Handy ManCub

Mr. Blandings has been a little, you know ... busy ... lately. What with the job searching and all. ((sigh))

The good news is that a six month temporary position has been opened for him. Six months' grace. A six month reprieve we hadn't even dared to ask for.

See? God is good!

Anyhow, the job search continues and continues and continues.

And meanwhile, life here must go on.

Things must maintain some semblance of normal for all of us, lest we fall into the swirling pit of doubts and limbo that we've been so good at avoiding during the upheaval of the past few years. Books must be read. Music must be made. Forts must be built. Meals must be cooked. 

We do a pretty good job of keeping the pie plates spinning. That's one thing that large family living will teach you-- having balls in the air is just what you do, even on the boring days. 

Lately, though, Mr. Blandings has found it more and more difficult to keep up with the additional bits that fall into his to-do pile. He has had a harder time managing interviews and phone calls and say, stringing chicken wire around the garden. Something has had to give. 

And since none of us can play Mr. Blandings (even on the phone), it's those others-- the things he'd actually rather be doing-- that have fallen into the hands of someone else. 

Capable hands, it turns out. Atticus-- already having emerged from a baptism by fire during my bed rest-- is filling in these days as the mender of gates, the getter of high items, the assembler of IKEA dressers.

Part of me wants to slump my shoulders and ask God why. Why, Lord, after the tough season we've just endured? Why is this poor kid now stuck helping out so often again? Most boys his age are spending their time in organized activities and enjoying hours of guy time. Why is my boy having to spend more time as the man and less as the cub?

Just when I purpose to do those things myself, to make sure he never has to do another "project" for us, I hear this, from my son's own mouth:

"I'm so glad I get to do this stuff. You guys really trust me. Thanks for letting me do cool things like this all by myself."

And I sigh. And I thank God. Because the thing I thought was the distraction is the point. And the thing I thought was the punishment is the lesson.

When will I ever learn?

There is blessing here

I love summer in the Pacific Northwest. It's not too hot, not too dry, and not too long. None of those things appeal to me, and I'm woman enough to admit it. Daytime highs of 70 degrees are perfect. Afternoons interrupted by showers are lovely. And six weeks is plenty.

Go ahead and throw eggs at me, but summer is my least favorite season. I prefer autumn, winter, and spring. In that order.

BUT ...

I love my garden.

I love watching things grow.

I love time outside, tending our postage stamp-sized urban plot of bliss.

I love bouquets from my children.

I love lunches carried outside to be eaten in the grass, with my boys' sandals abandoned beside me for an al fresco soccer match ...

... and a pink-cheeked toddler who is not, not, NOT tired napping on my skirt.

Which I why I don't fight summer too much. Because, like all seasons, there is blessing here.

Be that voice

One of my biggest convictions regarding the raising of my daughters has been that I do not want them stepping into domestic life as woefully unprepared as I was. Despite having spent my early childhood at my Mamaw's knee, learning how to cook and clean and bake and can and sew and do all those homey things, my teen years were spent in far more (ahem) practical pursuits. Like studying for SATs. And school clubs. And getting a part-time job.

None of which I regret or would seek to deny anyone, by the way. Just not ... well, applicable to the life I find myself living.

Despite my grandmother's best efforts, I still made spaghetti (with jarred sauce) for dinner for my new husband 4 nights out of 7 for the first year of our marriage. I still threw away my husband's shirts when they got holes in the armpits. I still looked at my hours-old daughter and wondered how in the heck I was supposed to wrangle her into a new diaper.

I was too embarrassed to ask for much advice in those first early years; I was terrified that my Mamaw would either roll her eyes at me or tell me what a disappointment I was to her. When I finally caved and begged for advice, her reaction was anything but what I had expected. On the contrary, she was delighted to be called on to share sprinklings of her wisdom. Having had no daughters of her own, and not feeling needed by her daughters-in-law, Mamaw had assumed that her chance to mentor a young wife had all but passed her by. My questions about defrosting chicken, nursing babies, soothing bug bites, and cloth diapering gave her a new lease on her own worth.

The circle was complete. She was passing on wisdom, just like God had designed her to do.

Many (most?) of us homemaking/homeschooling wives and mothers nowadays find ourselves treading new waters. Trained by society for careers in the professional world, we struggle with the daily laundry duties, the constant to-do list of running a home, the ongoing nature of that blasted meal planning. Unable to keep up, we rush to latch on to the newest ebook touting 100 Ways to Keep Your House in Order. We haunt websites that offer day-by-day cleaning plans. We create pinterest boards dedicated to organization, tips, and household stuff. 

And all the while, we lament that there is no one there--no wise woman in the wings-- willing to step in and fill that Titus 2: 3-5 role in our lives. 

And you know ... for most of us, there isn't.

For most of us, books and websites and blogs and a few friends walking in our same season-- that's as good as it gets.

So we acknowledge it, and maybe even mourn it a little. We feel somewhat cheated. But we carry on, and we make darn sure that our daughters--our young women-- they will not suffer the same way. They will know how to make a cake without a mix, how to fold those pesky fitted sheets, what to do when a skirt's hem is two inches two long. They will be ready. And if they're not-- well, we're only a phone call away.

Which is a very good, very worthy thing. 

But ...

What about the small, quiet army of new moms today?

What about your sweet neighbor who just outlined her perfectly reasonable plan to go back to work when her baby is four weeks old?

What about your new sister-in-law, who can't cook a lick, bless her heart?

What about the mom at the playground lamenting that her new baby won't sleep more than an hour at a time?

What about the lady at the library who admits she's at her wit's end trying to keep the place clean?

What about that couple at church? That lovely lady is clearly having a hard time balancing the new role of wife.

What about the woman in the grocery store staring at all fifty varieties of jarred mashed bananas and looking overwhelmed?

What about the newbie homeschooler you just met, who says she's pretty burned out already?

What if you could very gracefully, very gently, without an ounce of condemnation or implied authority, what if YOU could be the voice that somehow speaks into the heart of that woman?

What if you were the one who could teach another woman how to do more than just survive the crazy chaos that is the blessing of being a wife and mom? What if part of your role here, now, in this season, is to be a mentor to the women God places in your path?

If you're saying you have nothing to offer, you're wrong. If you've survived a year of marriage, a month of parenting, a week of homeschooling, well-- you've got a little time served under your belt. You know something. You have some hands-on learning. You can encourage, even if you can't directly help.

Salvaging burnt rice? Can do. Avoiding diaper rash? Yep. Taming two year-old tantrums? I've got some tips. Lining up your own libido with your husband's?  Let's talk.

Ladies, take a second to be that voice. Even if you can't fully take a younger woman under your wing, go out of your way to share what you have learned on your journey. There is no shortage of Titus 2 women available to teach, I believe ... just a whole generation of women who have yet to realize that they can fill the job description.

Five

Mani is five years old today.

Five.

In our house, that always feels like a big step into a bigger world. Five year-olds seems to get it, if you know what I mean. Their eyes are opening to the realities of life-- both harsh and beautiful. They step on a beetle accidentally and mourn its death. They break a dish and realize that it may not repairable. They get that every Monday is music lesson day for the big kids, and can look forward to the little guy-focused game time that ensues without being reminded that it's coming. They feel the rhythm of the house and respond to the temperature thereof. They ask questions of an abstract nature, and begin to understand the grey answers in what was once a black and white world.

Some of Mani's realities are more stark than the ones my previous five year-olds have had to face. He's already delved into the truth that he grew in another mommy's tummy. He's already grasping that he rode in an ambulance when he was a tiny baby-- "Smaller than Reuven, even!" He can already report that police men took care of him for a while, and that social workers knew him before Momma and Daddy did.

Five.

Vibrant, vocal, curious, bold. Manolin enchants each of us, daily, with the hunger for life that he exudes even in his most agonizing moments. Mani is a fighter. We see evidence of this every time that he sets his face against our wishes, or determines that he is big enough, by golly. Mani will grit his teeth, dig in, and thrash far longer and far harder than seems possible. When he relents, it is with either a calculated trust or a total exhaustion-- there is no in between. Thankfully, he chooses his battles quite carefully and rarely decides that something is so needful that he must, must, must hold on to it.

Which is good, because when Mani purposes otherwise, the world knows it. And this, dear friends, is not something I try to squelch. In truth, it is the very thing that kept him alive in the desperate days that followed his birth. A less passionate child, a weaker one ... well, those are the babies whose stories haunt you long after you set down the newspaper. Those are the cases where evil triumphs and there is simply no punishment here on earth that will satisfy the just.

But then ... there is Manolin. Strong. Alive. Thriving.

And five. 

Whither thou goest

I've kept quiet about some of our reality lately-- partly because I don't want this to become a space of endless negativity, and partly because I have not truly processed all of the hows and whys that I find myself swimming in quite well enough to put them into words.But  here it is: through no fault of his own, Mr. Blandings will find himself unemployed quite soon. His boss is resigning as of Friday, May 31, leaving my husband-- and his co-workers-- at the mercy of an incoming individual with an eye towards change. That means that Monday, June 3rd, we are expecting a quiet dinner. The kind where the children chew slowly and cheerfully offer to refill glasses that are still half full. The kind where Dad pushes his plate away and picks up his Bible for study time and we all lean close, not exhaling, waiting to see whether we should laugh or cry.

Mr. Blandings has applied for 50 jobs since February. Yes-- 50 jobs. Nearly every night, he has cheerfully led our family activities until each of the children is in bed. Board games, sing-a-longs, movie night, soccer on the back hill, read-a-louds, then baths and goodnight kisses. Then, as Reuven and I settle in to nurse and knit, he opens his laptop and sets to work weeding through possibilities, sending out resumes, and cashing in on contacts.

It's soul-eating work, this. More often than not, I kiss his furrowed brow and slip off to bed while he is still deciphering the latest batch of job listings. Are the hours this company expects compatible with raising a family? Would this job bring me joy or frustration? Will the vacation options here allow me to travel to Nepal regularly? Hours later, when I feel him join Reuven and me in bed, his body is still tense and I can almost feel his mind grinding over the events, the options, the oh-my-goodness-what-is-happening-in-our-lives-now.

Thankfully, God has been faithful in answering my most desperate prayer. While it makes the most sense to be praying for a specific opportunity, my heart has been burdened that my husband should first and foremost see fruit from his work. You see, I trust wholeheartedly that God has a job waiting for Mr. Blandings. And while it is looking more and more like it may be something so outside of what either of us would choose for our family (because let's be honest, were it up to us, we'd already be in Nepal), I have no doubt that it is a good, and it will prosper both our family and the kingdom of God. But oh, the labor to get there. The endless parade of searching, of feeling like a slab of meat being set out for inspection by panel after panel of faceless recruiters whose form rejections cut off yet another hopeful arrow thrown into the air of speculation.

So my prayer has been that God would offer Mr. Blandings feedback. Phone calls, interviews, doors that prove that he is an accomplished man worthy of consideration. The Lord has been gracious in this request. So far, six interviews have been held. Three of those jobs have already gone to other people. One is for a position that would be a fine transition, but not a permanent solution.

Which leaves two. Two positions. Two opportunities. In reality, two roads forking away from the life we know now. I have no idea why, but I fully expect Mr. Blandings to be offered one of these jobs. One would move us into the faster-paced, more corporate world of Western Washington. The other would drop us deep in the heart of Eastern Washington's quiet farmland. Both would require moving. Both require starting over, to some degree.

Night and day. Opposite worlds. As Mr. Blandings told the children yesterday at dinner, "Guys, either way, life changes here. Either way. There is no staying the same. That ship has sailed."

I have no idea what God's plan is here. I feel--once again-- like I am sitting at His mercy, waiting for His word, unable to move or not move. Truthfully, I could not make this call if I wanted to. There is simply too much at stake.

So I comfort my children. I encourage my husband. I celebrate birthdays. I tend a garden I do not expect to harvest. I look to the Lord and surrender. Whither thou goest, there I follow.

The win

And the winners are ...

They pointed out the sign during our weekly library trip. 

"It's a video contest. The whole two-county library system! You enter a book trailer for a chance to win $150," Atticus told me eagerly. Film, you see, has become his thing--so much so that the tiny flip camera we bought a few years back has become an extension of his hand.

"Do it," I suggested.

Mr. Blandings went a step further.

"It's a school assignment," he decreed. "You two work together. Write the script. Storyboard it. The whole deal. Start to finish. You have one week."

So they did. For one solid week, everything besides math was pushed aside for these two to make way for this one delight-driven project. It was consuming. Fun. Laborious. Thrilling. Nerve wracking. I watched them work from afar, waiting until the premier to see what they'd been up to in their creative frenzy.

When the end result debuted, I was impressed. Not shabby for two kids, a $100 camera, and some pre-installed movie making software. But who knows what the competition is bringing to the table, I thought. Let's be prepared for disappointment.

Lo and behold, they won.

Yet another reason why homeschooling teens is, in my opinion, awesome.

Meanwhile ...

Jo has finished her Doula Skills Workshop and is concentrating on fulfilling the certification requirements.

Reuven is rolling!

Oli is learning conversation skills by making animals interact.

Seven has a cold. Again. 

Logan blasted through the second set of Critical Thinking Skills workbooks I got for him this year. I'm glad he likes them, but whoa, are they pricey!

Mani is loving the warmer weather.

Atticus becomes an official teenager in less than a month. And, oh, yes -- he got a haircut.