The homeschool world, like all the rest of mommydom, has camps. You homeschool for religious reasons, or anti-government reasons, or hippie-reasons, or because your kids have special needs or because they had a terrible time in public schools or because you're sickly attached to them and can't stand to spend a moment apart. However you came to it, here you are, and now you must declare allegiance. You follow the Charlotte Mason method, or the Classical method, or you do "school at home" (aka the textbook method) or you are eclectic, or some combination of the above, or something else entirely. Or you unschool.
I've always felt like if I were a little bit braver, a little more sure of myself, a little more confident in the outcome, that I would unschool, at least somewhat.
We've done a little bit of unschooling for the last few days, and this is how it went:
-When I come in from work in the morning, the youngest is editing a book she and her sister are writing about how to save the environment. It includes pages and pages of information and graphs with data they have fabricated. They are in the middle of some debate about the best way to get their message to the world. This is not a children's book, they insist; adults need to read this book. Should they self-publish or pay a lot of money to buy the services of a publishing company? This has led to conversation about the process of writing and then publishing books, how to get a book contract, the requirements on authors to help promote their books, etc... So she's sitting at the table editing their work.
-In the morning, the kids ask to play Bananagrams, a Scrabble-style game that requires you to create words out of letter tiles and then be flexible in your thinking as you have to incorporate new letters at intervals. Then they ask to play Battleship, the classic game where you search for your opponents' battleships by using coordinate pairs. Spelling, vocabulary, math. Check.
- Davis and I work through a lesson in his new Teaching Textbooks math curriculum. It takes us quite a while. Some of the problems are really complex.
-Meanwhile, the girls have decided to set up a science lab in Zoe's bedroom. They are spending time gathering all the science supplies. They are creating experiments and writing down all their science knowledge on papers with which they decorate their lab. They invent a dubious product called "4-in-1," containing water, hand sanitizer, soap, and lotion.
-Zoe and I practice her violin for about 45 minutes. This is "switch week," so I am required to practice as well, and she critiques my form and reminds me to keep my thumb and pinky bent on my bow hand and to relax my shoulder.
-Meanwhile, Davis is reading his book for book club, which meets on Friday. Emma Kate is playing school with her dolls.
This morning, more unschooling:
-More Bananagrams. My worst speller loves this game, and he's learning so much about creative and flexible thinking as we play.
-The girls invented a zipline system to deliver a cup of supplies from a storage spot on the wall down to their science lab table. They also worked with some large cardboard boxes to create something else...not sure what...they declared it a failed experiment but were happy with their effort.
-Davis and I worked through another math lesson. Zoe and I had another violin practice session.
-The girls collected some creek water and everyone looked at what they found in the microscope.
-Davis started work on a new story using a hand-drawn storyboard. He's drawing the pictures and creating the story now.
-We went to the library for new books. Zoe chose Robinson Crusoe and is finding it dense. I'm interested to see if she'll persevere. Emma Kate chose a book by a favorite author. Davis put the next Harry Potter on hold and will finish his book club book by Friday.
It's delightful to give them some days to just follow the day where it goes, to let them pursue what moves them. It's amazing to see that they "cover" so much of their academics in their own learning: reading, math, music, writing, science. I think to unschool all of the time, the key is to live in a home full of learners, so they are always being exposed to new and interesting information, some of which they gravitate toward to dive deeper.
Tomorrow we'll return to a more parent-directed day, and that will be good in some ways, but we'll all look forward to our next time to unschool.
Wednesday, April 8, 2015
Thursday, March 20, 2014
Thursday
The littlest one showed me her fairy garden, nestled in the daffodils. Her narration was long and detailed, as always, and I can't recall a thing about how things really work in fairy realm. But I was captivated by her expressions and her brown eyes, her little hands, her sturdy frame. She walks in delight and loveliness and I get to visit her there, and see her, and be with her.
The tallest one, whose body looks more like a man every day, was annoyed by the reading workbook, so we went out to shoot baskets. I used to pretend to defend him. Now he reaches in and grabs the ball away if I dribble carelessly. But he still snuggles in when we read Davy Crockett afterward. I couldn't be more proud of a kid than I am of that one.
And, oh, Zoe-in-the-middle. Her body was fighting a cold, but she has a surprising toughness in the face of sickness that makes me admire her. She brought her beloved scrapbooking to do while her brother had a drum lesson, and it's like looking in a mirror, watching her love to cut things out and glue them to the pages. I read something tonight that made me close the computer and walk up to her room, long after she might have been asleep, just to tell her again that she's precious to me. She needs to hear it as I often as I think it, and I get to say it.
My husband. We share the ridiculous things from the day, and the annoying, and the surprising. He cooked dinner so I could run. I threw paper airplanes with the kids so he could work. He put them to bed so I could eat. He always wins in the who-does-more contest. And, in a bit, we get to end the day together, curled up and laughing and then sleeping.
It's just a Thursday, and I'm the richest woman in the world.
The tallest one, whose body looks more like a man every day, was annoyed by the reading workbook, so we went out to shoot baskets. I used to pretend to defend him. Now he reaches in and grabs the ball away if I dribble carelessly. But he still snuggles in when we read Davy Crockett afterward. I couldn't be more proud of a kid than I am of that one.
And, oh, Zoe-in-the-middle. Her body was fighting a cold, but she has a surprising toughness in the face of sickness that makes me admire her. She brought her beloved scrapbooking to do while her brother had a drum lesson, and it's like looking in a mirror, watching her love to cut things out and glue them to the pages. I read something tonight that made me close the computer and walk up to her room, long after she might have been asleep, just to tell her again that she's precious to me. She needs to hear it as I often as I think it, and I get to say it.
My husband. We share the ridiculous things from the day, and the annoying, and the surprising. He cooked dinner so I could run. I threw paper airplanes with the kids so he could work. He put them to bed so I could eat. He always wins in the who-does-more contest. And, in a bit, we get to end the day together, curled up and laughing and then sleeping.
It's just a Thursday, and I'm the richest woman in the world.
Monday, March 7, 2011
Essence
"I want to do that. By myself."
He's pointing up, way up. It's a high ropes course at an amusement-park-type place where teenaged employees attach harnesses and belts and carabiners and people's most loved ones climb up to the heights to discover the abject fear of walking a tightrope, even knowing they are safely (how exactly very safely?) tethered to a wire overhead.
He is seven. Wiry and redheaded, grown-up teeth filling his mouth, bright blue eyes and a splay of freckles across his nose. And he wants to go up there. By himself.
"OK," I say. It is, after all, date night with mom. He's already been thrilled and a little awed at the chance to drive a go-kart, standing at full height to meet the requirement. He rode as a passenger in my bigger, faster go-kart, and we laughed and whooped as I tried, against all my Momma instincts, to drive just the tiniest bit recklessly to thrill my small passenger. And now he wants to go up there. By himself. And it's date night, and I try not to say no to much on date night.
Up he goes, harnessed and carabined, confidently ascending the stairs into the sky.
Then at the top, he sees. He's up there, really high. He can choose to walk a tightrope, or a swinging bridge, or some far-apart boards, and there's nothing to hold onto, really. I am watching my boy intently from down below. I see the fear take him by surprise. I feel the fear with him. But he's up there, and I'm down below, and this moment belongs entirely to him.
He looks at me, hesitates the briefest of seconds, and then he steps out. He walks. He balances. He does one, two, three different passes across various impossible challenges. The whole situation is designed to be terrifying, and he's afraid; my small boy is not the reckless type, but there he is, all by himself, and he keeps on going. Courage. I look up and I see redheaded, freckled courage.
Eventually, to my relief, he descends the stairs. Back on the ground. Untethered and smiling. He's at least an inch taller. And I, privileged Momma that I am, am honored to have had that glimpse of him, of the strength of his arms and legs and his mind and heart, from down below.
He's pointing up, way up. It's a high ropes course at an amusement-park-type place where teenaged employees attach harnesses and belts and carabiners and people's most loved ones climb up to the heights to discover the abject fear of walking a tightrope, even knowing they are safely (how exactly very safely?) tethered to a wire overhead.
He is seven. Wiry and redheaded, grown-up teeth filling his mouth, bright blue eyes and a splay of freckles across his nose. And he wants to go up there. By himself.
"OK," I say. It is, after all, date night with mom. He's already been thrilled and a little awed at the chance to drive a go-kart, standing at full height to meet the requirement. He rode as a passenger in my bigger, faster go-kart, and we laughed and whooped as I tried, against all my Momma instincts, to drive just the tiniest bit recklessly to thrill my small passenger. And now he wants to go up there. By himself. And it's date night, and I try not to say no to much on date night.
Up he goes, harnessed and carabined, confidently ascending the stairs into the sky.
Then at the top, he sees. He's up there, really high. He can choose to walk a tightrope, or a swinging bridge, or some far-apart boards, and there's nothing to hold onto, really. I am watching my boy intently from down below. I see the fear take him by surprise. I feel the fear with him. But he's up there, and I'm down below, and this moment belongs entirely to him.
He looks at me, hesitates the briefest of seconds, and then he steps out. He walks. He balances. He does one, two, three different passes across various impossible challenges. The whole situation is designed to be terrifying, and he's afraid; my small boy is not the reckless type, but there he is, all by himself, and he keeps on going. Courage. I look up and I see redheaded, freckled courage.
Eventually, to my relief, he descends the stairs. Back on the ground. Untethered and smiling. He's at least an inch taller. And I, privileged Momma that I am, am honored to have had that glimpse of him, of the strength of his arms and legs and his mind and heart, from down below.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
I Like to Move It, Move It
Goodness knows, I am a classic Type A personality. I can plan the heck and the fun out of anything.
Sometimes, that works in my favor, actually. It's a relief to pull that granola bar and water bottle from my well-stocked bag moments before the meltdown ensues. Not a bad thing to have a good system for laundry so that the clean undies are always available and in the correct location. My days are carefully ordered and planned to ensure maximum smoothness, efficiency, balance. Who can argue with that?
But Goodness also knows that there's more to life than smooth.
When I was a kid, each summer, my dad took my brother and I on a week-long camping trip. He'd rent a little RV, pack some guide books and maps and a few groceries, and off we'd go. My brother and I chose a direction, searched the guide books until we found a campground that looked like it had good fishing or tubing, and we'd make our way there. If we liked it, we'd stay a couple of days, and if we didn't we'd keep our stay short-- and then it was on to the next part of our journey.
Oh, the things we learned as we helped Dad follow the map...but, blissfully oblivious to all that inadvertent education, we were just on the road together. A particular Barbara Streisand cassette tape always accompanied our trips through the gorgeous Virginia Mountains, Babs belting out "Memories" as we rattled around the camper, seat-belt-less and eager for what was around the next bend. The point of these summer rambles? Point? There was no destination or goal other than to be together, to be just like that famed bear that went over the mountain to see what he could see. That's what we saw...what we could see. We did laugh a lot, we certainly lived those moments which have become the timeless family stories and quotes that never cease to amuse us, and only us, as we retell them today. You had to be there. We just...were. Together.
About a year ago, a beloved aunt gave the kind of Christmas present to a mom of three young kids whose husband worked a lot of nights that communicated that she "got" my life. A McDonald's gift certificate. Enough for several meals out. Several cold winter nights in which I could sit and watch my cabin-fevered children run out their energy under the fluorescent lights of the play area, fueled by Happy Meals, while I sat quietly and watched. This gift communicated love in a big way, and I planned carefully how to make the best use of it.
One of these cold winter nights, ballet pick-up was complete, and it was dinner time and we were all weary and restless, but mama had a plan! Home for a lonelyDdaddy-less dinner tonight? No, kids, we are off to that awesome and not-too-far-away McDonald's with the big indoor playland. It was a good night to use the gift certificate. It made sense. It was a good plan.
Twenty minutes later, we weren't quite where I thought we would be. The McDonald's wasn't where I thought it was either. In this unfamiliar part of town, rush hour was in full swing, it was getting dark, and I was looking, looking, for that great playland to end our day on just the right note. A jogger pointed us in a direction...but that road stretched endlessly to what was definitely not the right place. Driving in circles, darkness fell, and the little people in the back seat were getting hungry.
Finally, we saw it, shimmering ahead! The Golden Arches, in all their glory. But wait, what's that gas station doing in the same parking lot? My heart sunk. This was not my destination. It was one of those joint gas-station-fast-food joints. No playland. No running off energy before bed. No mom sitting in quiet for a few moments at the end of the long day. No perfect plan.
Now it was late, and we just needed to eat. So we tumbled out of the minivan, mom inwardly regretting the whole endeavor, still wishing the plan had gone as scripted, secretly grumpy about this long drive only to end here at the gas station.
There, in the fluorescent light of the gas-station-McDonald's-combination, occurred one of the sweetest, funniest dinners I have enjoyed with my children.
The Happy Meal toy bestowed upon my children was this ridiculous plastic figure that played a jazzy little snippet of a hip-hop song; "I like to move it, move it" he sang/rapped over and over and over. It just struck our fancy. We laughed, silly and hilarious. We danced right there in our seats, all of us, not even aware of what the other patrons might have thought. And we were just...together, enjoying the ridiculous place we ended up and the people we were with. Plan A would have been fine, good, and maybe even better on paper. But plan B possessed the element of surprise and delight in the unexpected and isn't it nice sometimes not to be responsible for all the fun?
A year later, just say that phrase, "I like to move it, move it" and it's likely that all four of us will break into dance. That ridiculous plastic character is still around, the only Happy Meal toy we've ever owned who has lasted more than a day before finding its way to the trash. It gives me a lot of joy to push the button and dance again. "I like to move it, move it."
Sometimes, that works in my favor, actually. It's a relief to pull that granola bar and water bottle from my well-stocked bag moments before the meltdown ensues. Not a bad thing to have a good system for laundry so that the clean undies are always available and in the correct location. My days are carefully ordered and planned to ensure maximum smoothness, efficiency, balance. Who can argue with that?
But Goodness also knows that there's more to life than smooth.
When I was a kid, each summer, my dad took my brother and I on a week-long camping trip. He'd rent a little RV, pack some guide books and maps and a few groceries, and off we'd go. My brother and I chose a direction, searched the guide books until we found a campground that looked like it had good fishing or tubing, and we'd make our way there. If we liked it, we'd stay a couple of days, and if we didn't we'd keep our stay short-- and then it was on to the next part of our journey.
Oh, the things we learned as we helped Dad follow the map...but, blissfully oblivious to all that inadvertent education, we were just on the road together. A particular Barbara Streisand cassette tape always accompanied our trips through the gorgeous Virginia Mountains, Babs belting out "Memories" as we rattled around the camper, seat-belt-less and eager for what was around the next bend. The point of these summer rambles? Point? There was no destination or goal other than to be together, to be just like that famed bear that went over the mountain to see what he could see. That's what we saw...what we could see. We did laugh a lot, we certainly lived those moments which have become the timeless family stories and quotes that never cease to amuse us, and only us, as we retell them today. You had to be there. We just...were. Together.
About a year ago, a beloved aunt gave the kind of Christmas present to a mom of three young kids whose husband worked a lot of nights that communicated that she "got" my life. A McDonald's gift certificate. Enough for several meals out. Several cold winter nights in which I could sit and watch my cabin-fevered children run out their energy under the fluorescent lights of the play area, fueled by Happy Meals, while I sat quietly and watched. This gift communicated love in a big way, and I planned carefully how to make the best use of it.
One of these cold winter nights, ballet pick-up was complete, and it was dinner time and we were all weary and restless, but mama had a plan! Home for a lonelyDdaddy-less dinner tonight? No, kids, we are off to that awesome and not-too-far-away McDonald's with the big indoor playland. It was a good night to use the gift certificate. It made sense. It was a good plan.
Twenty minutes later, we weren't quite where I thought we would be. The McDonald's wasn't where I thought it was either. In this unfamiliar part of town, rush hour was in full swing, it was getting dark, and I was looking, looking, for that great playland to end our day on just the right note. A jogger pointed us in a direction...but that road stretched endlessly to what was definitely not the right place. Driving in circles, darkness fell, and the little people in the back seat were getting hungry.
Finally, we saw it, shimmering ahead! The Golden Arches, in all their glory. But wait, what's that gas station doing in the same parking lot? My heart sunk. This was not my destination. It was one of those joint gas-station-fast-food joints. No playland. No running off energy before bed. No mom sitting in quiet for a few moments at the end of the long day. No perfect plan.
Now it was late, and we just needed to eat. So we tumbled out of the minivan, mom inwardly regretting the whole endeavor, still wishing the plan had gone as scripted, secretly grumpy about this long drive only to end here at the gas station.
There, in the fluorescent light of the gas-station-McDonald's-combination, occurred one of the sweetest, funniest dinners I have enjoyed with my children.
The Happy Meal toy bestowed upon my children was this ridiculous plastic figure that played a jazzy little snippet of a hip-hop song; "I like to move it, move it" he sang/rapped over and over and over. It just struck our fancy. We laughed, silly and hilarious. We danced right there in our seats, all of us, not even aware of what the other patrons might have thought. And we were just...together, enjoying the ridiculous place we ended up and the people we were with. Plan A would have been fine, good, and maybe even better on paper. But plan B possessed the element of surprise and delight in the unexpected and isn't it nice sometimes not to be responsible for all the fun?
A year later, just say that phrase, "I like to move it, move it" and it's likely that all four of us will break into dance. That ridiculous plastic character is still around, the only Happy Meal toy we've ever owned who has lasted more than a day before finding its way to the trash. It gives me a lot of joy to push the button and dance again. "I like to move it, move it."
Monday, August 16, 2010
Time-Out With Spaghetti and Baby Jesus
A couple of years ago when our oldest two kids were toddlers, their Gram, who had been a preschool teacher in a previous life, thrilled the kids with a sweet Christmas craft. Using Quaker oatmeal containers (and don't all good preschool crafts begin with Quaker oatmeal containers?), they created little mangers for Baby Jesus, filled them with straw, and placed a perfectly-sized baby inside. Little Davis and Zoe had a wonderful season of playing with the baby Jesus and his cozy manger.
When, sadly, it was time to put away the Christmas decorations, I carefully wrapped and packed the mangers for use the following year. The baby Jesus? He stayed in circulation, a decision I have come to regret.
In the years that have followed, "Baby Jesus" (for he retains his name despite his lack of contextual manger), has become fully engaged in the life of the Kirk family babies. And may I digress here to inform the patient reader (hi, Mom!) that our gaggle of babies includes the unfortunately named "Mafen" and "Spaghetti." I'm highly concerned about the nomenclature of my future grandchildren. But more on that another time.
So, Baby Jesus being an integrated member of the Tribe of Babies, I regularly hear comments such as, "Mom! Look at Baby Jesus doing a cartwheel!" or "Mom! I just dropped baby Jesus in the sink!" or "Mom, Baby Jesus and Mafen are having a cage fight. I think Baby Jesus is totally going to take her."
Humorous, yes, but in that uncomfortable even-though-the-DaVinci-code-was-sort-of-an-entertaining-book-I-don't-think-Baby-Jesus-should-be-marrying-Spaghetti kind of way. If you know what I mean.
Next topic. Emma Kate. She's two, almost three, and boy, has she had a summer. In the span of 14 days, she potty trained, moved into a big girl bed, and gave up her pacifier. The trifecta of change. When a girl can no longer pee in her pants, sleep in a cage, or suck on a binkie, she's got to do something to express her feelings, so express she has.
But wait, there's more. Bye-bye nap. Take two hours of sleep from her life, add exhaustion to the miasma...well, let's just say we have considered some lovely boarding schools for toddlers.
We, being enlightened and veteran parents, have recognized the stress of transition and exercised additional patience with her, at least in our best moments. (Our best moments occur at least once a week. We're good like that.) Despite our sympathies, within appropriate developmental limits, she is expected to obey her parents. It's hard. We know that. She would rather not. We know that, too, and even identify. But, believing it is in her best interest to develop this skill, we have held her to the standard.
Thus, she's spent about 1/3 of her waking hours in time-out, carefully and deeply considering, (even though may look to the untrained eye like she's just yelling her head off) ye olde fifth commandment about honoring her parents so that she may live long. I really like that last part.
Now, our dear girl is a non-stop talker. As the summer has worn on, her primary topic of endless one-way conversation to to all those under her domain: the importance of obedience. There aren't many that fit the category of "under her domain", but if you do, chances are that you, too, have been relegated to time-out on the bottom step recently. Today, the pool toys were all given firm discipline and were sent to the pool-equivalent of the "bottom step of doom." (We don't really call it that. "Hell" has a much zippier ring to it.) Fascinating stuff as a parent, to see your words and actions reenacted and directed to the pool noodles and plastic sharks.
It has actually been encouraging and amazing to watch her begin to process this obligation she has to obedience. In the midst of this, be not concerned. We delight in her and laugh with her and read to herand play with her. She is joyful and chatty as ever, fearless as she jumps off the diving board, overjoyed to be a ballet student in her sister's "class", curly blond hair now long enough for a little ponytail, endlessly playing CDs, singing songs, and doing the hand "lotions." So she's a happy, loved girl. She's learning.
Now for the moment you've all been waiting for, the magical moment when I bring these diverse threads together. It happened this evening as we were preparing for a quick errand, the whole family to pile in the car for an exciting ride to the auto repair shop. All of the children had chosen a companion for the car ride. Davis had his Chickie, Zoe had her Mafen. Emma Kate was in a tight spot. She had a recalcitrant subject to deal with.
Finally she announced, "Well, Baby Jesus obeyed me so now he is allowed to go for a ride in the car."
Lighting flashed. I'm thinking Baby Jesus better get back to the manger, and on the double.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Turning Around
When things get busy and all of a sudden it has been several weeks since I've talked to a good long-distance friend, it becomes harder to find the time to call and reconnect. A few minutes, a quick conversation while making dinner, it just won't do. In my mind, I need an hour reserved for a good, conversation covering all the bases...and where's that hour? Not to be found. So the call gets put off.
The house needs to be picked up. And then it needs to be picked up and vacuumed. And then the piles have grown and dusting is called for. After a while, I realize it's time to clean the bathrooms, too. The kitchen floor-- it needs more than a Swiffer! The longer the list grows, the more daunting it gets. Suddenly, I feel the need for a whole day, all alone in my house, just to clean. Spending 15 minutes on picking up seems useless when the task is really so huge.
Same with my soul. The more disconnected and tired I get, the less tending I do to my inner world, the less effort I put forth meeting with my Father. Predictably, I become more emotionally thin, more out of sorts, off the rails. The soul-work ahead looms and calls for so much more than I have, I just don't do it. I'm so out of touch I'm not sure taking a small step forward would be any use. So I don't. Until I just can't live "like this" anymore and I have to try. There's a stripping that precedes this; I recognize my bad patterns coming to the foreground, my pitfalls rising to the surface, my sadness, loneliness, emptiness growing. Autopilot is malfunctioning, has already sent me to a place I don't want to be. Manual piloting is much harder, requires more skill and awareness and attention, but it's my only option short of staying here.
So here I go.
The house needs to be picked up. And then it needs to be picked up and vacuumed. And then the piles have grown and dusting is called for. After a while, I realize it's time to clean the bathrooms, too. The kitchen floor-- it needs more than a Swiffer! The longer the list grows, the more daunting it gets. Suddenly, I feel the need for a whole day, all alone in my house, just to clean. Spending 15 minutes on picking up seems useless when the task is really so huge.
Same with my soul. The more disconnected and tired I get, the less tending I do to my inner world, the less effort I put forth meeting with my Father. Predictably, I become more emotionally thin, more out of sorts, off the rails. The soul-work ahead looms and calls for so much more than I have, I just don't do it. I'm so out of touch I'm not sure taking a small step forward would be any use. So I don't. Until I just can't live "like this" anymore and I have to try. There's a stripping that precedes this; I recognize my bad patterns coming to the foreground, my pitfalls rising to the surface, my sadness, loneliness, emptiness growing. Autopilot is malfunctioning, has already sent me to a place I don't want to be. Manual piloting is much harder, requires more skill and awareness and attention, but it's my only option short of staying here.
So here I go.
Monday, April 19, 2010
Question of the Day
The day begins with an in-crib diaper blowout. I should say my day begins that way, for my hardworking, hardloving husband has been up for a 1/2 hour already, manning the breakfast routine while I try to sleep off yet another late night. He manages the worst of the blowout, getting her cleaned off and into the bath. I simply strip the sheets and put them and the clothes in a pile by the washer to be dealt with later.
And we're off. The carpool friend comes to pick up the oldest. The preschoolers start arriving. A friend whisks Daddy/husband off to the airport to begin his journey to Chicago. Preschoolers play and create and eat and create some more. Preschoolers depart. Big guy gets home. We eat lunch and play outside. I attack what I thought were some spots of poison ivy around the perimeter of the yard. Spots turn out to be patches, farms, really, and what I thought was a small job mushrooms into an all-out chore. Meanwhile, the happy-outdoor-players begin to squabble. It's rest time. Cue the routine: one down (gather paci and blankie, diaper change, one story), the next down (gather necessary craft materials and two songs), "special time" with one. He would like to make a popsicle-stick house for a grandparent whom he'll next see in May. What? So many problems with this plan, but I go with it, determined to be encouraging while feeling like a good cry is in order. Short break, special time with the other, release the first. First has eyes that are red and itchy. Can't stop itching. Pretty sure it's allergies, not pink eye, but evaluating. Search house for any sort of soothing eye drops. None to be found. Wake sleeping toddler and put all three in car to drive to pharmacy. Procure eye drops. Come home, administer eye drops. Almost time to make dinner, but we still haven't done lessons, and older two would like some help climbing a tree in the front yard. Here's the deal: we climb the tree after the lessons. So we do, both. Now it's time to eat dinner, but first it must be made. Squabble over who sits where at the table. Eat. Try to be attentive to the idea of some sort of popsicle-stick creation idea involving smoke coming out of a chimney. Can we, Mom? Help neighbor with seventh grade math which is obnoxiously hard. Water gardens and clean up outdoor toys. Evening meds. Upstairs: teeth, pajamas, pick up room. Three stories, Bible story, group prayer. Individual tuck-in routines. One late-breaking time-out. One trip back upstairs for injury. One child still currently awake and playing.
8:25. That dirty laundry? Still by the washer. Dinner dishes? On the counter. Toys? Everywhere. List of things that really need to be done tonight? Long and daunting. Exhausted? Yes. Heart? Discouraged.
Why? Because all I did was tread water today, do the next thing, and not even cheerfully. All of us have agendas around here: get the laundry done, make a popsicle-stick house, climb a tree, teach a child to read, test the limits, kill the poison ivy, the list of what someone or other wants to do goes on. Our agendas cannot be achieved simultaneously or completely, none of them, and at the end of the day, I feel like we just raced around playing whack-a-mole. I like whack-a-mole, I do, but at least when you play that game, you get some tickets you can redeem for something. At the end of my day, I get nothing but a strewn house and a sad soul. I either need to conquer the chaos or make peace with it.
Meanwhile, adding to the mental melee, like a cheesy chorus of back-up singers, the voices chant their various choruses: Eat better. Eat more locally, more organically. Save more money. Exercise more. Get up earlier. Reach out. Be a good friend, a good neighbor. Write a note. Cook a meal. Clean out that garage, already. Attend to the stagnant long-term to-do list. Mother's Day is coming- what for the grandmas? Pray for that person/continent/issue. Doesn't the cat need to get to the vet soon?
Some days, those back-up singers are sure glad we don't allow violent toys in our house, that's all I'm saying.
Count my blessings. I know, I know. Trust Jesus. I'm trying. Let go of the small things. Ditto. Put people first. See previous post. These days will go so quickly. I hear ya. And I'm drowning nonetheless.
Lord, have mercy on my small household and on my heart. Is there another way?
And we're off. The carpool friend comes to pick up the oldest. The preschoolers start arriving. A friend whisks Daddy/husband off to the airport to begin his journey to Chicago. Preschoolers play and create and eat and create some more. Preschoolers depart. Big guy gets home. We eat lunch and play outside. I attack what I thought were some spots of poison ivy around the perimeter of the yard. Spots turn out to be patches, farms, really, and what I thought was a small job mushrooms into an all-out chore. Meanwhile, the happy-outdoor-players begin to squabble. It's rest time. Cue the routine: one down (gather paci and blankie, diaper change, one story), the next down (gather necessary craft materials and two songs), "special time" with one. He would like to make a popsicle-stick house for a grandparent whom he'll next see in May. What? So many problems with this plan, but I go with it, determined to be encouraging while feeling like a good cry is in order. Short break, special time with the other, release the first. First has eyes that are red and itchy. Can't stop itching. Pretty sure it's allergies, not pink eye, but evaluating. Search house for any sort of soothing eye drops. None to be found. Wake sleeping toddler and put all three in car to drive to pharmacy. Procure eye drops. Come home, administer eye drops. Almost time to make dinner, but we still haven't done lessons, and older two would like some help climbing a tree in the front yard. Here's the deal: we climb the tree after the lessons. So we do, both. Now it's time to eat dinner, but first it must be made. Squabble over who sits where at the table. Eat. Try to be attentive to the idea of some sort of popsicle-stick creation idea involving smoke coming out of a chimney. Can we, Mom? Help neighbor with seventh grade math which is obnoxiously hard. Water gardens and clean up outdoor toys. Evening meds. Upstairs: teeth, pajamas, pick up room. Three stories, Bible story, group prayer. Individual tuck-in routines. One late-breaking time-out. One trip back upstairs for injury. One child still currently awake and playing.
8:25. That dirty laundry? Still by the washer. Dinner dishes? On the counter. Toys? Everywhere. List of things that really need to be done tonight? Long and daunting. Exhausted? Yes. Heart? Discouraged.
Why? Because all I did was tread water today, do the next thing, and not even cheerfully. All of us have agendas around here: get the laundry done, make a popsicle-stick house, climb a tree, teach a child to read, test the limits, kill the poison ivy, the list of what someone or other wants to do goes on. Our agendas cannot be achieved simultaneously or completely, none of them, and at the end of the day, I feel like we just raced around playing whack-a-mole. I like whack-a-mole, I do, but at least when you play that game, you get some tickets you can redeem for something. At the end of my day, I get nothing but a strewn house and a sad soul. I either need to conquer the chaos or make peace with it.
Meanwhile, adding to the mental melee, like a cheesy chorus of back-up singers, the voices chant their various choruses: Eat better. Eat more locally, more organically. Save more money. Exercise more. Get up earlier. Reach out. Be a good friend, a good neighbor. Write a note. Cook a meal. Clean out that garage, already. Attend to the stagnant long-term to-do list. Mother's Day is coming- what for the grandmas? Pray for that person/continent/issue. Doesn't the cat need to get to the vet soon?
Some days, those back-up singers are sure glad we don't allow violent toys in our house, that's all I'm saying.
Count my blessings. I know, I know. Trust Jesus. I'm trying. Let go of the small things. Ditto. Put people first. See previous post. These days will go so quickly. I hear ya. And I'm drowning nonetheless.
Lord, have mercy on my small household and on my heart. Is there another way?
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