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?

Today's the day!

Nominations begin today for the Homeschool Blog Awards. I love being able to steer people towards some of my favorite blogs, so I look forward to this every year. Here's a peek at some of the blogs that made it onto my ballot.

Best Nitty-Gritty blog: working title Amy posts about the very real roller coaster of of parenting a large family. Some of her kids are in school, some are homeschooled ... and all are unique individuals that she celebrates even when they are driving her batty. If you're looking for a real blogger with real opinions, she's it.

Best variety: choice central Angi and her brood have wonderful adventures that keep you wondering what they'll be up to next. Better than a soap opera ... but with people you'd actually like to hang out with!

Best politics: thoughtful motherhood while the focus of this blog is actually on the "motherhood" part of the title, there's more than a fair bit of "thoughtful," too. I don't agree with every conclusion that the writer comes to, but I certainly admire her tenacity and dedication to prying truth out of the shadows and bringing it to light.

What blogs are YOU nominating this year?

Flurry

Here's the thing with private agency-based foster care: it's feast or famine. With state foster care, though, it's always feast. The folks I know who foster through the state are inundated with calls each and every week--whether they are at capacity or not. They are begged and bribed to take "just one more" even when they are above capacity. A friend in my neighborhood literally had four children under the age of 1 year for a while, PLUS her own three bios. She was licensed for TWO. Finally, the state upped her license to three and removed one of the children. For the first time in her 20 months as a foster parent, she is within the constraints of her license.

But the calls keep coming. On Friday, she turned down two placements.

Sometimes I am tempted to envy the foster parents who get calls at all hours. In some wistful moments, the steady stream of possibilities is better than the routine of daily life punctuated with the special ring I've assigned to our social worker on my cell. A voice on the other end of the line means something new. A change of pace. A little one to keep safe. And maybe, just maybe, a baby to hold for a few days.

I've heard the special ring a lot in the last couple of days. It seems like there's been a bevvy of children who fit our "parameters" (read: potentially adoptable girls under 5 years old with no s@xualized behaviors and little if any visitation) in need of a home for a few days, months or forever.

There was the three month old who was abandoned.

The seven week old who was failure to thrive.

And now a five year-old whose adoptive family has decided to divorce.

All in two days worth of phone calls, people. Two day's worth of pre-screened, "this is what we have that fits your profile" phone calls. These calls don't even represent the myriad children who are over age 6. Kids who are a ways from termination. Who have multiple visits per week. Who are in emergency placement. Who never get put into the database that private agencies pull from. Who are ((shudder)) boys. (Please note: while we would happily take another little boy, our license says that we can only have three boys in our "boy bedroom." So, girls it is!)

The fields are ripe with children in need, but the workers are few. Please consider this my plea for action.

Better than a thrift store

My friend Benny secretly thinks the only reason that I serve on our local Friends of the Library Board is because I get first crack at the offerings in the Used Book Sale.

She's wrong of course. I'm just your average civic-minded citizen who cast around for a while to find the right place to serve. The library is a natural fit for a writer--plenty of books! I like being around grandmotherly older women who impart their wisdom freely, and since I'm the only member younger than 64, the Friends of the Library offers that in spades. I love being involved in activities that support literacy in children. My own kiddos are allowed at meetings and well-behaved children are welcome at all related events. The activities that the group supports boost our community as a whole. See? It's the perfect community service for me!

Not that the Used Books Sale perk hurts at all. :-)

Today, three of the kiddos and I headed down to help with the set-up for the annual sale. This is our biggest event of the year. An entire room is filled with tables that are literally covered with books of all shapes and sizes. It takes a lot of work to get to that point, though. When we arrived, the scene was one of general box-driven chaos and tables at all angles. Oliver enjoyed some quality ergo time while Logan and Jo were put to work unloading boxes. I flitted from task to task: lining books up on tables, sorting the Danielle Steeles from the the John Grishams, putting prices on the bigger items that will bring in more than $1 a hardback. As we worked, the kids and I set aside our own potential purchases.

We worked for about two hours. Oliver had tired of his confinement long before the work was finished, so we had to say goodbye to our co-workers. In addition to the feeling of satisfaction we had at leaving the place with some semblance of order coming together, we also had the thrill of a whole box full of our own finds.

The grand total? $5.50. The best of the best of the best? Take a look ...

We liked the first one in SL Core K, so I thought the second was worth having on hand.
Retail: $14.99 My price: 50¢

Highly recommended by Karla, I couldn't pass this one up. It's a selection in one of the SL preschool programs.

Retail $12.95 My price: 50¢


My children like to read these books for fun. A great investment!
Retail: $16.95 My price: 50¢

When I saw the accompanying activity book, I almost did a backflip right there in the aisle. PERFECT CONDITION. What a blessing!
Retail: $34.95 My price: 50¢

So that was my reward for community service today. Almost $80 in materials I'll use for our homeschool for just $2. See? It pays to be involved! Not that that's the only reason you should serve ... :-)

Seasons

I've been thinking a lot about the changing of seasons lately. It's not just the yellow leaves that catch Oliver's attention as we sit on the soccer sidelines that have me enraptured. It's the changes I see in my own family.

Each and every one of my children seem so palpably on the brink of something new and exciting right now. As the one who doles out the math assignments and reads over the essays, I am well aware of their burgeoning intellectual abilities. I have grinned inwardly as Logan has chosen to pick up a book a good two levels beyond what I require of him and tried to pry its secrets from the pages, syllable by syllable. I have seen Atticus take handwriting seriously for the first time, actually employing his eraser for something other than a holding spot for a fidget. I have listened to Jo describe a project in such detail that I have felt for the very first time in my heart that I have very little left to teach her in the way of book learning. And, on the toddler front, I have disbursed treats to Oliver each morning to celebrate his potty successes.

The seasons are changing, yet again.

Just when I get truly comfortable with basal readers, cloth diapers, multiplication tables, sloppy handwriting ... my kids go and change on me. They stretch me in new areas. They tax me and they thrill me and they need me in ways I thought I had left behind or have not yet discovered.

It is, of course, as it should be. There should be growth. Change. Development. To do otherwise would be to stagnate in the comfort zone labelled failure to thrive.

It is a good thing, this motherhood adventure. It is a life rich in adjectives like "loved," "quiet," "fast," "easy," "first," "long," "warm," "disastrous," "blushing," "weary," "strong," and "messy." It's an organism unto itself, I'm learning. Motherhood grows and changes. It sheds its foliage just when you feel you are full to bursting with the beauty of it all. And what you're left with is anticipation of the seasons yet to come.

Review: In search of ...

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Churn

I knew that it would happen someday. I simply wasn't expecting it so soon.

An envelope--nondescript, labeled only with my name and address and the return address of our state's child welfare folks--was scrunched into a corner of my mailbox. I almost didn't open it right away; as it turns out, DCFS sends out more spam than classmates.com ... only this kind comes in paper form. I have become so accustomed to receiving mail from them that it barely registers on my radar. Since it was a slow mail day, I tore into the envelope and peered inside.

A sheaf of papers, clasped together by a single, straining paperclip stared back at me.

CONFIDENTIAL HEALTH INFORMATION

What is this? I mused, pulling the papers free.

They were exactly what they claimed to be. Oliver's health background: starting at birth, and continuing well past his placement here with us.

There was a rushing in my ears and a slightly acrid taste in my mouth. Put them back! my heart screamed. This was a surprise I wasn't prepared for. In truth, I see now that I really didn't want to know the particulars of what and when and how. Better to dream about the boogeyman under the bed than to grab the flashlight with sweaty palms and lean down, down, down to where he just might be.

I read the papers, heart in my throat and and a hot flush on my chest that made me open the window on a 55 degree day. It was what I had known. What I had feared. What I never wanted to see in irrefutable black and white.

This is the kind of hurt that makes your husband slam kitchen cabinets so hard that the glasses rattle. The kind of hurt that makes you vomit just from the sheer horror that your body must ---somehow--physically reject. The kind of hurt that makes you compose long, drawn out diatribes to judges in your mind. The kind of hurt that makes you hold a once-broken little body and never, ever want to let go.

I've been to see a doctor now, and the mysteries of the records have been unfurled before me like so many bad dreams played out in made-for-tv movies. Medical alphabet soup, I have discovered hides some very ugly truths. And perhaps that's how it ought to be; what kind of a person could stand the heartache of writing about the horrific specifics of abuse in real words?

I thought that nothing could make Oliver more precious to me. I thought that nothing could make him seem like more of a gift.

I was wrong.