Bee and Atticus

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

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

 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

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

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

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

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.