BOOKS and BAIRNS

30 ways, #3

2012-01-14T15:03:00.000-08:00

PAPARAZZI

Everyone spend the day looking through the lens and shooting as many pics as you can--that means you, too, Momma! Dig out your old, unused cameras for the kids, or buy a handful of one-time use ones if need be. (Digital is better and cheaper, obviously, but hey--maybe waiting for prints will be an added bonus!)

When you're done with the day's shooting, load & laugh at the zillions of pics. Print your faves, or set them to music. Guaranteed memory maker!

30 ways, #2

2012-01-12T15:00:00.000-08:00

SHADOW PUPPETS

Wait until the light is just so. It'll probably be right about when you should be making supper, which truly will make this that much more fun for your children. Mom's willing to ditch being a nag and telling us to give her ten minutes to get the food in the oven? Sign me up!

Warning: make a crockpot meal on the day you try this, because if your kids are anything like mine, then you will NOT get anything on the table before your husband gets home. But you will have some silly, giddy kids who have cracked you up with their creative animals and convoluted plots.

If you don't have the benefit of NW shadows in the winter, try a lamp in a closet. :-)

30 ways, #1

2012-01-10T14:42:00.000-08:00

DANCE PARTY

I don't dance in front of adults. Never. It's a hard and fast rule that I have, mostly because I look like an idiot when I dance, and really ... I try pretty hard not to look like an idiot in front of other people.

But pull up Pandora, clear the path of stray toys, and give me a kiddo or two and man, I can party like it's 1920. Or something.

Spring this one on your kid. Even if you're not a dancer. Even if they are going to look at you like you have six heads. Even if they are teenagers. Turn on something infectious (my kids loved hearing the songs I thought were cool in junior high) and just go for it.

30 ways

2012-01-09T14:42:00.000-08:00

This year, we're trying out a new schedule here at Casa Blandings. Adopting the Nepali schedule to which Bee is tied, we "did" school from the end of August until Mr. Blandings and Atticus left in November. Then we took a long break. A very long break.

A break which I now see that I needed. Badly.

This long break was a godsend in more ways than one. Not only did it allow us to throw ourselves fully into Advent and Christmas, it also gave me permission to do something that somehow, I hadn't been able to completely engross myself in for a little while:

Really enjoying my kids.

During the long, quiet nights while Mr. Blandings was away, I pondered the rut that I think all homeschoolers find themselves in from time to time. We teach. We train. We coach. We orchestrate. And if we're not careful, we forget to be embrace.

This is my theme, always. Be there. Drink it in. Bask in it.

And you know, for the most part, I do. But sometimes, no matter how hard I try, the joy leaks away. Without my noticing, the wonder drains away, the giggles become less frequent, and I'm left with the good ... but lacking the best.

I'm not o.k. with that. No parent should be--whether you homeschool or not. Life is not making sure dinner is on the table, making sure the baby doesn't fall head-first from the dining room chair, or sighing your way through another read-aloud session punctuated by the shushing of preschoolers. No matter how real those moments are, there's still more. Much more.

With that in mind, I purposed to create a month's worth of joyful moments with my children. 30 individual things that were guaranteed to bring smiles to the faces of my children--and to my own. I wrote them down, even though it felt a bit like cheating. See, I've always thought that spontaneous fun is the best kind. I still do. But what if your normal routine chokes out the chance for sparks of brilliance more often than you'd like to admit? In that case, I reasoned, it was o.k. to create a target (fun!) and aim my arrow (planned activities) straight at them.

Shortly after completing my list of 30 fun to-dos, I was sharing with a friend how refreshed I felt. How much more inclined I was to abandon "must" in favor of "can." How my children seemed more patient with one another. How I was loving homeschooling again.

"I need that!" she gasped. "This is January, after all. It's almost time for the Yellow Bus Blues!"

I was so caught up in my own happy that I'd actually forgotten, if you can believe it. And that was what told me that I really should share.

So, readers, here's the deal. Over the next few weeks, I'll be posting some of the best of the best of the ideas that made our December a refreshing, energizing, filled-up oasis. They aren't holiday themed. Most of them don't require any extra stuff or even much planning. But they do accomplish an important task: Turning your hearts to your children. Shaking off the dust of the rut, and truly tuning in to the souls around you (both little and big) who are what this whole homeschool journey is all about.

I invite you to check back tomorrow for the first idea. Then, leave a comment and share some of your own. I'd love to gather even more ideas to add to my repertoire. April is fast approaching, and I'm putting together another list of 30 ways--not because my kids wants it, but because I do!

Right now

2011-12-26T14:48:00.000-08:00

Somewhere between the stockings,

singing Christmas carols,

the Christmas story from Luke,

the presents,

the phone calls to family and friends far away,

the food,

and the lights,

it hit me.

This is it. Christmas 2011. One shot. No do-overs.

Just like every other day of my life.

Today, my kids are 15, 14, 11, 9, 5, 3, and 1. This time next year-- no matter where I am, no matter what has changed, no matter what the circumstances are-- they will be 16, 15, 12, 10, 6, 4, and 2, God willing.

One day, one shot. Enjoy it. Occupy it. Be fully there.

Squishing

2011-12-21T16:07:00.000-08:00

I'm a squisher. I don't like to feel hurt, and I don't like to feel vulnerable, and I certainly don't like to deal with the nasties that try to rear their head in my heart from time to time. Given my druthers, I avoid confrontation. I have to work hard at intimacy. Like I said, I squish. Keep it inside. Fight the genie back into the bottle and slap a cork on top before he can escape.

Lately, I'm having to squish harder and harder. It's eating up energy that I don't have to spare and costing me far more emotionally than my stretched Momma self can afford to pay.

What I've been squishing down is this: twenty years ago, my mother unceremoniously grabbed fistfuls of my belongings (a Smiths shirt, a pair of boots, my pillow, whatever was at hand) and shoved them into two black trash bags she had ripped from a roll under our kitchen sink. Then, screaming and raving like a manic djinn, she stabbed the heel of her hand into my back and forced me out of her house, into the street.

I was 17--a senior in high school.

My sin was not playing along during one of the episodes of mania that kept-- no, keeps-- my mother from living a normal, healthy life and having normal, healthy relationships. See, my mother follows the tides of rise and fall that are usually indicative of mental imbalance. And while she (and most of her family) refuses to acknowledge her inability to function, I can tell you that as one of those who lived with her day in and day out for 17 years that she is not well. No, not well at all.

Today, we have a strained, cautious relationship in which I don't ask pointed questions and refuse to rise to certain bait thrown out from time to time. My role is to listen from my post nearly 3,000 miles away as she catalogs how woefully inept everyone in her life is and how unfair their expectations of her are. Then I swerve the conversation 'round to how my kids are faring, and she gets off the phone. This is the extent of our interaction.

It's not exactly fulfilling, but it isn't damaging, either.

Twenty years ago, however, it was damaging. It was ravaging. It was being awakened at 3 a.m. to be summoned to her bedroom, where she would smoke cigarette after cigarette until the air was hazy and I could barely see her wild eyes as she told me over and over how despicable a man my father was. It was taking my baby brother to see a doctor because my mother's fanatical fear of steroids made her unwilling to treat the poison ivy that had covered the lower half of her son's body. It was calling her boss--again-- to say that she was sick and couldn't come into work for the fifth day in a row, then missing school so that I could keep an eye on her so that she didn't make good on her promise of killing herself.

I wonder from time to time what I looked like, how I appeared, to the people who knew me 20 years ago. I lied to cover up the crazy that went on in my home. I did stupid things to be liked by people and feel like part of the crowd. I clung to friends who weren't good for me. I was irrational and angry and all the things that look like surliness on the outside but are often little more than a crying, scared heart begging for love on the inside.

I had no idea what God had in store for my life the night that I walked in the rain to the nearest gas station dragging my belongings behind me. As I bummed money for a pay phone from a guy pumping fuel, I had no idea that some day I'd meet the Jesus who was keeping me safe that night, or worship the God who softened the heart of a friend's parents to allow me to live with them until I went to college. I had no idea that He'd bring my future husband into my life just 8 months later, or that one day I would be called Momma by children whose backgrounds range from my own genes to horrific abuse to shared abandonment.

I didn't know any of this. All I knew was that I was homeless, hurt, and without hope.

Today I'm battling through all of this again, wondering why my heart is so raw even when my hands are so full. I have no doubt that God has a lesson for me here, that He's working some miracle in my heart even as I strain to keep my head above the current of old fears that threatens to drown me. In desperation today, I reached out to friends who have been His voice in my ear, reminding me of His love and His ability to hold my hand as I grow. So I'm plunging in, not squishing ... waiting to see what the lesson is.

I don't know where this emotional tide is going, but I trust in this: the same God who saw me through the events of that awful night and led me through the weeks and months that followed is still with me, twenty years on.

Review: Lotus Bumz diaper

2011-12-19T13:15:00.000-08:00

Normally, to review a diaper, I use it heavily for several weeks, then write down my thoughts and share them. If something changes over time--say the PUL goes kaput or the aplix loses its stick-- I go back and make an addendum to the original review. Experience has taught me that in the first month or so, a diaper will show its true colors as it relates to quality and performance. Rare is the dipe that does the duty for two months and then just completely fails.

I'll say up front, though, that I put the Lotus Bumz cloth diaper through a far more rigorous routine than is normal for me in review testing.

I wasn't exactly meticulous when it came to washing the cover and insert separately, for one. (Normally, I don't wash both together.) My washer died during the test period, and I had to make do at a local laundromat. It was just too spendy to sort different loads, so everything got piled in at once into some massive industrial machine. Back home, the inserts went into the dryer but yes, I was careful to hang dry the cover. But because of the laundry situation, the Lotus Bumz wipe (and every other one I owned) sat dirty in the pail far longer than the general recommendation of two days. Vinegar and baking soda were definitely called for when my washer was back in service.

On top of that, Seven is now (ahem) using her diapers far more, shall we say, vigorously. This is a fully active, table-fed 22 pound 15 month-old who also still nurses a couple of times a day. Trust me ... a diaper is put through the paces by this lady.

And finally, the Lotus Bumz diaper was tested for almost double my normal time. Why? Well, when I mentioned the diaper to several experienced cd'ing mommas, nearly every one of them was somewhat dismissive. Turns out, the patterns and fabrics in the Lotus Bumz line are repeated in other brands. One momma noted that she had searched online and found several of these products, all seemingly from the same pattern, and that she was hesitant to order any of them because of their lower price point and the similarities, which seem to indicate that they're being sewn up in one factory, slapped with an individual seller's label, and sent on their way.

"I think they're all [insert name of popular cd brand here] knock-offs," was her rant, "but without the quality control."

Now, I'm just a reviewer. I can't speak to the where and why of a diaper, or to the motivations of a seller, or anything so deep. I'm asked to report to folks whether or not a diaper does what a diaper was meant to do, and to do my best to make sure that what I write is an accurate representation of our personal experience.

Taking into account the skepticism surrounding the quality of upstart diaper brands, I decided to run Lotus Bumz through the wringer and see how it held up.

Turned out, it was up to the job.

I was given a one-size pocket diaper with a silky exterior. Prints like this retail for $16.97 on the Lotus Bumz website, with solids a dollar cheaper. The snaps all proved solid, and the interior was buttery soft. Actually, it's a neat fleecy material completely unlike any other diapers I have. I can see this perhaps getting a little pilly after a few dryer runs, so I'd be extra careful to keep this one on the "hang dry only" routine. The neat aspect of this fleece, however, is the way that it lets go of solid. I've literally never swished this diaper. Everything just seems to roll out. Your mileage may vary with newborn poops, but for older kiddos ... how refreshing!

The fit of this diaper was perfect on Seven's long, skinny little frame.

At 22 pounds, she's still at the second setting. This is a diaper with a nice bit of give in the places where you want to see it, ensuring the long wearing-life that makes OSs such a bargain. Also, it's a fairly trim fit. My sample came with one, OS insert. Just stuffed that way, it was only just enough to keep the butt of Seven's leggings from seeming saggy. The pocket easily accommodates more stuffing, though, so you can adjust absorbency (or just fill those sized-up jeans you bought for your cloth diapered little one!).

Like any snaps, be prepared for a bit of finagling at change time. Seven is no dream to change these days, so I actually "hire" a helper to keep her occupied while I snap her up. Lotus Bumz snaps are slightly counter-intuitive to me in their placement, but I never claimed to be a professor of ergonomics. Mr. Blandings has no problem with them, and will often pick this diaper out of the stack, saying it's an "easy one." Daddy approved!

Performance wise, I can honestly say that this diaper performed almost exactly the way the brand my friend claimed it knocked off does on a day to day basis. The only leaks we encountered were when the diaper was single-stuffed and time (and rice milk consumption) had gotten away from me. Even then, the leakage was of the garden variety dampness around the back of the legs--just enough to make tights or leggings slightly wet. When supplemented with an additional soaker, Lotus Bumz OS happily held through nap time. (I didn't try this diaper for an overnight, because I simply don't like pockets for that duty.)

From my hardcore trial period, I can say that the Lotus Bumz OS isn't of shoddy quality. Far from it. Even when not treated with kid gloves and treated like, well-- a diaper--it held up. The cost is right in the mid-range of many brands, and the patterns and prints are adorable. This isn't a compromise product. You know-- "Well, I can't afford that, so I'll buy this." It's a great diaper. Buy with confidence!

Disclaimer: I was given a free copy of this product for review purposes. Refer to my general disclaimer for more information on my policies regarding reviews.

Classic BOOKS and BAIRNS

2011-12-15T10:42:00.000-08:00

originally published Friday, November 13, 2009

(Written when Bee was 13, Jo was 12, Atticus was 9 and a half, Logan was 7 and a half, Oli was about to turn 3, Mani was 18 months, and Seven wasn't even on the radar.)

On grace

Do you ever notice that the one person who seems to zero in on all of your faults, the one person who gleefully calls you on the mat, the one person who nags you when you stumble is ...

You?

Yeah, it's like that for me, too. I am my own harshest critic. I am the one who points out my shortcomings, who sighs dejectedly when goals are not met, who brings out the wet noodle when things go undone. I am the one who sees that the floor has not been vacuumed. I am the one who tells guests at the front door to please excuse the fact that I have a living room overrun with small plastic whatnots. I am the one who sees the science book lying there, untouched, and chastise myself for failing to make time. Again.

I strive to be the perfect wife, mother, and homeschooler. Of course, I can't be any of those things perfectly. I'm lucky to even be a good wife to my deserving husband, a passable mother to my fabulous kids, and the kind of teacher that I want to be. I constantly walk around with the knowledge that life is a delicate balance. Ample portions must be placed neatly on each platter. This one is for my husband: I'll give him time, encouragement, love, support, respect, and a house that he will be proud to come home to at night. This one is for my children: I'll give them love, cuddles, discipline, gentle words, security, joy, and fun. This one is for my role as a homeschooler: here I place my self-discipline, my creativity, my intellect, the flames of curiosity, and all the patience I can muster.

All it takes it one slight nudge in any direction for everything to swing out of balance. Too much in the way of fun for the kids, and the self-discipline needed to accomplish those school goals can fly out the window. Too much time invested in helping my husband with the practical stuff, and I might just have to shuffle my kids off in front of the television for a half hour. And wait just one doggone minute here! Where's my plate?!?!

It's a balance. It's hard work. And it's heart work.

I really need to give myself more leeway and grace. I need to make sure I'm in line with God's will, and trust that the rest will follow. I need to tune into Him, and trust that He will provide the details as I move to be the woman He wants me to be.

If only I could quiet that nagging voice. "You're doing it wrong. So-and-so is so much better at that than you are. Are you sure you're cut out for this?"

And here's where I'm going to cut to the chase and throw open the doors to my heart:

Sometimes, the voice I hear isn't my own. Sometimes that voice belongs to my fellow homeschooling moms.

At some point, somewhere along the journey, many of us begin to feel like we've figured it out. We hit our stride (even if it's just for a season), and things are working well. Our husbands are madly in love with us and delight in our every word. Our children are impeccably behaved, cute as buttons, and geniuses to boot. Homeschooling is a joy, and we can't wait to begin each day's adventure in education.

And we start to think that we have discovered the secret. You know--The Way To Do It.

So, of course, we tell others.

We pass on tips on homemaking, housekeeping, being the perfect wife, child training, selecting curriculum, selecting a church, you name it. We rattle off reading lists, mention specific scriptures, talk about speakers we've heard. But instead of simply offering granule of life experience, we add a small caveat to our gleanings. It's usually completely unspoken, but it's there. It's judgement.

If you don't wear dresses all the time, you're not conservative enough.
If you don't have a dozen kids, you're not a good enough mother.
If you don't joyfully submit to your husband 100%, you're not a good enough wife. If you don't wake up at 4 a.m. for a 2 hour prayer-time, you're not a good enough Christian.
If you don't do school for six hours a day, you're not a good enough homeschooler.
"Did you see how her son acted at co-op? Awful. You know, I'm so glad that we have a first-time obedience policy. My kids never act that way, because they know we mean business."

"I heard they're having marital problems. If she would just stop trying to run the family, they'd be fine."

"I doubt they even actually homeschool at all. They seem to be involved in every activity coming and going."

For some reason, homeschooling and legalism seem to walk hand in hand quite often. And the truth is, legalism is appealing. It seems to offer the one charted course that leads to the safe, soft-focus destination called Perfection. There are rules and order in legalism. There are Scriptures with very definitive takes on very specific things. There are clear-cut right ways and clear-cut wrong ways. Go this way and it will all turn out. Veer off course and-- you're told--you'll hit the rocks. And really, who doesn't want a guide book that promises to make everything in your life turn out just so?

I have struggled with legalism. I have looked at my own life, with it's bruised apple spots, and thought that maybe the answer could be found in a certain attitude toward my husband, or a particular form of femininity. I have watched as my children have grown, and I have feared life's ups and downs for them, wondering if perhaps erecting certain fences in our family might spare them from future pain.

For a season, those things seem to bear fruit. And then, invariably, I hear that still, small voice asking me the question that never fails to bring my carefully constructed perfection crumbling down:
What about grace?

What about grace, indeed? Pursuing righteousness and holiness is a noble and good task. Bathing your family in the goodness of God, instructing your children in His words, being in the world but not of it ... these are all things that the Lord commands us to do.

But He also asks one other thing of us as we walk the path that leads, ultimately, to His mansion for us:

Therefore encourage one another and build each other up, just as in fact you are doing. --1 Thessalonians 5:11

My fellow homeschoolers, we all fight the feelings of defeat and insufficiency that lead us to look at our days and wonder why God chose us. Please, instead of adding to that chorus of pain with more baggage and assumptions, can't we instead give a good report of one another? Can't we look at the harried mom of two kids who is trying to make it work and pat her on the back without pointing out that we have six kids and are getting by just fine? Can't we quit turning up our noses at the wife whose husband has no interest in being a leader of anything, let alone their home? Can't we drop the co-op dress codes that make it seem as if Jesus wouldn't be caught dead in a room devoid of denim jumpers?

Can't we extend grace?

Because frankly, we need it. We need it from ourselves, we need it from our friends and, most of all, we need it from God. The thing is--the Lord offers it new every morning. It's the rest of us who haven't gotten the memo.

I'm working on grace right now--for myself and for those around me. I'm praying that God gives me His eyes, and His love. And maybe, maybe ... just a little bit of His grace and mercy to pass around.

Pretties, please

2011-12-03T10:56:00.000-08:00

I tell you, having a baby girl around again has done something to my brain. I'm not sure I'll ever fully recover--especially since Mr. Blandings is as deeply in love with the cuteness as I am. Having a partner in crime somehow makes the whole pink indulgence seem less, well ... indulgent.

I love cute stuff. I love girly stuff. I love the fact that Seven has the cutest, perkiest little Cindy Lou Who pigtails I've ever seen. I'm hopeless, I tell you.

And my friend Lorri is aiding my addiction.

Cute, girly ... hair stuff. ((sigh))

Enter her giveaway, then pop on over to her site and check out the darling little pretties she and her daughter have collaborated on. (Don't you just love that it's a Mom and Daughter team?)

Just don't blame me if you win and end up fawning over cute all the time, too.

Fully five

2011-12-01T17:18:00.000-08:00

... and just discovered the sheer joy of superheroes.

He's kind of a superhero to us, anyhow, so the cape is just an added touch.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, OLI!!!

Classic BOOKS and BAIRNS

2011-11-30T10:30:00.000-08:00

originally posted Sunday, January 17, 2010

(Bee was 13, Jo was 12, Atticus was 9.5, Logan was 7.5, Oli was 3, Mani was 19 months, and I was just about to discover that I was pregnant with Seven )

If you have eyes to see

You live your life, day in and day out.

You cook in the same kitchen, hug the same children, pull on the same shoes when you need to run to the car. This is life, and you are living it, in the trenches, present and in the moment. The ceramic insert to your crockpot breaks, and you're shocked to find that replacements aren't available, as that model was discontinued seven years ago. Is it possible that the baby's nails need to be trimmed again? Didn't you just do that? One day you realize that it's time for a new laundry hamper, and wonder exactly when the side to this one split open. As you're pressing your lips to your 9 year-old's forehead, it dawns on you that it's time to trim back that mop of bangs flopping over his eyes. Your shoelace snaps as you pull it taut, and it occurs to you that you've been tying these same shoes onto your feet for the past four years. Has the toddler really outgrown that 2T zip up hoodie? And we don't have one in the next size up? Surely he can make due with the 4T. I'll just roll the sleeves and it will hang a little low.

These things just seem to happen, because time is invisible. Life presses forward, straining against the seams of our reality, urging us a little farther down a road we cannot see. The small stuff--the items enduring heavy use for years on end, the children who are always growing, growing, the hours that pass by-- those details slip into the periphery of what we know as daily living.

Until, of course, you see your life through the eyes of others.

Suddenly, you sense that perhaps haircuts should come higher on the priority list. Or maybe a fresh coat of paint in the kitchen really would be worth the investment. You could probably afford the $15 for a new jacket for the two year-old; It's not THAT big of a hassle. Perhaps it's even time for grown-up furniture. Shouldn't you really pour more effort into keeping things a little more up to date?

Before long, you are looking at your old couch--which has hosted some of the best moments of your family's homeschooling history on its worn, welcoming lap--and wondering how it looks to eyes that don't see the beauty of a thousand read-alouds, of sick babies comforted, of anxieties soothed, of "Momma, can I get a cuddle?"

It is simply a small, squat mass covered in outdated black tweed. Far too small for a family of a certain size. Far too old to hold the contours of modern furnishings. Far too drab to make a statement, complement a space, or add a design flourish.

If you're very quiet in these moments, and you don't tune your ear too closely to the outside voices pick-pick-picking at the vulnerable edges of your life, you just might hear this:

Love is rarely shiny or new. It is not often stylish or impressive. It neither draws attention nor seeks to better itself.

Rather, love is like that couch, the one that really ought to be placed on the curb, traded in for a better model, forgotten. Love makes no statement about the people who possess it other than this: We will make room. Always, one more can be pressed into the wings.
The road less traveled is, for many, marked with certain sacrifices. Deciding to live on one income leaves few couples with the ability to finance grand vacations, full sets of matching furniture, or endless supplies of designer-label clothing. Homeschooling your children leaves little free time to creatively decorate a space, pour yourself into an energizing "me" hobby, or schedule a professional haircut every four to six weeks. And having a large family? Well ... utility-sized vehicles, crowded dining rooms, and lots of hand-me-downs come with the territory.

These are the sacrifices. For many people--especially those who would not journey those paths by choice at any point in their lives-- these sacrifices are the face of a life less everything: less beautiful, less abundant, less full, less fulfilling.

The cost is too high, for many people. They see weekend camping trips as pale excuses for full-scale amusement park fun. They cringe at the thought of cutting their own child's hair. They can't imagine having to forgo some purchases in the name of budgeting. They like the freedom in their finances, their schedules, or their marriage.

For me, the cost of that kind of life is more that I care to pay. Even though it is tempting, when I begin to see my life through the eyes of those who "have more," to begin to feel discontent with my surroundings or my stuff, I am brought back to the image of my hulking sofa, circa 1980. By the world's standards, it is an item that--like full-time mothering--has outlived its usefulness. But it is beautiful. Not for the sake of itself, of course ... but for how it has served. There is no glamour, no fame, and no show in patiently tending to a small flock of souls days after day. There is no honor or glory associated with serving hot meals and putting the laundry on hold long enough to fit in a game of UNO.

But there is love. And love, like time, is one of those invisible treasures that makes life far richer than any couch, shirt, trip, or thing. Love is what makes a family bind together. If, of course, you have eyes to see.

It's that time ...

2011-11-28T12:49:00.000-08:00

Time for Mary Grace to spend hours making Christmas whatnots. Ornaments. Cookies. Anything that says "Christmas" to me.

Because it makes me happy, that's why.

Above is my latest Christmas ornament obsession--a very simple little felt birdie. Anyone interested in a quick tutorial?

Thankful

2011-11-24T06:51:00.000-08:00

I find that the daily grind of parenting a special needs child brings with it some amazing clarity, even in the midst of so much doubt. In parenting any child, there is the daily opportunity to weigh the good, the bad, and the ugly. But somehow, in watching Oli grow in his own little fits and starts, I can rattle off a list of accomplishments far faster than I can with just about any of my other children. Why?

Because no one has ever been able to tell us if he would have any at all.

He learned to speak in two-word sentences? Wow. Great. That's better than expected.

He's walking now? Awesome!

He's figuring out how to pretend? Wondered if that was even possible, but there it is!

So today, as everyone's blog seems to focus on the big sweep of blessing in their lives, I want to celebrate the small stuff. The Oli-sized victories. The things that don't need a holiday to deserve applause. In no particular order, I present four major Oli milestones for which I am thankful:

Oli is learning some visual discrimination skills. While he still can't name a specific color with any regularity, he CAN match two similar objects with fair frequency. Way to go, Oli!

Oli is learning body awareness. Thanks to this take-home activity from his OT, we were able to see that Oli DOES know most of his general body parts, even though he can't find quite the right words or actions to let us know. But building a "mat man" gave him the chance to wow us with his ability to put those parts in the right places with only a little guidance.

Oli is figuring out that toys are a representation of real things. Up until fairly recently, Oli played with a toy truck by running it repeatedly around in circles to watch the wheels spin. He's recently made the connection between the vehicles on the road and the ones in his toy chest. Nice deduction!

The sensory stuff is easing off a bit! Oli loves to play with playdough, dry rice, and other textures that used to make his skin crawl. He's also able to seek out these activities and use them to regulate his system occasionally. This is a big improvement in his quality of life and has opened so many doors for him.

What's on your "thankful list" today?

Bee and Atticus

2011-11-22T22:08:00.000-08:00

Tell me their slouches don't look similar!

She's 15. He's 11.

She likes chess, Converse, and reading. He likes chess, Converse, and reading.

Bee, meet Atticus. Atticus, meet Bee.

Atticus is a very tall American boy. Bee is an average-sized Nepali girl. Guess what that means?

TODAY

2011-11-21T09:52:00.000-08:00

Today is the day. Monday, November 21, 2011. At 6 p.m. PST, Bee will start her visa interview. Please be in prayer as we ask the Lord to grant our daughter the ability to travel home with her father and brother for the Christmas season.

Mr. Blandings told Bee that people who she will most likely never meet this side of heaven had committed to pray for her interview, and she was both humbled and stunned. Even if this interview brings another negative answer, her heart has already been impacted by the strength of prayer and the depths of the true and living God's love for an orphaned girl cast off by Hindu society. Thank you!!!

I will update this post as soon as I hear from Kathmandu.

ADDENDUM: For those not running on a U.S. calendar or clock, the interview is Tuesday, November 22, at 8 a.m. local time in Kathmandu. Here's a handy dandy online converter to help you figure out when the interview will be taking place in your area.

UPDATE: Two and a half hours into the interview now, and still no word. Bee has to be interviewed alone, so Mr. Blandings and Atticus are pacing outside, waiting ...

UPDATE: After a three hour interview, Bee's visa was denied by the same man who has denied her twice before. She walked out standing strong. Mr. Blandings is a puddle. I cannot thank you enough for the prayers.

Teens

2011-11-20T22:36:00.000-08:00

Maybe I'm like a rabbit who hasn't learned to run for cover at the sound of a hound baying, but I don't fear parenting teens.

I view it with a healthy dose of caution, no doubt about that. Teens are emotional rogues. They are hormonal tempests. They are immature, though their options aren't always. There's a lot there to give a parent pause, for sure. But I don't fear it at the same level that I hear in the voices of my fellow moms.

"Ugh. The teen years."

"You have a teenager? God bless you, honey."

"Better you than me."

Jo, 14, being all the the things that are GOOD about teens

Raising teenagers seems to be something a little less pleasant than waking up to a big, fat cold sore on your lip on your wedding day. When asked, most folks would take the cold sore; at least you know that some lemon balm or peppermint oil will take wipe out the virus in a week to ten days.

Parenting teens? Well, it's the gift that keeps on giving. For seven years or so.

I'm not a professional, but as I see it, the problem with parenting teens is that we want to slow down, stall, or even arrest the process that we ourselves were so keen on starting the moment they were born. Be honest--how thrilled were you when your newborn held her head steady for exactly six seconds before letting it flop unceremoniously to the side? You were over-the-moon titillated. And why? Because your wee babe was showing the very first signs that she would some day be an independent, physically capable, adept human being.

You celebrated his first solid foods. You clapped when she took her first, stiff-legged cruise around the couch. You hung her first attempt at writing her own name on the fridge with pride, and even sent pdf'd copies to all of the grandparents-- and your Aunt Lily, in Boston. You cried when he learned to read. You celebrated her first goal with a family trip to the ice cream parlor.

And now, here is your child, crashing through firsts left and right ... and the last thing you want to do is applaud.

Bee, 15, stretching her wings

The first time she realizes that girls often stab one another in the back. The first truly poor choice in friendships. The first opportunity to look back on something with real regret. The first chance to take responsibility to the next level. The first time making you worry over a later-than-expected arrival home. The first flared temper over not being heard.

When we look at our teens, we must realize that standing before us is a project nearly complete. Nearly, but not entirely. This is a butterfly who has emerged from her chrysalis and is searching for a warm, safe spot in the sun, where her wings can dry, be stretched, and make their first tentative motions mimicking the miracle of flight that will be her daily lot for the rest of her days.

Maneuvering friendships. Overcoming disappointment. Learning from mistakes. Tackling new challenges. Being accountable.

Those are grown-up things. Grown-up things. Does this mean that you can't teach them to your teen? No? Does it mean that you can't lay the groundwork early on, even in their preschool years? No. But it does mean that holding a teenager to the performance level of an adult is unfair.

They aren't adults. Not yet. Praise the Lord!

There are still precious, precious years to be poured into a teenager. And yes, some of them are going to stalk off like the Prodigal Son. Some of them are going to leave us, their hapless, hurt parents, stunned and sobbing on the floor, crying out to the Lord and trying desperately to figure out what led us to this place. Some of those wayward kids will not come back. Some of them will kick us while we're down. Some of them will break our hearts again and again and again. I know that this happens, and I'm not denying it. I'm not saying that parenting teens is a sunshine and lollipops walk in the park.

But for most of us--the blessed majority, really--parenting teens is really not the root canal we've been told to expect. Like any exercise, there are days when it is bliss. Then there are days when you stare, gape-mouthed, and wonder why on earth the Lord ever thought you could handle raising the clearly demon-afflicted sinner who calls you "Mom" (to your face, at least). But these are just moments--and moments set the tone for the tapestry of time, but they do not have to define it.

I am still a newbie at this whole game. I still have a lot to learn--and I'm eager to be educated. My mantra is "I'm not raising children, I'm raising future adults." As such, I don't expect lock-step zombies to populate my home at any stage--most especially not as they are finishing the job of preparing those wings and are eying the surrounding horizon, looking for the right direction in which to fly. I want individuals. I want people ready to change the world. I want the same fire that spurned a child on, on, on until she mastered how to pedal her first bike.

The teen years have much riding on them, yes. They are the closing session in the nearly two decades of very hands-on parenting that we are able to give most of our children. They are the years where we throw in as many, "Oh, by the way ..." addendum as we can, hoping to give our children an edge as they enter the ominous-sounding Real World. There's a lot to sneak in before your child is no longer under your roof: off to college, maybe married, perhaps working his or her first actual career-type job. It's a big job, parenting teens. No doubt that.

But fear? Fear doesn't get the job done. Fear only pushes us to inactivity, misgivings, or worse. I didn't inherit a spirit of fear. So while I may have very real reasons in the next few years to be afraid of the repercussions of specific choices or circumstances as my children navigate into young adulthood, I'm not going to claim fear as my rallying cry for the next season of parenting. Instead, I'm going to keep walking on towards the goal. One step--and teen--at a time.

Review opportunity

2011-11-18T06:57:00.000-08:00

People ask me all the time how to get started reviewing: homeschool products, books, diapers, the list goes on and on. Usually my advice is to post a few reviews of things you already have and feel qualified to write about. Be completely honest. Post it. Then contact companies in whose products you are interested, and link them to your already-published reviews.

Alternatively, you may find that once your reviews are up, people will begin contacting you in search of a review. Or that an opportunity just comes knocking before you even get around to those trial run write-ups. Perhaps even an opportunity like the one I'm about to mention:

K5 Learning has an online reading and math program for kindergarten to grade 5 students. I've been given a 6 week free trial to test and write a review of their program. If you are a blogger, you may want to check out their open invitation to write an online learning review of their program.

I was contacted to see if I was interested in writing a review. A scan of the website sold me. Logan struggles with spelling, and an online, interactive program which can be edited (I can add words that he frequently misspells) and learns which words he struggles with sounds like a good fit. In addition, because they offer preschool readiness skills, Oli and Mani can sit with an older sibling or me and learn how to use the computer a bit. So far, I've kept them as far away from my beloved Mac as possible {grin} but I know that the ability to handle a mouse and get acquainted with a keyboard is going to be useful soon enough.

I was able to sign Atticus, Logan, Oli, and Mani up as students. Interestingly, though it's called K5, students can be up to 8th grade. Go figure.

So hey, sign up for the free trial. Tell them Mary Grace at BOOKS and BAIRNS suggested it. Use the site, and see how it works for you. Write an honest review. And start calling yourself a blogger/reviewer. You'll have earned it.

The Dress

2011-11-17T21:46:00.000-08:00

I admit it: I probably enjoy adding to Seven's wardrobe a little too much. When Jo was little, we were so destitute that she wore whatever was given to us. As a matter of fact, the child didn't own a pair of pants intended for a little girl until we moved to WA and lost out on my cousin's generous hand-me-downs from her son. Then I had four boys in a row, and stripes, solids, and plaids ruled the day. Would you like that in blue or green? Wanna' get crazy and put a screen printed puppy on that?

So yes, Seven has been a welcome diversion in the clothing department. Oh, the options. The colors! The fabrics! The styles! I've thrown myself into making things for her. Skirts, dresses, and even an adorable little hat that stretched my knitting skills to the limit. I've not tried socks yet, but they're on my radar, trust me. I just can't help myself.

I also find myself trolling sales racks when I'm out and about. That's how Seven got the shirt that she wore on her birthday--the one that announced that she was the Birthday Girl. Yup. $3.99 on the sales rack. As if I could pass that up.

I still only buy things that I truly, truly love. The Birthday Girl shirt, for example, makes me smile every single time I see those photos. I knew it would. So $3.99 was an investment well worth the return. Other items that have found their way into Seven's closet have been just as irresistible. The girl owns nothing that I don't absolutely adore. If it's simply a cute item on sale and it doesn't make me grin at the thought of seeing her toddle about in it, then I pass it by.

As such, she doesn't have a closet bursting at the seams with more dresses, skirts, and shirts than one child can wear in a lifetime, let alone the three months it will all actually fit. She has a wardrobe of about ten outfits. Ten outfits that show off all her cuteness, that make me smile like crazy, and that suit her sparkly little personality.

Hanging in the back of the closet are the retired clothes. The outgrown treasures that I have no idea what to do with just yet; my heart is still deciding. There are only a few things there, special things that I'm not sure would ever look right on anyone but Seven. Among those limbo clothes sits my all-time favorite dress. It's a sweet little babydoll number in blues and browns from Naartjie. I bought in on clearance for $7.50 about 8 months ago. The colors weren't typical of the palette I generally choose for my baby girl, but the patterns gave me heart a little tug. So I bought it. She wore it. And she wore it. And she wore it.

Seven in The Dress at 6 months

It became such a favorite that I found myself neglecting other items in her closet, simply because I loved that little dress so much on her.

But of course, the day came when the dress no longer did what it was intended to do. Meant to be a below-the-knee little number, it crept up until the whole of her (admittedly large) cloth-diapered bum was visible. The seasons changed, anyway, and the dress came out of rotation. I remember putting it on the hanger for the last time with a knowing sigh. It was like saying goodbye to a friend. Unable to simply slip it into a bin, I left it in the closet, where I could visit it from time to time and relive the dash that the last year has been.

This morning, as I selected something for Seven to wear, the dress caught my eye. Could it possibly .... ? I wondered. I had seen other people do it. Sure, it's might not be the sweetest look ever, but maybe, just this once ...

Seven in The Dress at 14 months

You know, it works for me. Tomboy meets sweetheart, maybe? Patterns and prints and jeans. Rickrack and denim cuffs. I think she pulls it off.

Seeing Seven in that dress reminded me of how big she is, how quickly she's growing, and how much I adore the 14 month-old phase. And while I'm having a blast with the little things--like outfitting my baby girl--it's the big things that really keep my focus. Time is fleeting. Soon enough, this adorable little dress will head back to the closet, this time forever. Before I know it, she'll be drinking from a big girl cup, then writing her name, then asking if she can take horseback riding lessons. She'll have very definite ideas about what she wants to wear, and in what colors.

And you know, I'm o.k. with that. Today, I'm just happy that I got a peek into how much she has grown, but how little she still is. And yes, I'm happy that the favorite dress got one more chance to shine!

Save the date

2011-11-16T19:09:00.000-08:00

Bee's visa interview will take place on 8 a.m., Tuesday, November 22, in Nepal. Do a little number crunching, and you come up with 6 p.m. PST on Monday, November 21.

I'll be praying like crazy. Care to join me?

Gentle

2011-11-16T01:08:00.000-08:00

We've reached the stage where people have no idea what to make of Oli. He doesn't talk intelligibly--or at least not the way that a boy just weeks prior to his fifth birthday should. He doesn't maintain eye contact, engage, or ask questions. His play is repetitive, often little more than the imitation of a routine act like tying his shoes. He doesn't understand the concept of personal space. Sometimes, he stares blankly into the air, and even when you call his name he doesn't snap from wherever he is back to the reality of now.

This makes people--children, adults-- uncomfortable. They ask him questions, wait for answers, then fidget and look slightly embarrassed when nothing comes. They smile at him and seem slightly put off when he does not immediately smile back. They finally tend to look just past him, or avert their eyes altogether and settle on one of the children who seems able to meet these minimum human standards.

People don't know what to do with folks like Oli who just don't fit into our notion of what it is to be a man, woman, or child of a certain age, or certain standing. Mental illness, cognitive difficulties, processing disorders ... these things make the general populace squirm, I have found.

The funny thing is, animals have no such qualms. If I had a dime for every puppy that bounded a ten feet out of its way to throw itself into Oli's lap, or every horse that patiently let my little man nuzzle into its neck, or every rabbit that stood stock still to let Oli stroke its long back ... well, I'd be rich.

Oli is gentle with animals. He connects with them on a simple, mutual level. There is an ease about him when something small and fuzzy settles into his lap. It's not something that I see when he mashes his play-doh in frustration, trying so, so hard to mold it into the same ball he sees Mani mastering with ease. It is something else. Something instinctual and yet profound.

With animals, Oli can simply be. They don't ask him questions that he can't answer, or rate his performance based on a set of skills he can't comprehend. They don't look at him funny when he flaps his arms or covers his head and shrieks for no reason. All they ask is that he doesn't tug too hard at their vulnerable spots, or squeeze in places that hurt. If he does either of these things, they will shy and he will be left empty-handed. No more stroking of velvet fur. No more warm, sweet snuggles. No more rough tongue lapping at your wrist.

Oli gets this.

And the animals get him.

It's good to be accepted and loved, no matter how small the creature offering you its trust.

Classic BOOKS and BAIRNS

2011-11-15T04:00:00.000-08:00

first published Friday, September 5, 2008

(Written as Jo was about to turn 11, Atticus was 8 and a half, Logan was 6 and a half, and everyone else was a blessing we'd not yet met.)

Apostle Paul, meet Pink Floyd. Pink Floyd, meet the Apostle Paul.

No doubt you read this post's title and began asking yourself if MG has finally gone so far off her rocker as to be certifiably insane. I regret to inform you that I have actually been certifiable for quite some time, and am now working in my PhD in the area. I'll let you know when the sheepskin arrives.

My children have fallen into a nasty little habit as of late. Of course, I am ashamed to admit that it's gotten to the stage of "habit"; in order for something like that to develop, it has to grow from a tiny little seed, be allowed to blossom and then finally entrench itself. Clearly, I missed quite a few character training moments in this particular area. Most likely, I cruised past the warning signs with my eyes eagerly trained on something I saw as more important. I do that sometimes, I'm sorry to say.
This particular habit I see my children manifesting is one that's a particular hurt to my mothering heart: tearing Logan down. Igh. Just seeing that in writing makes me cringe. I mean, how do you miss something like that?

The fact is, it's been coming for years. And while I've been trying to navigate the choppy waters of sibling relationships, I'm afraid I completely missed the boat on this one.

The seeds were sewn back when Logan was a toddler. For some reason, each consecutive child in my life has spoken intelligibly at a later date than the one before. Jo was spouting fully-formed, grammatically correct sentences with multiple, appropriate adjectives by one year of age. "Mommy, may I have the fuzzy, yellow duckling, please?" That was Jo. Atticus was somewhat slower to the draw. What set him apart was his vocabulary--apparently, falling asleep to me reading to him from Whitman's Leaves of Grass made an impression. "It's ominous!" he said of an approaching storm one afternoon shortly before his second birthday.
Logan did not speak at one year of age. He muttered little more than his own Logan-speak even as he approached his second birthday. At 30 mos., I sat down with him and made a list of every word he had ever even tried to say. The list stopped at 21 words and consisted mainly of sounds more than words: "duh" for "ball" and the like. I decided to pursue professional evaluation.

After six months of therapy, some intensive home intervention and a little maturing, Logan began to speak with fair intelligibility. It wouldn't be until he turned five, however, that I would say his speech issues became a moot point.

During those first years, his siblings learned that unless Mom was around, understanding Logan was a fairly taxing exercise. As siblings are wont to do, they often decided that this was a little more involved than they really wanted to be, so they began blocking him out altogether. Logan's response? In true Logan fashion, the reasoning came down like this: "Well, if you're not going to listen to me when I'm nice, I'll make you listen to me when I'm mean!"

I work on this with my older kids to this day. It's not an every day thing at this point, but it's still something I keep my feelers out for. Four years of, "Are you listening to your brother?" Four years of, "Try again, Logan." Four years of, "He's talking to you, Jo."

((sigh))

So that's where this all started. Logan gets ignored. Which has now been translated into, "What Logan says is probably wrong."

Now this jump I really don't get. I suspect that it comes from the fact that I have one very intelligent, dominant firstborn (that would be Jo) and one super-grandé intelligent oldest male (Atticus). And of course, anything they say is, by definition, right. And the opposite of right is ... (follow along with me here!) WRONG.

So if Logan disagrees, he's wrong. The problem is that Logan is no dummy. He's actually just as full of factoids and general knowledge as Jo, though clearly less obsessively detail-oriented as Atticus. As Logan has come into his own and is now a big old first grader, he not only wants to be heard, he wants to be HEARD. But what he gets is often this:
Logan: "If the next president serves two terms, I'll be almost 15 when he leaves office."Jo: "Two terms is eight years."Atticus: "You'll be 14."Logan: "I know! I said almost 15, because the inauguration is in January and my birthday's in May."

Did you catch that? It's really subtle to the casual on-looker. Logan must be wrong, because he is Logan. That's the upshot here.

I know that some people will dismiss this as part and parcel of being a little brother. I'm sorry, but I can't swallow that. It's rude, it's wrong, and above all, it's completely disrespectful. I expect more from my children.

This morning, after hearing the above exchange and watching Logan hunch down in his chair and generally lose a bit of his morning sparkle, I snapped.

"Everyone up!" I announced. The kids looked at me like I was a crazy woman. Didn't I know that there was hot food on the table? This was breakfast time, by golly. A sacred hour in my house. Who gets up at breakfast time?

"Out to the gameroom! I want each of you to build me a Lego wall. Make it 4 big bricks wide and ten bricks tall."

Their eyes still wide, Jo, Atticus and Logan marched out to the gameroom. Ten minutes later, they were back, each carrying a little Lego creation. I instructed them to put the walls in front of their plates and to listen very closely.

"My children, you have fallen into an ugly habit," I began. "The Bible says that a house divided against itself will not stand. And yet, here we are, dividing against ourselves. My children are doing to one another exactly what the world does: pick and pull and hurt. And it's got to stop."

I read to my children from 1 Corinthians 8: We know that we all possess knowledge. Knowledge puffs up, but love builds up. We talked about what we know, what we think we know, and what other people know.

Then we moved on to 1 Thessalonians 5:11: Therefore encourage one another and build one another up. Which would be where our lovely Lego walls come in: today, whenever someone uses their words to correct someone else in any way that uses their knowledge but is ultimately undermining, they will have to physically remove one of that person's bricks. In other words, the intangible from your lips will be made tangible. You will see how you are breaking others down.

I finished up by pointing out that each one of us really and truly is a little wall of Legos. We are our own little structure ... but at the whim of others. The things that break us down can slide so easily off of the tongue as to be almost unnoticed. And there it goes ... another brick from the wall, leaving us less sound, less sure, and less encouraged.

I'll report back on the results ...

Happy BIRDday to you

2011-11-14T22:46:00.000-08:00

I had no intention of posting these, but a friend recently asked where I had come up with the ideas I'd used for decorating for Seven's first birthday party. I told her about the hours I'd spent scanning blogs and noting my favorite ideas. Then she asked why I hadn't returned the favor and posted my own pics to serve as inspiration to other Mommas. Ummmmm ... because it hadn't occurred to me?

To remedy my bloggy faux pas, I present ... the BIRDday Party.

The entrance

We live in a townhouse with a narrow front walkway. Since balloons or cute yard signs or anything of that nature wouldn't have been seen from the street by our guests anyway, I commissioned Jo and her best friend to set the stage in chalk.

The cupcakes

With the number of kids in attendance, cupcakes were the way to go. Easier to serve and, given that we'd be outside, no plates would be needed unless someone was just feeling particularly neat and tidy. I saw these sweet bird's nests, but decided that snipping marshmallows and whatnot was probably less fun than spending my time enjoying the birthday girl. So I simply saved a bag of robin's eggs candies back at Easter time, pulled them out of the freezer in September and, voila! Cute little nests!

The highchair banner

I really, really wanted to do a highchair banner. I have no idea why, but I saw some on etsy and fell in love and, well ... I just had to do it. So I did.

Seven's was a two-evening project for Jo and me. I bought coordinating scrapbook paper from the craft store, a few embellishments to sprinkle here and there, and we set to work.

I drew out a pattern for a fat little birdie, then we cut out a bunch of bodies and wings and had fun mixing and matching. It really was a fun, no-rules craft. And I liked the results so much that I'm keeping the banner to reuse when Miss Seven turns 2.

The serving area

Since the actual party was outside, we just needed a staging area in the house. So I pushed my kitchen table against the wall, and used it as a buffet. I went with all kid-friendly and loosely bird-themed nibbles.

There were twigs (pretzel sticks), flowers (fruit kebobs), suet cakes (rice crispie treats), and birdseed (sunflower seeds). Jo and I made these markers while we working on the banner.

Located on the wall above the serving area was what turned out to be everyone's favorite part of the party: the year in pictures.

This was so, so easy and yet so sweet and fun. I simply took one photo from each month of Seven's life, printed it as a 5x7, and hung it on a color-coordinated ribbon with a mini clothespin. To anchor the ends in a classier fashion, I covered the tips of my pushpins with yet another cutout of a paper bird.

To label each month of this amazing last year, I printed out a free template and used leftover scrapbooking paper from the high chair banner. My handwriting isn't as fancy as some of my computer's fonts. I let it do the pretty part: I printed out "birth" through "11" on white paper, then glued it on to the little tags. Mr. Blandings loved this so much that he moved it to the wall in Seven's bedroom, where I get to enjoy it every day. And Jo (who is going through a teen phase of valuing originality above mere imitation) is convinced that she's going to be seeing this particular decoration "copied" at every little one's birthday she attends for years. Really--it was that cute!

To cement the theme, I put together a playlist of all bird-related songs ... but since we spent 90% of the party out on the back hill, I'm fairly certain no one noticed "Bye Bye Blackbird," "And Your Bird Can Sing," "Three Little Birds," "Blackbird," and the like. But I knew it was there. :-)

Nominated, part 2

2011-11-14T06:02:00.000-08:00

Turns out, not only was I nominated for the Best Special Needs Homeschooling Blog category-- I was nominated in Favorite Homeschool Mom Blog, as well as Best Photos Blog. I didn't notice because frankly, I didn't look under such vaunted headings. I'm sure that says something about me on a very deep emotional level, but right now, I'm not interested in psychoanalyzing the whole thing. Instead, I'm just going to sit here and say, "Wow!" and try not to sound like Sally Fields too awfully much. :-)

Joshua 1:9

2011-11-12T13:44:00.000-08:00

It is no small thing to put your son on a plane and send him halfway around the world.

It is no small thing to watch him collect his belongings, listen to him dream over what God has in store for him while he is abroad.

It is no small thing, too, to see him cast a glance over his shoulder as he walks through the massive, sliding doors of the airport and search for you--one last time-- to offer a reassuring smile.

I'm going now. I'm off! Can you believe it, Mom? I'm doing it! I'm really doing it. Just like you always said I would ...

Five years ago, I wondered and worried and prayed over the spectre of fear and defeat that threatened to swallow Atticus. Night after night, I would pray with him, asking God to cut his anxieties down to size, to give him victory, to help him claim the steadfast heart that Jesus wanted for him as a young man of God. More often than not, Mr. Blandings and I would slip into his bedroom just before we turned in for the night and pray once more; this time, it was Joshua 1:9. Every night, over and over, we prayed this verse:

Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous! Do not tremble or be dismayed, for the LORD your God is with you wherever you go.

We recited it by day light, when the worries appeared. Over math that seemed too difficult. Over words that seemed too hurtful. Over fears about the future. Over questions that seemed too deep. Over a heart that seemed destined to cower.

Years later, I can tell you that the roots of this Scripture are so deep in my son's spirit that I have seen him whispering it to himself as he prepares to walk into a crowded room of people he doesn't know.

Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous! Do not tremble or be dismayed, for the LORD your God is with you wherever you go.

Today, Yahweh walked alongside Atticus as he took one small leap from boyhood to manhood. The God who hung the stars in the sky stood nearby as Atticus and Mr. Blandings made their way through security, found their gate, and settled in to wait a while. Then, it was Yahweh who carried my beaming boy on to a gigantic Airbus. Right now, the three of them are hurtling through the sky en route to Nepal and whatever adventures and blessings await them there.

Five years ago, none of this would have been remotely possible. Five years ago, it was a struggle for Atticus to strap into the car for a ride across the mountains without mentally steeling himself for the fiery death he knew was lurking just around every bend. Yet today, with God's help and to God's glory, this same young man kissed me fiercely as I prepared to leave him at the airport. His hands were not clammy, his face was not pale, his heart was not racing.

I must have held on a little too long for our last hug. The truth is, my heart breaks just a little bit with each day that I am away from any of my children, and knowing that it will be two weeks before this gawky man-boy is laughing at my side brings a hard lump into my throat. I was pondering this, holding on tight, as Atticus started to pull away. Sensing my hesitation, he leaned in just a tad closer, found my ear, and whispered.

"Joshua 1:9, Mom. 'Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous! Do not tremble or be dismayed, for the Lord your God is with you wherever you go.'"

I cried just the tiniest bit as I let him go, even though really, it would have taken nothing for me to break into full-fledged sobs. But to what end? Has God not commanded me? I will be strong and courageous. I will not tremble, nor be dismayed, for the Lord my God is with my son ... wherever he goes.

Nominated

2011-11-10T10:24:00.001-08:00

If you look on my sidebar thingy, you'll see that I'm honored to say that this blog has been nominated multiple times in the Homeschool Blog Awards. Each time, it's been a shock-- and a delight-- to see that someone, somewhere, thought enough of what they read here to go to a website and put in a nomination.

This year is no different. But somehow, this year is even better.

For the first time, BOOKS and BAIRNS has been nominated in the Special Needs Homeschooling Blog category. And I am speechless.

See, I never wanted to be a special needs homeschooler. Unlike some people who know deep down that they are called to love and parent a child who faces challenges, I blundered into this whole SN parenting gig. And truth be known, it wasn't even a blunder that brought me to SN homeschooling. It was more like a slow, dawning awareness that what was going on down at the preschool while I was diligently tending the educational fire at home was in no way serving my precious son. Even then, I struggled to come to terms with that most basic of facts: God chose me to be Oli's Momma. And part of being a momma, in this family at least, is teaching.

I'm not a perfect teacher. Not for my neurotypical children, and not for the little one who has patiently sat by as I've learned what "special needs" really means. Some days I'm completely unable to hit on the right presentation for a new skill. Other days, I'm dead-on in the creative department, and feel a surge of confidence as I see the lights go on in a child's eyes. Then, of course, are all the in-between days, when I simply plod through and pray that this little bit I'm offering can fall into God's hands and be used for so much more in the lives of my children.

I'm honored to find the name of this blog among the others nominated in the special needs category. Such distinguished company makes a person blush. But the real gift of this nomination has been the realization that God has, yet again, opened a door for ministry through the circumstances of our family, our lives, and our homeschool.

Oli didn't ask to have FAS. He didn't choose to have to fight to learn his name, how to swallow his food, or how to tell the difference between hot and cold. Truth be told, he didn't choose to be in our family, either. Oli didn't have any control over any of this ... but God did. Seeing how God has used, is using, and will continue to use this one special, precious, beloved little man for HIS glory, well ... that's an honor. There's no badge for that, no award. But for me, at least, there's the gift of Oli. And really, that's enough.

To Bee, or not to Bee

2011-11-08T06:26:00.000-08:00

Mr. Blandings and Atticus are in the throes of packing for their journey to Kathmandu. We've got travel-sized shampoos, lots of granola bars (Atticus is not a fan of spicy dal bhat), and the three-volume set of LoTR. There are also mounds and mounds of fleece hats, thick tights, and warm scarves ready to envelop the beautiful boys and girls at the children's home.

Tucked in amongst the necessities and the niceties are some papers. Some potentially very important papers.

Bee's latest visa request.

If you ever needed proof that the Blandings clan is willing to persevere in spite of repeated, emphatic "that's impossible" statements, well ... here it is.

Visa try, round four.

Honestly, we were reluctant to even consider approaching the embassy again. The last attempt to get Bee's visa was such an utter failure that we wondered if the time, effort, and yes, money, was simply a distraction from our bigger goal of moving to Nepal as missionaries. Bee, however, was eager to try one more time. In spite of the odds. In spite of the hassle. In spite of the very real possibility that this could be another heartache in the making.

Which proves that she's a Blandings, in case that was ever in doubt.

I humbly ask you to be in prayer for my family over the next two weeks. My guys leave November 12 and return Thanksgiving Day. Specifically, prayers are needed for:

Bee's visa application--that God would place a sympathetic ear at the visa window, maybe even a Christian!
Health for Mr. Blandings and Atticus--who have both been exposed to a yucky cold that might make such a long airplane journey quite uncomfortable.
Things here at Casa Blandings to be boring. No illness, no attitude issues, no rocked boats.
Safe travel for my menfolk and, God willing, my girl, too.
A time of spiritual feast for me, that I would use the empty evenings to draw nearer to God and to listen to Him more closely than I can in my busy day-to-day routine.

GOTCHA!

2011-10-31T09:38:00.000-07:00

My favorite part in "The Grinch who Stole Christmas" is when the Grinch realizes Christmas isn't about stuff. Upon taking in the fact that his attempt to foil Christmas has failed, we hear "And what happened then? Well, in Whoville they say that the Grinch's small heart grew three sizes that day."

That's how I felt the day I saw this:

Now, I don't think my heart was necessarily small. But it felt full enough, for sure. There was no aching lack, no longing for an indescribable something or unknown someone.

And then, there was Manolin.

I saw him, and I knew.

This boy? My son.

The next day I met him. Four days later--October 31, 2008-- he was home.

Today, he's a boisterous, spunky, passionate three year-old.

He loves his brothers and sisters. He calls me "Momma." He thinks there's nothing tastier than a bowl of black beans and rice--except for maybe a slice of homemade pizza covered in black olives. Trains are the coolest thing ever. He adores his Cubbies vest. He will happily tell you that he has "curly hair and Latino eyes."

My heart gratefully grew three sizes the day that Manolin came. It continues to expand with each flash of his dimples, every infectious giggle, every "Thank you for making my dinner, Momma!"

I love this boy. I catch my breath every time I ponder the maze of circumstances God used to get him into our arms. "Grateful" is such a small word when faced with the true depth of what I feel when I kiss this boy's forehead at night.

My heart grew three years ago this day. Our family grew by one. And Manolin, well .., he continues to grow.

Happy Gotcha' Day, little man!

... and there it is

2011-10-28T21:10:00.000-07:00

Four weeks ago, she was cruising around the furniture, figuring out the cool walking toy, and pushing an overturned laundry basket ahead of her to keep her balance.

Three weeks ago, she let go ... and, of course, never looked back.

Seven is walking, toying with running, getting around.

A toddler. A full-blown toddler.

Already.

Letting the days go by

2011-10-27T20:50:00.000-07:00

The centerpiece of my kitchen isn't my stove, my sink, or my much-loved KitchenAid. It's a huge dry-erase calendar that clings proudly to the side of the fridge--the side, incidentally, which faces out into the open living space and can be viewed from just about anywhere in the house.

Mr. Blandings bought the board for me roughly 11 years ago. We had only graduated to two children a few months earlier, but already, things were, shall we say, slipping. My habit of flying by the seat of my pants was slowly unraveling my husband's patience--as was my tendency to pack up the babies and take long weekends to visit family members 6 hours away. If I remember correctly, it was while I was off on such a jaunt that I learned that I was the new owner of what Mr. Blandings ominously referred to as "a board for your schedule." Turns out, I had flaked on some other commitment in order to spend the weekend with my mom and cousin. Woops.

I learned to love the calendar after we got to know each other a little better. Turns out it was easier to pick up my trusty black dry-erase and simply write things down than to try and not only remember events or plans, but retrieve them in a timely fashion as well. I came to depend on the calendar, and it was so much a part of my routine by the time that we moved cross-country (and out of range of those tempting weekend getaways) just two years later that it never occurred to me to leave the board behind.

By then, of course, we had not just Jo and Atticus, but Logan, too. Well-child checks, gymnastics classes, library story times ... it was all too much to simply write down. Now it needed to be sorted, I decided. I invested in a simple set of colored dry erase markers and handed out assignments. Mr. Blandings was dark blue. I was red. Jo was purple. Atticus was light blue. Logan was green. Life was now not just more organized, it was prettier, too.

With the addition of more and more family members, our palette had to expand. Today, we still cling to our original color scheme, but with nuances. For example, Logan is a light green. That would be because Manolin is dark green. Oliver is orange. Bee is yellow--and yes, I write in all of her exams and other important dates so that we can be sure to call and check in. Seven is, naturally, pink. Brown is for things that impact everyone--holidays, meetings we all attend, etc. And if something is shared (say, Atticus and Logan's karate lessons) then I alternate colors on letters, just to make a point.

My calendar is large enough to cover an 8 week span, which means that the one I just wrote yesterday ends the week before Christmas. (Yes, Christmas. How wrong is that?) I realize anew every time that I erase the old schedule and write in the new dates that time, which is always marching, marching, marching forward, waits for no man--or woman, either. As I scroll through the calendar app on my phone and transcribe all of the relevant dates between the two, the awareness hits like a ton of bricks:

What? Time to schedule dentist appointments again? Already?
Oliver's birthday? So soon?
Has it really been two years since Grandpa passed?

Other times over the year, there's been the anticipation as I fill in the squares and see the potential in dates that mean nothing to me--yet. For months on end, while we waited for Oli, I remember standing at my post beside the fridge and wondering, "Is this the one? Is this the calendar where I get to assign a new color?" Awaiting Seven's birth was similar. As August popped onto the radar, I wrote in the dates, weighed each of them, wondered if any would be The Day that I'd remember forever as Seven's birthday.

My heart leaped when, last September, I took the tip of my index finger and smudged out the brown "SEVEN" that I'd written on my induction date and replaced it with "Seven born" in sweet, girly pink.

I love the feel of a not-too-full schedule. A few anchoring highlights, the routine of the ordinary to hang my hat on, only a sprinkling of the "must-dos" that inspire so much dread because of their ability to disrupt the entire rhythm of the day. Those are the 8-week blocks that make me sigh with satisfaction. Those are times when many good books will be read, meals will be lingered over, and my crockpot will wonder if I've taken up with another appliance. On the other hand, there are the rushed seasons with too many colors on too many blocks. Those times make me feel tired and irritable just looking over all that has to be done.

The thing to remember, always, is that we fill our days. Our days do not fill us. While some things really, truly must be done, I find that the necessity of such things is really far more rare than we tend to think. Youth group. AWANA. Bible studies. Homeschool co-ops. Swimming lessons. Book clubs. Play dates. Music lessons. Committees. Volunteer work. It was actually after writing out our fall calendar two years ago that I stepped back, summoned Mr. Blandings and said, "We can do all of this, but I don't want to." He agreed. We slashed our commitments to essentially just two things. And you know what?

Life went on.

We were never super committed outside of our home, but the pull was/is always there. So many good things. So many worthy things. So many fun things.

But really, I've found that some of the best days--some of the days that you never forget--don't come after an aching wait that finally gives you an annual Gotcha Day to label in orange or green. Some of them don't even come with events or activities to note.

Some of the best days are completely empty and open-ended. Almost unnoticeable. Almost. Except for those mugs of hot cider, except for that last chapter of The Treasure Seekers, except for the way the leaves crackled under the wheels of the bikes as we sampled the early morning sunshine on a crisp autumn day. On those days, my old fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants habits shine ... no dry-erase notation needed.

The Do Not Forget Things

2011-10-21T16:06:00.000-07:00

Scrambling to run out the door. Five minutes late and in a NW downpour, of course.

Diaper bag restocked? Yes.

Snacks packed? Yes.

Entertainment bag ready to go? Yes.

Everybody pottied or in a fresh dipe? Yes.

Rain boots on, everyone? Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes and yes.

And then ...

"Logan, did you brush your teeth?"

Guilty shoulder shrug, slight grimace.

And I lost it. The stress, the rush, the late night licking envelopes to send support packets to churches--it all hit me in one, sick rush.

I lost it.

I sucked breath through my teeth, rolled my eyes, threw my hand on my hip, looked at the ceiling. Then I got that lanky, oversized boy square in my sights and let him have it.

"LO-gan! This is. not. o.k. Son! YOU HAVE GOT TO BRUSH YOUR TEETH! You are nine years old! Nine! Do I really have to remind you to brush your teeth every morning? Ser.i.ous.ly?"

His lower lip trembled. His big, beautiful blue eyes shifted shamefully to the floor, where he couldn't see his whole line of siblings staring at him in his moment of disgrace. His cheeks flushed white, then pink, then red.

And his shoulders? Those proud, tall shoulders of that burgeoning man-boy that spread so elegantly, reminding me daily of the handsome guy he's becoming? They were hunched. Cowed into submission by the angry words I was spitting in his face.

Just then, the face that I saw before me wasn't Logan at all. It was the image of a friend who has a nine year-old little man of her own. A boy who, sadly, will take a bride long after his Momma is gone and unable to help him pin the corsage to his tux. A boy who will not likely hand his firstborn into his own Momma's waiting arms one day and whisper, "Here you go, Gramma." A boy who will brush his teeth without his Momma's nagging for many, many years before he is grown.

The tears came before I knew what was happening. I grabbed my boy by his bent shoulders, hugged him close and begged his forgiveness. Pressed my lips to his forehead while it is still low enough for me to reach, wrapped my arms around him while he is still small enough to fit snugly inside my hugs. Loved on him. Felt him slowly, gingerly, uncoil and accept the kisses I couldn't stop myself from lavishing on him.

Because really, I don't give a whip about whether or not he brushes his teeth. Not in the big picture. What I care about is that I have this boy--this young man-- to love and cherish. I have Logan here, now.

Those are the big things. The Do Not Forget Things.

The teeth? Well, they matter. But not more than my son. Not more than his heart, his pride, his sense of what it is to be loved and accepted. I'm just grateful that God, in His infinite love for both Logan and me, pulled me back just far enough to remind me of how blessed I am. Sure, I've got a boy whose idea of oral hygiene is, shall we say, lacking. But I've got a boy. I am blessed to be his mother. God willing, I will watch him lose every single baby tooth in his head and even be the one to hold his hand at the oral surgeon's office as they wrest the wisdom teeth from his jaw. I will most likely cry when he shows me the ring he's selected for his intended. I'll walk over the threshold of his first home and watch him crackle with excitement as he tells me about their plans for the place. I'll have lunch with him some day when I'm 70 and he's 43, and I'll tell him that he's too young to be worried about this or that. I will be a part of his life, and he mine.

That, well ... that's a Do Not Forget Thing. That's the stuff that matters.

Tomorrow

2011-10-17T16:46:00.000-07:00

Tomorrow, I turn 37.

Nearly four decades. And what do I have to show for it?

Quite a lot, it turns out.

More than I asked for, definitely.

More than I deserve, certainly.

And yet, God's best for me keeps coming.

As my 37th birthday approaches, all I can think is "Thank you."

Thank you for a faith that brings comfort and joy. Thank you for a rock-solid marriage. Thank you for a husband who thinks he's the lucky one (little does he know it's ME). Thank you for seven beautiful children. Thank you for a safe, comfortable home. Thank you for pumpkin spice lattes with whip cream, for autumn sunshine, for smears on the windows from little fingers, for a reliable vehicle, for people willing to support us with their prayers and finances, for phone lines that allow me to hear my daughter's voice in Nepal.

Thank you. Thank you, Lord. It's been an incredible journey up til this point. Count me in for as many more adventures as you care to dish out.

Lairnin' Logan

2011-10-15T21:13:00.000-07:00

Jo, Atticus ... they follow a pretty easy pattern. Read a book. Talk about a book. Maybe even write about a book. And voila! They have a file folder in their brain that they can access at any time to retrieve even the most minute details.

Teaching them is easy. In, fact, it's so easy that I'm fairly certain they could lairn (as my Poppy used to say) from one of those dry-as-toast video school jobs. Now, they'd be bored to bits--but they'd learn. Why? Because if they hear it, it's theirs. Plain and simple.

Logan hangs in there pretty well in this house dominated so often by words. Perhaps it's simply the fact that words--written, spoken, sung--are the backdrop of our family's life in a much deeper way than the average lot. I write: fiction, nonfiction, reviews, this blog, the occasional unit study, diatribes that never see the light of day. Mr. Blandings writes: press releases, articles, a now-massive Bible study for fathers that will hopefully make it to book form some day. Jo writes: short stories, one full novel, and more letters than you can shake a stick at. And Atticus writes: an epic novel divided, LoTR style into three "books," comic books, frighteningly observant articles, and the random poem.

Logan writes, too. Poetry, mostly. I'm proud to say that it doesn't rhyme, and that he uses words like "epicenter" correctly, even though he misspells it. He also has a story going. I haven't been invited to read it yet, but my hopes are high that I may get the nod sometimes soon.

Here's the thing: Logan doesn't think he's a writer. And that pains me.

Because he doesn't follow the words=learning all there is to know about a subject pattern set in place by Jo and Atticus, he thinks he's different.

Case in point: Yesterday, driving home from a fun outing with friends. I hear a somewhat strained discussion behind me in The Walrus (our name for our big white van). I let it go for a minute, trying to get a bead on what was taking place. Whatever it is, Jo is not buying it.

"I do, too!" Logan shouts, slamming his hands into his lap and refusing to turn around and see eyeball to eyeball with his sister any longer.

I ask what's up.

Jo yells above the din of the preschoolers: "Logan says you think in pictures. But you don't think in pictures. You think in words. I told him that."

Uh, yeah. You think in words if you're you, Jo. Or if you're me. But if you're Logan?

If you're Logan, you think in pictures.

It's always been this way with my second son. From the time he was tiny, I could tell that he saw the world in a way that I couldn't quite touch. Logan could differentiate between red and scarlet, the scent of two types of roses, or the sound of bells of differing sizes. He loved certain clothes for their style, or for the way that the colors hit his eye. He adored spreading table-sized art books all over the living room floor and admiring them, memorizing the names of the artists. Foods that "looked nice" were more likely to be eaten than those that were simply tasty.

As he grew, I transitioned from merely sensing Logan's differences to seeing them outright. He was an artist. A visual artist.

Heaven help me.

I admit that I've probably failed Logan in the area of his art education thus far. Taking my cues from various sources that claim that teaching children the specifics of drawing at a young age stifles their innate talent, I have chosen to allow my own lack of skills in this area to win out. Logan has had the tiniest smidgen of what one would call actual art instruction--and most of that has come from a DVD. In my defense, I did try to hook up with a local homeschooling mom for art lessons, but it never came together past the first few visits.

Instead, I've given him high-quality materials, as much access to them as possible in a household with six smaller hands anxious to grab, and all the cheerleading I can muster. For the most part, Logan seems satisfied with this.

Except, of course, when he has to bend his learning style to meet with ours. While he doesn't complain or whine, I know that he always has the sneaking suspicion that everyone else does better, is more creative, has it all right. No matter how much I tell him, he still seems to shy away from my praise of his written work and fall back into, "I don't really like writing."

Except, of course, that he does. He just writes with pictures.

Logan is only 9, and I'm still absorbing the emerging bits of his personality as he steps closer and closer to the edge of manhood. Nine is such a precious, awe-filled time for a boy. They are courageous, they are witty, and they are so silly that you want to pull your hair out. But oh, how deep their thoughts, and how full their hearts.

I'll take a 9 year-old boy any day of the week.

And Logan? Yes, I'll take him any day of the week, too. The more I lairn, the more I fall in love all over again with this blossoming boy. Yes, his shirts are almost always smeared with oil pastels. His pockets are doubtless full of Lego pieces. He's most likely forgotten to brush his teeth. But he is boundlessly creative. He sees beauty in everything, from the way the moon hits the river at night to the sound coins make as they clink in my pocketbook.

I'm learning more every day, and Logan is one of my teachers.

Now, to see if I can score him a real art instructor ...

The miracle

2011-10-13T19:36:00.000-07:00

Days go by without much to note in Oli's world.

Breakfast is still called "breakfast," or "lunch," but never dinner, because, well, no meal is called "dinner."

There is toilet time afterwards, where Oli (5 years old in 6 weeks) sits, unsure of what may or may not happen. We sit until the stack of picture books is exhausted, or until Mani bangs on the door demanding to use the facilities, which ever happens first.

Songs are sung at preschool Bible time, and Oli knows many words by heart. His toneless voice can't hide his joy as he flings his arms in the air and performs the hand signs. This is his favorite point in the day, I am sure. He can't tell me this vital bit of information, but a Momma just knows this kind of thing.

The teenage girl reading his favorite book to him is adored, but he has no idea what her name is. The two older boys who flounce around this place are both called "Logan." When corrected, a dull, "Oh," is all he offers.

The same skill is practiced over and over until it seems old hat. And then, magically, it disappears. Oli shows no frustration, only bewilderment. I bite the inside of my cheeks and pray hard, harder, hardest.

There are therapies, small motor skills, flashcards, speech exercises, physical activities. There are food allergies to navigate and boo-boos to kiss and short, Oli-sized explanations about everything he encounters, in case this is the moment when the world opens up and he grabs onto something and doesn't let go.

There are always sweet bedtime sighs and a contended, blissful relaxation as he snuggles deep into the jersey knit sheet that he has claimed as his sole property. There is a prayer that he repeats but does not understand.

And then the lights go out, and the day is over. Tomorrow will be exactly the same. Two steps forward, perhaps. Three steps back, most likely. But still, another day. Another chance for a miracle.

Some days, we get those miracles. Full sentences. Abstract thoughts. Questions that poke at deeper places. A shred of a song sung at random that hasn't been heard in months.

These are the moments that keep me going, keep me giving, keep me chasing the spark behind those brilliant blue eyes.

Today, we had a miracle. Today, Oli walked through the kitchen while I stood measuring out tablespoons of his special wheat-, dairy-, and egg-free cookies dough onto the waiting tray. He paused, craned his neck back to see what I was doing, then grabbed my left knee impulsively. I was slightly caught off guard. Oli rarely shows any unsolicited emotion, let alone such enraptured joy.

Then he whispered, "I wush you, Mommy," into the folds of my skirt, and walked away.

I wush you, Mommy.

Be still my heart.

Tomorrow I will spend precious time making a special batch of allergen-free goodies to tide Oli through the rest of the fall baking season. Hours will be poured into pottying, reading, laboriously coaxing him through countless tasks that might--maybe--serve him as he grows. I will remind him yet again of Seven's name, not to bite Mani, to stop banging his head on the glass door. And I will do it with a lighter step, a cheerful heart, and renewed optimism.

Because today, I saw the miracle. I wush you, Mommy. It goes a long, long way.

Family

2011-10-10T14:07:00.000-07:00

Take me to the river.

We live just over 2,500 miles from our nearest relatives. It's been this way since 2002. Before that, we were a six hour drive from family, so while it was something of an adjustment to realize that we couldn't get in for long weekends and the like, it wasn't a huge shock. It just ... well, it just was.

Many people can't imagine not living down the street from mom and dad, or at least within an hour or two or someone with the same last name.

For us, it's not awful. Perhaps it's because we have never in our married lives been closer than two hours to an extended family member. I really don't know. But whatever the reason, it always strikes me as odd when people are shocked or saddened by the geography of our family tree.

True, there are times when I realize that my children have missed out on having grandparents attend AWANA awards, or have never had the full-scale family birthday bash, complete with a whole line of cousins hiding behind the couch and sneaking M&Ms by the handful. They don't get random overnights with aunts and uncles, and they've never experienced the Sunday supper tradition of everyone crowding 'round a table after service and devouring three full chickens in less time than it took to put those things out of their misery.

They don't have those things. At least, not with people whose genes mimic their own.

And maybe this is where it all gets murky for me and finds its way around to me just not understanding the big deal:

My kids have these things. They have them with what we consider family.

There is Benny's family. When I look at her precious seven year-old, I remember his watermelon-streaked smile as he dug into his first slice that summer of 2004. I can't erase the image of her now-nine year-old as a stoic, tank of a toddler dashing past doughy little Logan all those years ago. I'll never forget the birth of her first daughter, the winter we learned to knit, or the fact that she was the one who passed on the pumpkin spice bar recipe that lights up our autumn palates.

There are countless others, too. The couple who ministered to my kids through AWANA for years and now regularly send me notes thanking me for sending on pics of some of their favorite kids. The lady who has bought Jo a birthday gift every year since she was six, just because she always wanted a little girl. The pastor who never passes by Seven without touching her cheek and reminding her that she was a blessing straight from God. The neighbor who taught me to make the most kickin' arroz con pollo you've ever tasted.

Like three of the children that I call my own, no blood ties bind us to these people. Somehow, doesn't that make the weaving of our lives that much more poetic? Our love is based not solely on history or shared ancestry, but on respect, on trust, on afternoons spent herding toddlers through zoos, sharing recipes for cold salads, and discovering new passions.

Family isn't always blood, you know. But it is always, always love.

Atticus

2011-10-04T10:19:00.000-07:00

Before I became a mother, I knew that I wanted sons. The picture I held in my mind always revolved around me sitting on an overstuffed sofa with a little boy on each side of me, clamoring to get a closer look at the oversized copy of Goodnight Moon I held on my lap. Sometimes, it included two cute little mop tops sitting on the kitchen counter while the mixer whipped together our latest batch of chocolate chip cookies. And, of course, I had visions of bunk beds and dinosaur-shaped pillows and army guys strewn on the floor and me, standing in the doorway in the dark sighing long deep sighs as I listened to my little men breathe.

I got that. Times two, actually. And it's been all that I dreamed of ... and more.

But back before I knew that God had not two, but four boys planned for me, I had Jo. And then, of course, I gave birth to Atticus.

Atticus. From the moment this little man emerged, quiet and contemplative from my womb, he has been everything you could want in a son. Sweet. Charming. Funny. Painfully intelligent. Kind. Loyal. Just.

And so darn cute it makes me cry, even now.

Atticus was a long, slim little package that grew longer and slimmer as the months wore on. Today, he's almost comically tall for his age, but his weight hovers in the 40% percentile. He's quite graceful for an 11 year-old, and has never been one to drop his entire weight on the couch (unlike others in this house), or lose awareness of his lanky limbs. Atticus is, if anything, extremely self-conscious. And more than a little concerned with hygiene, if you must know. Daily showers are his thing.

His wit and wisdom are something of legend in our family. By the age of three, he was using words like, "ominous" and "inconsiderate" in routine conversation. At four, he became exasperated with a well-meaning fellow passenger who tried to give him a kiddie version of how an airplane stays aloft.

"You don't know about lift and thrust, do you?" Atticus asked, before proceeding to outline the underpinnings of jet engines to his astonished row-mate. To this day, I'm not sure how much the man appreciated being schooled by a 4 year-old.

Today, Atticus' main passions are robotics and filmmaking. Neither floats my personal boat, but I am learning (by default) more than I ever wanted to know about the wonders of silicon, the merits of making a humanoid appear real but not too real, the importance of lighting, and why PCs are the superior programming tool. I refuse to believe the last bit, but am willing to give him the rest. It's Atticus, after all. He's probably right.

I've been very open on this blog about the struggles Atticus has had with Sensory Processing, as well as anxiety. I've had my share of guilt and doubt and worry over they years as I've watched my brave son face his giants. But God has been faithful. At age 11, Atticus is learning some hard-won but powerful lifelong lessons from swimming in the waters I would never have chosen for him. Chief among them is this: God can be trusted.

God can be trusted. It is no small thing to step back and hold your hands palm up and say these words. At nearly 37, I still grapple with this fact far too often. To know that Atticus is weighing it now, so long before adulthood, gives me hope that his path with Christ will be real, genuine, and life-altering.

In less than a month, Atticus will strike out on his very first mission trip with his dad. Our goal as parents has been to send our children on international mission trips as soon as they seem ready. We desire for their hearts to be molded not just by what they hear, but by what they see, what they taste, what they smell. Not everyone has the luxury of sending their pre-teens to Mexico, Bangladesh, or Hong Kong. Mr. Blandings and I realize that we are imminently blessed to have so many open doors through which our children can travel with us. And yes, it is a blessing. A child who returns from the outskirts of Tijuana with blisters on her hands and the taste of a destitute single mom's tortillas on her tongue has encountered a Jesus she will never forget. Maybe, just maybe, Mr. Blandings and I will raise children who don't fall into the stereotype of second generation Christianity (see this blog post for a beautiful definition). There's no guarantee, of course. But oh, how desperately we desire this.

Atticus is ready to take the plunge. He is headed to Nepal in November, by way of South Korea. On his to-do list for the stop-over is a visit to the DMZ, which tells you a little bit about this boy's curiosity and character, right? His task, once he arrives in Kathmandu, is to use his vast (and somewhat startlingly developed, might I add) video skills to create individual movies of all the children at the orphanage, and all the church planters at the Bible school. Once home, he'll take his raw footage and put together bits for the children's sponsors and for fundraising purposes. He's thrilled that he's found a way to use one of his God-given talents to build up the family ministry and, most importantly, to impact the Kingdom. As his parents, we're grateful to the Lord that He stepped in to open our son's heart and eyes to the power that even a young boy can have when it comes to spreading the Gospel.

My vision of havingcountries where Maoist strikes shut down the cities for days on end. But you know, it never included a boy who would rather program a robot than make cookies, either. God has given my family an amazing opportunity to serve--and eventually to live--in a country where He is largely unknown. He has given us hearts for those who have yet to hear His word. And He can be trusted. So I send Atticus off knowing that this trip will imprint upon his young soul truths about his Creator that can be revealed no other way.

What an outrageously beautiful gift.

Not so little

2011-09-28T16:29:00.000-07:00

Happy 14th, Jo!

ENVIBUM WINNER!

2011-09-23T14:07:00.000-07:00

Congrats to the winner of the envibum drawing ... ~Rebekah~!

Because I am nosy like that, I went and found her blog, and her story just resonated with me so deeply (wonder why?) that I have to say ... I think God, not random.org, chose this winner. :-)

Congrats doubly, Rebekah! Enjoy your beautiful baby girl ... and her sweet diaper!

Wordless Wednesday: ONE

2011-09-14T16:33:00.000-07:00

Returned

2011-09-08T14:07:00.000-07:00

How do you say goodbye to a baby you've only just begun to know? To a little one whose genes, whose sneezes, whose sleepy, quiet eyes echo your son's? To a baby girl who thus far has known only the safety and protection of your own home?

In three and a half years of foster care, I had never done this. I had never joined the sad club of temporary mothers who has had to return a helpless child to circumstances that seem destined to shatter the carefully crafted peace and health I had so gently wrapped her in.

Until now.

Yesterday, I put a fresh diaper on Baby Sister's tiny, smooth bottom. I lovingly slipped her into a sweet onesie that was just the right shade of pink. I found a complimentary rose headband and admired how perfectly it fit her shock of black hair. I struggled with the buckles on her hulking infant seat. Then I carried her downstairs and broke the news to the other children:

The state worker just called. Baby Sister has been ordered back to her birthmom. Immediately.

There were questions, and angry voices, and tears, and more than a few Legos kicked in frustration. There was silence. There were trembling fingers unfastening car seat straps and lifting an almost weightless little person who had so effortlessly become familiar for a last round of kisses and smiles.

We prayed over her. Pressed our lips to her sweet cheeks. Drew crosses in oil on her forehead, and prayed again.

Then we loaded into our van and returned Baby Sister to the care of her birthmother.

Because the state said it was for the best.

And so we add yet another name to the list of children for whom we pray. Another little one who has come into our lives briefly, and moved on to circumstances that only God knows for sure. Baby Sister has been returned to her birth mother. Please pray for her.

2011-09-03T07:04:00.000-07:00

Brought the Wee One home. Not sure if I am crazy, stupid, brave, God-led ... or what. But she's here. She's safe in our cradle, belly full, danger far from her.

Please pray as we determine our next steps. And hers.

What do you do?

2011-09-01T19:59:00.000-07:00

What do you do...

...when the phone rings, and it's your least favorite social worker in the entire state?

And she tells you that two hours south, there's a new baby alone in an isolette.

And this is your son's half-sibling.

And the birthmom has a history of alcohol abuse during pregnancy.

And there's that nagging mental illness thing.

And Birthmom wasn't exactly pleasant to work with before.

And did I mention there's this little niggling issue of moving to the mission field?

What do you do?

You pray.

Wordless Wednesday

2011-08-30T16:05:00.000-07:00

At the Fair

Not quite a Wordless Wednesday

2011-08-24T20:55:00.000-07:00

Jo canning peaches.

Fourteen years ago, I was pregnant with my first child. I was so certain that the baby was a boy that really, I didn't entertain any other options. Sure, sure, we came up with a girl's name. Just in case, you know.

Good thing I liked that name, huh?

Although I had no idea at the time what on earth God was thinking sending me a GIRL, I now thank Him for that gift every day. Because while I'm certain that having a boy first would have been an amazing blessing, having a girl--this girl--has been all that and more. God knew what He was doing. Imagine that.

BEST BOTTOMS WINNER!

2011-08-22T16:02:00.000-07:00

Congrats to Mrs. Joseph Wood for winning the Best Bottom giveaway! Maybe she'll pop back by and let us know what color she chose for her cover. Enjoy diapering that newest little bottom, Mrs. Wood!

Remember, the Envibum giveaway is still open. :-)

Winners chosen via randomizer.org. Screenshot available upon request.

Suffer the little children

2011-08-19T16:11:00.000-07:00

Every once in a while, I'm reminded of what my boys' lives would be like if they hadn't found their family. It's usually an unpleasant reminder. The foster mom acquaintance I run into at Staples telling me about her newest foster son, who is 8, has FAS and RAD, and is probably headed to a group home. A photolisting snapshot of a beautiful, broken little boy whose whole life story is summed up in one pleading paragraph that is emailed to countless potential parents by a desperate social worker. A news article outlining how an innocent child was beaten to death by the people who were supposed to love and care for him the most.

Those reminders bring up an emotion that I have no words for. It's something like fear mixed with gratitude, or love swirled with a heady offering of the deepest kind of horror that a momma's heart can conjure. I leave those moments and usually grab on to the nearest child as if they are a life-preserver. As if their sweet smell can erase the hurtful waters I've just dipped my emotional toes into. As if just feeling the weight of a loved, safe child--any loved, safe child-- in my arms can erase the knowledge that someone, somewhere did horrible things to my babies and I could not stop them. As if holding that child can erase the knowledge that somewhere, right now, other children are hungry, or being hurt, or wondering why their momma hits or why the mean man has been allowed to come around again.

These are the grim thoughts that plague me when I wake up in the middle of the night and should be basking in the silence of my blessings. Always, always, my prayers slip from, "Lord, I have more than I deserve. You are so good, so good to us. You provide, you meet needs, you lavish us with more than we could ask," to, "But Lord, please be with those who feel fear tonight, with those who went to bed with empty stomachs, with those ..."

And on and on.

Because the needs never stop. And the hurt never stops. And the brokenness in the world?

It never stops.

We can't fix it. That the truth, and I know it. I'm not so naive as to think that if we all just gave it our 110% that we'd stamp out sin in this world. It doesn't work like that, no matter how good it sounds. That's why we need Jesus. I get that. I accept it. I shout it from the rooftops.

So if the world is terribleawful, as my Mamaw likes to say, and we can't just "good deed it" into shape, what's the point?

The point is this: you might just make a difference for one suffering soul. Just one. And when you see the change in that one little person, you'll know that it was all worth it.

Adoption is an incredible way to change the trajectory of a life, a family, a community. When I look at my boys and see the blessing that they've been to the literally hundreds of people who have heard their stories, cuddled them at Sunday School, or seen their smiling faces, I can't even imagine that at one point in time I feared the unknown of bringing someone new into our family. We have had challenges (admittedly mild ones--I know others who have swam in far rougher adoption waters), we have been stretched, but ohmygoodness, we have experienced so much joy. Adoption is an amazing thing. Click here to see one of the most beautiful, moving testimonies on adoption that I've seen in a while. I encourage everyone (yes, everyone) to pray about it and see what the Lord has to say to you on whether or not your nest is truly full.

But what if the answer is "No, adoption isn't for you"? Please, please, consider this: there are so many other ways to bring healing and succor to children in the world. Get creative. Ask God to lay it on your heart how you can specifically show Christ's love in a practical way. Then stand back and be ready to serve, because in my experience it doesn't take long before God takes you up on the offer and starts bringing opportunities to bless children to your doorstep.

Part of my family's work in Nepal involves running a children's home. This is the orphanage where Bee lives. After a series of partially comical, partially tragic circumstances, the operations of the orphanage were handed over to the nonprofit run founded by Mr. Blandings and I. It's been an eye-opening learning curve, to be sure. Paying staff, locating massive amounts of fresh, nutritious food, encouraging teens via telephone to resolve differences, finding appropriate Christian schooling options ... all while on the other side of the globe. Faith-stretching, yes. But exhilarating, as well, as we witness God's hand of protection and provision over the lives of 24 of His children-- 24 of His forgotten, cast-off children.

Let me be honest with you, though. There are days when running the home feels like a very heavy weight to bear. Why? Because out of 24 children, we have 5 without sponsors. That means that every month, we are short on finances, and corners have to be cut. A little more water has to be added to the evening dal baat. A pair of shoes has to wait to be replaced. Broken eye glasses have to be fixed with tape instead of being sent in for repair. Little things, to be sure. Little things especially in light of the bigger demons that threaten to swallow children whole in a country where child trafficking is a daily threat, and abandonment to the streets is commonplace.

Mr. Blandings and I have been working for three months to find sponsors for our five beautiful Nepali children. While we've always known that adoption was a hard sell even in the Christian community, it's been shocking to us that the simple act of writing a check to provide for a child's basic needs is just as unlikely an action for many of those same Christians. Fifty dollars a month, we're told at every turn, is too much to ask to keep a warm roof over a child's head in a country where many kids crouch in filthy streets or huddle in freezing huts. Fifty dollars a month is too much to ask to feed a child in a country where 30,000 infants don't make it to their first birthday. Fifty dollars a month is too much to clothe a child who might otherwise be working in an Indian brothel. Fifty dollars a month is too much to provide a Christian education in a country where less than one percent of the population knows Jesus.

((sigh))

I don't get it.

Maybe adoption isn't for you. Maybe sponsoring a child isn't for you. Maybe you aren't meant to provide foster care, be a guardian ad litem, participate in a mission trip that takes you to another country to minister to hurting kids. But you can do something. Bring a neighbor's kid along with you to church. Find a local teen mom's group and volunteer to call a young mom once a week to answer questions and provide encouragement. Provide safe, no-cost daycare in your home for an at-risk child who might otherwise be a latch-key kid. Keep a close eye on the kid down the street who always seems to be the object of his parents screams. Buy gifts for Angel Tree kids.

Don't be afraid of getting your hands dirty, writing a check, or loving in practical ways. Jesus wasn't. When we follow His example we get to see amazing things happen. Little bodies blossom, little minds grow, little spirits turn to Him. It's one of the most humbling things in the world to witness, I tell you.

No, we can't change the world. But we can change lives. And it's worth it. Trust me.

Joy

2011-08-18T19:50:00.001-07:00

Mani, age 3

My verse for this season

2011-08-16T16:23:00.000-07:00

Some days, I worry.

I worry about whether Seven will maintain her never-astute interest in nursing past the one year mark.

I worry that Atticus isn't just slightly eclectic, but is actually noticeably different.

I worry that Bee is walking to school alone.

I worry that Mr. Blandings will lose his job come election time.

I worry that Jo is too sweet, and the Soccer Mom down the street is right--"normal" teen girls are just nasty.

I worry that Logan has a more serious auditory processing problem than I realize, and he will suffer for my lack of attention to it in adulthood.

I worry that my grandparents are too ill to take care of themselves.

I worry that Mani will have a hard time grappling with the facts of his adoption.

I worry that I'm going to hate the weather in Nepal.

Oli (left) will be 5 in December. Mani (right) just turned 3.

I worry that Oli is never going to claw his way on to the growth charts.

The list goes on and on. If I wanted to, I could probably conjure a concern for each of the 24 hours in a day, and not repeat a single one.

Right now, I am in a season where I am constantly beset by things that, if I gave them power, could cause me immeasurable worry. There's the fundraising, the new high schooler, the preparing to leave the country, the boys careening into new "young man" development, the unknowns of Oli's health and development, Mr. Blandings employment, my sick grandparents, et al.

Everything. There's ... everything.

Finally, realizing that I was tiptoeing into "Hey, Lord, hand that one back over to me because I think I can take it from here," territory, I recalled this verse, and was refreshed:

Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God.--Phillippians 4:6

Every time I try to interest Seven in nursing and fail, I need to pray. I need to thank Him for the past 11 months, and ask that if it's His will, she would keep nursing through the winter. But then I need to lay it down and release the non-existent bands of control that I keep trying to pull around the situation. The same with Bee walking to school. I can't do anything about it. I can't keep her safe, create a barrier around her, or chase away any potential baddies. But God can. When it comes to mind, I should pray. Thank God for her safety thus far, and ask that He keep watch yet again.

The list goes on and on.

You'd think I'd have learned this lesson. But somehow, it always creeps to the background when my heart starts to worry. God is in control. Pray. Just pray. And have peace.

Dangerous

2011-08-14T12:28:00.000-07:00

Homeschooling is dangerous.

The grocery store clerk, your mother-in-law, the woman at church who teaches 6th grade at the public school ... they've all been telling you this for years.

I'm here to tell you that they're right. Homeschooling is not to be taken lightly. It's not a choice to be made flippantly. It's not something you can just do, or not do.

No. Homeschooling is dangerous, and should be treated as such.

What makes it such a heavy undertaking? It's not the fact that your kids may not learn how to hold their pencils correctly, or might miss out on the character-building experience of being picked last for a game of dodgeball. It's not that you're categorically unqualified to teach reading, or that putting Jesus in your kid's science book might cost him a couple of points on his SATs.

Those are the world's reasons for thinking that homeschooling is dangerous, and well, they miss the boat.

Homeschooling isn't dangerous because of socialization issues, uneven teaching potential, or a lack of exposure to cultural norms. Homeschooling is dangerous because it shifts the paradigm. It drops the scales from eyes. It begs questions.

Once you have thrown off the coverlet of expectations (Child turns 3, goes to preschool. Child turns 5, goes to kindergarten. Child turns 16, goes to prom, et al) you're left with a raw, unexplored landscape to ponder. O.k, so no preschool, because I just don't think Billy needs that whole "socialization with other preschoolers" thing in order to be normal. But everyone else does. Why? If that one thing is untrue, then what else have I assumed that I might now discover is wrong?

This time of the year always brings a crop of new homeschoolers out of the woodwork. People who always thought they'd do things the normal way. The safe way. The acceptable way. They had no idea, as they sat cradling their newborn three or four years ago, that when the time came-- when the "Now Enrolling!" signs began popping up-- that they'd sneak a peek of their darling in the rearview mirror, gleefully shouting along to a WeeSing cd, and feel a pang in their heart. They had no idea that they'd hear well-meaning friends extoll the virtues of this school or that one, and suddenly feel empty. They had no idea that they'd ponder three hours a day, twice a week and think, "At his age?"

They had no idea that they would say no. That they'd turn their backs on the establishment. That they'd have the audacity, the strength, the insanity to try and do it themselves.

I love this time of year. I love new homeschoolers. They always strike me as being something like Alice, who falls into Wonderland. A little befuddled, genuinely curious, unable to contain the wonder and awe that they're feeling, they hunt for veterans to guide the way. When they find one, they either pounce or carefully tiptoe into a conversation. They want to know that it can be done. They want to know that they will succeed. They want to hear that they're not dooming their children, that their own families will come around, that they're doing the right thing.

I always tell them that yes, if they feel led to homeschool, they're doing the right thing. And then I warn them:

Don't be fooled. Homeschooling is dangerous.

Now that you've taken the first step, there will be others. You might start to wonder why on earth that Disney movie has to have that teenage girl fawning over a boy. You might find yourself unable to partake of the "drop-off" culture of Sunday School. You might find that modern literature is rubbish. You might even wonder who on earth thought Youth Groups were such a good idea, or who in their right mind came up with the idea of teaching a 5 year-old boy who'd rather build with Legos how to write.

There will be changes in your family. Your husband might grow a deeper connection with your children as they age than you see developing with institutionally schooled families around you. You might consider "just one more" child not such a bad thing. You might learn of a missions need on the other side of the world and not think twice about ditching it all to follow the call.

Stranger things have happened, you know.

Homeschooling is dangerous. It opens eyes--and families--to whole new, undiscovered possibilities. It rips off the comfort zone band-aid that we apply in our lives, and exposes us to whole new ways of thinking. It changes lives; not simply the lives of children, but the lives of entire families and communities.

Be warned, as you step foot into the next season of schooling for your family. Homeschooling is dangerous. It can take you anywhere. It's an unlocked door that leads to places and thoughts that most people would rather not entertain. It's not for everyone. But for those of us who have taken the red pill, well ...there's no way we'd ever go back to sleep.

Review & Giveaway: Envibum diapers

2011-08-12T15:47:00.000-07:00

If you want a diaper that no one notices, then please, pass on envibums. I really mean this. If you want to run into the nursery during church service, change your baby's diaper, and slip back into service in the space of just one song, do not put an envibum on your child.

Why? Because some other mom will see the minky cuteness you are strapping to your wee one's tush and ask you about it. She'll probably want to feel it. Then she'll have to know how much it costs, how well it works, where she can get her own.

It's like If You Give a Mouse a Cookie ... only with cloth diapers.

Envibums are some of the softest, sweetest, cutest diapers I have ever seen. They are so plush that Seven, who has a major love of all things minky, can't seem to keep her hands off of hers. This has me slightly concerned, since envibums have hook and loop closures. She hasn't managed it yet, but I am wondering to what lengths this girl will go to snuzzle that diaper. In other words ... despite it's proven holding capacity, it's no longer a nap time dipe around here!

In addition to buttery fabrics, envibum has simply darling prints. The one Seven is so enamored with is an envicherry. It's been washed and dried multiple times each week for the past two months, and as you can see above, it still looks great. The hook and loop is in fine shape--something I'm always wary of. It's also stain-free. It's an unbleached cotton AIO, so I consider a lack of stains something of a miracle. I'm wondering if the unique inner design has anything to do with it? A waffle-weave interior attached to an absorbent pad that can either sit next to the baby's skin or tuck into a pocket stops leaks and keeps solids put. I haven't encountered this on any other diaper, but I like it!

Envibums are OS in additions to being AIOs. Seven fits hers perfectly at a long and lanky 22 lbs. The construction of the stretchy legs somehow magically shrinks and expands to make this diaper fit babies of all sizes. I admit that I was skeptical, so I tried it on a church friend's 9 lb. six week-old. It fit just right. Well, except for the fact that he looked a little funny in such a swanky, girly diaper.

In addition to being a fabulous diaper, envibums have a couple of other stellar features. Most impressive to me is the fact that the owner is unabashedly Christian, and isn't afraid to say so. Check out their logo:

Pretty cool, huh?

On top of that, an extensive list of charities is supported through the sale of these cute diapers. Envibum AIOs retail for $24.99. From that, $2 of every adorable envipink goes to support Crisis Pregnancy Centers. A portion of the envipurple proceeds benefits special needs children. What a blessing this company is!

I'm always in favor of choosing Christians to support with my dollars. Christians who make a sturdy product and pass on the love? Sign me up.

Ready for the giveaway? :-) Rachel, envibum's owner, is giving away one envibum print diaper and an additional absorbency pad to a BOOKS and BAIRNS reader. The winner gets their choice of print ... but you have to promise to email me and let you know what you picked, o.k.?

HOW TO ENTER:

•Follow my blog, or already be a follower. Leave a comment to let me know. (mandatory entry)

• Visit the envibum and peruse the print options. Come back here and leave a comment listing your favorite. (+1 entry)

•Like envibum on Facebook and post about the giveaway on your Facebook page. (+1 entry)

• Blog about this giveaway (+1 entry)

Winner to be selected September 23. Have fun!

Disclaimer: I was given a free copy of this product for review purposes. Refer to my general disclaimer for more information on my policies regarding reviews.

Food

2011-08-02T13:13:00.000-07:00

Seven's favorite veggie is (drumroll please) baby bok choy

I've been reading a lot of food posts lately. Why? I have no idea. But it's been fun, and it's made me think, and really, it's helped me shake off the "it's not really summer yet" malaise that our cool, wet season has kept me floating in.

My favorites have been Anya's. Over at The Lovely Messy, she shared recently her family's journey from salads that felt incomplete without bleu cheese to shopping with a $20 bill for just what they need for the table that very day.

Oh, and they went vegan, too. Just in case the new shopping habits weren't enough to radicalize the situation.

We're not going vegan. The fact is that we can't afford it, and you know, I don't feel called to go there, anyhow. Dodging Oli's allergies is adventurous enough without worrying about animal products hiding in his dairy-, gluten-, and egg-free diet. We're roughly 75% vegetarian at this point, with fish and chicken playing the occasional supporting role on the table. Most meals are not meatcentric. In fact, my general rule is that at least half of your plate should be dominated by something raw--and since we're not serving up too much sushi around here, that's usually a veg.

Breakfast: baked oatmeal with fresh apricots

My personal food thing is knowing where my fuel comes from. The more I learn, the less inclined I am to buy items whose roots were deep in soil saturated with industrial farming chemicals. I'm also not fond of sprays and other nasties dousing what I'll eventually be putting in my body. I figure I don't chug the stuff straight from the bottle ... why should I lick the container when it's been emptied, if you know what I mean?

A recent dinner at Casa Blandings

I still buy bananas by the boatload from our local grocery store. I hate it, but I do it. I mean, they're organic and all ... but I now know a little too much about transporting food, etc. So I eye even what's on the big chain shelves and labeled "organically grown" with caution. And we're not even talking about the GMO/GE foods argument here. That one just gives me the creeps.

Thankfully, we have a local CSA that we love. We tried it last year, but quit for the winter months because we just weren't sure that box upon box of chard would seem very palatable week after week. This year, though, I think we're sticking with it past the flush of the summer months. Why?

Last night's main course--braised veggies

Because actually, it turns out that it's almost the same price as buying from a store. Say what? Yes--it's true. I did the math, and here it is: I spend $10 more per week by buying locally farmed, organically certified produce than I do when shopping at the local big box grocer.

So I can spend more and get food that comes from who knows where and is who knows how old ... or I can spend another ten bucks and walk the fields where my carrots are grown, know the guy who planted them, and eat them the day after they're pulled from the clean earth.

Yeah, I'll spend $10 more. Thanks.

Images from the first day

2011-08-01T16:44:00.000-07:00

We started our new school year today. There were some workbooks.

There was some reading.

There were little guys figuring out how things work.

There were chances to bless one another by helping.

And there were hands to keep busy during read alouds, of course.

We're off and running on another leg of our homeschool adventure!

Next Giveaway Sneak Peek

2011-07-28T16:08:00.000-07:00

The diaper ... not the baby!

A new review will be posted soon for this gorgeous show-stopper of a diaper (I'll explain what I mean by that in the review!), along with a fun giveaway that will leave a happy reader beholding one of these minky little wonders on their own sweet one's bum.

Until then, remember to enter my open giveaway here. There's still plenty of time to spread the news!

9th

2011-07-22T10:09:00.000-07:00

After posting my thoughts on high school the other day, I got loads of email. The number one topic was how I'd probably regret not towing the party line when Jo started applying for colleges, and hopefully I'd learn my lesson in time to get Atticus' high school house in order.

I appreciate all of the feedback, and tried to respond to each person individually. If somehow I missed you, drop me another line and I'll get back to you, o.k.?

The second burning question that folks had for me regarding that post was:

So, what WILL Jo be using for 9th grade?

The answer to that one's straight forward enough for a Friday morning blog post: her primary curriculum will be Sonlight's Core 200, History of God's Kingdom.

After weighing a couple of options, the curricula selection team (ie, Mr. Blandings, myself, and Jo) settled on Core 200. Why? First and foremost, it addresses the top priority in our choosing to home educate our children: God. Second of all, it uses tons of thought-provoking books to dig deeper into faith matters. And third, the literature selections struck a nice chord between "academic overload" and "pleasure reading."

Also, there was the small matter of a newly revamped IG that has a companion Student Guide. On our quest to lead our children to take charge of their education (we're praying that our children lead satisfying lives of autodidacticism well beyond their years of "formal" education), we've always felt that allowing them to have a voice in their curricular choices and eventually giving them some control in their schedule, etc., would work to that end. A Student Guide that puts assignments, notes, and timeframes in her hands is just what we were looking for. Mr. Blandings and I retain the accountability factor, but some freedom can be issued. Perfect!

There are other components for grade 9 for Jo. But this is the part you all really wanted to know, right? :-)

Review & Giveaway: Best Bottoms diapers

2011-07-19T16:24:00.000-07:00

I love gussets.

Who knew that such a small stretch of fabric could be so, well ... useful?

Gussets are like the fire insurance of cloth diapers. They stand by silently--overlooked--until called in to save the day.

Because when you need gussets, you need gussets.

And Best Bottoms? Well, they have gussets. Strong, solid, non-marking gussets.

I love Best Bottoms diapers for many reasons, but it's the gussets that have stolen my heart. Why?

Blueberries. Seven has developed a fondness for blueberries as of late. The girl can't get enough of them. She shoves them into her mouth by the handful. A passing sibling notices her empty tray, the distracted Momma tying a toddler's shoe, the cup of washed berries on the table waiting at the ready. The sibling drops another dozen on the baby's tray and earns a gummy, blue-rimmed grin. Seven devours the new load of berries, then conjures up her sad, pouty look for the next passerby.

Wash, rinse, repeat ... blueberry style!

All of those berries have to go somewhere. And we all know where that somewhere is.

There aren't many dipes on the market that can stand up to the blueberry test. Disposables leak the resulting mess almost instantaneously, as evidenced by the car seat stain that haunted us from Jo's infancy all the way through Logan's. Cloth holds the stuff far better, but it has its limits: namely, any droopy leg areas. Enter the fabulous gusset.

Best Bottoms have held up to Seven's blueberry fascination. They aren't even stained, even after a couple of months of solid use. That's a great diaper, in my opinion.

Best Bottoms are a one-size diapering system. The wipeable covers feature a double layer of PUL, making them the thickest and most substantial in my stash. They're available in snaps as well as velcro. I tried a snap version, and found them to be good quality snaps that didn't feel like they'd have any issues. The covers wash quick and easily, and hang dry in a matter of a couple of hours. And yes, they're plenty cute. The ice cream themed colors make me smile, and I haven't even dipped into the adorable giraffes and cow prints, yet.

The inserts are available in microfiber as well as organic hemp/cotton. Interestingly, though Seven has developed a bit of a rash reaction to another brand's microfiber inserts, the soft, slightly fuzzy outer of Best Bottom's microfiber hasn't bothered her at all. And even though she has her heavy wetter days, the doubler is overkill for regular daytime use--but does make for a great naptime dipe.

Best Bottom is a trim fit, and fits fairly well even under tight(ish) leggings. There's still plenty of cloth diaper butt to love, but it's not so fat and squishy that some outfits are a no-go. Seven is fairly trim, and has plenty of room to grow outwards in this diaper; It seems to have more range than many one-sie pockets, which leads me to believe that it's wear life will be a little longer.

As I said, no leaks. No issues at all. A cute diaper, a good price. Shells are $16.45 each, and inserts are $3.76 each. Since the insert absorbs well and fills the cover when on, you really can reuse this cover multiple times, cutting down on your overall daily diapering cost.

Now for the fun part. YOU CAN WIN YOUR VERY OWN BEST BOTTOMS DIAPERING SYSTEM! The prize is one cover of your choice, and 3 inserts. If you live in the US or Canada, you can play. All you have to do is:

•Follow my blog, or already be a follower. Leave a comment to let me know. (mandatory entry)

•Follow Best Bottom Diapers @best_bottom on Twitter and Tweet about this giveaway. Leave the URL where you Tweeted. (+1 entry)

•Like Best Bottom Diapers on Facebook and post about the giveaway on your Facebook page. (+1 entry)

Winner will be chosen August 22. Good luck!

Disclaimer: I was given a free copy of this product for review purposes. Refer to my general disclaimer for more information on my policies regarding reviews.

Thoughts on homeschooling high school

2011-07-18T12:15:00.000-07:00

We've reach a milestone in our homeschooling journey: Jo is entering the no-man's land of high school.

I can feel the magnitude of all of this just fine without the constant chorus of people around me. After all, I'm the one who wakes up every morning to the truth that my little girl is just an inch shy of my own 5'9", borrows my shoes, and prays for her future husband every night. Yes, I'm well aware she's growing up. I didn't need you to tell me that. Thanks anyway, though.

But no, people won't stop pointing out the obvious. Far from being overwhelmed at the fact that the years of wearing the knees out in her tights by playing horses for hours on end have come to a close, though, most people are bubbling over with questions and concerns (and concerns masquerading as questions) about how on earth we plan to homeschool through high school.

Clearly, we're not the first to go this way. I know of plenty of people who have lived to tell the tale and frankly, many of their children were high on the list of reasons why we started this whole homeschooling business to start with. They are smart, funny, godly, gracious, responsible, kind people, the lot of them. Fine young adults that I'd be proud to hire, to be served by, to have pleading my case in court, to be encouraged by at church.

No, we're not pioneers. But we are among the few hearty souls who plan on finishing the race with a homeschool diploma as the reward.

"What are you going to do about chemistry?"
"How about upper level math?"
"Won't she miss out on prom?"
"Are you going to hire someone to write her transcript?'
"What if she wants to go to public school?"
"Are you sure you know what colleges are looking for?"
"Doesn't that take a lot of time?"

You know the questions. You've heard them before, no matter where you are on your homeschooling journey. Someone has asked you these things with a wrinkle touching their brow, leaning in just slightly. And you've answered the questions to the best of your ability and then moved on, because really ... high school was so far away. Seriously, people, I'm talking about phonics here. And you want me to tell you my plans for physics?!?

Suddenly, though, I am staring down physics--and phonics, with this child at least, hasn't been in the picture in a nearly a decade. We're starting high school, for goodness sake. Where has the time gone?

If I listen too closely to the voices around me, I realize that I'd be mired in more doubt, worry, and anxiety than one homeschooler can stand. There are frighteningly few outsiders lining up to encourage me in my efforts--even fewer than there were when we started this undertaking. Because while it's now fairly common and acceptable to tackle the skills of early elementary and even slightly beyond at home, it's still not terribly mainstream to finish your entire education under the instruction of your parents.

And I know this. I expected the naysayers question our choices anew. I was prepared for being called to defend our choices. These people weren't really in support of homeschooling to start with, after all. They just couldn't find a reason to say it was bad, so they kept their mouths shut. I get this.

What I wasn't prepared for, though, was the lack of support I'd feel from fellow homeschoolers.

As we round the corner into high school, I've been shocked at the pressure I've felt--some subtle, some overt--to completely throw over our way of thinking about homeschooling and do it the right way.

You know ... the way that gets your kid into college.

There are checklists to follow. Courses that must be taught. Textbooks that look good on transcripts. Reading lists that Admissions Officers drool over. Course titles that dazzle. Hours to be counted. Stellar grades to be maintained. A sequence to follow. Extensive test prep. Volunteer opportunities to round everything out. And a job, of course, that screams, "responsible and ambitious!"

I'm not talking about covering state requirements here, guys. Those minimum standards are what I agree to each year when I send in my Intent to Homeschool Form, and I bow to that authority. Besides being a rather paltry sampling of what you really ought to teach anyhow (in my opinion), I do think that a minimum threshold has to be maintained on some level. If you don't have the time to hit on some math for three out of four years, well ... you probably need to reevaluate.

No ... I'm talking about the bar set by colleges.

The pace of a homeschool high school program, I'm told, is to be set by the Institution that my daughter wants to attend. The next four years should be governed by what the Institution says it's looking for in a student. The Instituion knows what she needs to succeed. The Institution knows what she needs to learn. The Institution knows how she needs to learn it, and when.

Folks, does any of this sound familiar? It strikes me as being pretty close to the initial line we were all fed about government schooling in the first place. The one we rejected when we put our feet to the path of homeschooling.

I've been walking around in a daze for the last month, simply overwhelmed by what appears to be a near-unanimous agreement that homeschooling high school has to be different. That what has been working for our family--for my child--since we began has to change. Read-alouds must be replaced by textbook courses. Interest-led activities must be ditched for those that build her transcript. There's no room for learning chemistry in 9th grade, when my child has suddenly begun to ask for it, because chemistry must be taught in 10th grade, everyone knows, so that you can complete the science cycle as prescribed by ... well, the Institution.

An Institution that doesn't know my child, by the way, and has no interest in helping her spend these years listening to God's call on her life.

I am not against requiring more of a high school student. We've been gradually working toward this since Jo was in late elementary school. Every year, the water in the pot has gotten a little warmer, edging her towards a touch more independence here, a little bit of a challenge there. High school should be harder. The stakes should be a little higher. I agree with this! And I'm not against record keeping. I've been in favor of scrupulous homeschool records ever since I had the misfortune of finding myself being audited by our local school district a few years back. So count me among those who will be carefully taking notes on what is covered when.

Jo in kindergarten

What I am not in favor of is suddenly turning my back on what works--on what God has led us to--so that I can fulfill someone else's idea of what a high school education is.

I stopped dancing to that tune a long time ago when I realized that I had no interest in copying the government school structure at home. Institutional schooling is designed to create a specific product. As a Christian, homeschooling parent, I don't want that product. I didn't want that product back when I considered my sweet 4 year-old sitting in a chair most of the day and learning to read through a forced, manufactured process that didn't take her learning style and needs into account. I don't want it now as I imagine my articulate 9th grader snapping from topic to topic in 50 minute increments as commanded by a bell and a set of external requirements.

Jo in 9th grade

I see no joy in the model that demands that high school at home be dictated by an impersonal to-do list set by a school that may or may not be interested in being tasked with the privilege of educating my child. Most of all, I see no Jesus in it. That, I think is the biggest failing of all. Consider this: if you have spent the past 9(ish) years gently guiding your child through a series of learning experiences designed to help him or her to recognize and eventually respond to their specific role in God's Kingdom (Ephesians 2:10), how can you suddenly cast it aside and allow an outside Institution to captain the boat?

God set me on this course. I plan on remaining as faithful to His calling as He has been to me throughout the joys and trials of educating my children. Maybe He will lead me to adopt a plan nearly indistinguishable from the one some college of choice recommends. Maybe He will lead me somewhere crazy, like signing Jo up for a horticulture class that eats up all her time and becomes her new path in life--even though what she was really supposed to be learning was algebra. I'm o.k. with either, because one thing that homeschooling has taught me is that I can trust Him wherever He leads. It may not look "normal" ... but it always brings me closer to Him and His will.

If you're a homeschooling parent entering this new phase along with me, I encourage you to do as I exhorted my dear cousin just this morning: Finish well. Keep the faith. Persevere. We are not running with men (Jeremiah 12:5). We run with horses. We aren't competing for high grades, scholarships, or college acceptance letters. Our prize is far, far more precious than anything the principalities have to offer us. Remember this ... and be encouraged!

July, July

2011-07-14T16:08:00.000-07:00

I love the random, rotating photo screen saver on my Mac. I know it's nothing special in the world of computer screen savers, but it never fails to make me smile. (Except for the times it makes me ask who in the world got hold of my camera and took a picture of whateverintheworldthatis.)

Today, I got a treat. A photo from exactly one year ago

followed by one from my last download

The juxtaposition of the two made me grin from ear to ear. After all, they're both pictures of Seven--Seven as an unknown quantity versus Seven as my sweet, pretty in pink baby girl.

A year can bring so, so much. In this case, it's been 12 months of a heart expanding to make room for another person, 12 months of learning how to balance teenage hormones with nighttime nursing, 12 months of remembering how much of a fool Mr. Blandings is over baby girls.

It's been a good year. A hard year in some respects, but one that I know I'll look back on with fondness. As I've told many people irl: I have sucked the marrow from the bone of Seven's baby days. I have lapped up every sweet moment, drank in all the good, treasured even the bittersweet in my heart. I may look back on this past year of late pregnancy, birth, babyhood and wish to do it all over again, but it will not be because I feel I've missed out. It will only be a longing to relive the beauty that has been the mundane yet vibrant living of these days.

And yes, in case you're wondering, it's long sleeve weather here in Western WA yet again. Mid-July, and I'm in my cozy woolen socks and have a hoodie sweatshirt on over my tee. I'm managing a summer skirt, but just barely. At least that first picture confirms that this is more the norm than the exception. :-)

A hard time

2011-07-13T17:09:00.000-07:00

I haven't posted in a bit because, frankly, the activities surrounding Baby K's departure from her home sent me in to a tailspin. Amazing, isn't it, how happenings that aren't even at the heart of your own life can set off a chain of events that chip at the foundation of your sense of happiness.

After Baby K, there was one more thing. Then another. Then another. The final straw, I think, was when my Mamaw told me that she's ready to "go on" now. No, that's not true. The final straw was when my dad asked me if I'd look up safety ratings for nursing homes that would take my Papaw--who has severe, advanced Alzheimers. Or maybe it was when some arsonist here in town decided to light a home on fire in the middle of the night--a home that contained a young family just sleeping. Sleeping, for pete's sake. They got out o.k., but still ...

It's a tough season for me right now. I'm going to be honest and say that somehow I've managed to convince the world that I'm in my happy place when really I am fighting that swimming upstream feeling. I don't know how else to describe it. It's not depression; I know depression, and this isn't it. I have full-on joy in the many happy moments of my days and weeks. When I am depressed, I can't touch sunshine for all of my trying. No. This isn't depression.

It's loneliness, I think. A kind of loneliness I've never really felt before. I'm surrounded by people--people who I love, people who love me. People who make me happy.

But somehow, these people are all knee-deep in their own stuff right now, and I just feel, well ... a little lost. The thing is, everyone is talking about something, all the time. Their family. Their baby. Their school schedule. Their planning. Their vacation. Their relationship with their mom/dad/uncle/brother/dog. Their thing.

No one is asking about me. Geesh, that sounds selfish. And really, I guess it is.

All these good things wrapping around me, and I feel afloat because I can't get anyone to really talk to me about me. Wow. That's a nasty little confession.

So here I am, Mary Grace in her own little corner of the world, gazing at beautiful baby Seven, giggling with her Nepali daughter via telephone over the insanity of sacred cows who chase schoolkids through the streets, watching summer splash over her preschoolers with all the sunny joy of a hose at full force, watching God slowly build our missions funds, parenting, laughing, living ...

And being lonely. All at the same time.

Pray

2011-06-22T10:29:00.000-07:00

Another sweet, smiley baby girl is heavy on my heart this morning. She's just about Seven's age. She has doting older siblings. She has a devoted Momma who has rocked her through her bumps and bruises and sang to her as she's drifted off to sleep. She has big blue eyes and curiosity.

And, through no fault of her own, she is very, very close to losing it all.

See, this baby girl is a foster child. Being "foster" doesn't mean she's any less loved. Quite the opposite. This baby girl has absolutely been loved on without end since the moment she was slipped into her Momma's arms--which happened to be at the hospital, when her life was measured still in mere hours.

But here's the part that you can never forget--foster does not mean forever in the eyes of social workers, lawyers, the judges.

Baby K is in danger of being ripped from the only home she has ever known. The hows and the whys don't matter. This is simply a case of legal mumbo jumbo taking precedent over what makes the most sense. This baby is not being returned to a biological mother or father who has worked hard to become a safe place. She is simply being shifted to an adoptive home where her biological sibling is no doubt a cherished addition to the family.

In other words, she is being taken from the siblings of her heart to grow up with the siblings of her genetic code. Which makes sense in many, many cases. But in this one?

Why? Why is this precious blessing being set up for hurt? Why is the system failing? Why has someone decided that Baby K is a piece of furniture that will look better in another room?

I don't know. But my heart tells me this is wrong. My heart tells me that God is not being honored in this decision. I want to scream at VGAL who has dropped the ball, rage at the judge whose lapse in understanding seems so dire. And I am not even this baby's Momma. I'm just a bystander.

Every time I bend down to sweep Seven from the floor lately, I think of Baby K. I watch my little girl kick and squeal when Logan walks by, trying to get his attention, and I think of Baby K. I lower her into her crib, drowsy from milk and sleep, and I think of Baby K.

Dear Lord, I pray that this baby will not wake up one day to find her whole world gone. I pray that she will not wonder why her Momma suddenly let her go. That she won't long for the arms that have held her safe and secure. Instead, I pray that she will have the gift of taking all these things for granted. That someday, she will have a moment of thinking her Momma didn't even want her. That she will be blessed with thinking her older brothers are pains. That she will be so loved, and so sure of it, that she can be flippant about the things that right now hang in the balance. Please Lord. Please.

Please pray for Baby K. Pray for the judge to have wisdom. For the social worker to be haunted by this baby girl's case. Pray that the other family looks beyond the blessing of a new baby falling in their laps and casts their eyes to the happiness of this little one. Pray that God moves mountains. Because He can. If Seven is anything, she is proof that He can, and He will. Pray this miracle for Baby K, I beg you.

Deja Vu

2011-06-21T14:58:00.000-07:00

Dirty blond hair.

Big blue eyes.

Off the charts for height and weight.

No teeth (at 9+ months).

A preference for people watching over getting into the fray.

Baby A:

Baby B:

One is Logan. One is Seven. And you know, it's a really good thing that technology has come so far in nine years, because photo quality might just be all that helps this foggy momma mind of mine differentiate between which baby is which twenty years from now.

Review: Rubbabu Bubble Ball {Timberdoodle}

2011-06-15T17:28:00.000-07:00

A couple of months back, on a rare sunny spring day in Western WA, I received my annual Timberdoodle catalog. Since I was walking alone (this day was rare in more ways than one, obviously), I casually flipped open the cover and started perusing the offerings. I'm a repeat Timberdoodle customer, and not just for homeschooling needs. Somehow, the folks at Timberdoodle and I just seem to think alike. The games they have line up with the interests of my children but aren't found on local store shelves. The building toys they carry are unique--and ones that I can't usually find elsewhere. And the homeschool stuff, well ... it's just cool stuff. Hands-on, often. And always, always fun.

Anyhow, I made it just a handful of pages into this particular catalog when I knew I had to call Benny. Which I did, of course.

"Have you gotten your Timberdoodle catalog yet?" I asked.

"I don't think so," was her answer. (Unlike me, Benny doesn't live and die by her mail delivery schedule. I can tell you that our mail arrives by 3 p.m. every day. I can tell you what size packages will end up on the porch, and which ones will fit in the box. And I can even tell you who made the delivery based on whether or not they folded items over one another to find them in or not.)

"You have to look at their complete preschool curriculum," I told her. "I'm not looking to buy a full preschool, but if I was, I'd so buy that."

I went on to list the science experiments, the puzzles, the cool smelly pencil. Later on, when Benny (finally!) checked her mail, she agreed. The Timberdoodle preschool curriculum is, well ... what you want in a preschool curriculum. Why? Because it's not a ton of workbooks and letter flashcards. It's real stuff. Fun stuff. Stuff that your child will beg you to play with, and not even know that he or she is learning.

If this tells you anything, Jo was recently with me at a conference where Timberdoodle had a booth. She lingered in the vending hall for a good portion of her free time, and kept coming back to Timberdoodle. What had caught my 13 year-old's attention to the point that she couldn't pull free?

The Rubbabu Bubble Ball.

It's a ball. A squishy, velvety, oddly-shaped ball made from all baby-safe materials. The directions say you shouldn't allow your baby to teethe on it, but that's just a precaution against little teeth nicking a bit off of the natural foam and swallowing it. It's a green toy.

It looks fun. It feels good in your hands. It's just ... tempting.

And Jo was hooked. She showed it to me no fewer than three times during the conference.

Jo: "I think we should get this ball."
Me: "Why?"
Jo: "Oli would love this. And so would Seven. It's a really cool ball."
Me: "We've got balls. We've got about fifty balls. I'm not buying another ball."

So I didn't buy it. Instead, I bought a couple of other things (which I'll review here next week). I forgot about the ball.

But when it popped up as a review opportunity, I figured sure, why not? Try the ball.

Jo was right. We needed this ball.

That's a silly looking statement. "We needed this ball." I mean, people need air and water. And on a lower rung, people need books and music and creature comforts. Do they really need a ball?

Well, yes. If they're children, they do.

Balls teach little ones so very, very much. As adults, we tend to forget what amazing learning toys balls are. We have balls lying around, and we note our toddler's fascination with them, but we don't really zero in on the process that is taking place when a child rolls a ball, or catches a ball, watches a ball move away, or drops a ball, or feels the weight of a ball in his or her hand.

It's science, folks. Exploration, discovery, innovation. Science. In sphere form.

Babies need balls. Toddlers need balls. Kids need balls.

This ball is not only cool to look at, but it adds new layers to simple ball fun. Because of the funky, bubbly shape, it rolls and weaves in all directions when dropped or rolled. Oli, especially, is intrigued by this defying of normal motion. Seven, new to the whole "ball thing" is captivated by how she has to really work to get at it when it's dropped from her hands. She's also delighting in exploring its delicious little velvety coating. And the bumps? So, so pleasing to little hands.

By the way, this ball has seen action from all of my kids. Yeah ... the 13 year-old likes to squish it like a stress ball while she's reading. I guess her motives weren't entirely altruistic after all. :-)

This ball is part of Timberdoodle's baby curriculum, one of those complete sets I was discussing with Benny. In addition to a whole slew of age-appropriate materials (like a peanut ball!), this set comes with a planning folder. No, this isn't a Teacher's Manual for babies. The people at Timberdoodle have no interest in creating baby geniuses via set instructional hours and whatnot. Instead, they give parents information on the tools/toys that are in their set, as well as a multitude of ways to engage in them with their little one. I am no fan of "baby school." I would tell you if this set was "baby school." It's not. It's just good, quality stuff to play with alongside your baby. That's my heart for parenting little ones, and it's Timberdoodle's heart, too.

So go ahead. Try the ball. Seriously. You won't be disappointed.

Disclaimer: I was given a free copy of this product for review purposes. Refer to my general disclaimer for more information on my policies regarding reviews.

A great many things

2011-06-10T15:52:00.000-07:00

There is much to be said for parenting a single stage of childhood. There are no diapers to change during chemistry experiments. No toddlers losing prized mp3 players. No nap times to consider when booking sports lessons.

Look who's (bear) walking

These are just a handful of the things I worried about when we began the slow peeling back in our hearts that would eventually lead to adding to what seemed like our already complete family. Three children (a nice, manageable number) born in just four and a half years allowed us the luxury of not stretching much beyond our current comfort zone. No one was too far ahead of anyone else. No one was too far behind anyone else. It was very neat and perfect, although I admit that at the time, I wasn't quite as appreciative of this fact. One weaned, it seemed, just in time for another to be born. I changed bulky over night diapers for no less than seven years solid. And Bob the Cucumber and Larry the Tomato were like live-in relations who just never got the hint and moved out.

Now I straddle a couple of stages, and no, it's nowhere near as neat and tidy as life would have been had we taken our cues from those seemingly wiser than us and just quit already. We tag-team things like Karate Awards Night for Atticus and Logan (it was my turn to go last week), and other things we parade to en masse, taking up an entire table during a fellowship dinner and fellowshipping with ... well, ourselves. (Note to AWANA leaders: tables that only seat 8 may not cut it ...) My older kids miss out on some things, like events that only happen from 11 a.m.-2 p.m., because that's prime napping time and woe unto him who thinks I'm giving that up lightly. My younger kids have never been to a library story hour.

Jo taking a break from cleaning rabbit cages to play with Seven

Sometimes I look at all of this and wonder if the pros outweigh the cons. I ask myself what the conversation will be like, twenty years from now, when they all gather in someone's living room without Mr. Blandings and I. I imagine Jo will be hosting, because she is Jo, and she likes to host things, and it will allow her to set the ground rules anyway which is very convenient when you have a somewhat Type A personality and many younger siblings. I imagine Logan will be late, and Atticus will be flustered, and Oli will watch with rapt awe, and Mani will simply bask in being somewhat difficult, but really meaning well. Bee will be there, but she will be quiet and sweet and remind everyone not to talk to loudly or get too carried away. And of course, there will be Seven, who will be deliciously independent and fawned over, and yet not at all able to understand why everyone finds her so darn funny.

Who? Moi?

So what will they say? What will my children make of this life they didn't choose when they're old enough to have some hindsight? The homeschooling? The missions-based, evangelical Christianity? The stay-at-home mom submitting to the head-of-household dad? The international focus? The Bible As Authority upbringing? The mix of children, biological and adopted? The cultures represented? The frugality? The make-do attitude? The span of ages?

Oh, to be a fly on the wall.

I think it's love.

In truth, I have no idea what they'll say. I have my guesses (Atticus will insist that he had it the hardest, I guarantee it; Mani will be the rockstar baby brother, I guarantee that, too) but only time will tell. Until then, I get to enjoy this sprawling, chaotic brew of family bubbling over.

Big kids. Little kids. And the melding of the two.

Three

2011-06-07T20:28:00.000-07:00

I realized as I was unloading my camera last night that I had somehow missed posting a milestone. Yup--Manolin has left behind his toddler days and is cruising right along into his preschool years. The past three years have been a sheer joy with this little man. I can't wait to see him make those huge strides that 3-6 bring!

Special

2011-06-06T16:59:00.000-07:00

"Your little brother is retarded."

"Huh? Which one?"

"The really short one."

"Manolin?"

"No, no. The other one. The one that doesn't grow. My mom said he's retarded."

"Oh, Oli. He has special needs."

"He's retarded."

"You keep saying that. Is it supposed to mean something to me?"

"Duh. Your. brother. is. retarded."

"Maybe. But at least he's not rude."

"Well I'm not coming down here to play with any retarded kids."

"That's alright. I think we'd rather play with Oli anyhow. You should probably go and find some really smart kids to play with. Kids who value intelligence over, say, manners, huh?"

Jo, you make this momma proud. And to think ... I worried what having a special needs child might mean to my other, neurotypical kids. Turns out that what it means is compassion, day in, day out. Compassion and love.

The price of obedience

2011-06-03T15:14:00.000-07:00

This morning, Mr. Blandings and I were counting the cost of moving our family to the mission field full-time. No, we weren't talking about the lack of Netflix in SE Asia or the fact that Seven will probably be a preschooler by the time she "meets" most of her extended family in a way she can actually remember. We were talking about the actual cost.

The money.

We need to raise $5,000 per month to support our ministries (plural) and our family. So far, we have 10% of that committed. Some days the number seems so huge that I fear I'll be 40 before I put my feet on Nepali soil. Others, I know that my God is big enough to bring in twice that completely unsolicited.

We prayed this morning, as we do every day, for God to bring in the money. Then I kind of forgot about it. (It's Mani's birthday, after all!) But this afternoon, as I got a second to sit down and check in on the cyber world, I read this post and was inspired to calculate our needs.

We need 90 families to commit $50/month to reach our goal.

Or 225 families to commit $20/month.

Or God to sway an ultra-wealthy Christian with a heart for the 10/40 window to just write us a check for a million.

Any of those will do.

I wonder which route He'll take?

(And by the way, if you are one of the people who God has given a heart for the people of Nepal, please read this. Keep praying! Satan is working hard to shut the door on the Truth and keep folks in the dark. I guess He hasn't read the end of the Book, huh?)

Dear Sister,

2011-06-01T15:51:00.000-07:00

I could tell as I trailed you through the halls of the YMCA that you are expecting--and soon. Your ankles have that slightly puffy, overburdened look, your back that deep, uncomfortable sway that suggests a woman unused to carrying such weight. Seeing the full bloom of your belly only confirmed what I already knew.

You looked, to me, radiant.

But then your cell phone rang. Flustered, you shuffled through your very cute, very pink workout bag until you found the offending device. Your exasperated answer echoed through the locker room. I'll never know who was on the other end of the line, but clearly, it was someone with whom you share an intimacy. In the confines of the locker room, it was impossible not to eavesdrop, not to feel as if I was an invested member of the give and take that took place.

"Yes, I am still pregnant," you told the other party, and my gut began to squirm. See, I knew what was coming. And yet, I could not walk away.

I know that your aches and pains are real. I know that you are uncomfortable, that you're not sleeping well, that you pee all the time, that you can barely fit behind the steering wheel of your car. You have every reason to be done with the season you find yourself in.

But I hate that you hate it.

For twenty minutes, I listened to you lay out your litany of ills. Maternity clothes that barely fit. Indigestion that keeps you away from your favorite Mexican restaurant. Toenails that you can't reach to paint the lovely shade of pink that you like to see peeking up at you from your flip flops in the summer months.

I heard it all, and I sympathized.

But you know what I didn't hear?

The miracle of feeling your baby writhe, confined so tight in your womb that he or she could barely wriggle. The beauty of sitting on the cusp of an expanded family. The glorious knowledge that God has used you to bring about one of His most awesome gifts. The anxious, gleeful anticipation of waiting to meet someone whose lungs have yet to even draw breath.

I didn't hear any of that, and it pains me.

As a woman who longed for so many years to walk in those stretched out, swollen shoes of pregnancy, I am keenly aware of the blessing wrapped in a burden that is late pregnancy. The physical signs of impending birth are, to me, so poignant that I admit, I find very little to complain about. Knowing as I do the emptiness of arms unfilled, I sometimes have to step away from women who curse their own blessed state so that I don't shake them. It's true.

There is much to be burdened by, yes. But sister, there is even more to be blessed by.

As I sat on the opposite end of the locker room bench, listening to you describe your body as "massive" and "disgusting," listening to you announce how you couldn't "wait for this to be over," my mind went back years and years, to an experience I've all but forgotten. An experience with another expectant mother who had no idea that she was just hours away from meeting her baby. We had lunch, both of us pregnant, both of us nearing the end of the race. While we ate, my friend listed off the things she couldn't wait to do without a baby growing inside of her. Drink a beer. Be intimate with her husband. Ride her bike. Ditch the maternity panties. Wear her favorite jeans.

Three hours later, at a routine check-up, she learned that her baby had died. She delivered a still little girl that night, and went home to a place where all of those things--the beer, the bike, the jeans-- seemed empty and useless.

She would have given anything to have that baby back, safe, inside of her. She told me later--and I admit, I still didn't get it for years--that she would do anything, anything to be that uncomfortable and full again.

Of course, I learned that lesson on my own, the hard way. The pain, the inconvenience, the struggle, the discomfort, the agony, even ... It is not something to be wished away. It is something to be cherished. Truthfully.

I know you probably won't understand this. You probably think I am overly sentimental, a worshiper of birth, a woman who has lost her inner compass thanks to her years waiting without hope. And you know, I guess I hope that you can stay that way. I hope that you never look back on these moments have regret. I hope that you can move forward without missing a beat, can think on your pregnancy as a mere blip on the road to your new little one.

But just in case you can't, please--do yourself one small favor. Take a picture. Write something down. Anything. Make some small memory of the beautiful season you are currently living in. Hold onto it. Be blessed by it. Because truly, it is a gift that not everyone is handed. Of that, I am certain.

Blessings,
Mary Grace

Review: GoGreen Diapers

2011-05-27T16:08:00.000-07:00

I had fully intended to review these diapers next month, when time was a little less monopolized by the daily comings and goings of life. However, a small seed of revelation has been growing in my brain all week long, and this diaper is actually at the heart of it.

Say what?

Let me backtrack a little. Right now--this week-- a group of mommy bloggers is taking on a very unusual challenge. Responding to news reports revealing how low income families are spending their last dollars on diapers, choosing to "recycle" disposables, and/or leaving said disposables on baby's tender bottoms far longer than ever intended, this group has committed to cding their babies in the cheapest way possible for an entire week. They're blogging about their experiences, showing the world how easy/hard it is to diaper using cheap flats with covers, washing by hand or with a homemade camp washer, and hang drying. Every night. For a week.

It's called the Flats and Handwashing Challenge, and while I'm not taking part, it has certainly challenged me.

Why? Because as I've shared many times, diapering Jo nearly 14 years ago was a massive strain on our budget. We relied on diapers purchased by family members quite often, because our own budget just didn't cover that "essential." We were barely buying food--diapers were a luxury!

At the time, I actually considered cloth. I stumbled upon a package of flats at my local Wal-Mart for less than $7 for a whole dozen. A 3-pack of the thin plastic pants I remembered my mom using on my brother was less than $4. I stood in the aisle and contemplated. I had no washing machine. No dryer. No idea what I was getting myself into.

And no support. My husband gave me a dubious grimace when he saw me holding the alternative diapering items.

"You can't get those clean enough to be safe," he said with a shudder.

At the time, everyone I knew believed that cloth diapering was something that only the poor, uneducated folks who couldn't see how much better living was possible through diaper chemistry even attempted. It was something like breastfeeding--which I was already doing. To jump off the cloth diaper bridge would surely cement my reputation as a granola nut of an entirely different kind.

An unsterile kind, most likely.

So I put the cheap flats and pants back, and kept visiting my mom and grandparents, and asking my in-laws to bring diapers whenever they came for a visit.

I wish at that time that I had read some of the real-life ups and downs being posted by participants in the Flats Challenge. It would have made a difference. It really would have.

But all of this seems to have nothing at all to do with the title of this post. And yet, it does, I promise.

Years later, money wasn't nearly so much of an issue. We weren't scrounging to keep the power on, but believe it or not, the cost of diapers came up when we discussed the idea of adding to our family. We had a washer, had a dryer, and were now aware that the idea of "sterilizing" a diaper for re-use within one's own family is more than a little overboard.

On a fling, I sat down at the computer and googled "cloth diapers." The top results were all major names that any cloth diapering momma today would be instantly familiar with. I read with amazement all of the positive feedback people were listing--how they claimed these diapers resulted in fewer rashes, leaked less, and were better for the environment than disposables. I was ready to jump off the bridge without a bungee cord, right up until the moment when I saw the price tag.

Cloth diapering can be expensive. And that expense can push it out of the reach of well-meaning Mommas with modest incomes. Trust me. I know. The $20+ that many of the most popular brands charge per diaper is more than many families can swing, especially when you take into account that a newborn baby will easily need a stash of more than a dozen diapers even if you plan on laundering every night.

But guys, it doesn't have to be that way. And you don't have to commit to learning a myriad different folds or swaddling your baby's bum in multiple layers of gauzy cotton to make it work, either.

Enter GoGreen Diapers.

GoGreen's diapers are one size pockets, the type favored by many cding parents. The suedecloth pocket sits on top of a microfiber insert, and the exterior is lined with a waterproof layer of PUL. It's a one-shot deal--basically as easy as a disposable. No folding. No separate cover. No changing out inserts. Just take off the dirty diaper, snap on a new one, and go. And by the way, the exteriors are way cuter than anything you'll find packaged in bundles of 36 waiting in the aisles of your local grocery store.

The above print is about the girliest thing you could ask for. Bunz 'N Roses. Tell me you didn't get a grin looking at all that pinkness!

GoGreen offers two types of diapers (both pockets). The original is a sturdy, basic pocket with an opening on one end and overlapping snap tabs for a perfect fit even on skinny babies. My sample was a Champ 2.0, a slightly snazzier version with dual pocket openings so that the soiled insert comes out on its own in the wash. It also sports double leg gussets to hold in messes even better, as well as a PUL-lined pocket cover in the back that handily keeps sticky stuff down below the waistline, if you know what I mean. There's even a snap to hold the insert in on top of the suedecloth, if you wish, basically turning it into an AI2 with just the purchase of additional inserts.

The Champ fit Seven like, well, like a champ. No red marks around those chunky thighs, no leaking, nothing but visions of pink cuteness. And yes, she put this one through the paces. I decided to take a day out and about and got caught up in the activities while testing the GoGreen. Four hours into our excursion, I checked Seven. While the insert was sopping wet, her skin wasn't even clammy. That's a pretty good indicator that this is a great diaper, in my book!

Finally, the Champ is trim enough to fit under even little girl tights without much more than the normal, adorable (in my book) cloth diaper baby butt.

If you've done any research at all into cloth diapers, you're waiting for the other shoe to drop. Diapers similar to the Champ retail for about $24 each, right? Especially with those cute fuzzy exteriors and those amazing double gussets, you're thinking. Yeah, $24. Out of my league.

What if I told you that it was $14.95?

And that the original GoGreen is just $9.99?

And they're OS, remember? So I just told you that you can diaper your baby from birth to potty training with cute pockets for under $120, and still have some wiggle room on laundry.

Bottom line on GoGreen--aside from the fact that I wish they had been around in 1997? You don't have to spend a fortune to cloth diaper your baby. While they're still out of reach of the folks that the Flat Challenge are trying to inspire, they're well within the grasp of many potential cders who can't afford to invest $20 or more per diaper, yet don't want to deal with flats, pre-folds, etc. These are great diapers, at a great price. You simply can't ask for more than that.

Disclaimer: I was given a free copy of this product for review purposes. Refer to my general disclaimer for more information on my policies regarding reviews.

Fear factor

2011-05-26T15:30:00.000-07:00

I'm in the middle of school planning for the year ahead. So many choices, so many options, so many bases to cover in the dwindling years I have left teaching Jo at home. High school--and all that it entails--is steaming towards us. I think back on the meager beginnings of our little homeschool and wonder where all the years of making saltdough letters and counting forks and spoons out of the dishwasher have gone. In the beginning, there was a long tunnel of time stretching before us. Surely, my little girl was as grown up as she was every going to get.

Not quite.

Jo is knocking at the door of adulthood now, and while she's got several years before that call is answered, we can all feel it coming. She is nervous, excited, overwhelmed and overjoyed, all at the same time. This upcoming year will bring Sonlight's Core 200, pre-algebra, chemistry, and a host of other things that will stretch her mind, put her academic skills to the test, and probably even reduce her to tears on one or more occasions.

And yet, in the midst of my planning, it's not Jo and her high school plans that are leaving me with a dry mouth. I ought to be frightened of teaching high school. I ought to have a healthy acknowledgement of the increased responsibility. I ought to be scrambling to have a plan for records, a stable of mentors, that sort of thing.

But what I'm really worried about is ...

Preschool.

Preschool, of all things. Preschool, which I could teach with my eyes closed at this point, assuming that I consciously taught preschool at all. Running a finger under letters as you read aloud from a favorite picture book. The right way to hold scissors. How to hop from one foot to another without losing your balance. Sharing. Singing an endless array of Bible songs. Puzzles. Counting games.

This fall, I'm going to be fully responsible for a kind of preschool I've never really envisioned in our lives: special needs.

After so many moments of conviction that even I couldn't deny them, it's become clear that our local public school program isn't the place for Oli. He's receiving speech and occupational therapy, yes. But the quality of those programs has diminished as the school district has struggled to reallocate funds in a drastically slashed budget. Preschoolers who with cognitive delays come after high school sports in the minds of many, and thus Oli now sits for group sessions with a therapist who must try to elicit speech sounds from six low-functioning four year-olds at a time. Her chances of succeeding are depressingly low.

And, we realize, that continuing on the path we've started down with Oli promises basically the same returns.

It's not just the dubious therapies. There have been other signs, as well. Oli has picked up a few quality habits that, until now, we have been blessed to never welcome inside our front door. To our horror, his ability to parrot behaviors is as keen as ever. While he may not be learning to recognize his name, he now knows what it means to shout "Kill you!" when a tussle over a toy isn't going your way.

Public school--not even public preschool--isn't a good fit for us.

So we have made the prayerful decision to bring him home. But what does that mean?

This past year, I spent a huge chunk of time (and an equally big chunk of our homeschool budget) on Olischool. While his classroom teacher was ostensibly in charge of leading him through the motions, here at home we did everything in our power to fill Oli's moments with opportunities for learning. Still, in the back of my mind, I knew that he was getting "real" preschool down at the school. His teacher--a certified, experienced professional--was doing the heavy lifting, I told myself. I was just filling in the gaps.

Go ahead and laugh at me for these thoughts. Go ahead and tell me that an experienced homeschooler ought to know better. I'm a big girl. I can take it.

The illusion has been shattered. I know that I was meant to be in charge all along. Now it's time to take the bull by the horns and admit to myself that I'm certified by a higher power and called to this job. I can do it. With God's help, I can teach this boy.

This fall will find me swimming in a new pond. Not only will I have a high schooler to guide, but a special needs preschooler, as well. The stakes somehow seem high, but I've been in these situations often enough to know that a few years from now, I'll most likely look back and wonder what I was so anxious about. Hopefully, as I reminisce, Oli will be sitting beside me. Reading a book. And wondering why his Momma is laughing so hard.

Treasured

2011-05-23T14:49:00.000-07:00

My children seem intent on squeezing my heart until it bursts this week.

Yesterday, Logan entered his last single digit year. He is now officially nine, and while I haven't been able to call him my baby for quite some time, he is now very, very clearly not my baby. From his lanky, gawky arms to his stinky, man-sized feet, it's abundantly obvious that Logan is crossing over into that awkward stage just before puberty.

Tomorrow, Atticus will join in and insist on becoming eleven. Still boyish (despite the growing physical signs to the contrary), Atticus is somewhat sheepish about his advancing age. He's a wise old soul--wise enough to know that his years of being a relatively unfettered boy are dwindling. This, of course, makes him all the more precious in this Momma's eyes.

And naturally, there is Mani's birthday next week. He'll be three. Three, I tell you. This morning, he told me all about his upcoming fete: "I haffa birfday cake. I getta digger. I'm a g'wonna thing and thing and danth. And then I'm a g'wonna be free!"

As if all this weren't enough, this morning, Seven decided to tackle two milestones at once. She has been toying with crawling for the past few days. Yesterday, she made her first tenuous creeps forward. Today her knees managed to communicate with her hands enough to get two creeps at a time. That, to me, constitutes crawling. In a week, she'll be blitzing around the house, opening cabinets, laughing as the boys chase her, evading capture. This was plenty. My heart had its happy/sad moment where I praised God for my healthy, growing, neurotypical little girly and mourned her tiny baby days all at the same time.

Then she topped it all with this:

Bittersweet, no? As a mother, I'm often reminded of Luke 2:19, in which God relates how Mary "treasured all these things up in her heart." The Greek for "treasured" is συνετήρει, which means to "observe and keep safe." I am treasuring up all of the joy of this week, keeping it safe in my heart. Some day, I'll have time to sit and reflect on it all. But for now, I'm content to live it, letting it wash over me and bless me, moment by moment, milestone by milestone.