In the Jungle

My brother (before he became a father) used to tease me about the "gifts" I had started giving to my family members since having children. There were the Sears Portraits, the tiny hand prints in clay, and the crayon scribbles matted and framed, then wrapped in festive tissue paper - all of which, while certainly treasured, were giggled about during the holidays when I (and he, eventually) would purposely up the cutsie-ness and admit that our adorable offspring and their above average talent ("They're so advanced!" my grandma would tell me when my babies would lift their heads as newborn infants or eat with spoons as toddlers) had provided us with a consistent, convenient, and inexpensive supply of presents for aunts, uncles, Papas, Nanas and siblings. We all think our children are brilliant because...well, duh, they totally are, but I've tried on this blog to refrain from exhibiting an excessive degree of mommy bias or from scanning all of the artwork currently decorating our refrigerator and then posting those pasted, glued or painted portraits and landscapes, here, for your viewing boredom pleasure. But sometimes, sometimes, I can't help myself.

Elijah, my nine-year-old, had a writing assignment this week: create a short story using "Story Starter Picture" #1 (see above), which is a drawing of some kids on a raft extending a stick to a girl in the water. I, immediately, thought of summer camp - maybe somewhere in the woods of Wisconsin. There was some horseplay, perhaps. One of the campers lost her balance, fell in the river, and was being fished out by her friends. When I was his age, that is probably the angle I would have taken, using the minimum amount of sentences required to craft a straightforward beginning, middle, and conclusion with a couple of predictable similes thrown in for good measure. But my son doesn't think inside (or even know how to locate) "the box." The same picture that elicited from myself a rather dull and tired tale about a bunch of rowdy twelve-year-olds on a tippy raft inspired the following amalgam of poetry and fiction from Elijah:

AAAHHH!!! A scream stunned all the creatures outlining the Amazon, but not the gator.

Thrash! Thrash! The kicking scared all the aquatic creatures in the water, but not the gator.

Tug! Tug! The sound that stirred the water made the eels slip, but not the gator.

Whew. Whew. The sight of her relieved expression soothed the men after the rescue, but not the gator.

Itch! Itch! The feel of scratching on her sweaty face as she wondered how she’d survived.

Yea! Yea! The sound comforted all the creatures outlining the Amazon, but not the gator.

So yes, as his mom who happens to be quite fond of the written word, I love the subtle way he shows, without telling the obvious, that the girl in the water has just been saved from the jaws of a now disappointed Alligator! I still can't believe, I suppose, that the sons and daughters I carried and delivered are going on to become individuals with their own unique perspectives and tastes. I have to tread carefully through this next stage of parenting, lest I squelch in them something I should have allowed to flourish or fail to reign in the impulsiveness a future spouse might not appreciate or eventual boss will not tolerate in the workplace. It's difficult, right? Remembering that our children are not extensions of ourselves or possessions to manipulate into a mold of our own design. Pray first, respond second, I should tattoo that to my forehead so that everyone I come into contact with will remind me of it and hold me accountable.

In the meantime, I'll be printing off a hundred copies or so of the above Jungle piece and decoupaging it to any hard surface it will stick to. That way, when your birthday rolls around, I'll be all prepared.

be joyful...

It was a real challenge, let me tell you, to find anything special or noteworthy about yesterday.

When prior to going to bed in the evening you fail to either wash the dishes, fold the massive heap of laundry piled messily on the living room floor, tidy up the cluttered odds and ends that seem to multiply like rabbits overnight, or prepare in anyway whatsoever for the next morning's school lessons, the order you've worked so hard to establish up until that point disintegrates instantaneously irrespective of your previous efforts, of the progress you managed to wrestle into existence before you crashed and burned with exhaustion.

So needless to say, no heartwarming conversations with my children took place. Nothing of beauty was spied beneath the dust and dirt and grime spread thick and gunky over appliances, dressers and counter tops. No poetry was overheard amidst the whines and moans of the kids, or in the noise of myself cursing that earlier decision to surrender to my sleepiness and therefore fall behind on everything.

But then...aha! There was soup, homemade Chicken Noodle Soup that I haphazardly threw together and which, miraculously (and no, I am not using too strong of a word, here, to describe the unlikelihood of this ever happening again), turned out perfectly. It being dusk and all, I realized that the soup would have to be it: my muse for attaining some semblance of joyfulness. And thus I slurped and sipped my way into an albeit tenuous still a genuine state nonetheless of appreciation for comfort foods, turning a deaf ear to complaints from my picky eaters about the visible spices and too many carrots. "That's fine," I said. "Now there's more for me and dad."

I filled my belly. Troy cleared the table. It was a not too shabby ending after all.

you make me happy when skies are gray

Everything about my niece, Jane, is warm and sunny - from her yellow curls and expressive face to her sing-song-y voice and wet kisses. She turned two years old this month. My brother and sister-in-law threw a party in her honor complete with pastel colored cupcakes and a pink pinata. It was a pleasant afternoon despite overcast skies, with family and neighbors gathering to eat and laugh and celebrate our exceptional gift from God of such a sweet, silly, and smiley little girl. It sounds cliche to say, "Oh my, they grow so quickly!" But it's true. Which is why I'm quite obsessed these days with both capturing and recording all of these sparkling moments of importance rushing past like shooting stars, in the blink of an eye. So Happy Birthday Janie! We love you - all of us - very much!

All the world's creatures draw joy from nature's breast

Ever since watching THIS scene, fourteen years ago, in the movie Immortal Beloved about Ludwig van Beethoven (which I saw big and loud in a theater and had to restrain myself from rising out of my seat to both applaud and weep all at once), I've been in awe of his masterpiece, Ode to Joy.

This morning, when the kids and I grabbed our nature journals and made the two block trek to Coffee Creek Park for a bit of sketching, note taking, and marveling at woodsy occurrences often overlooked yet teeming with life, drama and soul stirring proofs of God, Ode to Joy rang in my ears like a siren. Pond skaters, cattails, acorns, snails and leaves mostly green but with tips of rust and brown spreading upwards as they do every Autumn before igniting our neighborhood trees with explosive shades of color (only to dry up and fall, leaving naked and gnarled branches to fend for themselves), are still a novelty to me - the former city girl more accustomed to rats, roaches and alley cats.

We'll do this weekly, observing the subtle changes in the sky, water, and soil as the weather turns cool, then cold, then back to warm again. I know so little about the secret goings on of plants and birds and insects, but there's no time like the present to expand my (currently quite narrow) breadth of knowledge. We'll learn together, the children and I. I'm looking forward to it.

there's too many ways I could spend hours in my day...

Mornings are exciting to me. Those first drowsy moments, when the house is still quiet and my optimism not yet tempered by the unavoidable interruptions that will inevitably wreak havoc on the schedule I have mentally crafted, are golden. Before me, like a canvas, lies a clean blank slate on which I'm free to create a highly original work of art that best reflects my state of my mind, the contents of my soul, the uniqueness of my voice, my tastes, my talents. The challenge, as the day stretches on, is staying focused on my overarching vision while avoiding the alluring traps of stagnant time wasters. Ten minutes here, twenty minutes there of surrendering my concentration to off topic stimuli in the form of internet surfing, magazine browsing, wandering aimlessly from room to room lamenting the many things I've yet to accomplish, etc. add up quickly.

This afternoon, I want my children and I learn to something we didn't know yesterday. Rather than distract myself with thoughts and research on what else I could and should be doing to round out their education, I will take full advantage of the wonderful material we already own to inspire their curiosity. This afternoon, I want to listen. I want to stop typing or reading or compiling yet another list, when one of my kids has something to tell me. This afternoon, I will not pick up the phone only to distance myself and disrupt the flow of our household activity on a conversation I could have later, when Troy is home or the children are resting. This afternoon, I want for each of my kids to perform a chore and do it well. I want to spend a good solid hour on my book revisions. I want us to get outside. I want to put away the laundry still lying folded in the basket in our upstairs hallway. I believe these things are possible with a little forethought, concentration, and constant prayer. I believe (although I am working on acting upon this conviction) that flexibility (which is not synonymous with aimlessness as I once was apt to suppose) is a skill that takes a whole lot of practice and discipline to master.

Tonight, I want to fall into my bed exhausted (yet satisfied) from having stretched, challenged and demanded a little more from myself.

not a soul can bust this team in two...

When my youngest daughter, Mary, says, "Hold me mama! I have no legs!" I can assure you she is exaggerating. Although they're slender as Q-tips, they certainly exist and are more than capable of supporting her twenty-some pounds of body weight. My brother, Bobby, once used the word "spider" to describe her, so slight and limb-y and agile she is. More than anything, Mary loves to be near me, on me, fused to my hip, which is as wonderful and sweet as is it challenging. "Leave her alone," I scold her brothers and sister, "She's just a baby." But she isn't - isn't a baby any more, and I need to move on, now, and come to terms with that reality, for her sake, and her siblings' sake, and for my own.

When my oldest, Elijah, was three-years-old, I leaned way too far in the opposite direction, pulling my hair out in frustration over his inability to regulate his oft explosive emotions, sit still for long periods of time, eat whatever was served to him, or get over his "drop to your knees and wrap your arms over your head" kind of fear of elderly people (oh yeah, it was totally horrifying). But then he blossomed. He outgrew what I mistakenly assumed were character flaws. Elijah matured and gained control simply by aging, and catching up on some much needed sleep. "This too shall pass," I learned, and thus my other children were spared my picking apart of their ages and stages with an impossibly rigid and narrow fine-tooth comb.

These days I'm struggling to do more than, "get through it." Between our work, school, and social schedules, the pace around here has picked up dramatically and I'm smudging the boundaries some in order to keep from getting plowed under. "I'll get you dressed, clean up your mess, and compromise on our agreement regarding where we can and cannot eat food because I'm faster and more efficient, and following through on all of the rules takes forever.” I'm already two days behind on everything, just in general.

Somewhere in that vast and treacherous chasm between coddling and demanding too much, lies the priceless and elusive "holy grail" of mothering: consistent parental perfection, unaffected by illness, exhaustion, hormonal shifts or time constraints. What I am starting to suspect, however, is that that sought after prize is not really so much tangible as it is mirage-like, always barely out of reach no matter how long and hard you run at it. Some days I'll be good at mixing kindness, selflessness and productivity with firmness and discipline, and on other days I won't. Perhaps a more rewarding goal on which to expend my energy would be learning to accept or even embrace that fact of life with grace and humility.

An early morning song and dance

O.K., I'm am going to give you a little background information on this clip you are about to view:

1. It is 7:00 am, which explains why a still sleepy Mary is laid out flat on our kitchen floor.

2. The song that Priscilla is singing is from a CD that came with our homeschool curriculum. My kids listen to it absolutely no less than eight times a day.

3. Benjamin was told by Priscilla in no uncertain terms, just prior to this performance, that he was NOT to interrupt her.

Enjoy!

how can I keep from singing?

"This is the day that the Lord has made, I will rejoice and be glad in it!" I sing every morning with my children. I sing to remind me that this is it - this day, right here, contains within it priceless opportunities to learn temperance via holding my tongue, to acquire humility by way of asking for forgiveness when I've wronged those closest to me, and to find contentment through being present and prayerful in the small things (chores, errands, conversations, etc.). The reason, in fact, that I started this blog, was to extract from each day something of beauty, something of significance, something to learn from. Tonight, as I was preparing for another week, I walked in on this scene pictured above and I forced myself to stop...STOP...and count my many blessings:

I love my husband.
I love my children.
I love my old house.
I love, love, love, Divine Liturgy in the Orthodox Church.
I love living close to my parents and Bobby and Paige.
I love coffee.
I love my in-laws.
I love my friends.
I love Flannery O'Connor and her Habit of Being.
I love that my refrigerator is full of groceries.
I love that chocolate chip ice cream in Prissy's bowl.
I love you for reading this and accompanying me on a quest to find just as much meaning in the traveling as in the getting there.

*************************************************************************************

My life goes on in endless song
Above earths lamentations,
I hear the real, though far-off hymn
That hails a new creation.

Through all the tumult and the strife
I hear its music ringing,
It sounds an echo in my soul.
How can I keep from singing?

While though the tempest loudly roars,
I hear the truth, it liveth.
And though the darkness round me close,
Songs in the night it giveth.

No storm can shake my inmost calm,
While to that rock I'm clinging.
Since love is lord of heaven and earth
How can I keep from singing?

When tyrants tremble in their fear
And hear their death knell ringing,
When friends rejoice both far and near
How can I keep from singing?

In prison cell and dungeon vile
Our thoughts to them are winging,
When friends by shame are undefiled
How can I keep from singing?

where the lemonade springs, where the bluebird sings

Priscilla got to go to the Art Museum with my brother and his wife and their two girls in down town Chicago. You can imagine, I'm sure, just how fair Benjamin, Elijah, and Mary thought that was. "How about we go to the Chellburg Farm Fall Festival?" I suggested, to raise their spirits - an event I've wanted us to attend since we moved here, but always neglected to clear our schedule for. So off we went, not expecting too much to be honest with you, maybe a couple of produce stands, perhaps a banjo or two. But I'll tell you what, I way underestimated our rural and resourceful neighbors the next town over. Between the honey making, candle dipping, sorghum tasting, winding trails, clog dancing, and hay rides - not to mention the live music, sheep dog herding demonstrations, and homemade apple fritters, my kids more than got over the sting of missing out on their sister's super fun trip to the big city. The weather was perfect, the people were friendly, and my children went to bed early, so exhausted they were from whooping it up with the folk singers and hiking in the sun. Next year, ya'll should join us! Just find yerself some overalls and good walking shoes.

everybody do your share...

We're working on chores and it's going swimmingly, as is obvious by the above photo of my utensil tray stacked neatly with rows of forks and spoons and knives, all meticulously layered in the same orderly direction. "Whoa!" I told them, "Slow it down! I didn't ask you to empty the dishwasher and mop the floor. Leave some jobs for your mama, why don't ya!" I am this close to weeping...with pride, of course*.

*Lest you question my eye for neatness, I assure you I am merely using humor to lighten that awfully enormous (and often maddening) task of teaching children that a house won't clean itself.

it's a lovely day

It's Tuesday, so break out the satin gloves. I've learned a lot from my girls; one thing being that more occasions than you may have originally thought can be labeled as "special," worthy of candles and floor length gowns. I read somewhere once that stay-at-home mothers ought never to wear pajamas or sweat suits around the house because ours is a real job too, darn it, and we should dress for success just like everyone else. It's advice I have taken to heart after moving to a small town where drop-in visits from neighbors are a daily possibility. Thus far, I've kept things sedate: jeans, shoes, unstained shirt, and mascara. During breakfast, however, while watching Priscilla get all gussied up for a morning full of flash cards, Boxcar Children and compound sentences, I couldn't help but wish I, too, had chosen something more celebratory to put on for this 16th day of September - this special day, this lovely day, this once in a lifetime only day, worth savoring.

My Buddy

The balloon he got yesterday, which had to be tied to his wrist to keep it from soaring up and up irretrievably into the sky, was considerably less buoyant this morning. "What's wrong with it?!" Ben asked me, all alarmed and disappointed while it hovered near his waistline, looking tired. Rejecting outright my explanations on helium and how the things that are filled with it tend to droop over time, Ben decided, rather, that his balloon had been "tamed" and was now loyally trailing him, like a dog shadowing its owner. And since that actually did appear to be the case, I let it go.

For most of the afternoon, Ben cooed at his new buddy in a soft and mellow voice much like mothers use with babies; how gentle and accommodating he was! I adore that he thought, just maybe, with a generous amount of affection, that day-old balloon could transcend its insensateness and love him back. I know what you're probably thinking - it's the homeschooling. I've isolated him from his peers and now he's forced to make balloon friends. What's next, you might be wondering? Matching plaid rompers for he and his siblings? Don't be silly, my sweet readers - I can't sew. I promise you, I'll do everything possible to keep my kids (and their balloons) socially healthy and well-adjusted - to help them fly with direction and purpose rather than float in ambiguity. I'll let them go (Oh Lord, have mercy!) when the time is right.

Eyes Wide Open

We traveled the two hours it takes to get to my in-laws this past weekend - a visit so long overdue, it necessitated the celebrating of seven different birthdays ranging in date from July 28th to September 17th. And I appreciated that, despite the sheer volume of individuals opening cards and gifts, and blowing out the candles on those decadent "Special K" Bars and the"Princess" ice cream cake, each one received their own harmonized rendition of "Happy Birthday To You," without exception. As usual, our trip was relaxing and much too brief.

I wanted to get a photo of my husband, Troy, with his mom and sisters. "Papa," I'm sure, was out of sight, under a pile of tackling, giggling, grandchildren. After the first shot, I asked my mother-in-law, Jan, if she was aware she'd been looking up in the picture, assuming my camera flash had caught her off guard. But she did know. It was her trick, she told us, to keep from blinking. During my second attempt, Troy and his siblings, Michelle and Carrie, decided to employ her ingenious "eyes wide open" technique themselves. The result was this adorable snapshot capturing accurately the love and laughter layered all warm and thick and cozy between the walls of their childhood home.

They're good people, those Sabourins. I married well.

Hooray for me!

Chitti Chitti Bang Bang we love you

Well, I really do thank you for your very helpful suggestions regarding family friendly films! I was truly in a rut. This evening, since Troy is gone overnight for a work retreat, the kids and I went to the library with my hand-dandy must-see movie list and brought home Chitti Chitti Bang Bang, which they've never seen, and I haven't seen in ages. They were a bit skeptical, especially Ben. "I don't like movies with songs," he complained. But lo and behold, throughout each and every musical number, he would dance up a storm. All this to say, they loved it and so did I. I think for our next "date night" we'll try the Mission or maybe "Diary of a Country Priest." I forgot to also mention, we, too, loved O Brother Where Art Thou and as a huge Graham Greene fan, I'd recommend (for adults of course) The Quiet American starring Michael Cain and Brendan Fraser.

So... do I dare impose further by asking you to tell me your favorite book, either fiction or non-fiction? I will go first. There are so many to choose from, but in terms of a total package (i.e. beautiful writing, complex characters, and stories that strengthened my faith and stuck with me), I'd have to say, The End of the Affair and The Power and the Glory, both by Graham Greene. Have you read them?

You go next, please. I have my pen in hand and my notebook open...

bet your bottom dollar...

Family movie night isn't nearly as fun when it's light out; so we've taken the summer off. But now that the days are shortening, the weather is cooling, and cuddling under blankets isn't quite so sweat inducing, it may just be time to start it up again.

The older the kids get, the better our viewing options become because, I don't know about you, but animated films are really hard for me to sit through. What I've discovered, however, is that what once seemed cool to me is often not as impressive to my techno saavy children. Take The Little House on the Prairie movie, for example, which even six months ago I still sniffled through, and found myself offended when Elijah and Priscilla used the word, boring, to describe it. Granted, the quality was poor - all warbled and grainy, but I thought, just maybe, that Laura's tenacity and great courage would suck them in all on their own.

Mary Poppins, though, was a big hit. And so were The Princess Bride and the The Great Muppet Caper. Elijah thinks the old Star Wars movies are still super intriguing, and all the kids were almost as impressed as I was at their age by the mythical looking creatures in the Never Ending Story.

I think in the back of my mind I've wanted to re-create for them something akin to a few of my own past cinematic highlights, in which I was lost, completely absorbed in a place, in a time, in a really great story. In 1982, for example, I sat very nearly breathless in a darkened theater watching Little Orphan Annie sing her way into the heart of Daddy Warbucks. "Did you like it?" my mom asked afterwards, and I could hardly speak. I still, to this day, know the words to all the songs, and hum them often.

A few years later, it was Anne of Green Gables or Sound of Music that I watched over and over and over again. Much later still, it was Age of Innocence, Immortal Beloved, Shadowlands, and Dead Man Walking, that had the capacity to move me to tears with either their visual beauty, stunning soundtracks, or the complexity of their characters.

It is absolutely true that much of Hollywood, and the film industry in general, is a breeding ground for smut and greed and tastelessness. But I try not be a "throw the baby out with the bathwater" kind a gal. So I will be scanning the aisles of our library's AV department in search of
timeless and memorable tales worthy of warming a frigid evening and capturing our imaginations with their creativity.

Any suggestions?

baby, you can count on me

I had planned on calling her Elaine, but Elijah wouldn't hear of it. "That," he assured me, "is not very catchy."

"Well, what would you suggest?" I asked him, assuming "Padme" would be the answer. But to my suprise, he said, "Mary, because God would have to bless a baby named after His mother." And who could've argued with such a sensible conclusion? So, Mary it is.

Lately, I've needed Elijah's help more than ever. While teaching letter sounds to Ben or guiding Priscilla through a lesson on similes ("Is it appropriate," she asked this morning, "to say, My cat is as kind as Jesus?"), I depend on him to monitor his littlest sister who, when unsupervised, will eat white sugar, brown sugar, or hot chocolate mix by the fistfuls.

At first she was resistant to the idea of a surrogate authority figure, and whined when he tried to distract her from her sole preoccupation: being held by me. But, bless his heart, he kept at it and now she trails him like he's the Pied Piper, himself. "Eli-i-jah!" I hear a thousand times an hour, "Where a-a-re you?"

Not too long ago, I found him hiding in my closet. "What are you doing?" I asked, and then he shushed me.

"It's Mary," He whispered. "She wants me to dance with her, again!" I kissed him and shut the door, respecting his need for a break and delighting in his sweetness. Because he knows, and I know, and you'd know if you met her, how hard it is to resist that lower lip, all puffed out and drooping, when she's sad.

Yesterday, it poured. Mary begged Elijah to play with her in the rain. What a sight they made together in their winter boots and shorts: a nine-year-old boy and a three-year-old pixie, splashing, laughing, making lemonade out of lemons, and a tired mother, this grateful mother, happy.

How's about cookin' somethin' up with me?

Nothing says romance like light beer and pizza. Hurray, Hurrah, it's date night at the Sabourins'! Skedaddle up to bed, kids! No, you cannot share my Junior Mints. Here's a kiss, brush your teeth, we'll see ya in the morning! It used to require more - more fanciness, more courses - to fill my "love tank." But now those couple of hours we somehow manage to steal (once a week, if we're really lucky) and the appetizer-less take-out meals are enough to make me giddy with anticipation, the whole day prior. I can remember, as a girl, fuming at night over the sound and smell of popping popcorn not intended for my brother and I. It's not fair, I thought bitterly, When I'm a parent, I'll always let my children stay up late and eat snacks with me. I also promised my future sons and daughters that I would never respond to their very enlightening musings with a distracted m-m, h-m-m while rudely continuing with the chores.

It turns out, I was sorely, gravely, destined to be, mistaken. Delight, my dear mother, in finally being understood by your daughter. I'll admit it, you were right to protect your one-on-one time with dad, and your stash of Hershey's chocolate. Here's to less than healthy treats used to sweeten up a marriage (and free DVD's at the library)!

Early Morning People

I went to bed late on Friday, and it's a good thing that I did. I was ironing, in fact, when at 11:30 pm, Priscilla came bursting through the front door all sniffling and red-faced and disappointed in herself, after a failed sleepover attempt at our next-door neighbor's house. "Sorry," I waved to my neighbor and her daughter, and then held Priscilla on the couch for awhile, wiping tears and confiding in her that I, too, used to get homesick as a child. It felt so good, just snuggling, that I took my time with wrapping things up, finally carrying her to her own room after midnight. And then I dawdled, read a chapter of my book, and crammed my brain too full of thoughts to settle down in a timely manner. The next morning, when our alarm when off at 6:30 am, I thought I'd die (or at least throw-up) if I attempted to open my eyes, so heavy and swollen with exhaustion. What in the world is going on here? I asked my husband, only just in my head. I was in no condition to communicate or think logically.

After a few hits of the snooze button, I remembered that, wait, this was Saturday! The promise of beautiful weather, good company, strong coffee, and boxes of donuts had me dressed and even lucid in no time. By 8:00 am, I had picked up Paige and was pulling into the parking lot at St. Elizabeth's. The Sabourins, then, spent a lovely couple of hours shopping and volunteering at our Church's annual Rummage Sale. A leather jacket for Elijah, a winter coat for me, and computer speakers for my husband were just a few of the finds we carried home with delight in our recycled plastic Walmart bags.

I am feeling more and more a part of this community, the little town in which I live and teach and worship. It's been two- and- half years now since we nervously traded big for small, fast for slow, urban for quaint and quiet. I recognize people almost everywhere I go - the store, the park, the YMCA, or the library. It will be interesting to see if my own kids appreciate the predictability and intimacy I find so novel and reassuring, or if, as they grow, they'll ache for anonymity and adventure. That's usually how it works, right? The odds are pretty good that I, too, like my own parents did, will help move my children from one cramped city apartment to the next. And I will tell them, like my own parents did, that each one is homey and roomier than I expected. I will unpack boxes and scrub, until my fingers bleed, bathtubs and sticky kitchen floors. I will wave goodbye and leave them there. And then I'll worry...worry.

Right now, though, their on top of me, eating me, breathing me. It's impossible to tell where I leave off and they begin. Tomorrow, when the alarm cuts short my rest, I'll wake to noise and needs and nerves about to fray from all the pressure I've put upon myself to take care of everything and everyone. But if I'm smart, I'll find some caffeine, say a prayer, and tune right in to the gloriousness of them here within my heart, within my grasp. I am thankful for this place and for my family.

i love the rain the most...when it stops

I swear you could wring out our maple tree and fill a bucket with the excess water. The rain came, with all of its grayness - unusual amounts of fat and heavy droplets falling steadily for hours; plip, plop, plip, they sang on window panes and roof tops, like a lullaby. It's too early, I know, but I am sorting through the sweaters, the fuzzy jammies and woolen tights because it's cool today. In this one area, I'm far from melancholy. "Don't let the door hit you on the way out!" I yell to summer each September, then grumble bitterly when she overstays her welcome. Bring on the early darkness and the musty smell of leaves falling brown and gold and red on cracking sidewalks. Cover me with a blanket, pour some cider in my mug, slow me down, reign me in, let me hibernate awhile before the frigidness of winter has me crying for the spring. I need a change.

You ought to be in pictures

This, obviously, is a picture of my husband, Troy. Mary is just now starting to draw actual objects, animals, and people instead of scribbles, and I'd forgotten how enthralling it can be to witness, as a parent, that developmental skill unfolding. So delicate are her pen strokes, so unpredictable. "That's never going to work," I think, as a head either much too large or too tiny
for a recognizable human form is swiftly sketched on to some paper unselfconsciously. But two beady eyes and stick legs later, I'm proven wrong. Of course it is a mamma or a daddy or a baby, an ethereal looking creature worthy of awe. Part of my incentive for keeping the children out of a system where peers dictate their tastes, hobbies and sense of worthwhileness, is a desire to foster within them a real comfortableness with their own unique talents and artistic preferences.

I loved to write as a kid - poems, songs and stories for the pure joy of it. But my friends, they preferred dancing, and lip-synching to Michael Jackson, Prince and Madonna. You can correctly assume, then, that I forsook my childish hobby, followed in their moon walking footsteps and replicated their less than flattering "valley girl" style. I lost myself for years and years in the trends and whims of popular culture, wasting energy on fitting in that could have better been spent on standing out, as a girl at peace with herself. And while I'm not so naive to believe that limiting their access to teen pop stars, the emerging cryptic language of phone texting, cliques, and the pressure to conform to the standards being established not by genuine beauty, quality literature, the saints, or inner spiritual convictions, but rather the banal and downright stifling impulses of profit driven marketing, will guarantee my kids a more calming and creative existence, I sure as heck believe it will up the odds a bit.

"What will become of them without the influence of classmates?" I am asked. "Won't they be out of the loop, socially? Too different?"

I certainly hope so.

teach your children well

I have a picture very similar to this one, taken last year, of my kids on their first day of public school when I was more than relieved to see them board the bus heading somewhere that wasn't here - with me - all morning. "Please, please, please get on the porch," I begged of them after breakfast because today was another first, and you know I love to commemorate really important events like birthdays and shoes being put on the right feet with plenty of digital photographs.

So here they are, just minutes before piling into the van for our first ever homeschool co-op meeting - a place for them to find friends and me to latch on to other insane women who are taking on the awesome responsibility of teaching their children themselves. "How many times a day do you bang your head against the bathroom wall in frustration?" I wanted to ask, just to be sure that my own head banging was within the national norm for homeschooling mothers. But I restrained myself and focused instead on my nine-year-old son surrounded by other boys, laughing and joking and learning about the Middle Ages.

All four of them, from Elijah, to Prissy, to Ben and Mary, had a fabulous time and I feel greater than great about it, really. It's starting to dawn on me that rather than assuming homeschooling, or even parenting in general for that matter, should be mostly fulfilling with a few moments of despair sprinkled in, I should view it as plain old hard, sometimes tedious, sometimes maddening work with occasional episodes of delight so sweet they more than make up for the crying - my crying that is. Tempered expectations just might be the key to finding peace in the chaos.

on the road...

So what happened was, the pen (that's right, I brought only one pen) I'd packed to write an article turned out to be dry, dry as dust and just as useless. We had the windows down to make up for the fact that our air conditioner is broken, so it was also too noisy to maintain a conversation. I was bored. I broke out the camera. I took some uninspired pictures, wore out the battery and by doing so missed out on some great photo taking opportunities later on. So enjoy these random snapshots of my family and I on the road...they're all I got.