Great Eggspectations

One of the benefits of our new adventure in homeschooling is that we can do crazy stuff that no sane teacher with 25 students would attempt. 

This past week, we walked on eggs.  

I have to admit, I was skeptical.  I saw the pictures and heard the report of this post by Noirin at Playdough to Plato, but I thought maybe she had somehow “magicked” her eggs, as Isaac would say.  I was prepared for much cracking and oozing, but thankfully, I was proved wrong. 

The architectural genius of the arch stands.  We looked at some pictures of bridges that use arches to support themselves, and we talked about how the arch evenly distributes the force put on it. 

We noticed the arches on eggs and I had the kids each squeeze an egg in their hand to show that they couldn’t crack it when the force was spread throughout their whole hand.  I also held my breath and hoped they couldn’t crack it, because they are strong little buggers (the kids, that is).  Then they each cracked an egg on the side of a bowl, concentrating all the force in one small spot. 

We talked about how a hen can sit on an egg without cracking it, but the baby chick’s beak can poke through the egg from the inside when the chick pecks at one small spot.  Isaac asked if he could sit on an egg like a hen, but I wasn’t willing to take the experiment that far. 

So we established that evenly distributed force on an arch = good bridge and contained egg, while too much force concentrated on one spot = bad bridge and egg mess. 

At that point, I couldn’t put the actual standing on eggs part off anymore, so we set up a couple dozen eggs (pointier side down and inspected for hairline fractures) on a tablecloth on the floor, and hopped to it.  Well, we didn’t actually hop.  I lifted Eden up and set her gently down on the eggs, no hopping allowed.  

And, it worked!  Eden was so excited to find that she could stand on eggs without cracking them!  She made sure not to put all of her weight on her heels or toes, and none of the eggs cracked even a little bit. 

It was a fun little experiment, and the bonus is now we have tons of eggs to eat.  I admit, I bought the cheap eggs from the sad little factory farm hens because I thought for sure they’d get cracked.  But if you can convince your inner doubting Thomas to try this speggtacular experiment (see what I did there??), get the good eggs from the happy hens because they really will survive!  

How Not To Live Simply

If you're interested in reading more posts about simple living, check out posts with the "simple living" tag.  

I want to live simply, to spend less and have less and think less about stuff.  I don’t like clutter and I don’t embrace an identity as a consumer.  I check Simplicity Parenting and other simple-living books out of the library at least once a year and re-re-renew my desire to live simply. 

And yet.  You’d not quite believe my commitment to simple living if you wandered through my house.  My dreams of my house looking like a Real Simple 2-page spread have not quite been realized.  And as the stuff piles up around me, my mind feels more and more cluttered and scattered. 

I’ve been mulling this over recently and have identified a few (okay, seven) of the areas that constantly trip me up, and I thought I’d share them with you.  I came across this blog post by Katie that inspired my list.  So here they are, my 7 Tips for NOT Living a Simple Life:

1.      After you’re finished borrowing something from a friend, hang it in a plastic bag by the back door. 
Because, you know, maybe my friend will just happen to conveniently drop by the house and I’ll just happen to remember that I have her stuff and hand it over.  And in the meantime, what is lovelier than the sight of colorful plastic bags littering the entryway?  

2.      Hang on to lotion bottles (and shampoo, hairspray, detangler, cleaning supplies, deodorant, etc.) that have a little bit left in the bottom that you can’t quite get out. 
I do this because I don’t want to be wasteful, but it’s ridiculous.  Instead of spending the extra 10 seconds on unscrewing the pump tube lid to smack some lotion in my hand, I buy a full one and jam our bathroom shelves with almost-empty bottles. 

3.      Keep every single piece of artwork or coloring that your prolific children/artists create.
When I say prolific, man do I mean it.  I am currently sorting piles that go back years.  I am afraid to get rid of things because each one is special to the artist and most of them are special to me, too.  

But you know what happens when too many creations are deemed special?  None of them get treated as such.  So, I’m working towards sorting and choosing our favorites, and then storing some of them so they are easily found and reviewed.  Others will be displayed around the house, properly framed and treated as special.   

4.      Store clothes in 5 different locations in your house.
Am I the only one that does this?  Somehow we’ve ended up with a makeshift closet in the basement by the washer and dryer, which consists of a pvc pipe for hanging clothes and 2 laundry baskets for folded clothes.  And then we have our real closets upstairs which end up with fewer clothes in them than the fakey closet.  And then there’s the dressers and the tubs of off-season clothes stored in the bedroom.  And finally, there are the piles of sort-of-clean-but-sort-of-dirty clothes in the bathroom. 

The result?  I never really know what I have, and it looks like I have far less than I actually do. 

5.      Sort the kids’ toys and put the extras in the basement. 
I was inspired by Simplicity Parenting to reduce the number of toys my kids have access to by 50%.  And it really has made a difference.  With far fewer options, they play much longer with a toy and engage with it much more.  The days of grabbing and dumping without playing are over. 

The trouble is, the extra toys never quite made it out of the house.  I put them in the basement, with the idea that I would be one of those super organized parents who rotates toys upstairs and down, so the kids get the benefit of many toys without the overcrowded, stressful environment.  But, lo and behold, the kids go in the basement, and find the extra toys, and grab and dump, and occasionally drag something upstairs.  And the cycle begins again.  I am not one of those super organized rotating toy parents, so it’s time for the toys to be evicted. 

6.      Keep every single piece of important mail in a “to file” pile. 
I have “to file” piles that were shoved in folders and transferred to our new house when we moved.  Two years ago.  My kitchen command center reveals that my filing skills haven’t gotten much better. 

7.      Once you’ve sorted your stuff and selected what’s going in the giveaway pile (congratulations!!), put the bags and boxes in the basement, the back of your van, or the garage.  Trust that they will miraculously transport themselves where they need to go.

It can be hard to actually, finally, get RID of the stuff.  Our attachments to things, our hopes of making a buck off of them, our fears about not having enough in the future…all of those feelings and more keep us bound to things.  I’ve heard (and experienced a little) that it can be immensely freeing to get rid of bunches of excess.

I’m learning that it takes a lot of work and intentionality to create and MAINTAIN a simple environment.  If I do nothing, the stuff just pours in the door and accumulates everywhere.  If I want my environment, mind, and spirit to be free of stuff, then my hands have to do some constant work.

I have a few specific goals for my “Summer of Simplicity” that I’ll share in some upcoming posts.  Feel free to stay tuned and join with me!  What are some of your best strategies for NOT living a simple life?  

Why I Broke Up With Public School

After a difficult beginning and a confusing relationship, public school and I broke up last month.  We had the kind of relationship where nothing was particularly bad but nothing was particularly great, either.  And once the scales tipped slightly towards the negative, I felt like it was time for our relationship to end, at least for now. 

A challenging class combined with many substitute teachers created an environment where my kid just no longer felt comfortable.  She cried one day as I dropped her off in a busy classroom under a substitute’s care.  I drew a heart on her hand like we did at the beginning of preschool, reminded her that I loved her, and told her I would be there to pick her up in a couple hours. 

But that was the beginning of the end.  From then on, if there was a substitute at the door when we went to drop her off, we drove back home.  And we started looking for a good time to end the school year early. 

Some might think that a few tears are not enough to change a child’s whole educational course.  But for Eden, those tears were the indication that what had been working well enough was no longer working.  The uncertainty and frequent changes were pushing the limits of her ability to adapt and roll with it. 

I wrote an “it’s not you, it’s me” letter to her teacher, Eden said good-bye to her friends, and we broke up.  It was a good break-up, I think, full of mutual respect and no hurt feelings.

In the whole scheme of educational choices and philosophical camps, it’s easy for people to draw lines and take up sides.  I suppose making choices for our kids puts us in camps and gives the appearance of sides.

But I’m not going to bash public schools.  I actually love the ideal that public school represents…that we pool all of our kids from all different backgrounds and all beliefs and all abilities and educate them in one community.  That our kids become our ties to each other and we learn to care for each other’s kids and each other’s families.  That our teachers pour their lives into our kids and encourage their passions and find the techniques that work best for each kid.  That our kids make friendships that teach them how people who are different can become like family. 

The reality may be far from the ideal, in some cases.  But I believe that most public school teachers and administrators are working, sometimes against seemingly insurmountable obstacles, towards that ideal. 

I’m hopeful that one day public school and I will reunite, when it’s a better fit for my kid and our family. 

For now, I am a homeschooler.  Yikes.  That’s something I thought I’d never say and someone I never wanted to be.  But, we don’t wear denim jumpers and braid our hair and read the Bible every morning.  I thought those things were requirements, but it turns out they’re not.

Above all, I’m grateful to have a choice.  Many families don’t.  I’m going to make the most of my choice and the path we’re currently on.  Just like the public schoolers, the unschoolers, the private schoolers, the charter schoolers, the virtual schoolers.  We may disagree on the particulars and the goals and the methods, but we can lean into the hope that we’re all making the most of the path we’re on, doing the best we can for our kids.  

The Voices That Crowd

There are many voices

Seeking, shouting, vying, trying

To be heard, acknowledged, prized

Above the rest. 

Skittering across the net

Bouncing from site to site.

Each one calling “pick me!” “pin me!”

“stay here!” “like me!”

Songs from the past

Play a never-ending loop in my mind.

Melodies that haunt and don’t inspire,

Words that beat and tamp down

My flame, my song, my voice

Still persists.

Insists

On being.  

Eden's Operating Manual

We were driving home last night after a lively dinner at my sister’s (lively = kids go wild while sisters chat, oblivious to kids’ water dumping shenanigans until it’s too late), when Eden announced, “I don’t like our house.  I wish I could live all by myself in my own house and decide everything for myself.” 

We’ve been hearing a lot of the “I want to decide things for myself” refrain around here lately.  It occurred to me as we were driving that this was probably about more than just not being allowed to flood the inside of her auntie’s house.  It’s about more than just wanting to eat as many treats as she wants because “it’s my body and I can decide for myself!”  She’s growing, stretching, and leaning into her independence, sometimes straining against me in the process. 

So we talked in the van (don’t the best conversations happen when you’re driving?) about some areas where she could decide more things and have more responsibility.  We decided that she’d add some items of her choice to our grocery list and have free rein of a self-serve snack basket in the cupboard.  She assured me that she would still only eat one granola bar a day, because she still wants to eat healthy foods.  She will brush her own hair.  I asked, “what should I do if your hair is all tangly and I ask you to brush it and you say ‘no, I don’t want to brush it’?”  She looked genuinely confused and said, “I won’t do that.  I’ll brush it.” 
                                              

I think God knew that I am a little slow to catch on sometimes, so he gave me a firstborn daughter with her own articulate, insightful operating manual.  She’s basically all but telling me, “excuse me Mama, but I’m desiring more autonomy and would enjoy more opportunities to express my independence, please.”  Thankfully I heard her this time. 

Sometimes I feel like she is five going on fifteen.  I see a tall, beautiful teenage girl, yelling, “It’s my body and I can decide for myself!” in reference to something much more important than eating a second cookie.  But really, she is five going on six.  We’re practicing, figuring out how to negotiate more independence for us both.  Expanding what it means to respect each other.  And if we practice this now about issues like treats and hair brushing, hopefully we’ll be okay when the teenage years come.  

Collaborative Poetry, Part Two

And here's the rest of our poems!  We didn't give them titles, but I'm using the topic as the title so it doesn't get confusing.  Again, thanks to these authors for contributing: Connor Ball, Satyam Bharadwaj, Sherry Corley, Daniel Guastella, Bryonna Manes, Jody Mitchell, and Dustin Tushar.

Summer

So close, yet so far, I can almost hear the beach's
waves wherever they are.
My toes curl, searching for sand to
blissfully hide beneath.
So delicate and so warm, but not too hot to burn my feet.
The water and my feet meet for a nice
retreat.
The sting of the sun, and burning skin,
suntan lotion, and foamy waves.
Pressing heat but hurts so great,
the one thing we look for on college break.
For this is our time to chill and rest
because that's what we do best.

Trusting Someone

Being stripped of any sense of security, putting
power into someone else's hands.
The one true hero we look upon, for guidance
and comfort, peace and tranquility,
For this person truly has your back
for years and years to come.
For this person will never leave you, will never betray
you.
Yet this doubt lingers in your mind,
haunting your heart.
Like these new cars they're all push to start, If you keep
pushing my buttons we will split apart.
Just like my heart if you break
our trust for we must
stick together.

Cats

Cats are furry, cats are round
Lots of furballs floating 'round.
Cats can scratch
Dogs aren't a match.
Cats lounge for hours in the sun,
Since they have no work to be done.
Whisker to whisker, they move so quick,
So quiet - they are basically slick.
They run through allies with fur against the bricks,
and skip through bushes without hitting a single stick.
Their quick nimble feet pitter-patter
along the brick as they
skip, skip, skip.

Freedom

I look up into the sky and see
Not a bird, not a plane, but the stars are what's free.
But what's really free, are we
Freedom we are guaranteed,
But freedom binds us greatly.
Fought and won, we can never be without.
But we do not think of how much we need
until we lose what we cherish most.

Check out yesterday's post for the description of our method and how you, too, can have fun writing amazing poetry.  Thanks for reading!

Collaborative Poetry, Part One

According to the U.S. make-every-day-a-special-day calendar, April is National Poetry Month.  The students in my writing class also happen to be working on a collaborative multimodal project this month.  So, I decided to combine these two into a collaborative poetry writing lesson to show that writing poetry can be fun, @#!*% , and that sometimes we can create things together that we could never create alone.  It actually was fun, and the poems they wrote were really amazing.  

Our writing method was to write one line of poetry at the top of each paper and write the general topic at the bottom.  Each student would read the line at the top, add their own line, and then fold the top of the paper down so the only line showing was the one they had just written.  Then they’d pass the paper along, the next student would read the one line showing, add their own line, fold the top down to cover all but their own, and pass along, etc. etc.  So each student was writing a line of poetry with only the general topic and previous line to give them context.  (Aside:  I know I read this method somewhere, but can’t remember where and google is no help.  Maybe it came to me in a dream.)

The resulting poems, as you’ll see below, are actually quite cohesive!  I was impressed with what they wrote in just a minute or two per poem…the poems have strong imagery, alliteration, and even cultural critique. 

The poems I’ll post today begin with a line from poems by Robert Louis Stevenson.  I’ve used Stevenson’s titles so you can go read his versions if you’d like.  The contributing authors, who have graciously given me permission to publish their poems here, are: Connor Ball, Satyam Bharadwaj, Sherry Corley, Daniel Guastella, Bryonna Manes, Jody Mitchell, and Dustin Tushar.  Come back tomorrow to read more! 

Summer Sun

Great is the Sun, and wide he goes
Through empty heaven without repose;
It is big and It is bright.
It is blinding, yet such a sight.
And we keep at least it’s reflection thru the night.
The reflection at first giving us a fright
Reflecting against the rolling sea,

beckoning for clarity.
Sun always rises, never sets, as we
stay up awake until winter chill is met. 

Rain

The rain is raining all around,
It falls on field and tree,
It sleeks and shines the ground beneath,
and drips from leaf to leaf.
Sound so calm, it brings us to a better place.
City to city but never captured, a force so strong
it is never relieved.
Drizzle, Drizzle, Drop, Drop rings the sounds
in our ears, never seems to drop a
beat as if it were on the radio.
It’s wet everywhere because of the rain,
rain, rain please don’t come again.
Yet as soon as you leave, I crave
nothing more than the sound
of rain upon my window.
Is that a sin though? Waiting for god’s
tears just to clean my life’s window. 

The Cow

The friendly cow, all red and white,
I love with all my heart. 
I fed him food all day and night,
till he grew big and strong. 
It provides me with milk
yet pollutes the air that I breathe.
Somehow we continue to graze them as such,

Pretty soon as we know it our lives will be flushed.
And our lives will be rushed

By those who we trusted,
for no more than mere lunch.

Caged, but treated as pets,

We care so much for them –

Herded and spared. 

Pretty great, huh?  Which one is your favorite?  Come back tomorrow to read the rest, and wrangle some of your family and friends into writing some collaborative poetry of your own! 

Reading Confessions

So, back in the blogging saddle again.  I’ve missed writing, but sometimes breaks are good and needed.  And I know at least one person missed my posts (holla Fran!) and sometimes that’s all it takes to get this writer writing again. 

What I have been doing a lot of lately, encouraged in part by my facebook fast during Lent, is reading.  My title, Reading Confessions, unfortunately does not mean I’ve been reading Augustine’s Confessions.  It means that I’ve fallen down a rabbit hole towards reading books that no self-respecting person with a degree in literature should read.  Alas. 

It all started with Wendell Berry.  His book, Hannah Coulter, consumed my life for about two months as I read, reread, journaled, read Berry’s nonfiction essays, and basically angsted away for a simpler life, where people lived and loved in one place for generations, where husband and wife worked together in their family-sized economy for the sustenance and pleasure of their community, where members of a community become a membership, where the land is tied up in the love is tied up in the land.  I highly recommend reading everything he's ever written and then buying a country plot and becoming a one-acre wonder.  Or at least dreaming about it.

And then, after an amazing book club discussion of the above, I was just tired of thinking.  Enter Divergent.  And Insurgent.  And Allegiant.  In like a week.  Compelling plot, strong heroine, interesting discussions of bravery and violence and choice.  All set in post-apocalyptic Chicago, which makes me want to go back and visit the city of my college years and try to jump on a moving train.

After my little foray into “fluff” books, as my mom calls them, I should have theoretically been ready for some real stuff again.  Alas.  I went in the opposite direction.  I really can’t remember how it all started, but I turned next to Nicholas Sparks.  Yep.  I did.  I read two of his books and watched the corresponding movies, and noticed how the movies are much more lighthearted and strip any menace or darkness out of the books.  And that’s about all there is to notice, I think.  Except, all the girls are short blonds, and all the boys are tall muscle men.   

Then I felt dumber.  Or is it more dumb?  Anyway, I decided to move upwards and onwards.  I read The Last Lecture by Randy Pausch, which I found interesting and moving as a memoir/time capsule for Pausch’s kids.  I just finished The Fault in Our Stars by John Green, which tells the story of teens living with cancer, trying to figure out the ending to their story.  I’m currently studying The Well-Trained Mind, a voluminous tome advocating a classical approach to home education.  Just reading it makes me feel smart and well-read. 

I think I’m safely back on the path towards good books again.  The next book club book is Bel Canto by Ann Patchett, which I started reading about six months ago but didn’t finish.  From what I recall, it’s a combination of opera lovers and a high-anxiety hostage situation.  It’s bound to be a good one.  I’ll keep you posted.

A Christmas Prelude

I like Christmas, and so it starts appearing early around here.  When the air turns cold and the wind starts up, when the fires in the fireplace start, it starts feeling like Christmas. 

This year I started listening to Christmas music on November 1^st. 

We’ve been watching Christmas movies on Netflix. 

And I bought some new twinkle lights to make the living room festive.  Only one strand worked, of course, so the room looks a little odd, but still cheery. 

Christmas m&m cookie baking with the kids. 

I think I enjoy the November prelude to Christmas almost as much as the actual season itself, because it comes in a month of peace.  As much as we try to keep Christmas simple and meaningful, December gets filled with extra events on the calendar, extra tasks, extra shopping, and extra church services.

November is filled with silent nights, perfect for a Christmas prelude.

All At Once

Today after her shower I wrapped Eden in her towel and all of a sudden realized how too-small it was.  She was shivering uncontrollably and exclaiming loudly how COLD she was, and I suddenly noticed how inadequate the baby towel was for her tall 5-year-old body.  

They grow in small increments, measured in peeking ankles and long-sleeved shirts turned to ¾ length.

Eden's first bath at home, at 4 days old.

And then, all of a sudden, they’ve grown.

And sometimes, what used to fit needs to be shed.  What used to soothe doesn't soothe anymore.  What used to be the favorite is left untouched.  What used to be feared is now exciting.   

Sometimes they grow so sticky molasses slow that it’s imperceptible.  Sometimes they stand up from a crouch and they’ve aged 2 years. 

It’s time for some big kid towels around here, new shoes for both, a new hat for the boy, solid “ssss”es instead of “shchth”es, homework for the girl. 

It’s shocking, and it’s slow.  All at once. 

The Upstairs and Downstairs Parents

The title of this post isn’t a reference to Downton Abbey, although that would be a fun post to write.  It’s a reference to our local library, where the children’s section is downstairs. 

The other day, my mom told me that a librarian friend of hers, who frequently is the one to check me and the kids out upstairs, commented on what a great mom I am. 

I’m fairly certain the downstairs librarians wouldn’t agree. 

You see, the last few (three?  four?  it all blurs together) times we’ve gone to the library, Isaac has had a complete meltdown of one kind or another right when we were leaving.  It’s involved things like running away from me, crying, and screaming…super fun stuff.  So I’ve been the one chasing him, strapping his flailing body into the stroller (which I still bring in to make our entrance and exit go more smoothly), and calmly telling him that we do not yell in the library. 

I’m “that” mom to the downstairs librarians.  You know, the one who can’t control my kid.  The one who must be doing something terribly wrong in order to make my kid behave that way.  The one who clearly did not prepare her child that the library is a quiet and calm place and that we would have to leave soon. 

I’ve seen the looks.  I’ve seen the judgments from the parents of innocent little 15-month-olds who swear that will never be them.  I’ve seen the looks from parents whose children have mastered impulse control and obedience at a younger age than my son.  The looks and the judgments sting. 

But then we go upstairs.  And by the time we go upstairs, Isaac has calmed down and is no longer screaming and appears to have been sitting calmly in his stroller for quite some time.  So the upstairs people see my smooth checkout and think that I’m the mom who’s got it all together, whose angelic children never disobey and wouldn’t even think about screaming until they were red in the face in the library. 

So, whose judgment is right?  Maybe both.  Maybe neither.

They are judgments made based on the briefest of interactions, the most limited amounts of information. 

They are judgments made with no context of relationship, no incentive to believe the best about someone, and no good intent.   

On the receiving end of these judgments, it’s far too easy to be overly pricked and pained by the negative ones and overly encouraged and validated by the positive ones.  It’s also far too easy to parent in public out of embarrassment, shame, and fear of what judgments will be made. 

I am the one who knows what kind of mother I am.  My kids know what kind of mother I am.  My God knows what kind of mother I am.  We are the ones who are fully aware of what goes on both downstairs and upstairs.  We see it all. 

And in the context of these safe, long-lasting, loving relationships, I will find my anchor and my hope and my guidance.  

In Other Words

Today is one of those days that I really shouldn’t blog.  I’m not in a good frame of mind to post something every day of my life, and some days private writing is more appropriate than public writing.  So to continue with NaBloPoMo, I’ll pass along 3 links to great articles I read today regarding parenting and families. 

The first, called “Why Kids Act Out at Bedtime,” by Dr. Kelly Flanagan, a dad who is also a psychologist.  I remember Glennon over at momastery.com describing bedtime as one big game of whack-a-mole, where you get one kid settled and then the other has a request, and on and on and on…back and forth, in and out of the room, whacking those damn moles that keep popping up again.  It is fraying on even the most patient person’s nerves, and I’m not the most patient person.  Dr. Flanagan reveals how our response to bedtime has more to do with ourselves as parents and less to do with our kids. 

The second, called “Let your kids be mad at you,” by Janet Lansbury of Elevating Child Care.  She talks about the need as parents to be able to handle the full range of our kids’ emotions.  To be open to their anger at us, to not recoil or leave or defend or reproach when our kids express their anger at us.  Today Isaac said to me, “I want to be in our house but I don’t want to be anywhere near you” when he was mad at me.  I’m glad he feels comfortable saying it, although it is sometimes hard to hear.  I’m also glad that even when he’s most angry, he still wants to be “in our house.”  I take that to mean that he’s not running away anytime soon. 

The third, called “Marriage isn’t easy, but it’s beautiful, pope says,” reported by Cindy Wooden of Catholic News Service.  Pope Francis spoke in Vatican City about marriage and family life.  He affirms that marriage is not an easy path, but that in “lov[ing] one other person forever…the trials, sacrifices and crises in the life of the couple or the family are stages for growth in goodness, truth and beauty.”  I read a comment once in which an older woman who had been married for 50+ years said that for about 5 years of her marriage, she hated her husband.  But over the course of their married life, she considered that loving him for 90% of their marriage made up for that 10% of their time together that was difficult.  What if she had given up during the 10%?  What if she would have walked away from that marriage and lost the 45 happy years together?  Marriage is hard but it is also beautiful.  

Sleep

For a (horrible) while in college, I worked on paint crew from 6am-7:30am before my first class.  I was trying to squeeze in extra hours, I guess so I could have more fun money.  This sounds like supreme foolishness to me now. 

If I was lucky, I’d get to bed around midnight and “only” get 6 hours of sleep.  It really wasn’t enough, as my falling asleep in my first class attested to.  But I could always take a nap whenever I felt like it. 

Now, getting 6 hours of straight sleep sounds like an amazing indulgent luxurious blissful wonderful beyond-all-expectations gift. 

Isaac hasn’t been sleeping well lately.  For about the last 3 years and 4 ½ months.

Well, not really.  He actually slept fine for the 1^st 2 years of his life, but then things went downhill. 

We’re working on it.  Trying things.  Giving up and doing what’s easiest, which still doesn’t mean good sleep.  Then trying things again. 

Part of me says this is a small, insignificant challenge in the broader scheme of life.  Part of me says that this is a travesty and that sleep-deprivation is torturous. 

Sleep is one of those things, like health, that you don’t even think about when you have it.  But when it’s gone, it becomes the number one, can’t be ignored, problem of supreme importance.  Our bodies are strong until they are frail, and then we realize how vulnerable we are. 

When I went away last weekend, I slept for 7 hours straight that night.  I woke up in the same position I fell asleep in and checked my phone.  Yup, 7 hours.  I had that crusty stuff on my eyes because I didn’t open my eyes for 7 hours.  I forgot about that crusty stuff.  You don’t get that crusty stuff when your eyes are open off and on all night long. 

I’m just complaining.  I have no answers.  I am not learning any great lessons from this.  I don't overflow with grace and peace when I am woken up in the middle of the night, grateful for the chance to interact with my cherubs.  I try as hard as I can to keep my @#!*% together and be as kind as I can, while my body screams at me to lay down and go to sleep.

I empathize with all parents of small children out there who aren’t sleeping well, with the insomniacs, with those working 3^rd shift, with anyone sleep-deprived anywhere.  May we all sleep again someday.  

Voting Day

Today is voting day, and I didn’t vote. 

I value voting.  I know people have made and do make great sacrifices for the right to vote.  I usually vote.  I feel bad about not voting. 

Here’s what my not voting signifies:

~It’s hard taking two restless, active kids to vote with me, especially since the church that graciously sponsors our voting has a bake sale during voting day.  I either have to say “no” to constant requests for every imaginable cookie and treat, or say “yes” and give my kids loads of sugar and then ask them to remain quietly and politely in a line for an impossibly long (to a 3 and 5-year-old) time.  Today I didn’t feel up to it. 

~I have no idea who I’d vote for.  I read the pages in the local paper where they ask the candidates the same questions and have them respond, but I couldn’t differentiate anything from their responses to know who to vote for.  I couldn’t attend the informational meetings and debates and such that took place after my kids’ bedtimes.  Lawn signs and mailers and flyers and commercials are worthless propaganda.  Most local, small campaigners do not have good websites with good info. 

~I don’t vote along party lines.  It’d sure be easier to go in and check every box marked “R” or “D,” but that doesn’t sit well with me.  The parties are not uniform and neither party has it all right all the time.   

~There is too much to vote for.  I know that it’s a good thing to have the wishes of the populace represented in our elected government (whether or not that actually happens is another discussion, but let’s be optimistic here), but the list of judges and representatives and board members and on and on gets so long that it becomes impossible to make educated decisions about them, unless you make it your part-time job in the weeks leading up to the election.

So there’s my excuses and/or rationale, depending on how you look at it.  I hope you voted, and I plan to vote next time!  It’s not a perfect system but it’s a good one.  And even turning in a partially-filled out ballot (which I usually do) is better than nothing.  Maybe I’ll vote from home and mail it in next time, to take the cookies and kids out of the equation. 

Annapolis: My (Formerly) Favorite Little East Coast City

I love Annapolis.  It has some old English city charm, with its brick roads and walks and roundabouts and street names like “Duke of Gloucester” and the like. 

Plus, it has docks and water and yachts and boats and Pussers (awesome seafood) and cool artsy shops. 

I stole away for a short visit to Annapolis Sunday morning, to go for a run and explore more of the city on foot.  I sort of expected the city to be quiet and calm on an early Sunday morning.  Um, no.  It was full of people and action…a hot rod car show, yachts in and out of ego alley, runners everywhere including a 5K race through downtown, Navy men and women in their dress uniforms walking around, and hipster students from St. John’s crashing every coffee shop. 

And every single person looked like they stepped out of a magazine.  The runners all looked like they run a quick 10 miler every morning to warm up for their Runner’s World photoshoot.  The residents and their dogs looked like they stepped out of a Lands’ End catalog.  The yachters (I’m sure there’s a proper name for them but I choose yachters) had their grey cable v-neck sweater and dark jeans uniform on, scarves tossed carefully carelessly around their necks.  The hipsters had perfectly imperfect scruff and the best plaids. 

And then there was me.  Have you seen this?  It's pretty apt.  

I didn’t have time to do my laundry before I left, so I chose the cleanest clothes I could find that looked okay.  So the running gear I was wearing in preppy Annapolis was my ten-year-old, unflattering but gets the job done running gear.  I felt a LITTLE like an outsider, a photobomber, if you can photobomb an entire city.  A city-crashing version of a wedding-crasher. 

But I did my thing anyway and enjoyed the brightly colored doors, the little patios hidden away, the red brick everywhere, the bright sunshine and cool wind. 

And I decided that Annapolis is a little too perfect to be my favorite little east coast city.  Perfect takes a little fun out of everything, adds a bit too much pressure. 

But Annapolis, you’ll always be number two.  

Why I Love The Liturgy

I got home from my trip at 11:45 last night and was nearly asleep already, so I didn’t post.  This post counts for Sunday.  J

My family became Lutherans a few years ago as a sort of theological compromise between the spouses.  Since then, we’ve been experiencing a more liturgical service than either Kasey or I had experienced up until then. 

The liturgy dictates certain parts of the service to be devoted to different things, like Confession and Absolution, the Scripture Readings, and the Eucharist.  The liturgical calendar sets out the feast days and celebration days for the year as well, along with the Scripture readings for each week. 

What I love about this is the sense of community it brings to the family of God.  Many branches of Christianity follow the same liturgical calendar, which means that around the world, church-goers are likely to be reading the same Scriptures each Sunday, praying similar prayers, and reciting the same creeds. 

This past Sunday I went to my brother and sister-in-law’s Catholic parish, and although some of the liturgy was unfamiliar to me, the overall structure and progression of the service was familiar.  Some of the prayers and creeds were the same.  The pastor and deacons were wearing green vestments just like my pastor was, marking this as a Sunday in Ordinary Time.  It felt like home.  And when the Pastor read that day’s Gospel reading about Zacchaeus, I remembered that Eden and Isaac were singing about that “wee little man” with the kids’ choir in front of the church back home that same morning. 

I felt connected to my brother’s church family, to my home church family, and to the whole family of God. 

There is comfort and grace and strength in millions of people around the world bearing witness to the same God through the same liturgy, and that is why I love it.  

Trip Lists

I’m going to visit my brother and sister-in-law near Annapolis this weekend.  By myself.  I’ll say it again, so you can bask along with me.  By. Myself. 

I am an introvert and I crave time to myself.  I need it like food and water.  I’m serious, people.  And having two young kinds, I rarely get it.  So what happens is over time, I start coming a little undone…I get jittery, snappy, antsy, and extremely sensitive to the sounds of my family chewing food.  Seriously. 

So I sort of jumped at this chance to have a little getaway that includes 12 hours in the car by myself over the next 2 days.  To some people, this might sound annoying.  To me, it sounds glorious. 

List-making is essential for any trip, from my detailed packing list to my unrealistic list of things to accomplish before leaving.  For some reason, my brain thinks that leaving for a trip is a great opportunity to do extra projects, like clean out the car so it’s pleasant to travel in!  And clean the whole house so it looks good when I get back!  And clean out my purse so there’s nothing extra in there!  Um, yeah, not gonna happen.  I’ll be lucky to pack clean clothes and not forget something essential like my phone.  So here’s my trip in non-stressful lists: 

Top 3 reasons why this is going to be the best trip ever, in no particular order:

1.  Being alone for 12 hours in the car. 
2.  Visiting my brother and sister-in-law and meeting my new nephew!!
3.  Being ALONE for 12 hours in the car.  

My playlist: 

1. A Clockwork Orange book on cd
2. Once Upon a Time, There Was You by Elizabeth Berg on cd
3. Some cheesy murder mystery on cd
4. Maroon 5
5. Ella Fitzgerald
6. John Coltrane
7. Dan In Real Life Soundtrack
8. Bruno Mars
9. Silence. 

Things I’m looking forward to:

1. Being witness to my nephew’s baptism.
2. Catching up with bro and sis-in-law.
3. Sleeping all night long without interruption for the first time in, well, too long.  Let’s just say that no one’s told my 3 ½ year old that he should be sleeping through the night by now.  
4. Being near the water. 
5. Hopefully catching a glimpse of my favorite little east coast city, Annapolis. 

And finally, an unedited photo of the current contents of my bag:

What?  Doesn't everyone need a hole punch and trash in their bag?  

The Tale Of The Cherry Princess

This month, I’ll be jumping on the National Blog Posting Month (NaBloPoMo) bandwagon.  I’ll be linking up with BlogHer, where you can find tons of other bloggers who are crazy enough to attempt blogging every day for a month.  The theme for my writings this month will be “Messy Endings.”  Sometimes when I blog, I feel the need to make sure my endings are neat and tidy – problems solved, tricky situation navigated successfully, parenting challenge accomplished.  But that’s rarely how life is, and I’m looking forward to writing about more unfinished, in process, unresolved, confusing, and messy moments in my life.  The act of writing every day will, inevitably, entail messy endings.  No one writes brilliantly every day of their life, so in writing every day I am giving myself permission to write poorly sometimes.  I think I’m hoping that being a truth-teller, bearing witness to the messiness of life, will make me brave and maybe encourage a reader along the way.  Thanks for reading! 

A couple weeks before Halloween, Eden announced that she wanted to be a cherry for Halloween this year.  We were driving home from a friend’s ice cream birthday party, where Eden had ordered a cherry-vanilla cone and was reminded how much she loved cherries.  “They’re red, which is my favorite color, and they taste yummy, and I like when Auntie Jen shares them with us in the summer,” she explained. 

I was thrilled.  I tried not to make a big deal out of it, but inwardly I was so damn glad that my girl was creative and original and sheltered enough from marketers that she wanted to be a cherry.  A cherry.  How cool is that? 

So I waited the requisite amount of time to make sure she wasn’t going to change her mind, and then we figured out a plan for her costume.  She helped cut out her cherry pieces from the bright red posterboard, and then we fitted the green stem over her head.  She helped tape and staple and hole punch and tie and had the biggest smile on her face when she tried it on. 

The day of her school Halloween party came and when it was time, all the kids ran to their lockers to get their costumes.  They were told to put their costumes on and then sit on the mat.  I helped Eden with hers, and then she realized she couldn’t really sit down in it.  And then she started looking around…she saw Spidermen, Batmen, Ironmen, Luke Skywalker men, and princesses.  Of the five girls in her class, four were princesses.  And one was a cherry. 

A fire-breathing dragon near us asked Eden innocently, “what’s your costume made of?” as he reached over to touch it.  “Mine’s made of fabric.  Is yours paper?” 

Eden looked at her costume, and looked at her classmates.  She looked at me with, I think, fear in her eyes.  “Mine’s made of paper and theirs is made of fabric,” she whispered. 

I tried to smooth things over by being nonchalant.  It didn’t work.  Soon she was near tears.  Then she wanted her costume off, like, now.  Then she was terrified that she was going to have to walk in the parade and she did NOT want to walk in the parade.  Then she was sobbing, big gulping breaths and tears and tears.

I went back and forth between reassuring her, consoling her, encouraging her to wear her costume, telling her it didn’t matter if she wore her costume, fielding questions from her teachers, reassuring her confused classmates, and trying not to cry myself.  It was one of my superb mothering moments. 

The only thing I knew in that moment was that I was not going to put words in her mouth.  I had my suspicions as to what was going on, but I wasn’t going to ask leading questions and possibly add fuel to the fire. 

To help the students learn to pay attention to detail and identify things about themselves, Eden’s teacher asks kids who have certain characteristics to line up at the door.  So on Halloween she asked, “Will any friends in a superhero costume please line up?”  Every single boy, fire-breathing dragon and Luke Skywalker included, lined up.  It seems that every little boy considers himself a superhero.  I chuckled a little.  And then, “Will any friends in a princess costume please line up?”  And every girl except Eden lined up.  I winced a bit. 

My kid was different.  My kid felt different.  And it felt bad. 

To her, the difference was paper and fabric.  I was afraid she might have been embarrassed that she was the only girl not a princess, but she didn’t mention that.  I was afraid she might recognize that she was the only classmate not in a movie-character costume, but she didn’t mention that.  Later, on the way home, she said that she was afraid her classmates would laugh at her, because she was the only one with a costume made out of paper. 

Her costume was paper, and that was difference enough. 

It was so innocent.  No one was making fun of her, not in the slightest.  Her friends were asking her why she wasn’t wearing her cherry, telling her they liked it. 

She wanted to be like them, and she wasn’t, and she was afraid and embarrassed. 

I hate that.  I got mad at everybody that day.  First I was mad at the people who market movie character costumes to little kids, robbing them of their creativity and originality.  Then I was mad at “our entire culture” (you know you’re in trouble when you’re mad at something that vague and all-encompassing) for turning Halloween into just another consumerist junkyard.  I was even a little mad at Eden, that she lost her courage and spunk when she needed it most.  And I was mad at myself, for making her costume out of shabby paper.  I lashed myself with “shoulds” and “next-times.” 

And then I wasn’t mad anymore.  I was sad and mostly confused.  Because I understand wanting to be part of a community, wanting to be like everyone else.  I think that’s hardwired into us.  And as much as we talk about “embracing” and “celebrating” our uniqueness, sometimes at our core we just want to be the same.  It feels safer and easier, yes, but also comforting and homey and warm. 

As much as I want to encourage Eden’s creativity and originality, she’s now old enough and exposed enough to see that it’s not all sunshine and cherries to be different. 

She tried on her cherry costume to show a few family members, but then back in the corner it went.  She happily wore a “princess” dress to the rest of our Halloween festivities.  She’s a cherry.  And she’s a princess.  She’s my cherry princess.

Two Ways to Normalize Breastfeeding in Public

#1.  Do it as you normally would in private.

#2.  Be normal when others do it in your vicinity. 

Whenever I see a mom breastfeeding in public, I cheer on the inside.  I do a little mental cartwheel and think of encouraging things I can say to her, like “Good for you for nursing in public!” or “I did that, too!” or “You’re doing such a great thing nursing your child!”

See, I believe breastfeeding in public takes a bit of courage in our culture, and I applaud moms who do it.  Because even though breastfeeding is normal and really no big deal, our culture often says otherwise.

And I feel quite passionate about supporting moms who want to breastfeed and about supporting women’s rights to breastfeed anywhere their babies need to eat (which is anywhere they happen to be at the moment).  I don’t think nursing moms should be relegated to “nursing rooms” or nurseries at church or any other designated space, unless the mom herself feels more comfortable there.

But, I’ve yet to say one of my “go breastfeeding in public!” encouragements to a mom that I’ve seen in the act.  It just feels a little awkward and intrusive, I guess.  Because to me, what she’s doing is normal.  And normally I don’t comment on things that are normal.  I just go about my normal business. 

Today at the gym, a mom was breastfeeding her baby near the play area.  She wasn’t being particularly discreet; neither was she being indiscreet, and who cares?  I don’t.  Apparently another mom near me did, as evidenced by her staring a little too long and then turning to me to give me a disapproving, conspiratorial look. 

What to do, what to do?  Should I go along with Disapproving Mom to not rock the boat?  Should I make a pro-breastfeeding comment to make my stance known and support Breastfeeding Mom? 

I chose the “be normal” route.  I anticipated Disapproving Mom’s glance and diverted my eyes so as not to participate in it.  I sat near Breastfeeding Mom and interacted with her as I normally would – a little chit chat here and there, eye contact. 

Sometimes normalizing breastfeeding calls for political action, nurse-ins, letters to managers, and encouraging comments. 

And sometimes normalizing breastfeeding calls for not turning every normal act into a political opportunity or a chance to declare sides in the mommy wars. 

Sometimes the best way to make something normal is to acknowledge that it already is normal by just acting normal. 

Eden was playing near Breastfeeding Mom and I, and at one point noticed the baby nursing.  She watched for two seconds while climbing down a ladder, and then went on her way playing.  She didn’t need to comment or ask questions; she didn’t need to do anything.  She saw a mom nursing her baby, and in her world there is nothing in particular to comment on when she sees this. 

And I hoped that maybe Breastfeeding Mom was encouraged by the fact that as she fed her child, life went on as normal around her.   

The Faith Of A Child

I’ve taken a laid-back approach to my kids’ spiritual education so far, letting them lead by questions and observations.

They do go to Sunday School and do their share of Old Testament Bible story worksheets and crafts, and I tell stories about Jesus and parables at bedtime, so they’re not totally bereft of any God knowledge.  But we don’t push them to pray or do devotions or that kind of thing. 
 
Part of the reason for my approach is that I have a hard time finding religious materials that I like…I’ve looked at many children’s Bibles and it just bugs me so much that Jesus is white.  I’m no historian, but people, Jesus was not a whiter-than-white man.  WASPs weren’t created yet.  I can’t buy something designed for kids that depicts a white Jesus. 

Also, clichés and spiritual oversimplifications are pet peeves of mine.  Many religious children’s materials boil things down to such a degree that they become at best, warm and fluffy sentimentality, and at worst, inaccurate and misleading. 

So, we keep things simple in our own way.  And yet, my kids have an amazingly pure and inspiring faith. 

Eden occasionally prays at bedtime, and boldly includes herself in her list of people she loves:  “Dear God, thank you for mama, and dada, and Isaac, and me.” 

Last week, she held her hands out about a foot wide and said, “This is how much I love you.”  Then she held her hands out as wide as she could and said, “and this is how much I love God.”  She’s got her loves ordered in a way that would make Aquinas and C.S. Lewis proud. 

Last night, our conversation question at dinner was:  “When you think of God, how do you picture him?” 

Eden said, “He has a white jacket on, with a blue thing tied around him.”  I’m thinking, darn, it’s the old flannelgraph Sunday School Jesus.  But she went on, staring off into the middle distance, “I can’t really describe the rest.”  “Does he have a head?”  I prompted.  “What does his face look like?”  She replied, “It’s just…I can’t really describe it…it’s real God.” 

And while I have no way of knowing what she is picturing, I swear that her imaginings of God are more real God than mine, and than most any adult. 

And then it was Isaac’s turn, so I repeated the question to him and reminded Eden that we let Isaac talk for himself and we don’t interrupt during conversation questions.  “Isaac, when you think of God, how do you picture him?”  Isaac said, “A lion.” 

Goosebumps, people, I got goosebumps.  We haven’t read The Chronicles of Narnia yet; he hasn’t heard of The Lion of Judah.  But what does my boy picture God as?  A lion, the king of all beasts. 

I’ve heard lots of opinions and interpretations about what Jesus meant when he admonished his hearers to have faith like a child.  Some people say it means having a simple, trusting faith and not asking questions or doubting.  (I never liked that interpretation.)  Some people focus on the utter dependence of children and say we need to have that dependence on God.  Some say it means we need to submit ourselves to the spiritual authorities in our lives. 

I don’t know what it means.  I like elements of most of those interpretations.  And I recognize that what I like is irrelevant to what it actually means. 

But in watching my children, I see a delight in God that I am missing.  Eden truly seems to LOVE God, as she flings her arms out wide to show how much.  Honestly, it’s hard for me to access those emotions related to God.  It seems to come naturally to her. 

Isaac has translated some central characteristics of God -- power, rawness, bigness -- into an image that he can relate to.  On his own. 

My children's faith is bold, and heart-felt, and pure.  I have a lot to learn from them.