So if you read the past ten posts ten times, that would equal 100. Can I admit that God gave us exactly what we could handle, and it didn't include me blogging for 100 days in a row?
Women who can raise a brood, write, cook, and teach are of a superhuman race.
I'm deciding, for my own sanity that I have stepped up my blogging and that's the best I can do right now. There is a season for everything and this is my season of wading through teen, tween, and toddler at once.
For example, every other Friday I teach Chemistry lab at our homeschool co-op. It means leaving the house. Yeah, you thought there would be more to that sentence, but there wasn't. Leaving the house is a big deal in itself, especially in the morning, with supplies for a lab and necessities for baby survival. I arrived an hour before class to get things set up. Everett has model United Nations for an hour before lab, and the other bigs watch the babies while I run around. I stopped on the way for donuts and bagels, a Friday morning tradition. I raced to drop Everett off, and unloaded the van. Baby strapped to my chest, toddler in the stroller, glassware and breakfast were stowed underneath--I was on top of things.
In the scramble to get out of the house, my meticulously packed diaper bag, which is actually more like a diaper suitcase, was left behind. My 'on top of things super mom' bubble deflated. It was replaced with the 'I can't handle things and even left the diaper bag at home' storm cloud.
On a more positive note, I didn't forget a baby.
Showing posts with label family life. Show all posts
Showing posts with label family life. Show all posts
November 30, 2015
May 2, 2014
Raising Children
Raising children is hard. I am not close to done. Do you ever reach a place that is done? I had a thought that reaching 18 means we've raised our child. In my life, getting through high school as a homeschooler would feel like a huge accomplishment. But do you ever reach a benchmark that means you are done rearing your child? I still call my mom for advice or a shoulder on which to cry. Which is not a literal shoulder since she's several hundred miles away. My phone gets the tears and she just has to listen and feel rather helpless. Nevertheless, I'm in my thirties and my Mom still has to be, Mom.
I have a vivid image of sitting in my sixth grade class. The room buzzed with excitement because today was a field trip. The actual trip is of no importance in this memory. My Mom was on her way. I can still picture her now, nearly thirty years later. A thin sweater and slacks, probably tired because she rode her bike to work that day. Lovely, and younger than I am now, she breezed into my class. I was so thrilled, proud even, to see my Mom at school that I breathed, "Mommy!"
Many things are off limits in a busy sixth grade classroom. Calling out "Mommy" causes the awkward silence that every kid dreads. Just a few seconds, but it was there. Pungent and embarrassing.
My stomach still aches with the memory, the comfort of seeing my mother that day. Sometimes now I yearn for that familiar, warm feeling.
I tell Seth that I feel like we are playing house. It doesn't feel like we are mature enough to have our own family. During college, I kept thinking once married, we would have arrived in adulthood. Then it seemed that the birth of our first child would deliver us into the secret world. Five children and fifteen years of marriage later, I still feel like that sixth grader.
I have wondered if our children have the same feelings about us. Then, I recognize it when something sad happens. At three in the morning, when Josiah crawls into bed with us, he curls his big boy body up like he's still a toddler and shares my pillow. I know he feels that familiar comfort. It scares me a little, because, aren't I still just a kid myself?
I have a vivid image of sitting in my sixth grade class. The room buzzed with excitement because today was a field trip. The actual trip is of no importance in this memory. My Mom was on her way. I can still picture her now, nearly thirty years later. A thin sweater and slacks, probably tired because she rode her bike to work that day. Lovely, and younger than I am now, she breezed into my class. I was so thrilled, proud even, to see my Mom at school that I breathed, "Mommy!"
Many things are off limits in a busy sixth grade classroom. Calling out "Mommy" causes the awkward silence that every kid dreads. Just a few seconds, but it was there. Pungent and embarrassing.
My stomach still aches with the memory, the comfort of seeing my mother that day. Sometimes now I yearn for that familiar, warm feeling.
I tell Seth that I feel like we are playing house. It doesn't feel like we are mature enough to have our own family. During college, I kept thinking once married, we would have arrived in adulthood. Then it seemed that the birth of our first child would deliver us into the secret world. Five children and fifteen years of marriage later, I still feel like that sixth grader.
I have wondered if our children have the same feelings about us. Then, I recognize it when something sad happens. At three in the morning, when Josiah crawls into bed with us, he curls his big boy body up like he's still a toddler and shares my pillow. I know he feels that familiar comfort. It scares me a little, because, aren't I still just a kid myself?
March 10, 2014
40 bags in 40 days
Ever eager to rid my house of complications, I jumped on the 40 bags in 40 days bandwagon. The simple idea is to rid your life of one bag of 'junk' a day for the 40 days before Easter. This seems like a tough challenge, yet in a house like mine there is always junk needing to be removed. Join me if you are feeling courageous--it's never too late to start de-junkifying.
So far, I've donated several bags, trashed a shredded wicker hamper and a broken kid chair. Today was the toughest. The day was gorgeous. Superb. Perfect. It is mid-March in Cleveland, so anything above 40 would make my heart sing. Today, I pranced into the sunshine with a temperature of 59! Amazing.
This is the first day I've seen my grass in months. That means my first glimpse of the business that happens in my backyard all winter. That doggie business, covered with snow for months...it's been revealed. I may not be the most responsible pet owner. We feed, vaccinate, and love our dog. We do not scoop poop during the winter months. It's covered by a beautiful, cleansing blanket of white snow, so why bother? Today, however, was the unveiling. It was ugly, soggy, and smelly.
As the kids pulled their bikes from the garage, I found the scooping shovel and started. My right arm began cramping somewhere around the swing set. By the time I made it to the garden I decided that the fifth bag was enough, I didn't care if there was still more lurking around the kid's fort. It can stay until the next spring-like day. Plus, it doesn't mar the view from the house.
Forty bags in 40 days for the past few days has meant culling my magazines and going through toys. Today...it meant ridding the environment of pounds and pounds of Golden Retriever feces. I did learn several things during my hour long foray into the backyard wilderness. Although I thought our kids were just careless with nerf bullets, they do indeed appear to be a tasty snack for the dog. Second, our dog does enjoy entire meals comprised of paper products. I think I found an entire roll of paper towels by the sandbox. No kidding. I don't know how or where he finds used napkins, but he's managing to scarf them down secretly. I'm just thankful we are past the 'searching through the puppy's poo for the missing Lego mini-figure' stage. That was nasty.
So, join me (and many others) for the 40 bags in 40 days, you never know of what you may rid yourself!
So far, I've donated several bags, trashed a shredded wicker hamper and a broken kid chair. Today was the toughest. The day was gorgeous. Superb. Perfect. It is mid-March in Cleveland, so anything above 40 would make my heart sing. Today, I pranced into the sunshine with a temperature of 59! Amazing.
This is the first day I've seen my grass in months. That means my first glimpse of the business that happens in my backyard all winter. That doggie business, covered with snow for months...it's been revealed. I may not be the most responsible pet owner. We feed, vaccinate, and love our dog. We do not scoop poop during the winter months. It's covered by a beautiful, cleansing blanket of white snow, so why bother? Today, however, was the unveiling. It was ugly, soggy, and smelly.
As the kids pulled their bikes from the garage, I found the scooping shovel and started. My right arm began cramping somewhere around the swing set. By the time I made it to the garden I decided that the fifth bag was enough, I didn't care if there was still more lurking around the kid's fort. It can stay until the next spring-like day. Plus, it doesn't mar the view from the house.
Forty bags in 40 days for the past few days has meant culling my magazines and going through toys. Today...it meant ridding the environment of pounds and pounds of Golden Retriever feces. I did learn several things during my hour long foray into the backyard wilderness. Although I thought our kids were just careless with nerf bullets, they do indeed appear to be a tasty snack for the dog. Second, our dog does enjoy entire meals comprised of paper products. I think I found an entire roll of paper towels by the sandbox. No kidding. I don't know how or where he finds used napkins, but he's managing to scarf them down secretly. I'm just thankful we are past the 'searching through the puppy's poo for the missing Lego mini-figure' stage. That was nasty.
So, join me (and many others) for the 40 bags in 40 days, you never know of what you may rid yourself!
January 25, 2014
Reining in the Video Game Monster
The exchange took place in a Barnes and Noble six years ago. Seth passed a high school boy an envelope filled with $40 and jogged back to the child-filled van in the cold parking lot. He was giddy as he opened the black bag. One of our first Craigslist purchases brought the video game world into our humble home. He just bought Everett a used x-box for his seventh birthday.
I look back on that day with anguish. I was tormented with guilt, but relented as long as the kids stayed withing the agreed upon parameters. Two hours on Saturday morning fully supervised by Daddy. They were pretty cute in their three little wooden chairs as Seth guided them through an elaborate, timed game controller version of musical chairs. Something about each kid (plus dad) gets a half an hour to choose the game played while everyone else rotates the second controller every ten minutes. I was not usually involved, seeing as I was busy with laundry and trying to pretend that we had not invited this evil into our house. Nevertheless, we did, invite it in. It took a while for the kids to graduate from their sports based games and legos to what they play now. We are adamant in our stand on what rating is allowed, but that doesn't mean that the big electronic monster isn't growing bigger and bigger everyday. Our kids collect used video gaming consoles like their dad collects shoes.
It goes without saying that as the time has passed, the restrictions on video gaming have changed. We still have the standing two hours on Saturdays. No longer a staunch 'musical chairs' of gaming, the kids have enough controllers, systems, and tvs to play at the same time. Daddy doesn't monitor the game playing, that two hours is usually a good time for the two of us to run errands. Usually, if I have a doctor's appointment, or errand to run during the week, if school is done, the kids will play video games. Once everyone bought their own iPod, we had to set up some rules for those. Reading equals time on the iPod. Nothing over an hour. Somehow, though, the kids felt that if I was out and Seth was still working, video games were a good way to keep everyone busy.
And that is how we got ourselves into a mess of too much gaming. That would make a great Berenstain Bears book. We have Berenstain Bears and Too Much T.V., but I'd love to see an updated one, in which Brother and Sister Bear argue over controllers, games, and consoles. Their desires, dreams, and chatter are non-stop gaming. Brother and Sister have forgotten how to be Bears, because their lives are spent defeating aliens with their wireless controller or using the Wii to defend a land from Chaos. "I can't hear you!" Brother and Sister yell to Mother Bear as she calls them for dinner. But that's not the truth, they just stopped caring.
This week, our gaming problem reached epic proportions. Ella needs a new leg and we made three trips to the prosthetic office. Added to a few trips to the grocery store, these long appointments meant a LOT of opportunity for video gaming. Granted, it meant that everyone worked diligently on school to be done by the time I left with Ella. This morning, everyone woke up excited about playing video games for two hours after breakfast.
I erupted. Seth agreed.
After a lengthy conversation about expectations, Seth and I invited the kids to a family meeting. We reminded them of our agreed upon parameters, and then as a family counted up the hours that video games were played this week. A whopping ten and a half. Even the kids were surprised. Then we collectively made a list of amazing things we can do while 1-trapped in the house because it's -16 outside and 2-Mom is at the Doctor's, Costco, Piano Lesson, Prosthetic Office... We filled three pages with some great ideas and a few not so good ideas (Ella suggested a pear eating contest, but I vetoed that on the grounds of it being a choking hazard).
We had an amazing non-electronic afternoon. Everyone chipped in for a big brunch. Everett helped direct a 'movie' complete with costumes and heroes. Certain to be a huge youtube hit. The kids braved the snowstorm and trudged around in the knee deep snow exploring the sewer behind our house. And I'm okay with that. Then they built a fort village in the basement, which remains up as long as I choose not to walk down there to do laundry. I have gladly avoided the basement thus far. Right now, a feisty game of Uno is taking place while everyone sips hot tea. Every few minutes the chatter is punctuated with "UNO!" but I'll take that over the arguments over who gets the Wii and 'Why didn't you charge your own iPod, because I'm not letting you use mine!".
The kids haven't forgotten how to play after all and though the monster still lives in the basement, he isn't running our lives. Today.
I look back on that day with anguish. I was tormented with guilt, but relented as long as the kids stayed withing the agreed upon parameters. Two hours on Saturday morning fully supervised by Daddy. They were pretty cute in their three little wooden chairs as Seth guided them through an elaborate, timed game controller version of musical chairs. Something about each kid (plus dad) gets a half an hour to choose the game played while everyone else rotates the second controller every ten minutes. I was not usually involved, seeing as I was busy with laundry and trying to pretend that we had not invited this evil into our house. Nevertheless, we did, invite it in. It took a while for the kids to graduate from their sports based games and legos to what they play now. We are adamant in our stand on what rating is allowed, but that doesn't mean that the big electronic monster isn't growing bigger and bigger everyday. Our kids collect used video gaming consoles like their dad collects shoes.
It goes without saying that as the time has passed, the restrictions on video gaming have changed. We still have the standing two hours on Saturdays. No longer a staunch 'musical chairs' of gaming, the kids have enough controllers, systems, and tvs to play at the same time. Daddy doesn't monitor the game playing, that two hours is usually a good time for the two of us to run errands. Usually, if I have a doctor's appointment, or errand to run during the week, if school is done, the kids will play video games. Once everyone bought their own iPod, we had to set up some rules for those. Reading equals time on the iPod. Nothing over an hour. Somehow, though, the kids felt that if I was out and Seth was still working, video games were a good way to keep everyone busy.
And that is how we got ourselves into a mess of too much gaming. That would make a great Berenstain Bears book. We have Berenstain Bears and Too Much T.V., but I'd love to see an updated one, in which Brother and Sister Bear argue over controllers, games, and consoles. Their desires, dreams, and chatter are non-stop gaming. Brother and Sister have forgotten how to be Bears, because their lives are spent defeating aliens with their wireless controller or using the Wii to defend a land from Chaos. "I can't hear you!" Brother and Sister yell to Mother Bear as she calls them for dinner. But that's not the truth, they just stopped caring.
This week, our gaming problem reached epic proportions. Ella needs a new leg and we made three trips to the prosthetic office. Added to a few trips to the grocery store, these long appointments meant a LOT of opportunity for video gaming. Granted, it meant that everyone worked diligently on school to be done by the time I left with Ella. This morning, everyone woke up excited about playing video games for two hours after breakfast.
I erupted. Seth agreed.
After a lengthy conversation about expectations, Seth and I invited the kids to a family meeting. We reminded them of our agreed upon parameters, and then as a family counted up the hours that video games were played this week. A whopping ten and a half. Even the kids were surprised. Then we collectively made a list of amazing things we can do while 1-trapped in the house because it's -16 outside and 2-Mom is at the Doctor's, Costco, Piano Lesson, Prosthetic Office... We filled three pages with some great ideas and a few not so good ideas (Ella suggested a pear eating contest, but I vetoed that on the grounds of it being a choking hazard).
We had an amazing non-electronic afternoon. Everyone chipped in for a big brunch. Everett helped direct a 'movie' complete with costumes and heroes. Certain to be a huge youtube hit. The kids braved the snowstorm and trudged around in the knee deep snow exploring the sewer behind our house. And I'm okay with that. Then they built a fort village in the basement, which remains up as long as I choose not to walk down there to do laundry. I have gladly avoided the basement thus far. Right now, a feisty game of Uno is taking place while everyone sips hot tea. Every few minutes the chatter is punctuated with "UNO!" but I'll take that over the arguments over who gets the Wii and 'Why didn't you charge your own iPod, because I'm not letting you use mine!".
The kids haven't forgotten how to play after all and though the monster still lives in the basement, he isn't running our lives. Today.
December 25, 2013
Merry Christmas!
 |
| The annual Christmas card photo shoot. This is the first one I took. The dog swooped in, the 13 year old is not happy to be interrupted for this event. It only goes downhill from here. |
 |
| Get. The. Dog. Out. Of. Here. |
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| "Happy now? I'm even smiling." |
 |
| "Seriously!" |
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| "My teeth are showing. Please stop taking pictures." |
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| "Nice try Josiah." |
 | |||
| "I'm leaving." |
November 11, 2013
Reality
This summer I met my own insecurities. Writing about it sends shivers down my spine and makes me feel queasy.
I tend to overbook myself. That is an understatement. Ihave a hard time cannot say no. I don't even need to be asked for help, I just offer. I hear the words coming from my mouth and think about how I shouldn't be saying it, but I can't help myself! Label me as codependent or weak, but I have always preferred the word 'compassionate'.
I heard an old pastor say, "Cram a quart of activity into a pint of time". That would be a fitting motto for my life. If it's at all possible, I'll make it happen. After 36 years of living a life like that, this summer it caught up with me.
Pulling onto the interstate with my children in tow, my van packed to the gills for a camping trip, and husband out of town, I finally felt like I could breath. I had exchanged breakfast for three cups of coffee while furiously packing and corralling the dog and children. The kids were ecstatic about the week ahead, yet I was pensive. I had three days of mandatory training scheduled for the end of the week. I also had two dear friends that planned a camping trip--moms and kids only--for the week. Mistakenly, I thought training was close to the campground and gave a hearty "yes" to all activities. Then I realized that the training was an hour and a half away from our campsite. Enter my go-to reaction, I can't let anyone down so I'll run crazy and make it all work. But, for the first time in my life, I felt uneasy. I guess it was a warning.
It was there that I found myself driving on a beautiful morning to meet my sweet friends and their kids for a relaxing week of camping. I decided to call another friend about our upcoming trip to New England, just as I merged into traffic. I believe I was speaking quickly, and running solely on caffeine, when she said, "I can't even understand you."
Right then, the truck in front of me seemed to balloon out, like a bubble, my ears started ringing, and I hung up the phone. I was on a bridge, which always strikes terror into my soul, and white knuckling the wheel, praying that we could find somewhere to pull over. My mind wasn't right.
I survived that week. I wasn't sleeping. I wasn't eating. During the training one day, we had tornado warnings and had to seek shelter in the halls along with all of the children. The next day, Josiah cracked his head open during lunch, blood seeping from the gash, and I barely held it together. But for all appearances, I was fine. So calm, "Wow, look at Apryl, she's rock solid. Her kid just cracked his head open and she's just chill about it."
I was pretending.
I lost seven pounds that week. After I got home, I kept thinking that I needed sleep. I had worn myself out. But the headaches and ear ringing...I called my doctor. He was very concerned and ran tests. All turned out fine. Then he asked if perhaps I had 'burned out'. To which I replied, "What would that look like?"
And, why in the world would I 'burn out' now? At this time last year, I was planning a trip to Ethiopia, collecting blankets to bring, organizing a statewide reunion for our adoption agency, beginning a new curriculum, and teaching courses using that curriculum to families paying me. This year doesn't come close to what I was going through last year. I guess.
My doctor made me hyperventilate and that was exactly what I was experiencing during these 'stressful' times. It's as if my mind felt fine, but my body knows the truth. My breathing altered a little and then I began to experience the symptoms of hyperventilation. My mind would race and suddenly even the simple things in life seemed impossible.
This would be me falling off of the pedestal on which I'm sitting. I'm not even falling gracefully. I'm head first-wailing-arms swinging-cracking my forehead on the linoleum-falling.
It is ugly.
This is reality hitting me hard. God showing me that I can't do everything. I shouldn't do everything, because that makes a person proud. Hearing compliments often enough, and even I was convinced I had super powers. But superwoman didn't need God, and I really do. No other lesson has been so brutal.
1 Corinthians 1:27 kept coming up:
But God hath chosen the foolish things of the world to confound the wise; and God hath chosen the weak things of the world to confound the things which are mighty...
God used foolish, weak things to confound me. I felt wise and mighty, most of the time. Now, I don't.
1 Corinthians 1:29 is where I am now. "That no flesh should glory in his presence". Keeping myself in check, because this life, the reality that Apryl lives in now, isn't possible without the strength of God. Humility is a hard lesson. But, this is my new reality. I am not a superhero. I'm not even a mildly successful woman, unless I'm asking God for help. I can't fix everything that is broken in this world, I can't even fix what's broken in my own house. And I need to be okay with that. I've been stripped completely bare, and He's building me up slowly with a better foundation than before. A true reality, knowledge that everything that is done in my life is done by Him.
As Paul wrote, "His strength is made perfect in weakness." I am now weaker than I have ever been before, yet I experience the strength of God more than ever before.
I tend to overbook myself. That is an understatement. I
I heard an old pastor say, "Cram a quart of activity into a pint of time". That would be a fitting motto for my life. If it's at all possible, I'll make it happen. After 36 years of living a life like that, this summer it caught up with me.
Pulling onto the interstate with my children in tow, my van packed to the gills for a camping trip, and husband out of town, I finally felt like I could breath. I had exchanged breakfast for three cups of coffee while furiously packing and corralling the dog and children. The kids were ecstatic about the week ahead, yet I was pensive. I had three days of mandatory training scheduled for the end of the week. I also had two dear friends that planned a camping trip--moms and kids only--for the week. Mistakenly, I thought training was close to the campground and gave a hearty "yes" to all activities. Then I realized that the training was an hour and a half away from our campsite. Enter my go-to reaction, I can't let anyone down so I'll run crazy and make it all work. But, for the first time in my life, I felt uneasy. I guess it was a warning.
It was there that I found myself driving on a beautiful morning to meet my sweet friends and their kids for a relaxing week of camping. I decided to call another friend about our upcoming trip to New England, just as I merged into traffic. I believe I was speaking quickly, and running solely on caffeine, when she said, "I can't even understand you."
Right then, the truck in front of me seemed to balloon out, like a bubble, my ears started ringing, and I hung up the phone. I was on a bridge, which always strikes terror into my soul, and white knuckling the wheel, praying that we could find somewhere to pull over. My mind wasn't right.
I survived that week. I wasn't sleeping. I wasn't eating. During the training one day, we had tornado warnings and had to seek shelter in the halls along with all of the children. The next day, Josiah cracked his head open during lunch, blood seeping from the gash, and I barely held it together. But for all appearances, I was fine. So calm, "Wow, look at Apryl, she's rock solid. Her kid just cracked his head open and she's just chill about it."
I was pretending.
I lost seven pounds that week. After I got home, I kept thinking that I needed sleep. I had worn myself out. But the headaches and ear ringing...I called my doctor. He was very concerned and ran tests. All turned out fine. Then he asked if perhaps I had 'burned out'. To which I replied, "What would that look like?"
And, why in the world would I 'burn out' now? At this time last year, I was planning a trip to Ethiopia, collecting blankets to bring, organizing a statewide reunion for our adoption agency, beginning a new curriculum, and teaching courses using that curriculum to families paying me. This year doesn't come close to what I was going through last year. I guess.
My doctor made me hyperventilate and that was exactly what I was experiencing during these 'stressful' times. It's as if my mind felt fine, but my body knows the truth. My breathing altered a little and then I began to experience the symptoms of hyperventilation. My mind would race and suddenly even the simple things in life seemed impossible.
This would be me falling off of the pedestal on which I'm sitting. I'm not even falling gracefully. I'm head first-wailing-arms swinging-cracking my forehead on the linoleum-falling.
It is ugly.
This is reality hitting me hard. God showing me that I can't do everything. I shouldn't do everything, because that makes a person proud. Hearing compliments often enough, and even I was convinced I had super powers. But superwoman didn't need God, and I really do. No other lesson has been so brutal.
1 Corinthians 1:27 kept coming up:
But God hath chosen the foolish things of the world to confound the wise; and God hath chosen the weak things of the world to confound the things which are mighty...
God used foolish, weak things to confound me. I felt wise and mighty, most of the time. Now, I don't.
1 Corinthians 1:29 is where I am now. "That no flesh should glory in his presence". Keeping myself in check, because this life, the reality that Apryl lives in now, isn't possible without the strength of God. Humility is a hard lesson. But, this is my new reality. I am not a superhero. I'm not even a mildly successful woman, unless I'm asking God for help. I can't fix everything that is broken in this world, I can't even fix what's broken in my own house. And I need to be okay with that. I've been stripped completely bare, and He's building me up slowly with a better foundation than before. A true reality, knowledge that everything that is done in my life is done by Him.
As Paul wrote, "His strength is made perfect in weakness." I am now weaker than I have ever been before, yet I experience the strength of God more than ever before.
October 25, 2013
Just a Little Trim...
The hair saga. For the past five years it's been a constant presence. A task that required scheduling. Daily maintenance and then an entire evening for a new 'do.
And the drama. Dear me, the drama! The "You are pulling too hard", "Can't you straighten it?", and finally, the always dramatic final sigh after seeing the finished product. Never pleased with the curly gift with which God has blessed her. Never.
I'm not much better--too thin, too straight, too wispy...but this isn't about me, is it?
Dear hubby has been a bystander for all of these years. He's watched the dramatic hair dos unfold. He's had to manage things on his own when I've been out of town. He's made frantic phone calls after a night without the sleep cap, "The kids and I have a picnic with my boss and this hair is a mess!"
A few years ago he started in on, "Cut it short. It was so cute. Your life will be easier. She will look great."
I ignored him. So did she. Neither of us thought it would be a good idea. I, personally, was afraid of how other moms would judge me. Incapable of doing my daughter's hair equals incapable of raising my children properly. I'm serious.
I never thought hair would play any role in the relationship I have with my children. That was years ago. We were in the middle of a domestic adoption. We had a birth mom who was interested in our family--we were thrilled. On a phone interview she asked about hair.
Silence.
Seth finally answered, "We will figure something out. It's not like we will let our child walk around without their hair being taken care of."
And that was the last we heard from her.
We were so clueless. I was flabbergasted that hair was actually a big deal. Like, duh, wash it, dry it, braid it. How hard is that? I have three sisters. I've done hair.
Yeah, right. I was clueless. After we brought Sally home, I checked out every book on African American hair from the library. I bought cheap products. I bought expensive products. I listened to the lady in the elevator who suggested one shampoo and then changed when the hair blog I read said to try something else. I was all over the place. So was her hair.
Recently, we've got it under control. There were still days that she left the house looking like Don King. Usually, she looked pretty good. Then a few days would pass and she wouldn't put coconut oil on her hair and the braids would get frizzy. I'd undo them and put in twists, which she hates. Then we would undo those and wash. The bathroom would look like an afro exploded from all of the hair everywhere. Nuts.
One night, late, I needed to wash her hair and Seth brought up The Cut again. His coworker 'looks great' with this short style. He brought up some pictures on Google. I was won over and, oddly, so was Sally.
I could have knitted a king sized quilt from the amount of hair we cut. Wow.
She looks beautiful. I'm biased, but I think this little trim was a success in every way.
And the drama. Dear me, the drama! The "You are pulling too hard", "Can't you straighten it?", and finally, the always dramatic final sigh after seeing the finished product. Never pleased with the curly gift with which God has blessed her. Never.
I'm not much better--too thin, too straight, too wispy...but this isn't about me, is it?
Dear hubby has been a bystander for all of these years. He's watched the dramatic hair dos unfold. He's had to manage things on his own when I've been out of town. He's made frantic phone calls after a night without the sleep cap, "The kids and I have a picnic with my boss and this hair is a mess!"
A few years ago he started in on, "Cut it short. It was so cute. Your life will be easier. She will look great."
I ignored him. So did she. Neither of us thought it would be a good idea. I, personally, was afraid of how other moms would judge me. Incapable of doing my daughter's hair equals incapable of raising my children properly. I'm serious.
I never thought hair would play any role in the relationship I have with my children. That was years ago. We were in the middle of a domestic adoption. We had a birth mom who was interested in our family--we were thrilled. On a phone interview she asked about hair.
Silence.
Seth finally answered, "We will figure something out. It's not like we will let our child walk around without their hair being taken care of."
And that was the last we heard from her.
We were so clueless. I was flabbergasted that hair was actually a big deal. Like, duh, wash it, dry it, braid it. How hard is that? I have three sisters. I've done hair.
Yeah, right. I was clueless. After we brought Sally home, I checked out every book on African American hair from the library. I bought cheap products. I bought expensive products. I listened to the lady in the elevator who suggested one shampoo and then changed when the hair blog I read said to try something else. I was all over the place. So was her hair.
Recently, we've got it under control. There were still days that she left the house looking like Don King. Usually, she looked pretty good. Then a few days would pass and she wouldn't put coconut oil on her hair and the braids would get frizzy. I'd undo them and put in twists, which she hates. Then we would undo those and wash. The bathroom would look like an afro exploded from all of the hair everywhere. Nuts.
One night, late, I needed to wash her hair and Seth brought up The Cut again. His coworker 'looks great' with this short style. He brought up some pictures on Google. I was won over and, oddly, so was Sally.
I could have knitted a king sized quilt from the amount of hair we cut. Wow.
She looks beautiful. I'm biased, but I think this little trim was a success in every way.
May 16, 2013
Spring Break
I started this post ages ago. After spring break, to be precise. I am usually careful to document our adventures, local or far flung. I guess I have a unfounded fear that one day one of the kids will accuse me of never doing anything with them. Unfounded fear. So, I'm a picture taker, rarely doing anything with the pictures, but they are proof that we did some crazy things. And some normal things, like taking a spring break. Albeit, just down to visit the Grandparents, but we had fun. The first root beer float of the season, first bonfire, an Easter sunrise service followed by breakfast at church...and the final game of touch football, or any football for that matter, for my father-in-law. What started out as role of coach and permanent quarterback morphed into broken ribs and months of recovery. Before you ask, it was not Josiah's fault, though that is a plausible line of thinking. Evidently, two hand touch can get pretty exciting. Carried away in the moment, Papop decided to run the ball instead of passing it. I saw him from the corner of my eye as he flew parallel to the ground still clutching the football. He landed and didn't get up. Thankfully, it wasn't worse, but from now on he will be enjoying all football games from the stands. This post's for you Papop!
April 6, 2013
A Shoeshine
He needed a shoeshine. Rather, he needed to learn to shine his own boots. It shouldn't amount to much, but it was eloquent. Me, busy at the stove, scrambling to get dinner for seven on the table. Four younger siblings flitting here and there. I turned and glimpsed the two of them, father and son, on the floor shining a pair of boots. I eagerly watch as he grows, but I want him to stay young. He's still my chubby two year old, the one who spends his days alone with me. My little buddy. Then, I blink and he's shining his combat boots with dad, getting a uniform ready for his weekly meeting.
October 5, 2012
The Half
Race day.
Dark and cold. Nervously, I am standing in the middle of a city street. Seth is pressed to my side as we wait for the start. The crowd is crushing in on us eagerly, but the start is still minutes away.
I am anxious. The peanut butter sandwich I ate at 5am sits in my throat. Seth looks down at me and whispers, "Good luck!" With a kiss on the cheek, he quickly disappears ahead of me.
Even more anxious now, I stand alone in a crowd of 10,000 runners. The countdown begins. The crowd lunges forward as fireworks light up the sky. We won't begin running for a few minutes. As a shuffling mass of humanity, we push toward the start.
Still nervous. Still can't believe I will attempt to run 13 miles today. No pat responses have squelched my worry about finishing this race.
Finally, the crowd surges forward and there is space to run. We run through the dark streets with thousands watching. Soon, we cross the bridge and I feel good. My legs are moving and I begin to relax. It clicks that I have been working towards this all summer. Just another run.
It's fun now. Fireworks still cracking in the distance. Cheers from the sidewalk and fellow runners.
Looking around, I notice myriad of running shirts around me. Relay teams, local businesses, funny quips--I wonder if any of the 20,000 people expected here today will notice my shirt. Written down my back: "Sponsor a child. Give food, water, education, and hope. " "Running for hope" across my chest, I know people will be stuck behind me or seeing my back as they pass me. Bystanders will see my front--a slow moving billboard.
I relax and begin to enjoy the sound of thousands of feet hitting pavement. Cheers and signs--volunteers yelling. The cadence of my own feet allows me to delight. I look above the street and see faces peering from the apartment building ahead. Five little heads, noses pressed to the glass, watching the river of runners stream past. I smile and reach my arm high, waving my hand as I pass below their window. They light up and wave furiously. It makes me wonder who else we might be disturbing.
Six miles pass in a blur.
Soon enough my legs begin to tire and I realize that I still have five more miles to run. A new song comes through my headphones and the burning in my legs is forgotten as I listen. I'm in the car loudly singing with the kids. They love this one and I smile thinking of them. They were so excited for this race. They have been my biggest champions. In the afternoons, when I didn't feel like running, Eli would lace up his shoes and run a few miles. We'd pass the house and Sally would trade places with him for a quick mile. My last lap would be with our eldest. Always starting off too fast and burning out, but finishing since he doesn't want to be beat by his mother. Running with our children is a sweet time. We chat and run and enjoy being together.
The song ends and it brings me into my ninth mile. We are back downtown, crossing the bridge again. My phone beeps and shows that Seth has already finished his race. I hear my name as I near the stadium and see him cheering from the side, wearing an ecstatic but goofy grin. I cross the finish minutes under my goal time, thrilled to be done. My first half, a celebration of my 35 birthday, a summer of working towards a goal I never thought I could meet.
I think I might just try it again.
Dark and cold. Nervously, I am standing in the middle of a city street. Seth is pressed to my side as we wait for the start. The crowd is crushing in on us eagerly, but the start is still minutes away.
I am anxious. The peanut butter sandwich I ate at 5am sits in my throat. Seth looks down at me and whispers, "Good luck!" With a kiss on the cheek, he quickly disappears ahead of me.
Even more anxious now, I stand alone in a crowd of 10,000 runners. The countdown begins. The crowd lunges forward as fireworks light up the sky. We won't begin running for a few minutes. As a shuffling mass of humanity, we push toward the start.
Still nervous. Still can't believe I will attempt to run 13 miles today. No pat responses have squelched my worry about finishing this race.
Finally, the crowd surges forward and there is space to run. We run through the dark streets with thousands watching. Soon, we cross the bridge and I feel good. My legs are moving and I begin to relax. It clicks that I have been working towards this all summer. Just another run.
It's fun now. Fireworks still cracking in the distance. Cheers from the sidewalk and fellow runners.
Looking around, I notice myriad of running shirts around me. Relay teams, local businesses, funny quips--I wonder if any of the 20,000 people expected here today will notice my shirt. Written down my back: "Sponsor a child. Give food, water, education, and hope. " "Running for hope" across my chest, I know people will be stuck behind me or seeing my back as they pass me. Bystanders will see my front--a slow moving billboard.
I relax and begin to enjoy the sound of thousands of feet hitting pavement. Cheers and signs--volunteers yelling. The cadence of my own feet allows me to delight. I look above the street and see faces peering from the apartment building ahead. Five little heads, noses pressed to the glass, watching the river of runners stream past. I smile and reach my arm high, waving my hand as I pass below their window. They light up and wave furiously. It makes me wonder who else we might be disturbing.
Six miles pass in a blur.
Soon enough my legs begin to tire and I realize that I still have five more miles to run. A new song comes through my headphones and the burning in my legs is forgotten as I listen. I'm in the car loudly singing with the kids. They love this one and I smile thinking of them. They were so excited for this race. They have been my biggest champions. In the afternoons, when I didn't feel like running, Eli would lace up his shoes and run a few miles. We'd pass the house and Sally would trade places with him for a quick mile. My last lap would be with our eldest. Always starting off too fast and burning out, but finishing since he doesn't want to be beat by his mother. Running with our children is a sweet time. We chat and run and enjoy being together.
 | ||
| Sally took this picture when we got home. |
I think I might just try it again.
September 21, 2012
Running
I am not a runner.
Dating an avid runner pushed me to start running. Marrying that running man forced me to continue the despicable sport. But, I remained a non-runner.
I ran alongside him as he trained for marathons. I was never fast, never ran too long, but enjoyed being with him.
One summer he was gone and running finally became mine. I ran for the solace. The kids and I made a funny parade of four bicycles and a jogging stroller. I trailed in the back, panting, and reveling in my solace. I trained that summer to run in a marathon relay. Not too far, not too fast, and just for fun. For me.
Each summer I have trained for the same race. I trained because my relay buddies were counting on me. By the end of the summer, I would find myself looking forward to my long runs. Seeking solace.
Last year, I ran the longest leg of the relay. Still not a runner, finishing eight miles felt like an accomplishment. This year I purposed to train for the half-marathon. Early in the spring I hurt myself and each step felt like a knife stabbing into my heel. I kept running.
I visited a doctor, stretched, and kept running. The pain in my foot at the end of the day was terrible, but I needed to run.
Burdens weighing heavily on my shoulders fall off as I run. It's just God and me. The running and pleading in the early morning darkness is where I leave those heavy burdens. I leave them where they belong, at the feet of the One who is able to carry them. As my feet hit the pavement, I thank Him.
My great-grandmother passed away this summer. She was 98 years old. A formidable woman who had been born on the brink of World War I. She outlived two of her five children and her husband. She lived alone in a house built before she was born, at the end of a road that bears her name. My husband once commented that she was the only family member who shared the same eye color as my sisters and me. Her death was somewhat expected, but still heartbreaking.
In planning our trip to the funeral, I became overwhelmed. I needed to be alone, so I put on my shoes and ran. I thought about my Great-Grandma and the life that she lived. I prayed for my Grandma, her daughter, who would miss her mother.
Last week, I finally registered for the half-marathon. I realized that maybe a runner is simply someone who wants to run, whatever their reason.
Dating an avid runner pushed me to start running. Marrying that running man forced me to continue the despicable sport. But, I remained a non-runner.
I ran alongside him as he trained for marathons. I was never fast, never ran too long, but enjoyed being with him.
One summer he was gone and running finally became mine. I ran for the solace. The kids and I made a funny parade of four bicycles and a jogging stroller. I trailed in the back, panting, and reveling in my solace. I trained that summer to run in a marathon relay. Not too far, not too fast, and just for fun. For me.
Each summer I have trained for the same race. I trained because my relay buddies were counting on me. By the end of the summer, I would find myself looking forward to my long runs. Seeking solace.
Last year, I ran the longest leg of the relay. Still not a runner, finishing eight miles felt like an accomplishment. This year I purposed to train for the half-marathon. Early in the spring I hurt myself and each step felt like a knife stabbing into my heel. I kept running.
I visited a doctor, stretched, and kept running. The pain in my foot at the end of the day was terrible, but I needed to run.
Burdens weighing heavily on my shoulders fall off as I run. It's just God and me. The running and pleading in the early morning darkness is where I leave those heavy burdens. I leave them where they belong, at the feet of the One who is able to carry them. As my feet hit the pavement, I thank Him.
My great-grandmother passed away this summer. She was 98 years old. A formidable woman who had been born on the brink of World War I. She outlived two of her five children and her husband. She lived alone in a house built before she was born, at the end of a road that bears her name. My husband once commented that she was the only family member who shared the same eye color as my sisters and me. Her death was somewhat expected, but still heartbreaking.
In planning our trip to the funeral, I became overwhelmed. I needed to be alone, so I put on my shoes and ran. I thought about my Great-Grandma and the life that she lived. I prayed for my Grandma, her daughter, who would miss her mother.
Last week, I finally registered for the half-marathon. I realized that maybe a runner is simply someone who wants to run, whatever their reason.
September 18, 2012
Bean Finale
At the end of the 'bean experiment', no one mentioned all of the bean consumption that had been going on around the house. That, in and of itself, is a successful experiment.
I mentioned to Seth that he might want to read my blog during some downtime this week. I piqued his interest by saying, "I've been doing a little experiment."
That guy, I couldn't believe it, said, "Did it involve beans?"
I just fed a family of seven for almost a week for about $20! That's $12 for bean dinners and lunches, and another $8 for breakfast (eggs and spinach smoothies). Our pizzas on Friday night cost more than our entire week! If I took this little unscientific experiment and applied it--really applied it--we could potentially cut our food budget by 75%.
I enjoy eating a lavish meal, but at what expense? If our eating habits prevent us from doing more good for others, then we need to change. Perhaps for your family that change may be dramatic, perhaps it will be something that they won't even notice. My crazy bean-eating week proved that my family really doesn't notice what I'm feeding them!
The weighty conclusion of this silly experiment: we are going to make some changes and use them to benefit others. Money that we ate will now be money we can spend on more important things.
I mentioned to Seth that he might want to read my blog during some downtime this week. I piqued his interest by saying, "I've been doing a little experiment."
That guy, I couldn't believe it, said, "Did it involve beans?"
I just fed a family of seven for almost a week for about $20! That's $12 for bean dinners and lunches, and another $8 for breakfast (eggs and spinach smoothies). Our pizzas on Friday night cost more than our entire week! If I took this little unscientific experiment and applied it--really applied it--we could potentially cut our food budget by 75%.
I enjoy eating a lavish meal, but at what expense? If our eating habits prevent us from doing more good for others, then we need to change. Perhaps for your family that change may be dramatic, perhaps it will be something that they won't even notice. My crazy bean-eating week proved that my family really doesn't notice what I'm feeding them!
The weighty conclusion of this silly experiment: we are going to make some changes and use them to benefit others. Money that we ate will now be money we can spend on more important things.
September 15, 2012
Black Bean Du Jour
Last night was a complete cheat. We always have pizza on Fridays. I thought I could serve beans, until I made a date to do some chemistry tutoring. I didn't think serving a high school senior beans with a side of chemistry would be nice. So, we had pizza. My sincerest apologies to everyone for being a cheater pants!
Today, to make up for last night, I made black bean soup for lunch. Pretty simple recipe without cheats: beans, peppers from the garden, and GARLIC. I would give that another $2 price tag.
I threw the leftover soup into the food processor for dinner. We had some cheese (counts if I already had it, right?) and chips, and I wowed everyone with black bean nachos. I'm not going to say this meal was free, since I had to add to it--not enough leftover soup for a family of seven. It was completely my fault, as I was hardly lucid as I prepared the soup and didn't quadruple everything. Nevertheless, I would put our meal at about $5.
Still not bad. For a loosely thrown together 'experiment', I'm learning something about our family menu.
Today, to make up for last night, I made black bean soup for lunch. Pretty simple recipe without cheats: beans, peppers from the garden, and GARLIC. I would give that another $2 price tag.
I threw the leftover soup into the food processor for dinner. We had some cheese (counts if I already had it, right?) and chips, and I wowed everyone with black bean nachos. I'm not going to say this meal was free, since I had to add to it--not enough leftover soup for a family of seven. It was completely my fault, as I was hardly lucid as I prepared the soup and didn't quadruple everything. Nevertheless, I would put our meal at about $5.
Still not bad. For a loosely thrown together 'experiment', I'm learning something about our family menu.
September 13, 2012
Mums the Word
Day four of serving beans. Yesterday, Seth picked up his lunch and peeked into the bottom of the Rubbermaid. Spying the pintos from the previous night's dinner, he groaned and said, "You cannot be serious." So I swapped them out for the Indian chick peas and sent him on his way.
He must have known I would be serving pintos in some form or fashion for dinner, since he was "held up" on a boat for work. He was forced to miss our dinner and choke down a full course meal prepared by the ship's chef.
Pressing on, the children and I enjoyed a third meal of pintos (ate a bowl of them for lunch). This time I fooled their palates by adding copious amounts of garlic and some cilantro. I mashed everything together and threw it on a tortilla. There was some griping because I did go heavy on the garlic. Personally, there is no such thing as too much garlic. We finished off the large pot of beans. Three meals for a family of seven (excluding that big guy who opted out) for under $5. Pretty successful.
The side effects of beans for so many meals are starting to become evident. Last night, Seth, holding his stomach, said, "I don't know what's going on, but...I've been real gassy."
I bit my lip, but didn't spill the beans.
He must have known I would be serving pintos in some form or fashion for dinner, since he was "held up" on a boat for work. He was forced to miss our dinner and choke down a full course meal prepared by the ship's chef.
Pressing on, the children and I enjoyed a third meal of pintos (ate a bowl of them for lunch). This time I fooled their palates by adding copious amounts of garlic and some cilantro. I mashed everything together and threw it on a tortilla. There was some griping because I did go heavy on the garlic. Personally, there is no such thing as too much garlic. We finished off the large pot of beans. Three meals for a family of seven (excluding that big guy who opted out) for under $5. Pretty successful.
The side effects of beans for so many meals are starting to become evident. Last night, Seth, holding his stomach, said, "I don't know what's going on, but...I've been real gassy."
I bit my lip, but didn't spill the beans.
September 11, 2012
The Joy of Pintos
The Indian dish was not well received last night. Too spicy. Too hot. Too many...chick peas.
A gargantuan pot of pintos simmered on the stove for most of the day. All of the children were delighted, because they are some pinto-eating folks. I threw together some kind of muffins for the big guy who despises pintos (I think they are beneath him). Alas, I had no cornmeal in the cupboard. How does that happen? It's been sitting in the nether reaches of the upper cupboard for three years. I had to make up a concoction and thought baking it in a muffin pan would make it more appealing. Viola, corn things shaped like a muffin.
I guess it worked. No one suspects a thing. Just wait until tomorrow, when the leftover pintos appear again as refried beans.
Dinner's total tonight: $2 bag 'o beans and some change for some odds and ends to make 'muffins'
A gargantuan pot of pintos simmered on the stove for most of the day. All of the children were delighted, because they are some pinto-eating folks. I threw together some kind of muffins for the big guy who despises pintos (I think they are beneath him). Alas, I had no cornmeal in the cupboard. How does that happen? It's been sitting in the nether reaches of the upper cupboard for three years. I had to make up a concoction and thought baking it in a muffin pan would make it more appealing. Viola, corn things shaped like a muffin.
I guess it worked. No one suspects a thing. Just wait until tomorrow, when the leftover pintos appear again as refried beans.
Dinner's total tonight: $2 bag 'o beans and some change for some odds and ends to make 'muffins'
September 10, 2012
The Week I Experiment on My Family
Today I began an experiment on my loved ones. I am only able to post this since none of them read my blog. If they knew what I was doing, they would certainly revolt. It's not terrible, really.
I am feeding them beans. Every. Single. Day.
A family of seven eats money. We wear, wash, and toss clothes by the basketful. We drive here and there constantly. Music lessons for a few children, school books for five, sports activities...the list goes on and on. The biggest expense remains our bellies.
We eat a lot.
I started thinking about bracelets and beads and yard sales. I was thinking about the money that we eat every day. What if we didn't spend so much on our plates? What if we saved so much each week that we were able to send a nice chunk to HopeChest for the school? Seems reasonable. I'm already pretty frugal in the area of groceries, but I thought I might be able to do better. I still splurge on occasion. Our splurge isn't a night out for seven at the local Cheesecake Factory, more like a take out pizza (or three). It still adds up.
This idea of eating up so much money got me to thinking. I can't keep our children from eating so much...they are growing! I can spend less on what I'm feeding them. Bags of dried beans came to mind.
Healthy. Easy. Cheap. The options are endless.
I wondered if my family would even notice. In sharing this idea with a friend, she suggested I blog about my 'experiment'. I didn't make a lot of rules to follow. Every night for dinner--beans of some kind. If I have something in my cupboard, it's fair game to add. Anything from my garden is fair game also. We will have eggs or smoothies for breakfast and have leftovers for lunch.
Tonight--one bag of chickpeas, tomatoes from the garden, rice, spices, and onions from the cupboard.
Total-- $3 to feed seven. Off to a pretty good start.
I am feeding them beans. Every. Single. Day.
A family of seven eats money. We wear, wash, and toss clothes by the basketful. We drive here and there constantly. Music lessons for a few children, school books for five, sports activities...the list goes on and on. The biggest expense remains our bellies.
We eat a lot.
I started thinking about bracelets and beads and yard sales. I was thinking about the money that we eat every day. What if we didn't spend so much on our plates? What if we saved so much each week that we were able to send a nice chunk to HopeChest for the school? Seems reasonable. I'm already pretty frugal in the area of groceries, but I thought I might be able to do better. I still splurge on occasion. Our splurge isn't a night out for seven at the local Cheesecake Factory, more like a take out pizza (or three). It still adds up.
This idea of eating up so much money got me to thinking. I can't keep our children from eating so much...they are growing! I can spend less on what I'm feeding them. Bags of dried beans came to mind.
Healthy. Easy. Cheap. The options are endless.
I wondered if my family would even notice. In sharing this idea with a friend, she suggested I blog about my 'experiment'. I didn't make a lot of rules to follow. Every night for dinner--beans of some kind. If I have something in my cupboard, it's fair game to add. Anything from my garden is fair game also. We will have eggs or smoothies for breakfast and have leftovers for lunch.
Tonight--one bag of chickpeas, tomatoes from the garden, rice, spices, and onions from the cupboard.
Total-- $3 to feed seven. Off to a pretty good start.
August 30, 2012
Sandwich Party
Parents of picky eaters all across the country are struggling with the same problem. What to pack for lunch? Friends of ours were visiting for the week and we had talked about her issue. How many pb&j sandwiches can you pack before you start to wonder about your child's health?
Honestly, my eldest son probably ate peanut butter every day for the first six years of his life. He usually opts for leftovers these days. I suppose 1800 peanut butter sandwiches might be enough to satiate even the most avid pb&j lover.
I'm always happy to host an event that involves food. She mentioned a 'sandwich party' and I jumped on the idea. We spent about an hour making various sandwiches. Some were pretty healthy and others, not so much. In the end, we had ten different choices for the children to choose from. Then, we upped the ante and offered a "Man vs. Food Challenge". Try (remember, we are working with picky eaters) four different sandwiches and win a brownie. The definition of "try" was loose. We felt that even a nibble of dry crust would count, since the previously terrifying sandwich actually touched their lips.Mostly courageous kids, a load of leftover sandwiches, and rediscovering a love for egg salad makes this event a success for me!
August 16, 2012
Rainy Day
The big brothers are at the Grandparents for the week. That leaves the rest of us...
bored.
lonely.
bored.
jealous.
Did I mention bored?
Yesterday, I bought hardware to finally install our hammock. It's been in the garage since we moved. Three years in the garage with creatures that nibbled the stuffing out of the pillow. I should have taken that as a sign. The hammock was hardly installed as three eager kids jumped onto it. Almost all of the ropes holding it to the tree snapped. The kids went flopping to the ground and we stood there awestruck at what just happened. It would have been funny if it wouldn't have been so sad.
My big fun plan for the morning was gone.
On top of it all, today is rainy.
I am trying to get ready for school to start. I was hoping without all five kiddos I would be living in a world of ease. To-do lists galore...check, check, check.
I have a million things to do, but the three sets of puppy dog eyes work their magic.
Ten minutes on Pinterest. Three hours later, it is two o-clock and I am still in my pjs. Painter's tape, poster paint, and some paper. Every step did require my help. I also had to explain several times that just painting over the tape would result in a big sheet of white paper. They turned out cute, and I thought that after giving undivided attention to the crafting session they would run to the basement to play with the cushion fort.
It would seem that once you offer an activity, if its fun, then the children think they cannot have any fun without the help of you, their cruise director. Gallon ziploc bags, more poster paint, glitter, and packing tape. Tidy finger painting. Certain this would buy me some time, I put together three bags and passed them out.
The sun came out. Since it was already late afternoon and I hadn't showered I thought might as well make the most of the dirty state I was living with. I pulled out the bikes and took my trio on a four mile jaunt. I ran, they biked. I pushed Josiah up the hills, running, puffing, panting, "Please pedal, just a little!" But we did it.
My check lists remain unchecked. I am not ready for school to begin next week. But this cruise director made the most of a dreary, boring, lonely day and got nothing done. Perhaps you might like to spend a day doing absolutely nothing just like us!
bored.
lonely.
bored.
jealous.
Did I mention bored?
Yesterday, I bought hardware to finally install our hammock. It's been in the garage since we moved. Three years in the garage with creatures that nibbled the stuffing out of the pillow. I should have taken that as a sign. The hammock was hardly installed as three eager kids jumped onto it. Almost all of the ropes holding it to the tree snapped. The kids went flopping to the ground and we stood there awestruck at what just happened. It would have been funny if it wouldn't have been so sad.
My big fun plan for the morning was gone.
On top of it all, today is rainy.
I am trying to get ready for school to start. I was hoping without all five kiddos I would be living in a world of ease. To-do lists galore...check, check, check.
I have a million things to do, but the three sets of puppy dog eyes work their magic.
Ten minutes on Pinterest. Three hours later, it is two o-clock and I am still in my pjs. Painter's tape, poster paint, and some paper. Every step did require my help. I also had to explain several times that just painting over the tape would result in a big sheet of white paper. They turned out cute, and I thought that after giving undivided attention to the crafting session they would run to the basement to play with the cushion fort.
Finally, we drew. We drew and drew. We wrote stories and poetry. We applauded each others efforts.
My check lists remain unchecked. I am not ready for school to begin next week. But this cruise director made the most of a dreary, boring, lonely day and got nothing done. Perhaps you might like to spend a day doing absolutely nothing just like us!
July 2, 2012
Transitions
I am watching our little boy begin that transition into adolescence.
Painful.
One minute he stands in the backyard fort as the pirate captain. The next he's too busy with his ipod to be bothered by anyone.
Even me.
He's worn out my Tolkien collection. They were pristine until he read them a dozen times...last week. I'm amazed. Then, he dons hobbit apparel and directs all of the siblings into appropriate costumes and tells them what member of the fellowship they will be.
Tonight we went out together--just the two of us--for ice cream and bantering. I needed a haircut and tried to coerce him to join me. He laughed and said he wasn't about to let that lady touch his hair, rolling his eyes as if I had lost my mind.
When we got back home he slipped into bed and, as I walked into the light of the hallway, he whispered, "You didn't kiss me goodnight." For a while longer, he remains, our little boy.
Painful.
One minute he stands in the backyard fort as the pirate captain. The next he's too busy with his ipod to be bothered by anyone.
Even me.
He's worn out my Tolkien collection. They were pristine until he read them a dozen times...last week. I'm amazed. Then, he dons hobbit apparel and directs all of the siblings into appropriate costumes and tells them what member of the fellowship they will be.
Tonight we went out together--just the two of us--for ice cream and bantering. I needed a haircut and tried to coerce him to join me. He laughed and said he wasn't about to let that lady touch his hair, rolling his eyes as if I had lost my mind.
When we got back home he slipped into bed and, as I walked into the light of the hallway, he whispered, "You didn't kiss me goodnight." For a while longer, he remains, our little boy.
June 1, 2012
Us
I fear that my recent posts have seemed dreary. Blog world is a funny place where even the sad posts aren't snot-and-tears-all-over-your-face sad, rather Hollywood-heroine-lip-quivering-eyes-filling-with-tears sad. I can't tell what I portray here, since I know my life is the snotty, drippy sort, not the lip quivering heroine sort. I always write knowing the reality of the situation. When I read my post about attachment, I feel discouraged. I feel discouraged for any new adoptive parents who might read it and sigh and wonder for the 108th time if they really know what they are getting into. I feel discouraged for the post-adoptive crowd who is struggling to figure out what normal means and reads that after four years we are still baffled by adoptive life.
If you read that post and wonder what our lives look like, then I started this post for you. I want to be encouraging, but in a real way. I don't want you to get this image of a sullen, angry child who hates her family. That's not it at all! This morning, as I was writing it in my head (which is why my posts have become so rare...too much writing in my head and not enough making it onto the laptop). Anyway, as I was writing I was thinking of the lovely things we enjoy as a family. I had a mental list of photos from our recent trip to the beach for my sister's wedding. Definitely lovely.
The garden we have been planting and watering and now, as Eli says, "We just water and watch." So lovely.
The times when an academic struggle turns into success and we high five and cheer and I'm totally pumped and love homeschooling. Way lovely.
Scoping out a bird's nest in my parent's yard. Three little blue eggs and one big brown one, delighted to see science lessons in real life, though we all pretty much agree that we really don't like 'brood parasites'. Admiring the delicate nest with the kids ranks a big lovely.
But then my solace was interrupted when life happened. Probably in the middle of my mental writing of that lovely post. Someone clogged the toilet, which is basically about as un-lovely as things can be. Sally couldn't remember anything in her math book so I couldn't be interrupted to fix the toilet at that juncture. In the throes of reteaching the past 2 years of math with her, I forgot about the toilet.
Then, it was lunch time. Afterwards, Josiah and I decided to water the flowerbeds. While watering, he was reminded that he needed to race to the bathroom, but hadn't heard the "don't use that toilet" message from hours ago. So he used it. And flushed. And flushed. And wouldn't you know, he flushed one more time, just because he couldn't figure out why it wasn't working. That overflowing mess greeted me when I came into the house. I only came inside because the girls were pleading with me to make them tea for a tea party. Instead, I sopped up the mess and called for the culprit to help, then carried rugs and towels to the basement to wash. I noticed along the way that the litter box hadn't been emptied since we left for the weekend. I started laundry and cleaned the box and was running up the stairs with a bag of very used litter when I heard a pleasant voice coming from the dining room, barely audible over the din made by the tea partiers who were still begging for tea to be made. I hit the top stair and saw Eli's flute teacher, smiling at me--wet with toilet water, holding a bag of cat poop, panting and sweaty and surrounded by squealing children.
Our lives are not always lovely. It's a real life. Busy and lovely and sad and sometimes pretty frustrating.
If you read that post and wonder what our lives look like, then I started this post for you. I want to be encouraging, but in a real way. I don't want you to get this image of a sullen, angry child who hates her family. That's not it at all! This morning, as I was writing it in my head (which is why my posts have become so rare...too much writing in my head and not enough making it onto the laptop). Anyway, as I was writing I was thinking of the lovely things we enjoy as a family. I had a mental list of photos from our recent trip to the beach for my sister's wedding. Definitely lovely.
The garden we have been planting and watering and now, as Eli says, "We just water and watch." So lovely.
The times when an academic struggle turns into success and we high five and cheer and I'm totally pumped and love homeschooling. Way lovely.
Scoping out a bird's nest in my parent's yard. Three little blue eggs and one big brown one, delighted to see science lessons in real life, though we all pretty much agree that we really don't like 'brood parasites'. Admiring the delicate nest with the kids ranks a big lovely.
But then my solace was interrupted when life happened. Probably in the middle of my mental writing of that lovely post. Someone clogged the toilet, which is basically about as un-lovely as things can be. Sally couldn't remember anything in her math book so I couldn't be interrupted to fix the toilet at that juncture. In the throes of reteaching the past 2 years of math with her, I forgot about the toilet.
Then, it was lunch time. Afterwards, Josiah and I decided to water the flowerbeds. While watering, he was reminded that he needed to race to the bathroom, but hadn't heard the "don't use that toilet" message from hours ago. So he used it. And flushed. And flushed. And wouldn't you know, he flushed one more time, just because he couldn't figure out why it wasn't working. That overflowing mess greeted me when I came into the house. I only came inside because the girls were pleading with me to make them tea for a tea party. Instead, I sopped up the mess and called for the culprit to help, then carried rugs and towels to the basement to wash. I noticed along the way that the litter box hadn't been emptied since we left for the weekend. I started laundry and cleaned the box and was running up the stairs with a bag of very used litter when I heard a pleasant voice coming from the dining room, barely audible over the din made by the tea partiers who were still begging for tea to be made. I hit the top stair and saw Eli's flute teacher, smiling at me--wet with toilet water, holding a bag of cat poop, panting and sweaty and surrounded by squealing children.
Our lives are not always lovely. It's a real life. Busy and lovely and sad and sometimes pretty frustrating.
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