All things old are new again

Two 1970s era commercials warning of a swine flu epidemic:



Those shots were recalled, by the way, for causing more harm than good in a startling number of people.

All that being said ... why wait for a crises to make sure you have food, water & other supplies on hand? Chances are good that if you live in the US, you're in flood/hurricane/earthquake/snow storm territory and face the very real, very quantifiable threat of possible isolation on a far more regular basis than the media feels the need to trumpet. Do your local service agencies a favor and prepare to take care of your own family in the event of a disaster.

Do you ever ... ?

Look in the rear view mirror and feel your heart twist with so much joy that you can't catch your breathe?

Spy peach fuzz on the cheeks of your young boys and get a tiny thrill at the thought that this beautiful gift of God will someday be a full-grown man?

Hear a song on the radio that perfectly sums up the absolute satisfaction you find in the Lord as you're mopping your floor, of all things?


Realize how precariously close the top of your daughter's head is in relation to your own, and marvel that you were used to bring something that amazing into the world?

See a baby bury his face with sheer glee into a blanket and know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that even if you could stop grinning, you'd never, ever want to?

Pick up the phone and recognize your darling husband's name on the caller i.d. ... and think Holy Cow! It wasn't just a dream! I get him every.single.day for the rest of my life?!

Catch the scent of dinner cooking and praise God that in His wisdom he filled the world with things to tickle our senses?

Look around at all that you have and feel very, very small and unworthy?

Size up the stacks of folded clothes on the coffee table and feel full to bursting with the abundance of little souls entrusted you that fill those shirts and socks every day?

I have been a weepy mess lately. Everything--everything--moves me to tears. Happy tears. Sad tears. Oh-my-gosh-I-can't-bear-it tears.

((sigh))

I love being a woman.

Being there

I'm going to a homeschooling conference tomorrow and man, am I looking forward to it. It's not just the fact that I'll be able to shop in the vendor hall, although don't get me wrong, I love curriculum browsing. And it's not just the fact that I'm going to have two days of soaking in some very good teaching on a multitude of family and parenting topics that my heart so badly needs to hear right now. And it's not even just the fact that I'm going to be experiencing some of that "absence makes the heart grow fonder" me time mythos that will no doubt hit the reset button on my mommying cruise control.

All of these things are good, but they're not what I'm really looking forward to. What's really got me excited is the fact that I will not be alone.

For starters, Benny is joining me in attending this particular conference. We have the ride down, all day sessions, the vendor hall, the ride home and a whole other day to do it again. Together. Which sounds like a lot of time, but trust me, it isn't. Because frankly, we could talk the entire time and not run out of things to say.

But even that much quality time with Benny isn't enough to have be as thrilled as I am. (Sorry, Benny!) My joy goes even deeper than time with my best friend.

See, there are some things that are just meant to be shared. And you know what I've discovered? Homeschooling is one of them.

By its very nature, homeschooling is a semi-solitary thing for most of us. That's why it's called homeschooling, after all. You do it at home. Out of the public realm. In your most private space. Just your family, finding your own way.

You may participate in a co-op. You may belong to a support group. You may have the benefit of some fabulous forum friends. But at the end of the journey, you are the one responsible for the education of your brood. And that can be a very daunting thing.

Having people that walk the path with you makes that burden so much lighter. I can't imagine my own homeschooling career without the guidance of my cousin or my best friend. When I doubt myself, when I'm lonely, when I feel like a failure, when I can't quite put my finger on a situation ... they are the people whose voices I want at the other end of the line. The women who are right alongside me in the trenches. The ones who have taught phonics and lived. Who understand what it is like to simultaneously make grilled cheese sandwiches and read aloud from a historical novel. Women who feel my pain when I say that a book has fallen flat, or that a rabbit trail has taken on a life of its own. People like me.

Going to a homeschool conference is an even bigger extension of that sense of comfort. Finally--finally!--walking in to a building and knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt that you are not the only one who truly understands how it is that you can feel a call that sets you so far outside of the mainstream. Seeing another mother who can't quite figure out what to do with her hands because she is so accustomed to having them full of giggling babies and a sweet 8 year-old boy who hasn't given up loving his momma's hugs. Hearing families talk about how their lives revolve around their home, not their offices or their kids' sports teams. Seeing the sense of purpose on the faces of other parents--parents who put thought, prayer and love into the educational choices they make for their children.

This is what I'm looking forward to: for two days, Benny and I will not be alone in praying when we sit down for lunch. We will not be the only people whose sons are more interested in knights than in video games. We won't be the only ones who have said no to things that most people don't question. We won't be alone when we stand in front of a table of books on purity, homemaking or womanhood. No one will look at us with raised eyebrows when we simply are who we are.

Instead, we'll be surrounded by like-minded women and families. No one will be able to spot us as fish swimming upstream. We will blend.

"It's your own little version of Mary Grace Heaven, isn't it?" my husband asked last night as I waxed poetic over the notion of not looking horribly overdressed just because I'm wearing a skirt.

"Gosh, no!" I told him. Heaven, I'm hoping, will be far more diverse. I really want to see some Bikers for Jesus in heaven. And Marc Driscoll. And my dad.

I don't want heaven to be populated entirely with people just like me. The world is much bigger, much more beautiful because of its variances and nuances. I think God made differences to keep things spicy--kind of like a bright red throw pillow on an all-white couch. God is surprising. He didn't stop with vanilla ice cream Mary Grace clones; instead, he kept churning out flavors all the way down the line. Pistachio. Butter pecan. Death by Chocolate. Rainbow sherbert.

And that's good.

But tomorrow, I want to float in a sea of vanilla. I want to feel like I am just one of the crowd. Like I could actually--for once in my life--go with the flow. Because for me, that's the beauty of a homeschooling conference, especially one sweetened by the attendance of a dear friend: for once, there's no explanation needed. For two days, I can just enjoy being there.

Cloth diapering, (almost) a year later

I never think to update you fine readers on the state of our cloth diapering because frankly, they're diapers. As adorably cute as they are, they're still just a necessary part of life that becomes routine quite quickly. You know the drill: you wake up, try to sneak in a cup of coffee and some Bible time before the baby wakes up. And the second the baby is up, you ....

Change the baby's diaper, of course.

Then you get on with the rest of the morning. Disposable or cloth, same difference.

We ordered our main staple, the BumGenius 3.0s, almost a year ago now. They were used vigorously by Oliver (who has traded in the BGs and has now claimed his stake in our massive stash of big boy pants) for 10.5 months, and continue to grace the edibly cute behind of one Mr. Manolin.

I have never tired of seeing them, washing them or stuffing them. We have a dozen now; happy green, blue and yellow little dipes. I don't feel burdened by them. I will admit, however, that having two using cloth diapers makes for a noticeable increase in laundry. Now that I'm back down to one in dipes, I feel like my washing machine and I are starting to drift apart. :-)

Yes, I have experienced the rolling and pilling on the velcro tabs of our BG's. I am sending off an email to Cotton Babies to see about getting the free replacement tabs I've heard about. The issue started about three months ago and is a bit of a nuisance at this point; if Manolin is wearing zippy pjs without a onesie underneath, the tabs will often grab the inside fleece and come open. Clearly, this is not convenient, even though it's not as if he wears zippy pjs all day long.

Everything else about the dipes looks the same as day 1. The colors are still bright, they are stain-free and except for one stint of getting stinky (and needing to be stripped with Dawn dish soap) they've been odor-free. The hilarious thing is that my one major fear--what if they leak?!?!--has been flipped on its head; nowadays, I hate using disposables because if anything is likely to fail, it's one of those paper imitation jobs.

My husband loves them. He uses them as easily as disposables, but still refuses to learn how to diaper using the Chinese pre-folds.

Speaking of the pre-folds and Bummis, I still use them on a daily basis as well. They are nowhere near as easily to travel with (the prefolds are just bulkier in a carry-along bag, honestly), but I do like them around the house. I know that there are dozens of different folds out there, but I only mastered two and find that they cover the bases as far as I'm concerned. The Bummis are hands-down the cutest on otherwise naked babies. And, for whatever reason, the velcro closures have remained unchanged even after being used a few weeks longer than the BGs. They are also stain-free and have never had any issues.

So there you go. A comprehensive look at the results of a year of cloth diapering. Happy mommy. Happy, healthy babies. Water bills largely unchanged. Budget definitely a little less tight thanks to an initial investment.

Stergo, revisited

God can do amazing things. He can move the mountain that is His child's hardened heart. He can open doors that we, in sin, slam in His face.

He can turn a huge blessing into one of tremendous proportions.

A few months back, I wrote about my awe in the gift being offered to me: a huge home in which to raise my growing family. I wrestled with the Lord and my own feelings of inadequacy, and finally found myself coming out the other side of that strangely lonely tunnel. Yes, I admitted. My house is going on the market. I'm following you to this place, God. Just ... hold my hand, o.k.?

No sooner had I come to terms with this blessing then Mr. Blandings and I felt our hearts tugged in another direction altogether. A direction neither of us ever hoped to entertain this side of 50. A direction too good to be true.

A farm.

What we really wanted, in our heart of hearts, was a farm.

Do it, we heard God's voice urge. I've gotten your attention. You've made the first step: the house is for sale. You never would have done it if I hadn't dangled that house in front of you. Now ... open your hands so that I can fill them.

To the outside world, I'm sure it looked like an amazing doubletake on our behalf. From a big suburban American Dream House to a couple of acres and some goats? To us, as a couple, the voice couldn't have been more audible had it been accompanied by a dove. God said put the house up for sale, and we did. We moved forward in faith and yes, He met us there.

It only took a few weeks for things to fall apart with the builder we were working with on the big house. All of a sudden, the door slammed shut. But our house was still listed. God, are you saying we should ...???

YES!!!

So we started looking. Turns out that now that our eyes had been opened to the prospect of a new home, possibilities were popping up all over. Possibilities in and under our price range.

Farms, people. Land. Acreage.

Small farms, to be sure. Five acre plots, just enough to get a couple of dairy goats, some chickens, maybe tinker in a few other animals. Enough room for a sizable garden with all the potatoes, tomatoes, corn and beans a family could eat.

But a farm.

My heart, my soul sings at the thought. If you know me at all, you know how spying a bird fills a place in my heart that nothing else can touch. How eating a tomato I've grown myself is the sweetest form of victory. How walking barefoot in good, black dirt is enough to send me into a state of bliss that can barely be punctured.

So you see, God is still very much in the business of stergo. And while my current home still sits on the market, and we still pray for a sale, I don't worry. God's timing, His path and His journey thus far have led me only to the green pastures I was seeking all along. Surely goodness and love will follow me all my days.

And the winner is ...

asking to be anonymous. I think she's a little shy, which is a shame because she's got a great blog that I'd love to have you all pop on over to visit and enjoy for yourselves.

Alas, it is not to be. ((sigh))

Thanks to all who entered!

Traveling light

Mr. Blandings and I just returned from a fantastic few days away. The weather wasn't perfect and the vacation house had a few little flaws but, yes, we were away from it all for three blissful nights.

Well, away from everything except the five children and most of our earthly belongings which, for some reason, had to be transported with us.

Maybe it was a vacation from our dog? I don't know ... I think he was about the only thing we left behind. And truthfully, I missed him loads because really, you never appreciate the living vacuum cleaner until you realize that all of that food that landed under the baby's seat at dinner time is going to have to be picked up. Probably by you.

We started out on Easter Sunday, having booked a trip without realizing that it was Easter Sunday. Woops! Who knew Easter was so late this year? Anyone not using the iCal on their Mac to plot out vacations, I guess. But that was not us, and our trip was already planned and paid for, the dogsitter already lined up and the days off of work approved. So vacation on Easter Sunday was a go.

I knew we were in for a rare treat when I realized how stressed Mr. Blandings seemed when he scanned my packing list a few days before our planned departure.

"Sugar? Salt? Pepper? What, are you just going to bring the entire contents of our spice cabinet, too" he asked, shaking his head.

"No, silly. But I am going to be cooking, you realize."

"Yeah, I know. That was the whole point of getting a house instead of a hotel room. But seriously? You're going to be bringing all of this? Can't you just cook without it?"

"Sure," I admitted,"but what if it tastes different and the kids won't eat it?"

He thought for a moment. "Ummmmm .... they'll be hungry?"

"Yes, and?"

He thought again and drew a blank. This is the difference between mothers and fathers. If you are a father, you assume that hunger is just a state that children pass through until meal time rounds the bend again and is quenched with another eating opportunity. If you're a mother, you know:

"They'll be miserable. They'll snap at each other. They'll whine. And then, we'll be miserable, too," I reminded him.

"Fine," he sighed. "Bring the spice cabinet."

Saturday night, as the non-essentials were being loaded into the car, Mr. Blandings again exhibited signs of stress.

"A roasting pan? MG, why on earth am I packing a roasting pan?" he called in through the open front door.

"For the ham," I reminded him.

"Seriously? I mean, we can't just eat sandwiches for a couple of days?"

I was tempted not to answer, but that would have been rude and unseemly and just plain old not wifely. Plus, chances were good that it would lead us back to the place where he was trying to leave behind the stockpile of cereal bars, yogurts, pretzels, and other snacks I was bringing along. So instead, I gently redirected him.

"Remember to save space for the playpen for Manolin. He'll need it in the morning, so we can't pack it until almost last. I don't want that to throw off your packing."

Mr. Blandings blanched.

"Tell me again why he can't sleep in a dresser drawer or on a pallet on the floor like we did as kids?"

"He's a foster child. Do you really want someone to find out that you let him sleep in a dresser drawer?" I asked. He admitted that he did not. Packing resumed.

As we readied to leave for church on Sunday, the final items were transferred to the back of our Suburban. Have you ever seen the trunk space in a Suburban? It's mammoth. Cavernous. So big that it's an American embarrassment, really. In Asian countries, entire families ride on mopeds. Three children cling to their mother's coattails and stand on mufflers with their bare feet next to exposed, spinning spokes. But here? Here I've got this just for my stuff:



By the time the bags of food, extra blankets, playpen, etc., etc., etc. were packed the mound of stuff reached to the ceiling. Literally. As in Mr. Blandings could not see out of the rear of the truck.

In my defense, we do have a family of seven. And again, in my defense, two of those people are small and require that things stay fairly status quo in order to maintain their state of happiness. This would be why Manolin's sound machine, blanket, Bandito the Raccoon, and an entire bag of fresh fruit came along for the ride. This would also be why Oliver's favorite truck, a Wiggles video, a blanket and three separate pairs of jammies had to come along as well. Got to cover the bases, you know?

Mr. Blandings and I have always differed on what constitutes preparedness versus overkill. Clearly, as we set off on a four day vacation with a Suburban (a Suburban, people!) crammed full of everything that could possibly be squeezed in, it couldn't have been more apparent. Why? Because of the entire contents of our vehicle, the only things that directly related to Mr. Blandings were a pair of hiking pants, hiking boots, a pair of jeans, three t-shirts, some socks and underwear and his contact solution.

Sure, you can count the food he consumed but seriously ... he really would have made do with exactly 12 slices of bread, a jar of peanut butter and a jar of jam. He wouldn't have even needed a knife. This is the kind of guy he is when it comes to traveling.

God made him this way for a purpose; the truth is, Mr. Blandings is exceptionally well-equipped for the field work portion of our nonprofit's mission. He could get on a plane with the shirt on his back and be at ease. In a few months, he'll be heading out again, this time into an Asian country that he's never visited before. He'll be staying with some friends of ours who run an orphanage and Bible training school. He'll be in country for two weeks, spending much of the time hiking through hills to meet with pastors that we can then hopefully match with sponsors here in the U.S.

And I guarantee you that he will leave this house with exactly one backpack full of gear.

But four days at a furnished beach house requires our family to travel with the modern equivalent of a caravan.

Did we use pretty much everything that we took along? In truth, yes. As I mentioned, the weather wasn't the greatest the first full day at the house and that Wiggles video and the board games I brought just in case were a lifesaver. We ate the ham on Easter Sunday, then snacked on sandwiches for the rest of our stay. Mr. Blandings turned out to be supremely thankful that I'd had the foresight to bring along extra pants for Atticus, who eschews all but the cleanest of clothing and yet managed to wade waist-deep into the freezing waters of the Pacific not once but twice. And, of course, I had sugar for my coffee. Can't stress how important that is to the overall vacation satisfaction scale.

Still, it makes me think. How comfortable do I have to be in order to be happy? How many of the layers of "necessity" can be stripped away before I succumb to dissatisfaction? How little can I truly live with?

I like to think that the answer would make me feel like someone who can truly cope with the rubs and bumps of a less pampered life, but this recent trip has me wondering. Do I really need all that I have? And if I don't, why do I have it?