I am struck yet again by the way something as simple as a phone call can rearrange an entire day.
Even though the majority of my hours are currently spent making sure that my couch isn't blown away or allowed to trot off on its own, I still find that things have fallen into a certain rhythm. There is morning chore time, which I supervise from my chair at the kitchen table as I oversee breakfast for Oliver and Manolin and sip my decaf Earl Grey and nibble my toast. There is breakfast time for the rest of the crew, which I observe from the safety and incline of my couch. There is the silent lull of everyone's independent Bible time, during which I conduct a very simple devotional break for the tot set--on the couch, of course. Then there is math for everyone over the age of 8. I often squeeze in a morning check-in with Benny during that time. After that, the day flows quickly towards the lunch hour, with me laying on my left side on the couch or the floor and little people of various sizes consulting me with whatever crises has emerged, be it a train track that won't stay stuck or a hockey stick that refuses to bend into a passable curve or a story line that, frustratingly, has fizzled out.
Then there's lunch, which Jo makes unless she's otherwise occupied. The little boys then head off to naps, the big kids head back outside to play, and I get an hour and a half or so of completely uninterrupted time. Lately, I've been reading my Bible and a Voddie Bauchaum, Jr. book, then knitting some of the small squares that will eventually, maybe, someday, be part of a larger afghan I've been working on for over a year and a half. When I'm tired of that, I work on scheduling school stuff for the fall. And when I tire of that, I call for a child to bring me the contents of the dryer so that I can fold.
The afternoons tend to be a bit more lively. I need the help of the older children to arrange a hearty snack for everyone, especially since nice weather implies that I'm doling out snacks for my own brood plus whomever has ventured into the pick up soccer game constantly in motion on my back hill. Depending on how I'm feeling, I have Atticus or Logan drag a camp chair and blanket out onto the hill so that I can join the foray, or I send the older kids out and try to keep the younger ones happy with videos and Aquadoodles and puzzles and whatever else I can reach from my post on the couch.
If Mr. Blandings is not home, I am usually actively involved in making dinner. Jo is a competent cook, but her repertoire is limited. Note to self: passing on cooking skills isn't optional, it's essential. I wish I had stepped up my training in this area well before I got the ball rolling last December. As it is, Jo can make a simple meal (say, spaghetti) but the bigger things are out of her league. She's learning by trial and error ... something I hope she looks back on fondly. I hope.
And then, Mr. Blandings is home to finish off the day, leaving me to gestate some more on (you guessed it) the couch.
This, friends, is the face of bed rest. :-) Nothing exciting, but a predictable march of days nonetheless.
Until the phone rings, of course, and the entire monotony of the day is set spiraling into a dizzying "This is it!" of excitement.
We got the call, you see. Right in the middle of a transition from one expected, ordinary moment to another.
His adoption date has been set. July 20th.
See how the mundane pales with just one little nudge from the outside? It's near to impossible to happily knit when your mind is whirling over the fact that in exactly two weeks, Manolin will be ours. Fully and forever ours. It's hard to sit still, let alone meekly rest on the couch. At least I have a distraction growing inside of me that makes waiting all the more exciting. Because even though I can't get up and twirl with joy, Seven can (and does). For now, I guess that's good enough.