pretty good place right now.  Twice in the last week, people have commented on the change in John, saying he is calmer and more even-keeled than before.  If I hadn't told people, back when I was  eighteen and a genius, that my children would be perfect, I might tell you now that John isn't perfect, but has come a long, long way in the last year.  There was a point in this whole journey when Hebrews 12:13 came to mind:  Make level paths for your feet so that the lame may not be disabled, but rather healed.  We've had some bumps, but removing milk from our home has made John's path, and all of our paths, a lot leveler.  I'm so proud of John for accepting this change as gracefully as he has, so very pleased that it's made such a difference in him, and so very, very excited to see where his level path will lead him!

The World of Boys

I entered the world of Boy a little over nine years ago upon the birth of our first son.  Andrew was the perfect baby at the perfect time.  I loved him to pieces and was so busy enjoying motherhood that I barely noticed I'd entered a new land.

Sixteen months later, an ultrasound technician stood over my bulging belly and declared, "It's a boy."  I had suspected a different pronouncement and was a little surprised to find tears of joy welling up in my eyes.  Another baby boy.  Another perfect baby boy.  I could not have been happier in that moment.

John, as you may have suspected or observed, is different from his brother in many ways.  He was, even in the womb more energetic, more physical.  On the pediatrician's scale, he was "more" as well.  Despite their differences, both my baby boys were wonderfully precious, and I reveled in the new world I had found, the world of Boy.

My two young sons, however, were not the ones to inform me that I had entered this new world.  Rather, the countless people who told me I needed a girl and who asked if I was going to try again suggested to me that as a mother of two boys, I was living in a frightening, new world.  One woman in the grocery store - a complete stranger, mind you - looked from one of my boys to the other before looking at me and saying, "Oh, you have two boys.  Are you going to try again?"  I might have punched her in the face, or more likely walked away fuming at myself for not appropriately defending my dear boys, had not my passive aggressive side emerged.  In my sweetest, most innocent voice, I informed her that, "Yes, I am going to try for another boy.  Boys are so wonderful and so much fun and I'm really looking forward to being the only one in the house with PMS and I just love my boys sooooo much...."  She may have walked away thinking I needed to hire a babysitter before I completely lost touch with reality, but at least I felt good.

And truly, I did love having boys and couldn't imagine life otherwise.

My husband likes to say, "It all fun and games until someone gets hurt."  Boys, now that I have a few more years of exploring this world, are one of those things that you might say are "all fun and games until..."  Sometime around the beginning of their elementary years, something happened.  One of my boys needed a little more space and time to himself.  The other boy needed something to do and someone with whom to do it.  He also needed a creative outlet for his energy and emotion.  In the absence of such an outlet, chaos ensued, often to his brother's irritation.  In short, my boys collided.  They didn't stop being fun, but I realized there might be a little more to this boy raising than fun and games.  For the first few years of their lives, I felt like a lucky adventurer exploring a wonderful new land filled with princes charming.  As my boys began to collide with one another, sometimes with unexpected intensity, I began to experience fleeting moments in which I feared I had been marooned on an island of savages the first syllable of whose language I could not decipher, but who might be plotting to eat me.

Please don't judge me.  I love, love, love having boys, but like many women who are blessed with more than one son, I grew up primarily among girls.  I had two older sisters and a brother ten years younger than I.  The ten year gap and the fact that there was only one of him negated any educational influence he might have had upon me and left me mostly uninitiated into the World of Boys.  I did learn a few things about boys from him - or at least gained some experience calming them down - but nothing about what happens when boys collide, for good or for evil, with one another.

So we have our "boy moments" when they do headstands on the couch and punch each other at the slightest provocation and suddenly lose all ability to remain still for half a second, as well as all ability to refrain from enthusiastically discussing every manner of bodily function.  Such days often find me on the phone, frantically communicating to Geoff the details of a long string of "boy moments" that have left me doubting all of my parenting skills, instincts, beliefs, etc.  Frankly, sometimes "boy moments" have shaken me to the core. Geoff's responses to my panicked calls consistently sound like:

"Yeah..."

(Dramatic pause as the man who grew up in a family of three boys tries to figure out how his wife missed out on the following fundamental fact of life).

"They're boys.  That's what they do.  Send them outside."

Slowly but surely, I'm learning that Geoff is right.  Our boys do need to be outside.  They need to run and play and build and get dirty and feel that they are kings of the world...  or at least kings of the backyard.  The fighting and bickering and bouncing and jumping that send me crying to Geoff is drastically reduced when I give them a good dose of fresh air and exercise.  "Boy moments" that send me crying to Geoff give way to moments that I want to hold onto for all time - sweaty heads and the earthy smell of boys who have given their all in the battlefields and construction zones of play, laughter and earnest commands drifting through the kitchen window, water being gulped from a cup held by hands that shouldn't go anywhere near anyone's mouth, clothes and shoes so dirty they must be left in the laundry room when playtime is over...  and best of all, shouts of, "MOM!  Come see what we made!" Something in these beautiful creatures craves physical and creative triumph.  Experience and the wisdom of a grown up boy are working together to teach me not to meet these needs for my boys, but to provide them with the resources to meet these needs for themselves.  Because, unlike girls, boys don't generally want to sit around and talk to you about their emotions.  Sometimes they will do it in their own time, but sometimes they won't.  They don't seem to want you to make it all better, either, at least not past a certain age.  I'm finding more and more that, whether it's a confusing math problem or picture that isn't turning out just right or a dispute with one another,  these boys want to fix things themselves.  Not only that, they can fix things themselves.  As I think of what the future of mothering boys looks like, I hope for many long, deep discussions with my boys, but I wonder if mothering boys might involve a lot of standing back, biting my nails, anxiously hoping that their plans will succeed, and in the end, being amazed at what my boys are capable of accomplishing.

I haven't been marooned among savages, but placed among kings.  Dirty, sweaty, upside down on the couch kings they may be, but kings nonetheless.  Kings who will try and fail and figure and fight and win.  Kings who will always fill me with immense gratitude to my King for giving me the privilege of mothering not one or two, but three glorious boys.

And a girl...  because God knew that every now and then, I'd need the fun of telling Geoff, "Yeah... She's a girl.  That's what she does.  Admire her shoes.  Welcome to the Land of Girl."

So This is "Girl"

For many years I maintained that I did not need a daughter.  I had two wonderful little boys and was perfectly content to keep having sons.  I'm glad that God thought differently than I - not because I needed the pink and the frills, or even because I needed a girl.  It wasn't only I, but our entire family that needed one particular girl, and I cannot imagine life without her.  When I say that I am thankful for my girl, it has nothing to do with painted nails, pretty hair, pink dresses, or baby dolls.  Well, very little to do with those things, anyhow.  They do afford some pleasure, but the real thing is Elisabeth.  She's just a really neat human being.  I love watching her grow and make her way in her world.  As she is nearing her fourth birthday, she seems to be having more  distinctly "girl" moments, and they always surprise me a little, perhaps because I'm not looking for them and they show me just how different she is from her brothers (who, in case you are wondering, are also amazing and unique human beings).  

One recent "girl moment" occurred last weekend.  I had taken Andrew shopping for clothes.  He picked out two outfits and a very cool skateboard shirt about which he was most excited, having received a skateboard for his birthday.  When we got home, he ran upstairs to put his clothes away, then rushed back downstairs to play backgammon with Geoff and John.  Huge bag of carefully selected clothing:  completely forgotten.  

On the other hand, when I gave Elisabeth the pair of white dress shoes I'd picked up for her, she promptly tried them on and made the rounds, placing a hand on each of her victims shoulders and insisting they acknowledge her newly acquired footwear.  

"John, do you like my new shoes?"

"Andrew, do you like my new shoes?"

"Lukie, do you like my new shoes?"

"Daddy, do you like my new shoes?"

And then to the dog, "Sara, do you like my new shoes?"

The scene strikes me as particularly funny because I am about as far from a "shoe girl" as possible.  I have no idea where she got this enthusiasm for shoes.

And then, earlier this week, I took all four children out to buy clothes for Easter.  I sent Andrew and John into the boys' dressing room, and Elisabeth into the girls', and positioned myself and Luke between the two.  The boys, who had had a brief lesson in the kindness of pairing solids with plaids rather than plaids with plaids, obediently, but not enthusiastically tried on their outfits, while Elisabeth stood in front of the mirror moving this way and that to get as many views as possible of her new dress and headband.  The smile on her face suggested that they passed every test to which they were subjected.  I hope she always considers herself as beautiful as she did that day, without becoming conceited.  

I also hope this post doesn't portray her as a vain little peacock, for that she is not.  She's a busy little girl who runs with the boys but stops every now and then to remind us that underneath her dirty knees and wild, tangly hair, she is as much "girl" as her brothers are "boy."  

(To do justice to my three beloved boys, you may expect a "boy" post in the near future).

Good Friday and The Last Enemy

Good Friday typically does not top the list of favorite holidays, probably because it's not really human nature to celebrate Death with warm fuzzies and apple pie.  Deep down, I think we all pretty much despise Death.  I sure do.  Yes, because of Christ's death and resurrection, we have the hope of eternal life in heaven when we die, but until then...

Until then, Death steals from us without remorse.  Though defeated, Death lashes out, like a dying despot trying to destroy as many in his demise as in his reign.  Death takes ones we love and leaves us swimming through a flood of emotions ranging from horror to anger to fear to emptiness and finally to surrender.  A shadow of sorrow remains, even as Life brings new joys to celebrate.  So when Good Friday comes around, and I think about Christ's death on the cross, a bit of my soul rejoices in the knowledge that someone, namely Jesus Christ, took on Death.  And won.  While it may not be entirely reverent, I picture myself on the sidelines of an epic boxing match, shouting, "Yes!  You're going DOWN, Death!"

And then comes Easter, with pastels and bunny rabbits, pretty clothes and special music.  The meaning of Easter sometimes seems a bit hidden under all that clutter, but it is a beautiful day.  Easter is that day when we learn that Good Friday worked.  Jesus won.  We win.  Easter is a day of rejoicing.

For some though, rejoicing may not take the expected form.  Rejoicing may not be a jubilant laugh bursting forth from a glad heart, but a choking cry, wrenching its way from the deepest recesses of a broken heart, for whom Christ's death and resurrection are not only its greatest hope, but its only hope, the fine thread keeping its nose above the flood of grief, sorrow, and agony.  For those acutely suffering Death's dying sting, rejoicing is more gritty, more desperate than a pretty pastel Easter morning.  But this sort of rejoicing is just as beautiful as glad faces raised toward Heaven.

Listening to John's ipod as I ran last night - yes, my child is more technologically blessed than his mother -"He Reigns" by the Newsboys came on.  I like the entire song, but the last verse especially stood out last night:

And all the powers of darkness
Tremble at what they've just heard
'Cause all the powers of darkness
Can't drown out a single word

When all God's children sing out
Glory, glory, hallelujah
He reigns, He reigns
All God's people singing
Glory, glory, hallelujah
He reigns, He reigns


All God's children sing out "Glory, glory.  Hallelujah.  He reigns."  Whether in jubilation or desperation, this song silences the powers of darkness.  It rises above the dying shriek of Death to give glory to Him who defeated Death once for all.  I guess the point I want to make today - besides expressing appreciation for the raw wonder of the cross - is that whether your heart is moved by the softer side of Easter or stinging from the agony of Death, whether you feel more attuned to Easter or to Good Friday, you have a part in the worldwide choir of God's children.  Don't wait till Sunday to sing.

Running and Running on Empty

Among the harsher courtrooms of our world is the mother's heart, in which she stands as Accused and Accuser, Jury and Judge.  She tries herself for many things, over and over again, with the verdict more often than not being "Guilty as Charged."  The charges themselves matter little, for a mother will invent charges where none exist and exaggerate them where they do - so that a simple trip to the grocery store becomes abandonment and a cup of coffee while breast-feeding becomes child endangerment.  But don't worry...  I have no plans to keep us at the computer for a week listing all the things for which a mother might condemn herself as A Horrible Mother.  Instead, I want to address one area, not wholly related to motherhood, but which seems a common burden among mothers I know:  Physical Fitness.

I had composed two lengthy paragraphs describing my fall from "skinny, active girl" to "harried mother of four who'd like to lose the rest of the weight she put on during her last pregnancy, if only she had more time, energy, motivation, etc.," but upon further consideration decided it would be less tedious just to say that things aren't what they used to be.  It would be unrealistic to expect them ever to be exactly what they used to be, but I have held onto the hope of someday exchanging "harried" for "fit."  Besides, it really isn't all about being Miss Skinny-Minny, though I wouldn't complain about that, but about being active again.

The thing is, since my third child came along, all the walking I used to do became nigh unto impossible.  When Andrew and John were little, I could strap them into the double stroller and walk all over town, which is just what I did.  Then came Elisabeth.  If you've never tried pushing a stroller while walking with a five year old and a three year old, imagine maintaining a steady pace with a cheetah in pursuit of prey on one leash and a Galapagos tortoise on another leash.  It is ugly and wholly exasperating to a woman trying to restore her girlish figure.  It's even worse when you throw in a fourth baby and are trying to manipulate an old double stroller while ensuring that neither of your older children runs his bike into the street or falls helplessly behind or rushes too far beyond view or...  or...  or...  Yeah.  No fun.

At some point after Luke's birth, when I decided I should have regained a decent level of activity and lost all of the baby weight, I marched myself into the courtroom mentioned above, and began accusing myself of slothfulness and defending myself against the same.  Shortly after his second birthday, when the jury was nearing a verdict of Guilty of Complete and Hopeless Slothfulness with No Hope of Redemption, a little bit of clear thinking saved the day.  My sister, wise and wonderful woman who might be reading this, remarked that sometimes fitness just isn't top priority and that's okay.  She didn't say it as an excuse, but as a statement of reality.  Fitness is important, but it can't always be our first priority.  Many things demand a mother's time, and while it is wonderful when fitness has its own special place in a woman's life, sometimes it's just not feasible.  When you are faced with several (or even one, because sometimes numbers don't matter at all) small children  who rely upon you for their physical, emotional, intellectual, and spiritual well-being; dishes, laundry, toys, and other miscellaneous items threatening to flood your entire home; a husband hoping to be greeted cheerfully at the day's end; and your own body pleading for just... a... little... more...  sleep, the idea of exercising with any consistency can seem like a cruel, cruel joke.  Not that it's unimportant, but there are times when the threat of anything else creeping onto an already full plate is enough to shatter one's sanity.

So when my sister confidently told me that when the time was right, exercise would make it onto my plate, I had some reconsidering to do.  First, I realized that it was okay to wait, and I need not take myself to court over it.  Second, I realized that I am not a lazy, slothful person by nature.  While not particularly athletic, I have for as long as I can remember been active.  Childhood bike rides and neighborhood roller-skating gave way to long walks, swimming, and biking in my teens and early twenties.  Even after the births of our first two children, I walked.  And still, when given the chance, I enjoy a good walk.  Good walks, though, are a little harder to arrange when homeschooling takes up a chunk of the day and I have a cheetah and tortoise to take along.  That may sound like an excuse - "I'd like to exercise, but blah, blah, blah..." but in my brain, if not coming across in this paragraph, the realization that Life had changed more than I had filled me with hope.  Life had changed, and I was confident it would change again.

And it did.  Maybe I forced the change, having been encouraged to hope that it would come.  At any rate, I finally looked into a running plan I'd heard about from several people.  (As an aside, I've noticed with a lot of things that I have to hear about something several times before venturing a peek myself.  I think my children are not the only ones who are slow to warm up to new things!)  And now for a shameless plug...

I LOVE THE COUCH-TO-5K RUNNING PLAN!!!!  

http://www.coolrunning.com/engine/2/2_3/index.shtml

With the exception of a brief fourth grade dream of running the Boston Marathon, running has never, ever been a favorite of mine.  In fact, in recent years, I have said that the only way you'll catch me running is if a rabid bear is after me.  When my wise and wonderful sister recommended this plan, I looked at it and then forgot about it for um...  a couple years.  Recently, it kept popping up on Facebook and my sister recommended it again.  So one fateful Tuesday, I stepped on the treadmill and began what is becoming an obsession.  If you are nervous about running, let me assure you that this is a very gentle, but effective plan.  In six weeks, it took me from being terrified of running to viewing a 25 minute run as a glorious way to end a long, tiring day.  Okay, I admit that sometimes I pretend I'm running away from home when I get on the treadmill, but hey... I always feel great -and happy not to be on the other side of town - when the treadmill stops.  Sometimes, it's hard not to observe a day of rest between runs.  I still have a way to go to reach the level of fitness I'd like, but running has found its spot on my plate, and I've discovered I love it too much to push it to the side.  All of this goes to show me that no, I am not a lazy oaf of a woman after all.  Case closed.

As I've thought about what to write on this subject, I've begun to view the woman I've been for the last two years not as an enemy, but a friend - a nurse, if you will, enlisted to see me through Luke's infancy, to keep me from overexerting myself, and to teach me a little about balance, priorities, and timing.  I think if I had begun this running thing a year ago, it would have ended in severe discouragement.  Running on empty is hard enough.  Running while running on empty has to be even harder.  I can't recommend it.  I have a lot more to learn about balance, priorities, and timing, of course, but I feel like I made it through a pretty demanding phase of our family's life and can now move forward a little less encumbered by the demands of life with an infant, toddler, and two more and a little more lighthearted having recaptured a little bit of the girl I used to be.

Sick Days

It used to be that when a stray stomach bug wandered into our home, he might pester one, maybe two of our children, before deciding sticking around wasn't worth his time.  Besides, this crazy lady kept chasing him around with a canister of bleach wipes.  YIKES!  Stomach bugs, during this blissfully healthy time, were few and far between - and rather mild, as I remember.  (It is quite possible that I remember this time of our lives in a fairer light than truth, but honestly, I don't remember many illnesses.)  Our exposure to germs was relatively low.  Geoff went to work in his law office and to church.  The boys and I went to the library, church, the grocery store, and the park.  We had a nice little circle of friends, all of whose mothers made sure they washed their hands regularly and stayed home when their noses ran.

Things have changed.  The boys, while not venturing out to a school to greet personally every germ brought in by every child in the town, now spend time with children who do, and so we meet a few more germs than we did before.  We had a couple more babies, too, and I find more urgent matters to attend to than bleaching the excersaucer every time anyone in the house sneezes.  Dishes, laundry, feeding healthy children, and yes, sometimes just snuggling with a sick child or reading a book to a healthy one while the sick one sleeps - these things take precedence over an entirely sterile environment, a concept that now seems ludicrous.  I haven't given up on keeping things clean, of course, but there's a lot more to keep clean.  I've traded my canister of disinfecting wipes for a can of Lysol, and spray it in empty rooms when I get a chance, but yeah...  with four children in the house, sometimes it's all I can do to keep the conveyor belt of pukey sheets and blankets running when a stomach bug makes himself at home around here.  Because the stomach bugs have changed, too.  They no longer pack for a one to three day visit.  No, they look at us and say, "We're moving in!"  and it's a week of crumminess for our family.  

This past week, for example, began with Andrew being sick on Sunday, followed by Geoff and me being sick on Monday and Tuesday, respectively.  We had a brief respite - just long enough for us to feel like we'd conquered the bug - and then spent Friday night and Saturday tending to Luke and Elisabeth as they battled sickness.  Somehow, John came through unscathed.  

I'm glad to report that we have all recovered.  We survived not only another stomach bug, but as posted about previously, the death of a kitten, an event barely lamented by my dear children.  I mention the kitten's demise only because I promised an update.  The kids handled the news remarkably well.  Their biggest concern was where the kitten was buried and how deep.  They're awesome.

Life Lessons

I had planned to write tonight about moms' sick days or running or giving oneself a break or maybe all of the above.  However, as it so often does, Life disrupted my plans.  More specifically, that aspect of Life more commonly known as Death, visited our home and delivered a whirlwind of emotions, some of which I will not unwrap till tomorrow, when my children ask where our kitten is.  To make a long story short, the kitten we rescued a week ago (see previous post) developed a sore on his neck that began bleeding this afternoon.  I considered taking him to the vet, but the bleeding seemed to have abated.  It began again this evening, but by the time I realized the gravity of the situation, there was nothing to do but hold the poor thing until it was over.

You may laugh at me, if you will.  There's a part of me, a deeply hidden rational seed that tells me it's a kitten that had been in our lives for a mere week and will quickly be pushed to the back of our memories as we get on with the business of daily life.  But there's another part of me that rails against Death in general and the sorrow it imprints on the hearts of those it visits, and that insists that no life, however small, is trivial.  (I make exceptions for ants and roaches, especially ants.)  Beyond that, I grieve that my children will have to face Death tomorrow morning.  They have seen kittens come and go.  This kitten is the only of its litter of three to have survived birth, and the previous litter of four perished when their mother neglected them.  (YES!  We WILL be getting her fixed!!!)  So, they've seen Death, and understand that sometimes nature isn't all soft and fuzzy.  But, with the exception of Andrew's turtle years ago, an excruciating but mercifully short-lived grief, they've never lost a pet.  I dread their reactions in the morning when I have to tell them that Phineas Finny Phoenix Runt, a.k.a. Tiny's Baby didn't make it through the night.  I know they will survive.  I know they will not be scarred for life.  I know they will learn some valuable life lesson from this.  Still, my babies are going to grieve, and I hate everything about that - from having to inflict this pain on them to wondering if a trip to the vet could have prevented it to watching my children mourn.  Perhaps - fingers crossed -  they will surprise me by taking it all in stride.  If not, I will be thankful for my children's tender hearts and the privilege of helping them through the harder lessons in life.  I'll let you know how it goes...

On a Lighter Note...

While I over-analyze things like noisy toddlers in church and the religiosity of school books, life happens.  The past week has thrust us into fostering a kitten, and I am pleased to say the little guy is doing well.  Rescued Wednesday from a cold corner under the deck, he is now consistently warm, eating well, and wiggling around, trying to master the use of his spindly, long-toed legs.  I'm not entirely convinced that he does not have some birth defect that will lead to a premature demise or a lifetime of being a little "off," but for now, he's on the road to being cute.  Okay, maybe he already is kind of cute, in his funny alien-eyed way.  The kids love him, and as he has grown stronger, they have had more opportunity to pet and hold him.  Soon, I hope to feel confident enough in his health and their gentleness to allow them to feed him, or at least help in that task.

In other news, we have survived another Spring Cuboree with the Cub Scouts.  Camp outs (even when I take Luke home for the night and for nap) are still not 100% enjoyable for me, as I spend a bulk of my time preventing Luke from wreaking havoc on the campsite, but I'm beginning to allow myself to hope that my enjoyment level will increase drastically in the near future.  Geoff kept busy with Cubmaster stuff.  Andrew and John romped through the woods like, well, like true boys.  I'm not sure why, and I promise NOT to try to figure it out tonight, but there is always something so satisfying about seeing my little men sweaty, filthy, and exhausted - but not exhausted enough to refrain from running back into the woods from whence they came.  Elisabeth forged a friendship with a girl from another Cub Scout pack, and had a delightful time with her new friend.  I knew we had a little girl when, upon going to check on her this morning when I got to the campsite, both girls rushed up to confirm that Elisabeth's new friend could come to her birthday party, an event that won't be happening for another two months.  She proceeded to spend almost all of the day playing with her friend and hanging out with the other Pack.  Geoff tried to retrieve her once, but apparently the affection was mutual.  They asked to keep her.  My daughter is, apparently, a rather winsome little creature.

Cuboree was cut short due to impending storms.  The kids were bathed and sent to bed with only one flushed tick, and now all of my campers (and future campers) are sleeping soundly.  Perhaps most soundly sleeping is Geoff, whose ability to pull together all that he does for his family, work, and scouting is pretty darn amazing.  I'm pretty sure I'd lose my mind completely if I had to manage all the realms he does.

Ridiculous Ramblings on Faith and Home Schooling

Throughout the last couple of weeks, I have been pondering the idea of "Christian homeschooling."  Those who know me well, know that this entails vast numbers of vague notions swirling about in my head.  Occasionally, two or three of those vague notions combine to make one complete, coherent thought.  The rest of the time, it's just a mess in there.  So I hope you will bear with me if at any point I get fuzzy as I attempt to put thoughts into words.  And while I will be writing of homeschooling, I think the implications may go beyond homeschooling... or maybe they don't.  I'm not sure yet.  See, I'm getting fuzzy already.

First, though, I want to make it clear that I am unashamedly Christ's.  I sometimes hesitate to mark the "Christian" box, not out of uncertainty or embarrassment, but because that word is so commonly used that it seems to have lost some of its meaning.  When I say that I am Christ's, I mean that at my best, I cling to Christ, and at my worst, I cannot deny His hold on me.  He is that imperishable seed by which I have been born again, redeemed from the empty ways of life (1 Peter 1:18-25), and I am eternally grateful, literally, that He will not let me go.

Having said that, I now confess that I am a bit disturbed by suggestions I've read lately concerning homeschooling and Christianity.  In short, there's this idea that the two are inseparable - or should be inseparable.  Some days I am better than others, but I believe in guiding my children toward Truth, in teaching them the Scriptures and encouraging them to look at the world through the eyes of Christ.  Sometimes, as has often been the case in our studies of history, that requires us to acknowledge that man often operates outside of God's law either through willful disobedience or through ignorance.  In the case of willful disobedience, it is certainly appropriate to disdain, even condemn, erroneous beliefs or evil behavior.  Ignorance is not as easy.  I consider our study of Greek mythology, a subject my children and I have enjoyed and that has enriched us spiritually as we have considered man's views on God and the differences between gods created by man and God the Creator of Man, but which some Christian homeschoolers would avoid like the plague for fear of their children praying to Zeus or something.  The thing is, Christian missionaries just weren't going to Greece back then.  I'm not an expert, but it looks to me like the ancient Greeks were doing the best they could - (and no, I don't mean to suggest that "doing the best they could" by any means saved them.  That's a different subject, and one I'm frankly not prepared to delve into!) By natural revelation, the Greeks understood there was "something" bigger than man, and so we have Olympus.  It's easy to laugh at the Greek gods and goddesses, wondering how on earth anyone could possibly have believed that foolishness, but the reality is - people did.  Human beings, created and loved by God, believed stuff that we ridicule, shun, or ignore. Actually, they still do.  And that, I think is the crux of my problem this week.  Ridicule.  Shun.  Ignore.  These are the things I sense happening when Christian homeschoolers say, "We need to keep the homeschool movement Christian," and "Oh, no!  We need a new curriculum! This history book discusses Buddhism!"  There are issues we must deal with, errors to correct, and truth to be promoted, hopefully in grace and with love.  I'm not sure that keeping the homeschool movement and all of our materials explicitly Christian is the best answer.

A quote whose author I cannot verify, but I believe came from C.S. Lewis, seems to fit in this situation.  It went something like, "I am not a Christian author, but an author who is Christian." The idea was that the light of Christ would shine through his work, regardless of that work's nature.  Being Christian is not something that can be forced, but something that permeates all we do.  In the home schooling arena, it means that I can teach Christianly from ANY book, in any situation. I don't need to fear books containing references to, even entire chapters on evolution, Greek mythology, or Buddhism.  Instead, I can tackle these subjects, trusting that my children will be challenged and ultimately strengthened in their faith and that they will gain a deeper understanding of and respect for people who hold beliefs different from their own.  I'm not saying those ideas are right, just that the people who hold them, as people for whom Christ died, warrant a little respect and that I would rather my children know that difficult issues exist and help them figure them out now, than leave them to be blindsided by them at a later date.

I could teach Christianly from any book, but I do carefully select our books.  I wouldn't want something that out and out opposes my faith, but the majority of curriculum I've come across is workable.  I was thinking about this, too:  Teachable moments.  In passing our faith on to our children, teachable moments are especially important, which is why I look very carefully even at Christian curricula, which can be very spiritually scripted.  A scene has been playing in my mind all day.  Billy is sitting at the table with Mom.  She hands him his spelling book and instructs him to do page such and such.  He objects.  She reminds him to work diligently, as working for the Lord.  He objects more adamantly.  She reminds him to watch his tone and to honor his father and mother.  Maybe he grumbles, maybe he scowls, but Billy decides not to argue any longer and turns his attention to his spelling book.  Mom sips her coffee, glad that a storm was averted and trusting God to work in Billy's heart to shape him into a young man who gladly works as for the Lord and effortlessly honors his father and mother.  And then Billy reads the first fill in the blank sentence.  "Children, ______ your father and mother."  It's possible that this will serve to reinforce what he is slowly and reluctantly learning through his interactions with Mom.  It's also possible that there's a flickering ember of disobedience that will be fanned into flames when his spelling book chimes in to correct him.  It's kind of like when you're working on an issue with your kid, and have it just about settled, when someone comes along and reprimands him.  It's just not the time.  I don't want my children's school books to teach them about God. That's my job, and I think I have a better grasp of what they need to hear and when than any spelling or grammar or math book does.

So, to sum up...  Or maybe just to put down a few random, more succinct thoughts:

1.  I want my children to grow to be devoted followers of Christ.

2.  I also want my children to understand that, even among fellow Christians, not everyone believes exactly as they do.

3.  I want my children to be able to engage in meaningful, respectful, understanding conversations - not just condescending chit chat - with people of all faiths and all walks of life.

4.  Books are a tool I use to teach my children, and I hope I am competent enough to point out error and address the tough issues, because it's nigh unto impossible to accomplish the objectives listed above by surrounding myself with ONLY books that teach EXACTLY what I believe - if it's even possible to find more than one or two of those.

Ugh.  C.S. Lewis also said something about writing not to be understood, but to understand.  Whatever anyone else may think, I hope that I have at least cleared up my own thoughts enough to leave this subject for awhile.  I certainly don't want to have to blog about it again anytime soon!

THAT Woman

Today I was that woman, the one who not so stealthily herds her multiple children into the back pew minutes after the worship service has begun and proceeds, with little success, to shush her children as she shuffles through her bulletin trying vainly to get her bearings.  The toddler, as toddlers with burgeoning vocabularies will do, enthusiastically names everything he sees.  "Bible!  Flag!  Bible!  Flag!  BIBLE!"  Now he is demanding his mother to give him one of the many Bibles he spies.  As his mother hands it to him, hoping the possession of said Bible will be the magic charm that turns him into a docile little worshipper, she wonders if any of the congregation have noticed that he is wearing a baseball cap, and whether it's cute or heretical in their eyes.  As for herself, she's just glad he isn't shouting his latest linguistic acquisition...  "Shut up, stupid!"  Now, that would be mortifying!

I suffered, though perhaps not as much as everyone within ear shot of my pew, through the announcements, call to worship, a prayer or two, a baptism, and the children's choir singing a song into which my toddler, from his perch on my lap, interjected a hearty "ANDREW!"  Never have I been so thankful for the Children's Sermon, after which I intended to pack my children into the van and go home.  As it turned out, the middle two wanted to stay for Children's Church, and since Children's Church was going to the playground, I went along with our toddler (who has not yet grown accustomed to the nursery and is, as described above, not ready for the worship service) and our almost nine-year-old (who is too old for the nursery or Children's Church, yet not old enough to sit in worship alone while I tend to the toddler).  It turned out well enough, but there were moments when I wanted to shout out...  well, pretty much what I'm writing next.

I'm not a horrible parent who refuses to put her kid in the nursery and who doesn't care if her family disrupts the service.  I do care, which is why I was so frustrated this morning.  What I am is a mother who doesn't believe in leaving a kid in a new situation to cope on his own unless absolutely necessary.  We recently hired a new nursery worker, a very wonderful young lady whom I trust will become one of my son's favorite people.  However, he's not there yet.  He likes her, but he likes her in close proximity to one of his parents.  Geoff and I are fine with this, and our method has been for one of us to stay in the nursery with him if he objects to being left.  (You are welcome to disagree with us, but that's where we stand).  The problem this morning was that Geoff is out of town, leaving me exhausted on a Sunday morning, with four children in three different places, two of whom I was not willing to leave alone.  I considered skipping church altogether, but I try not to skip just because church isn't convenient on a particular day.  I go with the intent of learning about God, worshipping God, and gathering with other believers.  Even when I don't feel like going - perhaps especially when I don't feel like going - I believe it is important to be there.  Faith isn't a feeling, and shouldn't be ruled by feelings.   Additionally, the boys were singing in the service and - this was the clincher - they had told me that they were not going to church and I couldn't make them go.  So we had to go.  Mommy plays many games.  Dare is not one of them.

So to the point, which may be very ineloquently stated:  A sanctuary is where God meets His people.  It is a place of holiness and humanity.  God brings the holiness.  We bring the humanity.  Sometimes, humanity is reverent and quiet and pretty.  Sometimes, it's a weary, fidgety, noisy mess.  Sometimes, it even wears a baseball cap.

Books

Books have been on my brain today.  I have this small and previously secret dream of having a bookshelf all to myself.  No children's books, no husband's books, just MY books.  Not just any book that happens to belong to me will be admitted to My Shelf, but only a select few who capture my heart and mind.  From time to time, I encounter a book that I feel I must own, if not now, eventually.  The mere presence of the book in my house, even if it would take me a week to locate it amidst all the other books, fills me with this crazy, contented bliss.

I was going to share a list of what authors and books would grace My Shelf, but I can't seem to do any of them justice tonight, not having read any but Lloyd Alexander's Chronicles of Prydain within the last year.  I realize I'll have to reread my cherished books, many of which are mine in spirit only, before I can adequately comment on them.  Commenting on The Chronicles of Prydain, more than to say its heros were worthy and its words exquisite, will have to wait till I have more time and at least one of the five books at my side.

In the meantime, because beautiful books are on my mind and I would like to include the occasional book review (of sorts) in this whole blogging process, I recommend the gem of Karma Wilson, author of Bear Snores On and Mortimer's Garden, both of which are delightful read alouds for young children. http://www.karmawilson.com/

So concludes this dud of a post.  I promise, my brain HAS been working today!

Come On In.

Confession time:  I do not have a white picket fence.  I never have had one, and it is possible that I never will.  Truthfully, I have nothing against white picket fences - they're actually kind of cute - but there was a time in my life when living behind a white picket fence sounded like a death sentence.

You see, in my youth, I knew without a doubt that I was destined for something great.  The problem was I could never figure out what shape "great" ought to take.  Thoughts of teaching English, cuddling orphans, feeding the physically and spiritually hungry, traipsing through jungles, etc. swam through my mind.  I even thought of starting Bible quizzing teams in Europe.  There were so many options, and as long as I didn't have to eat monkeys or live without running water, I was game for whatever amazing path God wanted me to blaze.  Whatever He had in store for me, it couldn't possibly be living the typical American lifestyle.  You know what I'm talking about.... Two children, a golden retriever, a minivan, kissing your husband good-bye in the morning and looking forward to him coming up a tricycle strewn path to the front door in the evening.  And that's where the white picket fence comes into the story, because of course, your pretty little house in a cute little neighborhood sits behind a darling white picket fence.

It happened so slowly that I didn't realize it was happening at all, but one warm, sunny day I found myself looking at white picket fencing.  Geoff and I had talked about putting up a white picket fence for some time, to keep our two children from running into the main road in front of our pretty little house.  It was years ago, but I remember opening the door of our car (I don't think we had our minivan yet, but we were probably talking about getting one soon), thinking, "Wow, this is the white picket lifestyle I swore never to lead.  Huh."

I think it's safe to say that since then, we've gone beyond the white picket lifestyle.  Our brood has increased to four, for one thing.  We homeschool our children, which like having four children, is not exactly typical.  And if you know us at all, well...  I often think we aren't exactly normal, though I'm not sure anyone really is - even those who do have two kids, a minivan, and a golden retriever.  In any case, I'm pretty sure we've left my image of  the typical American family sputtering in the dust.

But, and here at long last I am getting to the point of this whole rambling post:  I've learned something about this lifestyle of being a middle class wife and mother, rather than a woman on a mission to heal the whole world.  I've learned - I'm still learning, actually - that beyond that white picket fence, or beyond a little brick wall, or up a cracked sidewalk, or whatever path may lead to any home in any part of the world, including some small town in the USA, exists a whole wide world, just waiting to be explored and appreciated.  I have watched battles rage and cultures clash.  I have witnessed joy erupt with volcanic force and tenderness flow like a gentle brook.  I might be going too far to say that all the raw emotion of humanity exists in a child's heart, but I don't think it would be that much of a stretch to say so.   Anyhow, whatever I might say, and whether I would be correct or not, there IS a whole wide world on this side of the figurative picket fence - as full, exciting, and important as the world on the other side of the fence.  And so, in writing this blog (and my husband would probably agree that this blogging thing pushes me a little more toward "typical" than I might like to be), I invite you to glimpse life beyond the white picket fence.  The white picket fence that we never bought.