Burst

Things have been hard here. Uncomfortably hard. Rock bottom hard.

There have been moments of looking around and wondering how in the heck things got so chaotic and difficult. Moments of trying to find peace, and missing it entirely.

And then, there are moments like this:

When you discover that what seemed like a crab apple tree in your new backyard is, in truth, a bearer of real apples. The eatingsaucingjuicing kind.

And suddenly, a flurry erupts. Children run for buckets and baskets and long rakes.

A cloud bursts, and there is joy spilling all over. And in that moment, you remember that this is just a season, just a moment of life, and that the good stuff will be back again. Soon.

(in)hospitable

I have always considered myself a truly rotten hostess. The bar was set pretty high for me at a young age, what with my mom and grandmother being the world's most comfortable, most accommodating, most "always another spot at the table" kind of women. I have fabulous memories of wandering the family room while my mom served coffee to folks who had just popped by, and even better memories of 50 people milling around my Mamaw's house waiting for the Thanksgiving turkeys (yes, plural)  to come out of the oven.

Those ladies made it seem effortless, this whole "hospitality" thing. They enjoyed it. And they didn't seem to stress over the idea of welcoming 2 or 20 people into their home on a moment's notice.

Of course, neither of them had ever seen Martha Stewart's idea of casual entertaining, either.

Part of the plan in moving to this house was to be able to invite interested families over to hear more about the work in Nepal. The two minute synopsis delivered in the church hallway with a hungry toddler asking for lunch is great and all, but really lacks the full depth of intimacy, know what I mean? We had known for a while that we'd have more of an impact if we could talk-- really talk-- to people about the need, the call, and the plan. But our old house lacked any real gathering area and barely fit my own family around the dining room table, let alone a few more.

So we moved here. And we threw open the doors. And voila--I confronted my worst fears and became a reluctant, regular hostess.

Up until now, I've really stressed over having people over. I mean, the Martha Stewart comment is funny and all, but yeah ... I seriously have always looked at my surroundings and figured that no one would really want to spend an entire evening eating off the plates Logan chipped getting out of the dishwasher, or sitting near the pillows Oli uses as blocks half the day. 

And before you ask, no, I don't judge other people's houses that way. Not at all. It's a total double standard, and I know it. But I've never been able to shake it.

Well, until now.

Out of necessity, I've embraced the life that my grandmother and mom lived with such ease. And yes, the more I do it, the easier it's becoming. In seven weeks of living here, we've had 9 families come through-- not counting Benny's people because really, I'd invite them over in my pjs for breakfast any old day.

Aside from the fact that this introvert is being dragged, kicking and screaming, from her happy shell, it hasn't been bad. In case there are any other reluctant hostesses out there, I offer these tips for cutting down on the stress and upping the "I can do this" factor.

1. Have the right tools. No, you don't need special stuff, but I quickly figured out that a few investments paid off. A thermal coffee carafe. A glass beverage dispenser. A Costco pack of napkins, paper cups. Sharpies (for labeling said cups). And an entire extra set of Ikea dishes and silverware on the cheap.

2. Make a hosting checklist. In the past, I kept a running checklist of the stuff that needed to get done before the place was presentable, and it was all jumbled in my mind with food prep and anything else that I wanted to accomplish. Simply typing up a basic list (clean main bathroom, vacuum main areas, scoop dog poop in back yard, etc.), laminating it, and posting it has been a lifesaver. The kids pick a job and do it, freeing me from handing out duties, worrying over it getting done, or, worse yet, frantically scrubbing a toilet as someone rings my doorbell.

3. Keep it up. The house, that is. Hosting people has been a huge incentive to make sure that the little stuff doesn't become big stuff. I always fought to keep my kitchen counters clear. No more. Knowing that someone is likely to be hitting the door in 24 hours or less is a big reason to take the time to not let that stack of papers get too cozy on the corner. 

4. Make a hospitality menu. We quickly figured out a handful of sure-fire meals to rotate through, along with some tried-and-true but still yummy desserts. I printed these off, stuck them in the front of my main recipe binder, and use these as my go-to to keep things simple. Hint: one of the best meals we've found is a taco bar that uses my crockpot to make the main filling. Can it get an easier?

5. Pick a time, and make that the time. I have purposefully asked everyone coming by if 4 p.m. is an o.k. arrival time on a weekend. Weeknights has been 5 p.m. Why? I know that those are doable schedule-wise for us, and I don't have to stress out over mixing up the time, because it's always the same.

6. Make it fun. This is the biggest tip I can possibly offer you. In the past, I admit that entertaining was zero fun for my kids. I stressed out over the even for days, tried to do everything myself, and was probably a Wicked Witch the entire day leading up to the arrival of our friends. Reading several books on hospitality helped me to see this as damaging, and I was convicted that I was putting effort into a show of false appearances. Ouch. Stepping back, letting go, and just being real has made this entire process-- dare I say it-- enjoyable. For all of us. Go figure!

I never in a million years dreamed that I would be in a place where having three events in my home in three days would seem not only reasonable, but actually fun. Yet, that's where I am sitting right now. God has changed my heart, given me new eyes, and allowed me to take the blessings He's given me and use them to bless others. Who knew I'd actually enjoy it?

Making home

Our lives are in boxes. Small boxes, big boxes. Sealed cardboard containers full of both the important (baby books) and mundane (cheese grater). The things that make a life a life.

Our days are currently spent opening boxes and finding homes for the essentials. We've purposed to keep some boxes sealed-- the idea being that at the end of our stay here, we may find ourselves less inclined to label these unopened time capsules "must haves" and be more likely to part with them as we book plane tickets to Nepal. Still, the supply of boxes that must be opened and sorted seems endless. 

Even pared down, even after ruthlessly purging, even after having sent bags upon bags to Goodwill, friends, and neighbors ...

We have a lot of stuff.

So we open boxes. Put towels in drawers. Hang photos on walls.  Stack puzzles on shelves.

We make home.

The first few days here, in this cavernous, mid-century home, I felt like an intruder. A visitor comes and goes. But an intruder takes away from the space, violates it. Seeing my sewing machine claim real estate, sitting at my humble kitchen table ... all of it was wrong and unknown and somehow seemed an affront to this house, in this neighborhood, in this city. 

This is not a place we would have chosen to land. The house is more than double the size of our previous one. The style of it is all wrong for us. Our neighbors are all elderly. No one gardens anything but flowers. Well-manicured flowers. The kind that bloom with the sole purpose of being immediately cut and plunked in a vase on a coffee table.

Have I ever mentioned that we don't actually own a coffee table?

But I digress. 

Here I am, adding bits of me--of us-- to this place. Claiming it, one step at a time. Finding my footing. Embracing the here and now. Letting the foreign, unsettledness of it fade and a new ease with my norm seat itself.

This morning, as we sat at breakfast, eagle-eyed Logan peered out the open French doors. In a shot, he was up, pushing the littles along with him, shouting for Seven to grab her magnifying glass. I admit that I was irritated. There is so much to get done today, I grinched. Can't we just get through breakfast so that you guys can go off and play and I can maybe, just maybe, get this kitchen totally set right?

But the kids were too fast for me, and before I could open my mouth to berate them ("You didn't ask to be excused!") I was hearing squeals of delight. Mani came racing back in, face already flushed, voice high and thin in his excitement.

"Spiders! Four spiders making webs right out there!"

I handed Reuven off to Jo (whose interest in spiders falls somewhere between "pour bleach in my eyes" and "I could vomit right now") and followed Mani out to the deck. As advertised, four small spiders were working industriously to fill in the frames of perfect, empty webs. Each went about his or her work, oblivious to all of the eyes observing, not to mention the exclamations.

"Look at how fast they work!"

"I can see his spinnerets!"

"How do they measure it all so perfectly?"

It was Seven who finally tugged me down to peer through her oversized magnifying glass and fully appreciate the beauty of the find. She waxed poetic on the sheer joy the spider must have in making something so fabulous. Then, thoughtfully, she puckered her sweet little lips and asked the most obvious question, as only an almost-three year-old can.

"Why do the spiders make the webs, Momma?"

And I had to answer her with the only truth I know, the only thing I have to cling to right now amidst these boxes and upturned schedules.

"It's their home, baby. They make them because it's their home."

"Oh!" she clapped, going up on her tip toes and shivering with that contagious, little girl joy. "They make them for their families!"

And this is how God used four spiders, an interrupted breakfast, and a precocious preschooler to remind me that while my eyes are cast ahead, following a greater, long-term goal, I must do this thing here, before me with as much enthusiasm. Why? Because it is my home. And it is for my family.

Yes, we're in

Things have been a little ....


chaotic

unexpected

unsettled

crazy.

But we're here, in our new home-for-now. Welcome to Whale House!

Growing

With each of my children, the time they have spent in our bed and, later, in a crib, has gotten longer and longer. Jo was ushered into a toddler bed at just 16 months old-- a combination of her Hudini escape abilities, the unforgiving nature of our ancient hardwood floor, and my desire to see her easing into the sweet little bed I'd been gifted by my cousin. The following children followed a similar trend, with a few months tacked on each season. Truth is, I just appreciate the sweet baby days now more than I did  in my early days of mothering. Yes-- there is so much goodness coming as the milestones are reached ... but, oh ... how precious are these moments here, now? 

As a result, Mani was two and a half when he graduated from the same crib each of his siblings has occupied straight to a big boy bunk. And Seven? Well ...

Seven is three months shy of her third birthday. And she's been pottying like a big girl for a year now. So, really, it was time.

Working together, Mr. Blandings, Atticus, and Logan made this bed. Part school project, part needed thing ... homeschool happiness!

With life being what it is right now, it took forever to get the project to completion. But finally, it was ready. I took Seven and Reuven to the library so that it could have its final assembly in secret. We returned home to the grand unveiling.

Funny how Seven didn't even notice that her beloved crib was in pieces and sitting in the hallway. Or that the animals she likes to enjoy rest time with were scattered on the floor. (Big no-no in her world!) Instead, she made a beeline for that girly white, four postered little bed.

The menfolk were rewarded with a, shall we say, exuberant reception. Atticus even recorded it for posterity's sake. He is a sucker for that baby sister, I tell you.

After noting that her special elephant quilt from Nepal was neatly folded atop her new bed, Seven showed us how big girls get into bed without being lifted.

Then Dolly-Baby joined her and, of course, she hasn't looked back. Because while I wasn't quite ready to admit that she's not a babybaby anymore, she most certainly is. She's happily transitioned to her new bed without a hitch. 

Another milestone. 

One step at a time

Jo, the baby whisperer.

Of course, she's been reaching for adulthood since she took her first step. Since she said her first word. Since she took her first breath.

But tomorrow, the footprints get a little bit clearer on the path God marked "Jo" before time began.

Tomorrow, she begins training to become a birth doula, with an eye towards serving as a midwife.

Oh, delicious irony: my least worn child, the one who slept in a crib in another room at 4 weeks, the baby I abruptly weaned at 13 months, my disposable diaper wearing, ramen munching baby ... a doula.

For so many years, it was animals, animals, animals. And then, one day, all of that sweetness and nurturing just clicked over. The dream of being a vet slowly receded, and in its place there was this: the simple desire to be part of the beautiful, amazing process of birth. The desire to comfort and assist. The desire to witness life's first breath.

And so, tomorrow, she begins. One more step ...

Change #4--Revealed

Change #3--daughters, renumbered

Above is a photo of Bee, the delightful, charming, wistful girl who we've sponsored through friends for the past four years. This spirited child absolutely captured Mr. Blandings' heart during his most recent trip to Asia; it was their first face-to-face meeting, and one that caught both of them off-guard with its ease and power. Bee is an orphan of perhaps the most tragic kind. As usual, I won't share the full story; it belongs to Bee, and will stay that way.

Despite the odds being overwhelmingly not in our favor, we have chosen to follow our hearts and pursue adding Bee to our family. After all, God doesn't play odds ... He makes them. And that's all the assurance I need.

Which leads us to change #4, of course.

Change #2--Food, redefined

If you've read this blog for any length of time, you know that when Oli joined our family in February of 2008, we found ourselves thrust into new territory on many levels. One of them that I don't often mention is FOOD.

Priorities had to be set when Oliver came. Among the many ailments he suffered from: constant diarrhea, chronic ear infections, a wet cough, perpetual green runny nose, no growth, developmental delays, not walking and projectile vomiting. The poor boy--at 14 months of age-- had suffered from more infections (particularly in his ears) than you could shake a stick at. I knew this, and was prepared to deal with such. After all, Jo had been through a year of nasty ear infections beginning right after her weaning, and I had learned a trick or two. I wasn't even shocked when our pediatrician put down her otoscope during his intake exam and told me, "This poor kid's ears a full of what looks like snot." Yum! I thought. How visual and yet ... disturbing.

So getting rid of the ear infections rose to slot number one in our quest to prioritize getting Oli's little body in order.

On a hunch borne of a far gentler experience, we suggested pulling dairy from Oliver's diet. He was on whole milk at the time and clearly was not thriving. Our pediatrician agreed, and suggested that rather than simply moving him to soy or another substitute milk, we keep him on soy formula until his second birthday. The calories could only help, she reasoned. And so, armed with this battle plan, we went forward.

Within two days, it was clear that the enemy was on the run. Oliver did not projectile vomit after each bottle now. Instead, he spit up slightly, which we were more than willing to accept. A month or so later, his pediatrician offered another suggestion after digging deeper into his medical history: let's pull rice and see how he does. Sure, we said. Why not?

For six months, Oliver was dairy- and rice-free. And he did much, much better. His ear infection stopped cold (he hasn't had once since he's been in our care, actually). His nose cleared up. His nagging cough disappeared. And the puking was finally gone.

We were elated. After all, it is much, much easier to focus on the bigger issues in life (like walking) when you are no longer worried about a baby who can't keep anything in his stomach.

But here we are now, 18 months further on. And Oliver still has chronic diarrhea. And he's still not growing. And nothing seems to help.

Enter a whole new round of food examinations. Under the microscope this time: wheat and gluten.

Oliver, it seems, fits the bill of celiac disease to a T. A quick search of some legit groups on the web suggests that our boy is most likely dealing with something a little bigger than dairy, and quite probably a life-long issue with a pretty basic food element.

I called our helpful pediatrician and was encouraged to begin a wheat- and gluten-free diet and see how he responded. Because of the hoops that must be jumped through to order even a simple blood test on a child whose biological mother is fighting termination, the doctor felt she could stamp such a test request "medical necessity" and opt out of the hoops if Oliver showed improvement on the diet. Dontcha' love docs who know how to finesse The System?

As of yesterday, our kitchen counter resembled (more than usual) the natural foods section of our local grocery chain. We've got some bread tagged "brown rice loaf" snuggled up next to a box of "Gluten free baking bix" and--Mr. Blanding's treat to his special boy--a bag of dairy-free, soy-free, gluten-free chocolate chips. That last item was a total "I'm a sucker dad" buy, and when I teased Mr. Blandings about it, he stuck out his lower lip and shared that he can't imagine being two and not getting to try the yummy chocolate chip muffins your Momma puts on the table on Saturday morning. Sorry, ladies. He's not available. :-)

Benny was kind enough to loan me her library of wf/gf cookbooks, so I'm wading into the world of cooking like I've never cooked before. I admit that it's a little intimidating. I've always felt cautious about food allergy stuff because--let me be utterly honest here--I know far too many wonderful people who have made dietary issues their god. They are consumed by what they can and cannot have, and their daily lives are defined by this thing that takes on more and more significance the farther into it they swim. It becomes a control issue, rather than a relief-filled prescription for freedom from illness, pain or suffering. And it snowballs. There's a boogeyman of a food around every corner for some folks. Wheat is the devil. Don't eat soy. Stay away from this. You eat that?!?

And I just don't want to go there.

But for Oli, I will find a way to strike the balance between helping him be healthy and micromanaging. I will redefine how I cook, and why I make certain dishes in particular ways. I will praise God that our diet is already largely based in the food groups that are most friendly to his tummy (beans, rice and fresh veggies). I'll morph around the new parameters set before me as I walk into my kitchen. I will invest time from somewhere in my day into learning this new set of skills.

And I'll make wheat-free, gluten-free, dairy-free, soy-free chocolate chip muffins. Because I love that boy. :-)

Change #1--Homeschool, reconsidered

This time last year, I found myself grappling with an issue that is familiar to a good number of homeschoolers who have two or more children: how on earth do I keep myself sane and still meet everyone's needs?

From the beginning of our homeschooling adventure, I've kept all three of the older kids combined in what I consider general studies: science, history, read-alouds and the like. Individual subjects that are skill-dependent (think math and Language Arts) are pursued separately.

This always worked very well for us. In addition to keeping my time commitment to homeschooling manageable, it served a greater purpose: my children were always on the same page when it came to new topics of interest. Everyone's studying Rome? Guess what all three kids are suddenly playing? We just learned about carnivorous plants? Everyone's thrilled when we spot a display of Venus flytraps for sale in our local hardware store.

This to me has been one of the most precious aspects of homeschooling, and one that I've sought to preserve for as long as possible. As a woman who grew up with only one brother seven years removed from my own experiences, a common thread between siblings is invaluable to me. I admit that the ability to group my three children (despite their 4 year age span) into one topic was one of the most alluring aspects when my family chose Sonlight way back in April of 2002. Over the years, we had advanced through the Cores (starting with K) happily, our little knot enjoying tales of Vikings, the invention of the elevator and a long sob with more than a a few missionary friends. We did it all together. We learned, and we grew, and life was rich.

But last year, I could no longer ignore a few simple truths that were staring me in the face. First and foremost: our family was no longer little. Not in physical age, nor in numerical standings. Five children now rounded out our clan, and their needs were as vast as the 11 years over which their birthdates were sprinkled. Second was the fact that we were a growing family. And I do mean growing--in many senses of the word. Yes, we were open to adding more souls to our brood. But more than that, the seven people that already comprised our unit were expanding in terms of skills, interests, intellect and desire. We had a new walker and a middle schooler, for Pete's sake!

It had always sat in the back of my mind that eventually, I would have to "split the kids off." To me, that meant allowing Jo to go on to the next Core, while grouping Atticus and Logan in another--hopefully corresponding--Sonlight Core. Maybe, I thought, it's time to do that. Maybe Jo goes on to Core 5 and the boys go back to Core K? That didn't feel quite right. A first grader in Core K is quite doable. A third grader who has already devoured the entire Brian Jacques Redwall catalog and considers "The Hobbit" light reading? Not so much. What to do?

I prayed and I pondered. I looked to Mr. Blandings for advice. He suggested that we look elsewhere for a year, perhaps traipse over to WinterPromise and see how their Sea and Sky program was coming along. I researched and prayed some more.

But in the end, I felt this in my heart: one more year. One last year where everyone is lock-step and in sync. One more year of, "Let's play that book we just read." One more year of just one set of read-alouds. One more year of just one Core.

Mr. Blandings agreed, and indeed, it worked great. A little tinkering and modification here and there (for example, the read-alouds were far too mature for Logan) and voila! Together, we studied Eastern Hempisheres. And I relished it, because I knew that this was the last time we'd ever be the "little" family doing things "the old way."

As you can see, then, I came to the end of Core 5 with a sense of having completed a journey. Little did I know that I was right in more ways than one.

I took up my school planning in early July, as I always do. I began the process of researching how other people had accomplished what I was now setting out to do: educate three kids using a combination of Sonlight Cores 6 and 1. Jo, I knew, would be fully Core 6. Logan would be fully Core 1. And Atticus, I figured, would float somewhere in the middle with a leaning towards the upper Core. Easy enough, right?

Well ... wrong.

It took less than two weeks of sorting through books to realize that I had a pretty big problem on my hands. Jo has already read more than 80% of the books included in Core 6. Readers, read-alouds ... all of them. Remember how I've alluded to the fact that I supplement readers quite heavily due to the sheer volume of books that my older two consume? That's not the half of it. Not only had I inadvertently selected many of the titles for her a couple of years back, but she had been happily bringing them home from the library since she got her own card. On top of that, she has been listening to Story of the World on cd during long car rides since she was 6. She can recite, verbatim, huge chunks of Jim Weiss' dialogue just for kicks; it's one of the little in-jokes that our family, being nerds, finds amusing. And did I mention that the Usborne Encyclopedia used in Core 6 has been casual bedtime reading among Jo, Atticus and even Logan for a couple of years now?

You see my problem here? My kid had already done Core 6 ... without an Instructor's Guide.

So, what to do? And, back to my original question--how on earth do I keep myself sane and still meet everyone's needs? Because while I'd love to be one of those enterprising moms who writes her own curricula from scratch, I know that I'd miss the things I'd have to give up in order to accomplish that: namely, my writing, which is an integral part of that "keeping myself sane" bit.

Step one to solving the dilemma was talking to Mr. Blandings. Can I just say how much I love having a husband who is totally on board when it comes to being a homeschooling dad? He listens, he recommends ... he even googles things for himself! Got to love that in a guy! Anyhow, Mr. Blandings agreed that we were in a Sonlight pickle. His idea? Talk to Jo and see what she wanted to do. Maybe, he suggested, she'd want to go ahead and do the Core anyhow. Or maybe she'd give us clues as to what else she'd rather us look into for her.

So one night, after all of the boys were in bed, we pulled Jo from her reading and posed a simple question over a pile of homeschooling catalogs: "What do you want to learn next year?"

Her reaction was neither immediate nor rash. But it was firm.

"I don't want to read books about people who witnessed thing happening. I like to do that on my own time. I want to read the real thing. No more 'Johnny was an apprentice for so-and-so.' I want to read the actual classics. Plutarch. That kind of thing. Can I do that?"

Mr. Blandings and I considered one another for a moment. Could we do that? Then we considered our daughter. Could she do that?

We sent her back to her book upstairs and sat in silence for a long minute, considering the innocence of Story of the World and Usborne encyclopedias.

"Do you think we should let her?" Mr. Blandings asked.

"I don't know. I mean ... I read that in college. And it takes a lot of work. Not to mention the themes in some of that stuff ..." I shrugged. Isn't this what we've been trying to save her from? I wondered. The really overwhelming stuff that kills your desire to learn?

We closed the night in prayer and walked away feeling uneasy, like adult fish transplanted to a newer, bigger pond without warning.

Mr. Blandings and I struggled and prayed for over a week. We went back and forth about the wisdom of such an education for our daughter, and about what a 7th grader could possibly get out of the texts we consider "the deep end of the ocean" type reading.

And finally, we settled on this: let's call it a grand experiment. Let's see where this goes. Jo, you want to read the great works of Western civilization? Sure. Go for it. Let's see if you can swim in that water, babe.

We ordered the Omnibus 1 guide from Veritas Press and have set her loose. And Jo, for her part, is thrilled to be knee-deep in an RC Sproul tome on predestination theology with her dad. Mr. Blandings has joked more than once that Sonlight clearly has succeeded in creating a great thinker with a thirst for knowledge out of at least one of our children. "If you give a kid Sonlight," he says, echoing one of our favorite children's books, "chances are, they're going to want Antigone."


So this is where we've landed--at least in part--this year. What I see developing before me is a far cry from the cozy read-alouds I had imagined, or the build-your-own pyramid building spree I was planning. But ultimately, isn't this what homeschooling is all about? Giving them wings to consider life outside of the nest? Encouraging what looks like the impossible? Asking ... and listening to what God speaks into their hearts in this season?

This school year isn't shaping up to be like anything I would have planned. But it feels right. In a year that will no doubt be defined by flux, this first change is one that I can embrace and watch blossom with joy.

Big

Life is a swirl right now.

Everything I thought I knew has been upended. No ceremony. No applause. No preparation.

I wake up some mornings and wonder whose life I'm living. Because certainly, it is not the one I knew five weeks ago.

Change never comes slow and even into my family. Nope. We are the people who blink and find ourselves in Narnia, whisked from the commonplace and into the extraordinary at the will of Aslan, not by our own doing.

And so it is good. Change--even monumental change--and the upheaval it brings with it, is good. There is nothing so displeasing to the eye of one searching for beauty as a pond left to stagnate, its waters starved of oxygen and its quiet surface flecked with algae growth. This is not my life. My life is swimming with and life and metamorphosis. My life is bustling with transformation and brimming with new growth.

So hang on tight, dear readers. Change is, most definitely, ahead.

Where's the tragedy?

I woke up this morning and felt like I had finally snapped back to my senses after being knocked off my horse earlier this week.

Yes, my husband's job is set to expire like a jug of rancid milk on December 31.

Yes, there's a chance that a by-the-book social worker might decide to relocate the two precious little boys who I consider my sons.

But really ... seriously ... life is good, people.

There's a whole list of things that have roots in my heart; permanent, life-long sureties that I will bank on into eternity. As the song says, they can't take that away from me.

Among the blessings I am counting as Thanksgiving looms:

• Logan, age six and a half, who still reminds me every morning that our one-on-one cuddle time is the one thing that he looks forwards to more than anything.
• Posing five wiggly little people for their first-ever sibling photo shoot. The look in Atticus' eyes when I asked if he wanted to hold Manolin. Logan skirting the edges, hamming it up. Oliver refusing the smile, but flashing his biggest, goofiest grin ever when Jo whispered "choo-choo" in his ear.
• Leaning into the warm, perfectly me-shaped space against my hubby's chest on the night the news came down and hearing him sigh, "Man, it's a good thing I got over that manly 'defining yourself by what you do for a living thing,' huh?"
• Having to take off my glasses when I bathe Oliver because the boy splashes just that little bit too much.
• Being able to pick up the phone and hear Benny's sweet, always-there-for-you voice.
• Waking up at four a.m. and knowing that there's a baby (a baby, thank you Jesus!) sleeping not five feet from my bed.
• Having a hardened social worker with a chip on her should compliment me by saying that my home is among one of the most peaceful she's ever visited.
• The sensitive spirit of my Atticus, who sat on my lap last night and told me that if I got any more beautiful, he would have to hide me away.
• A confidence that this life is by no means anything but a dress rehearsal for an everlasting party with my Savior.
• Jo's absolute selflessness when it comes to being available for a nonverbal, developmentally delayed almost two year-old who demands of her time and only offers giggles and more demands in trade for her love.
• Introducing wriggly, smiling Manolin to rice cereal ... and watching him spit it right back out in disgust.

• An email from my cousin reminding me that this, too, shall pass.
  

A person who can come up with a list even half that long has no business asking for more. So consider me officially off the navel gazing wagon. Life is just too good to bemoan the growing pains as God works out His plan.

Humbled, again

I am simply in awe at the outpouring of prayer and encouragement that has flowed my way in just 24 hours.

Most amazing to me is the fact that God never fails to stir reaction in the hearts of others when I need to hear from Him most of all. Scripture, hugs of both the flesh and cyber varieties, and notes of sympathy have fallen on my heart with the cadence they would assume if I was hearing from my Father Himself.

This is the beauty of community in Christ, is it not?

So thank you to everyone who has commented, written and called. You have made a terrible blow that much less crippling.

I also wanted to pass along a comment made by our social worker:

"Work in the stock room at Lowe's if you have to, but whatever you do, don't be unemployed."

This was what she had to say after reading the newspaper story published this a.m. regarding my husband's position being cut. Yes, folks, there's nothing that makes a man stand quite as tall as having a newspaper story publicize the fact that you'll be unemployed come the new year.

We will be heeding her advice, by the way. No one is prying these babies from my arms that easily.

The other shoe

...has dropped.

Dh will be unemployed as of January 1.

Hard to think about much else, so forgive me if my blogging sinks to an all-time low in terms of both quality and quantity.

I will be utterly transparent and admit that I care about not much else right now, here, in the moment, TODAY other than making sure that this sudden development in no way interferes with adopting Oliver and Manolin. All else pales in comparison, as you can probably imagine.

We will survive. We will move forward. God WILL provide.

I just pray that the provision includes the two little men I've come to love so deeply.

Tell me again how this one goes?

My hardest year of homeschooling was 2003-2004. Jo was a big first-grader: reading like a whiz, tackling science like a pro and antsy to get her hands on some "real writing" (that would be cursive to the rest of us). I felt a massive burden to be all things to this little beacon of academic brightness: the teacher she deserved, the mommy she needed and the cheerleader she looked to for support.

Shouldering the responsibility of my own expectations was hard enough ... never mind the preschooler and toddler I had hiding under that SuperMom cape.

Atticus was three and Logan was one that year, and they were into all kinds of craziness. While I loved--relished, even--the activities that left my kitchen floor covered in soapy bubbles and an entire bookshelf dumped onto the living room floor, the fact was that I struggled to mesh teaching and parenting.

Of course, that season came to an end. Jo learned far more than I ever even attempted to teach her. Atticus somehow started reading three-letter words. And Logan--left to his own devices for larger chunks of time than I ever allowed Jo--discovered that his voice is best expressed with paint, a brush and liberal quantities of paper. It was a good thing, this frantic period of being all things to three small people.


I'm drawing on this knowledge again as I learn to balance life with five children whose needs range from warm bottles every three hours to sensitive counseling about the signs of impending menstruation. If it was that productive last time, surely, God will use it again, I tell myself as I let Mr. Demme carry the bulk of the math tutoring and head back to the laundry room to throw yet another load of diapers into the dryer.

In God's economy nothing--not even a season best labeled "how on earth am I supposed to do this well?"--is wasted. This time of clicking pieces into place will serve my family in ways that I can not even begin to imagine. Already, I'm getting flashes of the maturity and selflessness that is being built in the hearts of my oldest three children. I'm watching as I let little things that I've held onto slip through my fingers with the new found perspective of someone who once again has lost the luxury of micromanaging. Jo, Atticus and Logan are rising to the occasion ... just as Jo did in first grade, when her well-intentioned mother only managed to follow through on about half of her goals.

Is that your plan, Lord? Is this less about me and more about them?

One day, I'll figure it out. In the meantime, I'll keep trying to comb my memory banks for exactly how you manage to get a full chapter's worth of reading done when there are diapers to change and noses to wipe. It'll come to me. Just like riding a bike, right?

Apples

We've been making applesauce all weekend. This is one of my favorite fall traditions--one I carried with me from my early years of budding domesticity back in NC and GA. It has taken on a whole new shine in the NW, what with it actually looking like autumn outside rather than just smelling like it in my kitchen.

Jo was just a wee thing when I first started buying apples by the box. I would painstakingly core and peel and slice while she took turns making off with apple chunks, watching me work and cavorting in discarded peels. Oh, she was an absolute cherub back then. Cheeks stuffed full-to-bursting with apples. Big blue eyes peeking out under her favorite floppy hat. The constant barrage of requests to "Help yooooooo, Momma!" I remember it as a warm and fuzzy time--one of those seasons that comes back to you bathed in the glow of soft-focus lighting and set to the strains of Israel Kamakawiwo'ole's version of "Somewhere Over the Rainbow."

As my family grew, the tradition changed. Sure, there was always applesauce. But a whole box of apples? The options were endless! Apple printing. Apple dolls. Dried apple rings. And, of course, more apple themed unit studies and worksheets than you can shake a depleted printer cartridge at. The entire process of making yummy applesauce was little more than garnish on the main dish of our apple-themed fun.

I am not sure when we left the crafty appling time behind. It wasn't conscious, I know that much. I'd still love to sneak in a few hours here and there to give Logan more time to explore the finer points of being six years old. To bask in in-depth studies that require field trips. Baking projects. Crafts that will litter my kitchen counters. But it never seems to happen--and it's not just apples. It's all of that fun, little guy stuff that requires glue, pipe cleaners and loads of time for set-up and clean-up.

Realizing that I've stepped out of the world of preschool fun can sadden me. Even knowing that I will doubtless find myself back on the 3 year-old Sunday School rotation before I know it does little to quell the mourning that washes over me from time to time as I ponder a life without Jo, Atticus and Logan poking black threads of licorice into the domes of apples that have been sliced to look like ladybugs. I am the mother of some older kids, I have to remind myself. I have to grow with them.

And grow we have.

This year's applesauce season has been remarkably different than those that have gone before. First and foremost is the fact that I have done very, very little of the actual making of the applesauce. My three older children have cheerily--chirpily, even--taken over the manning of our handy apple corer/peeler/slicer. Armed with the mental capacity to plan and execute such a task in logical increments, they have created an assembly line that begins at with a brisk scrub in the sink, advances with the peeler/slicer and ends with a quick chop that lands the apple in the crock pot. They've become so efficient that our crock pot has been grinding out three batches of sauce per day. I've taken over the canning end of the deal but have left the rest to the newly-minted experts.

Watching them work is nothing like those early days of sitting on a ladder-backed chair in my rented kitchen, holding a big metal bowl full of apples between my knees and watching Jo twirl fruit rings on her chubby fingers. This is something different. A silly, ribbing teamwork of siblings who know each other's habits and talents in greater detail than I ever hoped for. Seeing the stair-stepped heads of my older children at the counter, watching their shoulders bump and jostle, hearing them laugh ... my heart could burst. When this memory comes back to me, I hope it comes with a pink blush for lighting and "These Are Days" for a soundtrack. I hope it comes often.

No one has asked about apple blossoms, bees or the star inside the apple this year. No one has counted the number of twists to pop the stem. No one has asked to dry seeds. But, between giggles and bad jokes, they have asked about apple butter. What is it? What does it taste like? Can we make some?

Perhaps there is still something about my favorite fall fruit I can teach them ... like my Mamaw's indescribably good recipe for apple butter, which I've never had cause to pass on. I wonder what memories that could inspire?

New computer

I can't wait! Sometime next week, my new


will arrive, complete with a FREE



Yes, I got red. What can I say? I'm a sucker for freebies, and am now hooked on the whole iPod thing, thanks to my YMCA workout time.

Remembering

Two anniversaries down, one to go. And, yes, I'm still thinking about "that."

My grief and sense of loss has extended past the parameter of the accepted societal norm. Apparently, the shelf-life for sadness over miscarried babies is about a year. Anything beyond that is somewhat self-indulgent and really ought not to be acknowledged. Or at least this is what I gather from the way most people gloss over any mention I make of my loss and charge right on ahead with Topics of General Interest. (Usually of their own general interest, mind you.) No one told me that this would happen. No matter--if they had, I wouldn't have believed them.

I am blessed to have one friend (that would be you, Sarah) who still remembers that amazingly blessed Christmas of 2005 and that cripplingly awful January of 2006. Of course, ours is a bond that was forged in the fires of her own loss just weeks before. I guess those kinds of ties just knot tighter, somehow. Sarah is the one who is not afraid to close an email with a mention of the names we have given our missing children. She remembers ... where so many others can not or will not.

There are others in my life who watch helplessly as I bottom out on these anniversaries. Some seem to not connect A with B; they don't seem to realize that though I carry the weight of two years of mourning with a relative sense of peace through most days, there are other times when the burden makes any joy seem like a dim, elusive prospect that can never be as bright as it should have been to me. There are empty places at the table! I want to shout at them. But I realize that this would only come across as selfish. After all, my loss is not theirs. Their lives have gone on, just as mine has.

My husband--who has distanced himself from the pain in that typical manly fashion that allows for some long, retrospective glances without too much emotional involvement--sees me hurting and wants to help. He is gentle and careful of my heart during this time, especially, and I thank him for that. Even though he is not still grieving with me, he is more than willing to acknowledge--with words even!--that our family will not be complete this side of heaven.

Honestly, it's the lack of words that makes this remembering hardest. Two years later, there are so few people who can actually bring themselves to say, "I am so sorry that your baby died." I suppose it is too uncomfortable. They are probably just thinking that it would hurt me or, worse yet, send me off the deep end they fear I am already teetering on. Their hesitancy tells me that it would be completely inappropriate for me to ponder aloud what our Christmas card photo would have looked like this year, let alone give voice to how hard it is to see any and all children in the range of 18 mos. right now.

I walk through these anniversaries with awe at the depth of loss one person can feel when there are so many other brilliantly bright spots in their life. Am I depressed? I can honestly answer no to that question. I have been depressed and this most certainly is not what it feels like. There is no black hole threatening to swallow me, no darkness that light cannot pierce. I feel the Lord alongside me as I journey through the shadow of this remembering, and I reach out for His comfort when the sadness threatens to steal my peace. And there is peace here. It's a peace of knowing that some day, I will gather my entire family in heaven and see all my children dancing together. What I feel in the here and now is the loss of a dream that slipped from my fingertips, of a future not planned, and of a mother's heart bruised and battered, but not fully broken.

I guess that December and January will always give me pause. I will never again see December 12 on a calendar and not think of the positive pregnancy test in my upstairs bathroom, or the impromptu trip to the sporting goods store to buy the arrow I wrapped to signify my husband's growing quiver. I will never sit amongst the discarded wrapping paper on Christmas morning and not recall the pregnancy countdown calendar that I so carefully created for my children to both announce our news and to help them understand exactly when our family would expand, or the tears of joy Jo shed. And I will never celebrate Epiphany without remembering how far my emotional pain overshadowed my intense physical pain, or how startled I was to be saying goodbye so soon.

Perhaps I should be thankful that I have these precious few memories just to myself, and that I can feel their joy mingled with sadness on my own terms. Perhaps if someone else tried to comfort me, I would find myself saying, "It's o.k." or, worse, assuring them that they are o.k. There are worse things, in my opinion, than being forgotten--such as being fake.

So excuse me if I use this blog to muse over the raw spots that are too unseemly for the public at large. And pardon me if I revisit old hurts from time to time. While the official expiration date for my grief has passed, the feeling of loss itself has not. And I have to have a safe place to show all my bruised spots and tears.

End of an era

As of tomorrow, my husband will no longer be a member of the media.

This is a very strange notion to me because the man has been a reporter longer than he has been my husband. His first newspaper job was at a tiny little publication run by a hard-working staff of about ten folks who literally did everything from running the presses to writing the ad copy. It was the money from that first job that bought my engagement ring. Over the years, he steadily moved up the newspaper food chain, finally landing his current spot five years ago. When we moved here, this was to be just one more rung on the ladder; two years, and we'd be moving on to bigger and better yet again, we thought.

And here we are half a decade later ... putting down the closest thing to roots that our family has ever had. By the time Jo was five and a half, she had called five different places (and three states) home. In comparison, Logan took his first steps in this house. He has slept in the same bedroom since shortly before his first birthday. I never dreamed of this kind of stability from my journalist husband.

A new venture for him means no new adventures for us--not for a while at least. He is leaving behind the media job and striking out into the unknown territory of public relations for a rather ambitious, successful young political hot shot. He's a little nervous as to what this means but, hey, it has to be better than the last three years or so of reporting. Frankly, I'm a little nervous, too. I've never stayed put for so long before. What if my ever-present shadow of homesickness threatens to overtake me? What if I get bored of the landscape? What if my children decide once and for all that they are Washingtonians?

I don't know what the next few years will look like. Heck, I don't know what the next few weeks will look like. But looking back, I had no idea what the future would hold when I accepted that .25 karat diamond from a man making $14,000 a year, either. All I knew was that I loved him, and that the joy of being together was worth whatever it took to make sure his was the face I saw every morning when I woke up. I still feel that way... with or without the title "staff writer."

Part 2: Stealing Space

From its humble beginnings as a garage, my family's school room took shape. In an earlier post, I shared photos of the what we moved in to in late August of 2006--a 9x11 room with unfinished walls, lined with books, a wicker couch and my children's let's-pretend-we're-in-school desks.

A lot of people asked me if being in that unfinished room bugged me. Truthfully, no. Moving in and actually doing school in the space before it was completed gave me the unique opportunity to finish the room according to how we used the space--not how I thought we would use the space.

Case in point: my plan had been to add a hinged table-top to one wall. The table, when set up, would act as a community workspace, and could be lowered for times when we needed the floor space. Sounds great, doesn't it? Well, in my mind's eye, it would have been. But what wasn't taken into account in that plan was how strong my children's affinity for those desks they occupy actually is. (Can you tell that desks are a bit of a homeschooling killjoy for me?) My children adore their desks. They love their own individual little work areas. And the idea of a group table is absolutely repugnant to them. Really.

I also hadn't foreseen the need for as much extra light as we ended up using. Having no windows, our school room can get mighty dark. A friend swapped out the old hanging lightbulb that had been the only light source, installing a wonderful, large fixture that made the whole place glow. But as it turned out, we like to switch on our ambient floor lamp, too. :-)

Here are Jo and Logan's desks today:

Another thing I thought would be vital is the white board you see hanging here above our little art shelf. It is used probably twice a week--and usually not by me. Atticus likes to practice his Greek vocabulary on it, and Logan gets a kick out of spelling new words where he can wipe them away easily. Good thing I didn't break the bank for it. :-) (The tall boxes you see there are Ikea shelves waiting to be put up, by the way.)


Another adaptation was putting up a timeline on our longest wall. You can't see it in detail here, but running above and below the posters on the bottom is a timeline wide enough for the children to write on. The posters are relevant to our current studies, and are placed above the corresponding date on the timeline. (That's Logan's famous easel below it!)


Another shot of the timeline, this one farther to the left, showing Atticus' desk. The bookshelf there holds our Bible resources, foreign language books and Language Arts.


Below is the last unpainted area of the schoolroom. (You may have noticed that lovely shade of creamy yellow that finally went up in these newer shots!) Why is this area unfinished? No good reason, but I promise you, it will be painted soon. Anyhow, these two shelves hold our current SL Core (4), math, science and general reference materials.


Had I not used the room for a full year prior to finishing it, I would have missed out on how to fit the room to our needs rather than how to fit us into that room. Would it have been the end of the world? Certainly not. But it would have forced my children to conform to my idea of what homeschooling is, and frankly, I'm not about that. So desks it is. :-)

Another interesting side note to the schoolroom was the ways that the room wasn't used. I had never envisioned utilizing the room all day long, and I wasn't disappointed. Plenty of reading and other activities were still centered in the main section of the house, with the school room acting as our organization point for "seat work" and the main home for our burgeoningresources. Because of this, I relocated the wicker couch and brought in a rocking chair for myself to pull alongside the child who needed me rather than having them come to me.

I also quickly came to see that during the time we were in the school room, Logan often wasn't. Still a preschooler, Logan preferred to spend the bulk of his time at his easel just outside the schoolroom door. When he wasn't painting, he was often building elaborate works of architecture with the over sized blocks of pine his dad had cut from the remaining pieces of framing wood. These activities all took place in the chill of the drab garage. He didn't seem to mind, but I did. He was being left out of what was going on with his siblings, and isolated from me. This was the last thing that I wanted. When we got closer to finishing our adoption paperwork and that whole idea became more real to me, I saw what a disadvantage our little schoolroom was; anyone not engaged in the business of school was decidedly left out. Not catastrophic for a 4 year-old who likes to entertain himself in worthwhile endeavors, but a horrible idea for a woman looking at adding a toddler and infant to her brood.

After talking with my husband, we agreed to extend our plan. Which leads us to the next phase of the 400 square foot project ...