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.

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.

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?

Rewriting the List

Swamped. Overwhelmed. Underwater. Barely holding on.

In my small little inner world, those are the words that come to mind this evening. I've been falling farther and farther "behind" in the past few weeks, and at this point, there is no hope of "catching up." Not without a week, or two, all by myself, in my own house...and that's not in the cards at the moment.

On Friday morning, I had a big temper tantrum, and in the processing which followed, it became clear to me that my children have been in my way lately. My list of to-dos does not include them. It includes planning for them and cleaning around them and thinking about them, but not them. My list acknowledges their needs to be fed and to wear clean clothes and to live in a reasonably ordered home. It does not acknowledge their need for me to get down and play on the floor with them or to accept their tiredness as a sign that the day needs to take a different direction or to respond patiently when "Mama!" is uttered for the billionth time in an hour. No, those needs are not list-able. They are innumerable, but not listable, and thus not cross-out-able. I have felt the chaos of all this unexpectedness and have responded with cross frustration. Oh, failure.

The week ahead holds many challenges. I can see them from here, and I can see that I will not catch up this week. Or probably the next. And, realistically, I won't ever catch up. So why do I continue to put my emotional eggs in the basket of control and order? What is that definition of insanity again?

What I do know about this week is that, as far as I can tell, there will be seven days before it is Sunday evening again. Seven mornings, seven lunchtimes, seven afternoons, seven dinners, seven oh-so-short intervals after the kids go to bed. Seven twenty four hour periods in which I have the privilege and the challenge of being married to a wonderful man and mothering three gifts of children. Seven days of relationships. Wonder what a good list for this week ought to look like.

Date Night

Flashback. Same mall parking lot, same time of year, same red-haired, blue-eyed boy. Date night with Mama. That time he was three or so, and the date was just a run to the mall for ice cream on a glorious spring evening. As we walked hand-in-pudgy-little-hand through the parking lot, I observed aloud, "Oh, Davis. Isn't it a beautiful evening? The air is warm, the sun is just going down..." "Yes," he agreed, and then he added in a wistful voice, clearly absorbing the spirit of my thoughts, "and cars and trucks..." My dear little guy was as entranced with the parking lot full of shiny metal vehicles as with the warm air and the birds overhead, and it was a delight to be with him then.

And tonight. Now is a lanky six year old boy. Same gorgeous red hair and beautiful blue eyes. His hands are no longer pudgy in the least, but I hold one in the parking lot nonetheless. It's not really necessary anymore, but I'm not telling. Tonight, date night for the two of us involved a game of tennis followed by shopping for summer Crocs, a visit to the bookstore where he talked me, rather easily, into a new chapter book, and then, finally, the ice cream. Over the course of the evening we have happily chased tennis balls, many of which he hit rather impressively, and talked in the car about how everybody sometimes feels self-conscious and debated the merits of red versus orange crocs, deliberated long and hard about which book to buy and which ones might be too scary, and then decided together that the gummy bear topping would go best on strawberry ice cream, not the chocolate. It's a sweet time with my boy yet again. As the evening ends, we find ourselves in the parking lot, crowded with shiny metal vehicles. It is again a lovely spring evening, but this time it is Davis, my observant boy, who looks up and gasps. "Oh, Mama. Look at that sunset." And I do look at the sunset, and I'm so glad for those gorgeous colors in the evening sky. Really, though, what makes me even gladder than the sunset and the warm air and all the shiny vehicles for miles around is the strong and growing hand still holding mine.

With Delight, Little Girl

Emma Kate's request of late: "Mama, would you kiss me into bed?"

Love Language

My middle child is a homebody, and a people-body. She likes her toys, but she's not that attached to them. Her love language is quality time. Sandwiched between an older brother and a younger sister, she loves nothing more than some alone time with Mom and/or Dad. As she reported from the back seat of the van:

"Mom, I wish it was just you and me and Daddy. All the time."

"Zo, it's awfully nice to have special time together, isn't it."

"Yes, and you wouldn't have to go to the grocery store. And Daddy wouldn't have to go to meetings. We could just snuggle all the time."

"That sounds nice, babe... After a while, do you think you'd get bored of all that snuggling?"

"Well, we'd snuggle AND read books!"

After- School Debriefing

The pick-up line at my son's homeschool program is long and there is a procedure to follow. Pull your minivan up to some cones. Your child spots your car, runs for it, jumps in, and you pull away quickly before he/she is belted so the next minivan can pull in. We homeschoolers live on the edge.

Today, my small son jumps in with great concern. "Mom, Mom, do we have any peas at home?" Momentarily disconcerted by the question, I tune in and mentally rifle through the frozen-vegetable drawer: "Yes, babe, we do."

Then I see that in his hand is a...creation. A cluster of grapes bound in Saran Wrap with toothpicks sticking out of most of the grapes. On the end of each toothpick is a pea. A couple of peas have been lost; thus, the dramatic need for replacement peas.

While making sure I do not collide with another minivan as I pull out and simultaneously supervising the belting of the seat, I ask the obvious question.

"So, what's that you made today?"

Pause. "I don't know."

"You don't know?"

"No."

"Did you start a new unit today?"

"Yes."

"So your creation is part of the new study?"

"Yes."

"But you don't know what it is that you made."

"No."

Oh. And from the rear-view mirror, I observe him starting to take the toothpicks out of the grapes, passing the remaining peas-on-toothpicks around for his sisters to enjoy. Then the grapes are unwrapped and passed around, too. As we arrive home, all that is left of this great, if somewhat undefined, educational experience are some toothpicks and a shred of plastic wrap.

Tonight at dinner a thought occurs to him. "Maybe we're studying robots, Mom?"

Posted by Kelly at 6:10 PM