How is that another entire week has passed by? Spring is flying, my belly is growing, and I'm really in no hurry for the days to pass this fast!
We are deep into our third term of school, and the days seem to be getting longer. Often we don't finish until nearly 3, and if I run to the library or on another errand, it's dinner time before I know it! I'm still fighting the laundry mountain, but nobody had to ask for clean underwear this week, so I think maybe I'm heading to the top of it. Last weekend some energy came back, and my anti-nausea meds are working much better now, so I feel nearly normal. Except that my pants are evidently shrinking :)
Today I spent nearly the entire day in our little guest house, working on getting it ready for moving school into it later this spring. We've decided to move the boys up into the Happy Room, which involves putting in a window to make it fire-drill safe (The only window is nearly 12 feet up!) and putting flooring down in that bathroom. The bathroom still has the harvest gold tub, sink, and toilet from 1978, but the boys don't care, and it's not in this year's house plans, so it'll be gold awhile longer. But the floor is just the sub-floor because I pulled the carpet out of it. Carpet in a kids' bathroom is not a good idea. Especially not in a boys' bathroom! Yuck.
Anyway, since the boys are moving into our school room, our school room is relocating! I've promised my husband that I can make our guest house look better than ever and still make it a great place for school. I think he was afraid I'd have alphabet flash cards tacked up along the walls, and that's great for a schoolroom but not so great as guesthouse decor, you know? So I've been thinking and Pinterest-ing for a couple months now, and I think it'll look great once it's finished and be an even better place for our school than our Happy Room has been.
BUT--We have to build a shed first, to move all the tools out of the guest house cabinets, since our current shed is decrepit and has a dirt floor, so the wood siding is rotting. (I'm guessing the same person who put a wood shed on top of dirt also put carpet in the bathroom.) After the shed is up, the tools can go out, and school can come in, so the boys can go up, so I can use their old room for the nursery! A lot of chain-of-events, and everything has to happen in order. To complicate it all, we're re-siding our house, so we have to coordinate installing the boys' window at the same time. I'm feeling a little impatient to get something moving, because I feel like the days are flying by, and my project time is limited!
But I'm trying to just take it once step at a time, and doing what I can, which for now is painting all the trim in the guest house (fully ventilated, of course), waiting patiently on my back-ordered curtain fabric to arrive, and figuring out how to get rid of a big-screen TV that's as big as a pony. My husband is convinced somebody will buy it; I was hoping we could give it away to anybody who'd bother to come get it! So we still have a few details to work out :)
That's really all that's going on here. I'm just trying to stay on target for school with my three, keep up with the laundry, and remember to plan meals in advance (i.e. before 5 o'clock). I still feel constantly overwhelmed and behind, but I'm beginning to think that whenever I do get caught up, I shoot myself in the foot by coming up with a new project, and that maybe I like being overwhelmed? Or, maybe I just love projects and am not great at sticking with my daily chores routine. Yes, that's probably the true culprit.
And honestly, I don't see that improving anytime soon. Especially since I bought a stack of fabric for dresses for Addie just yesterday. :)
Saturday, March 31, 2012
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
Getting Busy
Spring has sprung! Yesterday it was 80 degrees and blue skies the entire day. We had a minor interruption in our day early, making it impossible to start school until noon. That rarely makes for a productive day of lessons, so we declared it a work day instead.
Accomplished:
Accomplished:
- Trimmed all 40 chickens' wings x2. 80 wings' worth of feathers makes for a messy coop! But nobody can ransack my garden now.
- Mowed part of the pasture for my husband.
- Did the laundry, including folding the load that's been sitting in the dryer for 5 days
- Grocery shopped
- Made dinner
- Talked to both my sister and brother on the phone
- Painted a closet and an armoire--more on that later! An exciting project is in the works.
- Picked up and put away all the piles that had been sitting around
- Changed out all the winter bed linens for our warm-weather ones
That's the most productive day I've had since sometime in December! I'm nearly past my first trimester now, and this weekend was the best I've felt yet. I think some energy is coming back, which is good. Until now, I've felt like an invalid. Walk up the stairs, need to sit down. Do a load of laundry, need a nap. Being pregnant at 36 is a different story than being pregnant at 29!
We have some major room-moving and some minor house renovating to do in the next couple of months, and I was terribly overwhelmed just thinking about it all last week. This week, I feel like it's possible. As long as I get nine hours of sleep every night and take it piece-by-piece. :)
For today, nothing big: just doing yesterday's lessons and then heading to church this afternoon. I'm emceeing our ladies' event tonight, and I already have butterflies. I married the extroverted, loves-the-stage guy; I'm much more comfortable in the seats than on the stage! So if you think of me today, please pray that I'll come across clearly and not get flustered.
I hope your Tuesday is calm and productive, too!
Tuesday, March 20, 2012
Passing By
I can hear her laugh outside, probably on the tire swing, from all the way upstairs. Her laugh is so infectious, she makes strangers belly laugh with her. For such a serious baby, she has turned into a silly, carefree girl.
It's funny how they change like that.
Her next-up brother was placid--calm as still waters--until he turned three, and now he's an imp. Unbelievably charming, with sky-blue eyes that keep him from receiving enough of what he deserves.
And her oldest brother? He was a tornado until he turned six, and now he's the quiet, responsible one.
They keep me scratching my head, wondering.
She turns six soon, and I'm still wondering how six years have gone by, and I don't want another six to rush past. So I slow down now to read books, play dolls, and bake with her, remembering to relish these days, even when I really need to get to the laundry and clean the bathrooms instead.
These are good days, full of learning and laughing and training and making memories that we will cherish.
These are hard days, full of teaching and bickering and sinning and exhaustion.
The work is constant. The rewards are nearly so, too.
I consider where my path could've gone, where my feet were heading before He lifted me out of the pit and set me on sure ground. I am awestruck at the blessings, these flesh-clothed reminders of His astounding mercy and grace. And to have been gifted with another one, after such a long space?
It isn't real yet. Nothing outside of my gently swelling belly and the day-to-day nausea that I carry. It's too far off, to think of cradling another one, with any sense of realness.
But I am filled with gratitude, that He'd give me another of His best gifts. I'm in no hurry for the weeks to rush by; this one's siblings are already growing up too fast. And I can't imagine who this one is--the possibilities are endless. And, if he or she is like the others, what we first receive will change over the years, too. His gifts are surprising like that.
Tonight, as I head downstairs to do the nightly brushing of teeth, monitoring showers, saying blessings, and re-tucking in the reluctant one, I'm thankful to be in this season. Thankful for these gifts, reminded to treat them as priceless.
Lord, thank Your for reminding me today that these children are a privilege, a high calling. They aren't obligations or tasks to be checked off. Thank You for these years of high needs and lots of hugs and endless pleadings to be with them. I know these years will pass by, and so tonight I'm thankful that these days feel long.
It's funny how they change like that.
Her next-up brother was placid--calm as still waters--until he turned three, and now he's an imp. Unbelievably charming, with sky-blue eyes that keep him from receiving enough of what he deserves.
And her oldest brother? He was a tornado until he turned six, and now he's the quiet, responsible one.
They keep me scratching my head, wondering.
She turns six soon, and I'm still wondering how six years have gone by, and I don't want another six to rush past. So I slow down now to read books, play dolls, and bake with her, remembering to relish these days, even when I really need to get to the laundry and clean the bathrooms instead.
These are good days, full of learning and laughing and training and making memories that we will cherish.
These are hard days, full of teaching and bickering and sinning and exhaustion.
The work is constant. The rewards are nearly so, too.
I consider where my path could've gone, where my feet were heading before He lifted me out of the pit and set me on sure ground. I am awestruck at the blessings, these flesh-clothed reminders of His astounding mercy and grace. And to have been gifted with another one, after such a long space?
It isn't real yet. Nothing outside of my gently swelling belly and the day-to-day nausea that I carry. It's too far off, to think of cradling another one, with any sense of realness.
But I am filled with gratitude, that He'd give me another of His best gifts. I'm in no hurry for the weeks to rush by; this one's siblings are already growing up too fast. And I can't imagine who this one is--the possibilities are endless. And, if he or she is like the others, what we first receive will change over the years, too. His gifts are surprising like that.
Tonight, as I head downstairs to do the nightly brushing of teeth, monitoring showers, saying blessings, and re-tucking in the reluctant one, I'm thankful to be in this season. Thankful for these gifts, reminded to treat them as priceless.
Lord, thank Your for reminding me today that these children are a privilege, a high calling. They aren't obligations or tasks to be checked off. Thank You for these years of high needs and lots of hugs and endless pleadings to be with them. I know these years will pass by, and so tonight I'm thankful that these days feel long.
Sunday, March 18, 2012
How to Keep From Being Overwhelmed
Today I sit amidst papers everywhere--clipboards, charts, checklists--pencils, books, flashcards all around me, and I feel overwhelmed.
Another term starts in the morning, and I'm not ready, but we will start anyway, because I will never be fully ready.
I am tired today, and I would rather crawl under covers and hibernate, letting somebody else draw up the plans and clean up the schoolroom and serve up dinner.
And I think back to the lie I spoke the other day, well-meaning, but false nonetheless: "It will get easier," I said to her. She, who has two 2 and under, is overwhelmed under the diapers and needs and constant crying and night wakings. I remember that life, and how unrelenting it was.
So I spoke the words, fully meaning them, but that's because I was zooming down the road, my children all quiet and tucked into seatbelts, nobody needing anything right then. I forgot.
But it was a lie.
It doesn't get easier.
It gets harder.
In the beginning, you worry about their health and safety and sleep and food. It's all-consuming, and it takes every fiber of your being to summon the strength to smile at a fussy two-year old when you've only had 3 consecutive hours of sleep for months on end. Newborns are precious and worth it, but the lack of sleep feels deadly, and you wonder sometimes in that season if it really is worth it all? You call your mom and ask, Is it possible to actually die from lack of sleep? And when she says no, you doubt her.
So it stands to reason, when they can bathe themselves and dress themselves and feed themselves, and you no longer have to cover electric outlets and worry about choking hazards, that it would get easier.
That part of it does, surely.
But the rest? It only gets harder.
Teaching and training and caring for emotional needs, and spiritual needs, and dealing with endless sin--yours and theirs--is relentless. It drains the spirit so fast that unless you constantly feed it, you'll just dry up. And sometimes you forget to feed it.
Today I feel dried up.
This is not an easy road, this seamless life of living and loving and learning under one roof. There is no day off. School during the week, church on both days of the weekend, and the laundry? It never takes a day off. I can choose not to do it, but then I have double the next day. The dishes? Always there. And even if I'm not the one doing them, I'm the one reminding somebody to do them.
It's ceaseless. And that's the good days.
The bad days--when rebellion stirs, or hearts are hard, or disease sets in--those are the days when we have to wonder how strong He thinks we are, that we can handle it all. At all.
Those days--
those days are the days to settle in. To read the words again: "My yoke is easy and my burden is light." And again.
"Cast your cares upon Me."
"Be anxious for nothing but pray about everything."
Everything, Lord? Even when the waves are threatening to overwhelm me?
And then I remember: "When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and when you pass through the rivers, they will not sweep over you."
This relentless, ceaseless calling is a lot of things. It is hard, and it does not get easier; you'll just trade one set of cares for another. There is no break for mothers. But here is one thing it is not: It is not overwhelming, because He says nothing shall sweep over me. Nothing will overwhelm me.
This feeling of being overwhelmed I have? The one that makes me want to rest my head down on the desk and sigh, the feeling that this is too hard and too involved and too much? It's just a feeling.
He is true. My feelings? They'll lie to me.
It doesn't get easier, yet He says His load is easy. I have to put down my load to pick up His.
So I carry on. We still start another term tomorrow, and I'm no closer to being ready than I was before. But somehow, knowing that it will not sweep over me, that questions and concerns and worries and fears will not triumph over me, that inexplicably changes everything.
And once again I marvel that He chose me for this job, to raise these children. I know that I can step in sync with Him, and that He won't allow me to drown under the waves.
Not this time, and not next time.
So I guess then, in light of that, it does get easier. I should call her back.
And this time, I'd tell her the truth. His truth.
Another term starts in the morning, and I'm not ready, but we will start anyway, because I will never be fully ready.
I am tired today, and I would rather crawl under covers and hibernate, letting somebody else draw up the plans and clean up the schoolroom and serve up dinner.
And I think back to the lie I spoke the other day, well-meaning, but false nonetheless: "It will get easier," I said to her. She, who has two 2 and under, is overwhelmed under the diapers and needs and constant crying and night wakings. I remember that life, and how unrelenting it was.
So I spoke the words, fully meaning them, but that's because I was zooming down the road, my children all quiet and tucked into seatbelts, nobody needing anything right then. I forgot.
But it was a lie.
It doesn't get easier.
It gets harder.
In the beginning, you worry about their health and safety and sleep and food. It's all-consuming, and it takes every fiber of your being to summon the strength to smile at a fussy two-year old when you've only had 3 consecutive hours of sleep for months on end. Newborns are precious and worth it, but the lack of sleep feels deadly, and you wonder sometimes in that season if it really is worth it all? You call your mom and ask, Is it possible to actually die from lack of sleep? And when she says no, you doubt her.
So it stands to reason, when they can bathe themselves and dress themselves and feed themselves, and you no longer have to cover electric outlets and worry about choking hazards, that it would get easier.
That part of it does, surely.
But the rest? It only gets harder.
Teaching and training and caring for emotional needs, and spiritual needs, and dealing with endless sin--yours and theirs--is relentless. It drains the spirit so fast that unless you constantly feed it, you'll just dry up. And sometimes you forget to feed it.
Today I feel dried up.
This is not an easy road, this seamless life of living and loving and learning under one roof. There is no day off. School during the week, church on both days of the weekend, and the laundry? It never takes a day off. I can choose not to do it, but then I have double the next day. The dishes? Always there. And even if I'm not the one doing them, I'm the one reminding somebody to do them.
It's ceaseless. And that's the good days.
The bad days--when rebellion stirs, or hearts are hard, or disease sets in--those are the days when we have to wonder how strong He thinks we are, that we can handle it all. At all.
Those days--
those days are the days to settle in. To read the words again: "My yoke is easy and my burden is light." And again.
"Cast your cares upon Me."
"Be anxious for nothing but pray about everything."
Everything, Lord? Even when the waves are threatening to overwhelm me?
And then I remember: "When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and when you pass through the rivers, they will not sweep over you."
This relentless, ceaseless calling is a lot of things. It is hard, and it does not get easier; you'll just trade one set of cares for another. There is no break for mothers. But here is one thing it is not: It is not overwhelming, because He says nothing shall sweep over me. Nothing will overwhelm me.
This feeling of being overwhelmed I have? The one that makes me want to rest my head down on the desk and sigh, the feeling that this is too hard and too involved and too much? It's just a feeling.
He is true. My feelings? They'll lie to me.
It doesn't get easier, yet He says His load is easy. I have to put down my load to pick up His.
So I carry on. We still start another term tomorrow, and I'm no closer to being ready than I was before. But somehow, knowing that it will not sweep over me, that questions and concerns and worries and fears will not triumph over me, that inexplicably changes everything.
And once again I marvel that He chose me for this job, to raise these children. I know that I can step in sync with Him, and that He won't allow me to drown under the waves.
Not this time, and not next time.
So I guess then, in light of that, it does get easier. I should call her back.
Thursday, March 15, 2012
Green Pastures
"The earth is the Lord's and everything in it." Psalm 24:1
Lord, the beauty that surrounds me feels like springs of water to my spirit. Thank You for mudboot walks and cupped hands of boll weevils and wide, green pastures. For hay bales to sit, swollen ponds to poke, and space to think. You truly are the Giver of all good things. Today felt like a gift that I know I didn't deserve. Help me make the rest of this day beautiful to You.
Wednesday, March 14, 2012
Soul Gardening
A day in the long-neglected garden gave me much to ponder as I stooped, pulling weeds. Close to the earth, its aroma of dew and sun and chicken manure, so close to my nose, so many thoughts making their way in my mind and around--and around again:
Not a single fruit for an entire garden, for an entire season. There wasn't much to hope for, between storms and insects and endless heat. Nothing to water, really. What was the point?
I didn't want to see it, but I mirrored that parched garden. A season of drought had left my spirit dry, parched, barren. I found myself wanting.
But oh, the weeds, they prospered! Entire beds of stubborn weeds, knee-high, covered the garden. A garden of weeds.
Earth obscured beneath weeds and chicken manure, and the weeds' roots were so deep I had to dig them out with the shovel. Huge clumps of thriving weeds.
And I couldn't get the image of weeds as habits, weeds as sin, out of my mind. It's so easy to pull out a single weed, a single habit. Roots are shallow, not much damage done.
But when left untended, my soul's garden grows only an oxymoron:
Fruit shrivels, weeds thrive.
And when better to water a garden than during a dry spell? When better to nurture weak plants than during the storm?
"Watch over your heart with all diligence, for from it flow the springs of life." Proverbs 4:23
There's that saying, that nobody is at a standstill. If you're not moving forward, you're sliding backward. And you don't even know it.
It's like driving next to a semi, and you can't tell if it's going forward, or you're going backward, and if you watch it too long without looking straight down the road, you lose all perspective.
It's heart-stopping how easy it is to lose touch with the One who made the earth and the rain and the sun and the seeds. It's breath-taking how quickly self-reliance sets in, or busyness adds distance, or exhaustion hides the fact that my spirit is a plant, and I need daily, hourly, minute-by-minute caretaking.
If I forget for too long, the fruit dries up and the weeds move in, and I take a step back and see only a garden of weeds.
So I pulled. Hour after hour, and clump after clump came out. Beds slowly took shape again, and although we had to do it by flashlight and frog-song, we planted that garden, and the roots are already digging in.
I watered it again today, imagining red, ripe tomatoes and fat orange pumpkins and spicy pink radishes. I already see the baskets of beans and peppers and onions, and I smell the basil and oregano and dill. I smell hope.
If I weed it. And if I water it, and brave locusts and mid-summer heat. If I remember to go out every morning and check the newly-rising plants, and give our garden the attention it will need. Apathy can't set in, or I will find myself next spring pulling out clumps of weeds and regretting another season of neglect.
It can't be a coincidence that man's first job was taking care of a garden. God is gracious to remind us that we are as tender as plants, and that we need time with the Gardener, or we will dry out and shrivel up.
Lord, it's all too easy for my life to be consumed with homeschooling these children and washing their mountains of laundry and picking up the same messes everyday. The unending work of loving and taking care of this family clouds my vision, and I see you as a part of my life. Time in the garden reminded me You are my Life. I dry up without You. Water my spirit, Lord, and help me remember that time with You isn't part of my to-do list, it's the very water I drink and food I eat. Help me drink deep today.
Monday, March 12, 2012
Images of a Seamless Life ...
Camping in the back pasture,
Creating our own "I Spy" pictures and poems on a rainy afternoon,
Playing Legos with Daddy,
Hanging out in a nightgown, mid-day,
Smiling just because it's sunny and the grass is green.
Yes.
Lord, You are good and You are the Source of all good things. Thank You for the many ways You seamlessly weave our lives together in this place. Thank You for allowing me to be the steward of it all.
Sunday, March 11, 2012
Living Seamless
Vacuuming out the car again today, sucking up endless debris--bread crumbs-apple cores-lost Legos-stray milk tops-straw wrappers--wondering how it gets so dirty, so quickly.
Every week, in and out, I clean out the car, always throwing away the same things, and carting in the same things to the house. Books, baby dolls, jackets, Legos, always Legos. And every week I wonder: how do we go from so clean to so dirty in less than seven days, spending a few mere hours in the car?
And I thought, as the vacuum sucked up leftovers from our week, that I do the same thing:
I formulate new plans, new lists, new ideas, new ways of gaining control over this household of people and messes and laundry and meals and animals and life,
and every week, somewhere nearly half-way through, I feel the same waves rising up. Overwhelmed, messes on every side, Didn't I just clean that room? And it feels hopeless to even try to get it under control, except if I don't, nobody will, and we'll just slide further toward mayhem.
Somebody has to be the Mama. Somebody has to wash the clothes and teach the children and plan the meals and hand out chores and the training and somebody has to pray over it all!
And I feel like it's rising up to my neck again, and I know a new little one is coming, and that school only gets harder each year, and is this one going to learn to read, and will that one ever be able to spell, and will anybody want to read their Bibles without me making them? Or maybe even pick up their dirty socks?
The doubts rise up, and my confidence falls.
And I want to quit, but I can't, because I'm the Mama. There is no back-up plan. I am the back-up plan!
I realized, while pushing the vacuum attachment around the crevices of the cupholders, that I will be cleaning out this car for the rest of my Mama-years. And that even if I write new rules and outlaw snacks and drill-sergeant the kids about taking their belongings into the house, it's going to get dirty again.
It's only reasonable, after all: I have to take a shower more than once a week. All the perfume in the world won't make up for lack of hygiene.
Our life is seamless. We live here. We learn here. We are several, and we live a messy life, and no amount of rules will keep the floors clean or the laundry in hampers or the school lessons confined to 9-3.
And more important than a clean car, I have to be made clean routinely. I have to go to Him and bow low, acknowledging what we both already know: I don't have it under control.
I don't need to have it under control.
He has it under control. I'm the manager, not the owner, and the ultimate responsibility doesn't rest on my shoulders. He's not calling me to perfection; He's calling me to willingness. He's calling me to come to Him, to rely on Him, to remember that they are His. It's all His.
The doubts fall, and my trust in Him rises.
And for tonight, my car is clean.
But I am weak, and forgetful, and if I don't run to Him more often than I need a shower and the car needs vacuuming, I will fall under the surge again.
Lord, tonight I'm surveying messes on all sides, despite so much work today. Give me Your eyes. Let me see what You see, and lean on Your everlasting arms when I'm blind. And over it all, remind me to be thankful for this seamless life.
Every week, in and out, I clean out the car, always throwing away the same things, and carting in the same things to the house. Books, baby dolls, jackets, Legos, always Legos. And every week I wonder: how do we go from so clean to so dirty in less than seven days, spending a few mere hours in the car?
And I thought, as the vacuum sucked up leftovers from our week, that I do the same thing:
I formulate new plans, new lists, new ideas, new ways of gaining control over this household of people and messes and laundry and meals and animals and life,
and every week, somewhere nearly half-way through, I feel the same waves rising up. Overwhelmed, messes on every side, Didn't I just clean that room? And it feels hopeless to even try to get it under control, except if I don't, nobody will, and we'll just slide further toward mayhem.
Somebody has to be the Mama. Somebody has to wash the clothes and teach the children and plan the meals and hand out chores and the training and somebody has to pray over it all!
And I feel like it's rising up to my neck again, and I know a new little one is coming, and that school only gets harder each year, and is this one going to learn to read, and will that one ever be able to spell, and will anybody want to read their Bibles without me making them? Or maybe even pick up their dirty socks?
The doubts rise up, and my confidence falls.
And I want to quit, but I can't, because I'm the Mama. There is no back-up plan. I am the back-up plan!
I realized, while pushing the vacuum attachment around the crevices of the cupholders, that I will be cleaning out this car for the rest of my Mama-years. And that even if I write new rules and outlaw snacks and drill-sergeant the kids about taking their belongings into the house, it's going to get dirty again.
It's only reasonable, after all: I have to take a shower more than once a week. All the perfume in the world won't make up for lack of hygiene.
Our life is seamless. We live here. We learn here. We are several, and we live a messy life, and no amount of rules will keep the floors clean or the laundry in hampers or the school lessons confined to 9-3.
And more important than a clean car, I have to be made clean routinely. I have to go to Him and bow low, acknowledging what we both already know: I don't have it under control.
I don't need to have it under control.
He has it under control. I'm the manager, not the owner, and the ultimate responsibility doesn't rest on my shoulders. He's not calling me to perfection; He's calling me to willingness. He's calling me to come to Him, to rely on Him, to remember that they are His. It's all His.
The doubts fall, and my trust in Him rises.
And for tonight, my car is clean.
But I am weak, and forgetful, and if I don't run to Him more often than I need a shower and the car needs vacuuming, I will fall under the surge again.
Lord, tonight I'm surveying messes on all sides, despite so much work today. Give me Your eyes. Let me see what You see, and lean on Your everlasting arms when I'm blind. And over it all, remind me to be thankful for this seamless life.
Friday, March 09, 2012
How to Be Alone
Once, when my husband was in Australia for two weeks, I drove home from dinner late at night with the kids to find my way to the front door blocked by an enormous snake eating an enormous toad. There was a bloody-death scene at the door, blood smeared across the front walk, and the snake just wouldn't move. I don't think it could, actually, so stuffed with the toad as it was, but eventually my hysterical screaming and Caiden somehow appearing with a rusty machete (We have a machete?) convinced the snake to move. It slithered around the side of the house, toad still hanging half out of its mouth, and I tiptoed around gore to get in the house, a little shaken. The violence of it was stunning.
This time he was in Oklahoma, and I had to let him know that Shadow, his beloved lab, found a chicken and played with it, and Caiden had to wrestle his dead chick from the dog's mouth. It's one thing to have a hawk hunt the chickens and eat them as a course of nature; it's another to have your pet needlessly kill your other pet. That's a hard pill for a little boy to swallow. My husband felt bad, and I did the right thing: instead of cursing the dog, I reminded Caiden that dogs have instinct, that if a hamster ended up in the chickens' coop, they'd eat it in a heartbeat, too. It's nothing personal; it's the way animals are. It ended all right, with only a few tears, and an understanding boy.
But the next day, when we drove up after running errands, and Shadow was running around the yard with yet another dead chick in his jaws, feathers spread across the lawn, it felt like too much. The boy had to dispose of another body, I had to remind him of wretched instinct again, and the silly lab chased him with a toy in his mouth, wanting to play. Caiden's thin shoulders sagged, and he shook his head. Tears spilled out of both of us, and I just wanted my husband home, to help him bury the chick and hug his boy and make it all right.
Instead I made comfort food for dinner, with chocolate chip cookies afterward, and let the kids play hide-and-seek in the darkened house. But by bedtime, my nerves felt stretched and I felt thin-boned and thin-skinned and sad. I'm not good at being alone, without his help and encouragement and presence, and I think to friends who are shouldering their homes and their children and their lives alone, everyday.
I feel stretched after a few days; I can only imagine a few months, years, forever. I admire them. I don't want to be them. I am terrified of ever being them.
Nothing reminds me more of my frame--it is but dust--than days alone, surrounded by children, and mess, and noise, and clamor, with my most beloved one far away. I become quick to snap, quick to tire, ready for bedtime early, for a respite, only to lie in bed sleepless. But it is on those days when I am reminded most that He is here to lighten my burdens, to shoulder them with me, that I am not alone. I am never alone.
And I lay down the burdens, leave my tender ones in His care, and sigh as I slip into worn-thin pages. "Cast your cares upon me." "My yoke is easy and my burden is light." "In peace I will lie down and sleep, for You, Lord, alone make me dwell in safety and confident trust." He is right.
And I sleep.
This time he was in Oklahoma, and I had to let him know that Shadow, his beloved lab, found a chicken and played with it, and Caiden had to wrestle his dead chick from the dog's mouth. It's one thing to have a hawk hunt the chickens and eat them as a course of nature; it's another to have your pet needlessly kill your other pet. That's a hard pill for a little boy to swallow. My husband felt bad, and I did the right thing: instead of cursing the dog, I reminded Caiden that dogs have instinct, that if a hamster ended up in the chickens' coop, they'd eat it in a heartbeat, too. It's nothing personal; it's the way animals are. It ended all right, with only a few tears, and an understanding boy.
But the next day, when we drove up after running errands, and Shadow was running around the yard with yet another dead chick in his jaws, feathers spread across the lawn, it felt like too much. The boy had to dispose of another body, I had to remind him of wretched instinct again, and the silly lab chased him with a toy in his mouth, wanting to play. Caiden's thin shoulders sagged, and he shook his head. Tears spilled out of both of us, and I just wanted my husband home, to help him bury the chick and hug his boy and make it all right.
Instead I made comfort food for dinner, with chocolate chip cookies afterward, and let the kids play hide-and-seek in the darkened house. But by bedtime, my nerves felt stretched and I felt thin-boned and thin-skinned and sad. I'm not good at being alone, without his help and encouragement and presence, and I think to friends who are shouldering their homes and their children and their lives alone, everyday.
I feel stretched after a few days; I can only imagine a few months, years, forever. I admire them. I don't want to be them. I am terrified of ever being them.
Nothing reminds me more of my frame--it is but dust--than days alone, surrounded by children, and mess, and noise, and clamor, with my most beloved one far away. I become quick to snap, quick to tire, ready for bedtime early, for a respite, only to lie in bed sleepless. But it is on those days when I am reminded most that He is here to lighten my burdens, to shoulder them with me, that I am not alone. I am never alone.
And I lay down the burdens, leave my tender ones in His care, and sigh as I slip into worn-thin pages. "Cast your cares upon me." "My yoke is easy and my burden is light." "In peace I will lie down and sleep, for You, Lord, alone make me dwell in safety and confident trust." He is right.
And I sleep.
Tuesday, March 06, 2012
Unrelated Thoughts
Just like these completely unrelated pictures, I'm writing out my unrelated thoughts, so I don't forget them. At this point, if I write them down on paper, I will misplace them, but the computer is large enough there's hope if I store them here.
And so:
I think perhaps I've posted this photo recently, but I love it so much. Caiden's bedhead (Oh, the glories of learning at home!), Addie's lips pursed, reading, and the little marker-covered hand because she's currently into personal works of art. So many things to love.
Scout is a lot like Winn-Dixie, if you're read the book (We finished it today, and as Caiden said, I cried the last ten full minutes as I read. It was such a fun book, and I think I'm going to have to read it again, just because I love India Opal and her dog so much.). Anyway, Scout has a "pathological fear" of thunderstorms, and you just can't convince him he doesn't fit under--or behind--my bathtub during a storm. Bless him. At least he's not still trying to climb into my front-loader washing machine. He did that three times, and I had to replace the rubber gasket all three times.
Addie is a true girl. If you have boys, you know what I mean: boys do not sit and color for long stretches of time. I mean, some might, but not generally, unless the coloring accompanies drawings of aliens or battleships or pirates or cowboys and Indians. Addie, on the other hand, will stand at the marker board for literal hours and draw. Lately it's mermaids. Sad and happy mermaids, evidently. Notice the three with blacked-out bellies. She decided Mermaid on the left was a little inappropriate, I guess. Bless her.
If you can't tell what this is, that's understandable. Obie, our little happy Persian, is stretched out on his back. That semi-round but sort of flat thing at the top is his head, and his little arms--I mean, front legs--are curved into a sort of heart up by his neck. It was the weirdest thing ever, and he lay like that for a long time one morning. We'd walk by and scratch his belly, and he never moved. He's the nicest cat, ever. He's like part-dog, part-cat, having the best characteristics of both. We might need to get him stuffed when he dies, Caiden loves him so much. Bless him, too. (If you're not familiar with the South, we say "bless him" whenever we just don't know what else to say. It covers a lot of ground.)
Grayson, in his typical out-of-the-box--actually, it's more like, "There's a box? Where? I didn't notice."--fashion, read in a Childcraft book how to plan a party, so he did. He invited some friends, sweetly asked me if we could have a party for no occasion, and planned all the details, including favors and decor and activities. We invited two friends who are also homeschooled, to come over one Friday afternoon, and all four boys spent the entire day playing Legos, eating massive amounts of food, sword fighting, chasing guineas, ziplining, and building forts in their bedroom. We invited Addie's best friend, who's the sister of one of Grayson's guests, so for an entire day I had six kids, and it was very sobering. But it made four seem like a piece of cake, so that's good, right?
Ruth Bell Graham's gravesite. We visited the Billy Graham Library in Charlotte, did the entire 1 1/2 hour tour, and then I cried at her gravesite, while my husband pretended that was normal. But really, it was so sweet and so touching. And the landscaping was phenomenal.
And then there's my landscaping. A little less preened than Ruth's, no? Actually, this is the grass in my garden, which I later mowed. But underneath that red bench is a guinea, practicing laying eggs. We left the nest, hoping to find some eggs once she really starts laying. I'd love to see a guinea egg; they're usually hard to find because guineas are totally spastic creatures, and there's no chance they'll lay in the nest boxes like normal birds. But maybe she won't know we're onto her.
Other unrelated thoughts: Sarah Clarkson is studying in Oxford right now, and she wrote about what learning is like there in this post. It was so interesting to me, as one who earned an English degree here in the States, in a totally different approach. I would've loved to have her experience instead, but just reading about it inspired me as a homeschool mom. So good.
And did you hear that the Pioneer Woman has a new cookbook coming out? I'm excited about that, although cooking and I haven't been friends since early February. I'm hoping by the time I have the book, my stomach has made friends with my nose, and I can cook real food again. The kids haven't gotten tired of shells and cheese or PB sandwiches yet, but they can only hold out so long. (Note: the cookbook comes out next week, but if you order it now on Amazon, you'll get it cheaper than if you wait. Pre-orders are always cheaper, I just found out.)
And that's about it. I'm still plugging along, gagging my way through the day, but thankful for a strong, healthy bean-sized baby. The kids have all decided the baby is a girl ("Because why on earth would God give us a boy if we've prayed for years for a girl?" says Caiden. He tells me to go out on a limb of faith, so I'm just calling the baby a girl, too. If I find out otherwise, we'll deal with that then.). And they've adopted her as their own, personal baby, calling her "Our Baby." I'm pretty sure this child is going to have five parents, and that she's never going to be allowed to date. Or fall over. Or cry. That actually sounds nice.
And that really is it. Thank you for reading this entirely-odd-and-random post, if you made it this far. Bless you, too!
And so:
Other unrelated thoughts: Sarah Clarkson is studying in Oxford right now, and she wrote about what learning is like there in this post. It was so interesting to me, as one who earned an English degree here in the States, in a totally different approach. I would've loved to have her experience instead, but just reading about it inspired me as a homeschool mom. So good.
And did you hear that the Pioneer Woman has a new cookbook coming out? I'm excited about that, although cooking and I haven't been friends since early February. I'm hoping by the time I have the book, my stomach has made friends with my nose, and I can cook real food again. The kids haven't gotten tired of shells and cheese or PB sandwiches yet, but they can only hold out so long. (Note: the cookbook comes out next week, but if you order it now on Amazon, you'll get it cheaper than if you wait. Pre-orders are always cheaper, I just found out.)
And that's about it. I'm still plugging along, gagging my way through the day, but thankful for a strong, healthy bean-sized baby. The kids have all decided the baby is a girl ("Because why on earth would God give us a boy if we've prayed for years for a girl?" says Caiden. He tells me to go out on a limb of faith, so I'm just calling the baby a girl, too. If I find out otherwise, we'll deal with that then.). And they've adopted her as their own, personal baby, calling her "Our Baby." I'm pretty sure this child is going to have five parents, and that she's never going to be allowed to date. Or fall over. Or cry. That actually sounds nice.
And that really is it. Thank you for reading this entirely-odd-and-random post, if you made it this far. Bless you, too!
Sunday, March 04, 2012
Catching Up
Actually, I'm never going to be caught up. That's what I just decided. It's just not possible. Not in this house, with three kids who live here and stay here for school and play in the barn and then walk in with chicken straw on their feet. Not in this house, with books overflowing and laundry overflowing and errands overflowing and passions overflowing. It's just not going to happen.
But my hope, now that my meds have kicked in and I'm feeling more like myself, is that I can get mostly caught up. I'd like to prepare a full meal this week, wash everybody's underwear at the very least, and remember to feed the animals daily. Or, remember to remind the boys to feed the animals daily. And I think, if I can accomplish that list of bare minimums, I'll feel pretty accomplished, because in the last three weeks, I've gotten almost nothing done. Morning sickness hit fully on my birthday (not nice) and of course shouldn't be called morning sickness: it's if-I'm-awake-I-feel-carsick sickness, and I sort of dragged myself around for a full two weeks, barely alive. Thank heavens for kids who know how to make cereal! (As a side note, my best friend Bridget has always said it's not fair I was given three good sleepers who also never threw a single tantrum between them--and I said it's not fair she's had four pregnancies without a single minute of morning sickness, and that I think God has a way of making things even.)
The sun is shining bright in Texas. Trees are in full bloom, and yesterday I found this little friend hanging out on our front drive fence:
How cool is that! I've seen a lot of fun creatures here on our land in the last four years, but the owls remain my favorite. It's mating season now, and they call to each other all day long, and I love them. So it made me so happy to get in the car and see him (her?) on our fence. We watched each other for a long time, before he finally turned his head around and flew across the road. I told my husband he was so cute and round that I was tempted to try to hug him.
I actually have things to write about, like our trip to Charlotte (so fun!) and my thoughts for how to spend our summer (part-time summer school, Kid Day, schoolroom relocation). But for now, I have to wake up all my sleeping boys and get them in the car so we can drive to Babe's to have a birthday dinner with most of my family. Caiden and I have been dreaming of the all-you-can-eat mashed potatoes for a week now, and I don't want to be late!
I hope you're having a lovely Sunday--thank you again for all your sweet congratulations on our coming addition, especially those of you who read but don't comment. (You can do that guilt-free: I almost never comment on my favorite blogs, either. I don't mind. Thanks for reading!)
See you tomorrow, or something like that :)
But my hope, now that my meds have kicked in and I'm feeling more like myself, is that I can get mostly caught up. I'd like to prepare a full meal this week, wash everybody's underwear at the very least, and remember to feed the animals daily. Or, remember to remind the boys to feed the animals daily. And I think, if I can accomplish that list of bare minimums, I'll feel pretty accomplished, because in the last three weeks, I've gotten almost nothing done. Morning sickness hit fully on my birthday (not nice) and of course shouldn't be called morning sickness: it's if-I'm-awake-I-feel-carsick sickness, and I sort of dragged myself around for a full two weeks, barely alive. Thank heavens for kids who know how to make cereal! (As a side note, my best friend Bridget has always said it's not fair I was given three good sleepers who also never threw a single tantrum between them--and I said it's not fair she's had four pregnancies without a single minute of morning sickness, and that I think God has a way of making things even.)
The sun is shining bright in Texas. Trees are in full bloom, and yesterday I found this little friend hanging out on our front drive fence:
How cool is that! I've seen a lot of fun creatures here on our land in the last four years, but the owls remain my favorite. It's mating season now, and they call to each other all day long, and I love them. So it made me so happy to get in the car and see him (her?) on our fence. We watched each other for a long time, before he finally turned his head around and flew across the road. I told my husband he was so cute and round that I was tempted to try to hug him.
I actually have things to write about, like our trip to Charlotte (so fun!) and my thoughts for how to spend our summer (part-time summer school, Kid Day, schoolroom relocation). But for now, I have to wake up all my sleeping boys and get them in the car so we can drive to Babe's to have a birthday dinner with most of my family. Caiden and I have been dreaming of the all-you-can-eat mashed potatoes for a week now, and I don't want to be late!
I hope you're having a lovely Sunday--thank you again for all your sweet congratulations on our coming addition, especially those of you who read but don't comment. (You can do that guilt-free: I almost never comment on my favorite blogs, either. I don't mind. Thanks for reading!)
See you tomorrow, or something like that :)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)