The leaving kind

It sounds cliché, but when we shared the news of our planned move to Nepal with Mr. Blandings' parents, there was wailing and gnashing of teeth. You may have asked yourself what that Biblical phrase sounds like when transferred from the abstract text on a page to a real, live sound pouring from the lips of an individual. Do yourself a favor--try not to find out.

Truthfully, Mr. Blandings and I have caused such furor before. We have, after all, simply refused to live the kind of lives that fit into safe, tidy boxes. We were the couple that stomped and fumed over the location of our wedding (we gave in on that one). We were the thoughtless ones who got pregnant six months after said wedding. We were the malcontents who left the Catholic Church. We are the black sheep who decided to homeschool. We are the callous branch of the tree that lives thousands of miles away.

All in all, we cause heartache. And wailing. And yes, gnashing of teeth.

Madame Blandings, mother of my Mr. Blandings, has never quite forgiven us for causing her worry. I can't help but picture her wringing her hands from time to time, fretting over what we might do next. One income. No cable television. Adoption from foster care. International travel without an air conditioned tour bus. No prom for Jo. Dear Lord, help them help themselves!

I'm not sure where Madame Blandings went wrong, but her parenting efforts did not turn out a successful lawyer who spends long winter weekends skiing with his 1.5 children and rail-thin, doctor of wife. Instead, her oldest son drives a beater Volvo every day after kissing his wife good-bye and passing his hand in blessing over a rabble of children whose idea of snow fun is lashing salvaged bits of 2x4 from our discard wood pile out back to their rain boots.

Mothers worry. We know this down in our bones; The price of holding a child to your neck and feeling his breathing gradually fall into step with your own is to have your heart intertwined with his forever. You will sit up on feverish nights and pray sickness away. You will wince at hurts real and perceived. You will grieve the losses and dance in the victories. Forever, you will want the best for this little soul entrusted to your care.

But let's be honest--some children worry us more than others. They touch our softest, deepest heart-places and we link with that need in an almost primal way. Quite often, these are the selfsame children who seem programmed--almost from the moment they take their first breath--to chafe and kick against the very emotions that we ourselves can not help but lay over them like warm blankets on crisp nights. Why, Lord, why?

You may have a child like this in your own heart and home. Unabashedly independent, yet still so tender. Curious, but somehow nervous, as if his own explorations might bring him to a place where the whole applecart of his tenuous little being might be upended. Needy. Passionate. Unique.

I have one of these children myself, so I completely understand what Mr. Blandings' favorite aunt told me about his childhood one afternoon shortly before we were married:

"You have to understand, Mary Grace--the very first step Mr. Blandings ever took was a step away from his mother. She wanted to keep him so close, but all he ever did was go beyond her, getting into all kinds of trouble. I don't think she's ever forgiven him for that."

She hasn't. Her son, my husband, is still the little boy who will not behave. He is still escaping from his play-pen, straying into the unsafe places, and finding ways to vex her ... when all she's trying to do is make him happy.

Because surely, if anyone knows the key to a child's happiness, it's his mother, right? I know that I ascribe to this theory. Try this, you'll like it. Read this book, you'll enjoy it. You will tire of that sport, dear. Wear your coat, you'll get cold. How different is this from telling your son he should move back to the city he called home 20 years ago--the city where you still live? How much more peaceful is it to be the mother of children--even adult children--who are accounted for day and night? Who are financially secure? Who have all they could ever ask for? Whose lives are as easy and comfortable as you could ever ask?

While discussing Nepal, Madame Blandings said that we could not understand the kind of pain we have inflicted on her, and I agree. I don't know what it's like to wonder if my son is working, sleep-addled and exhausted, through yet another overtime shift to pay for Christmas gifts this year. I don't have to wonder if my boys are taking eating well, if they are adored as they ought to be, or if they are just a paycheck to a selfish woman who is too lazy to pull her own weight. I'm not there yet. But yes, I am treasuring all of these things up in my heart. Someday, after all, I will be the mother of boys who are no longer boys, but men.

The parting shot in our painful conversation with the elder Blandings' was this--

Tears in her voice, a tinge of anger seeping through, Madame Blandings addressed me, specifically.

"I hope you never go through this, Mary Grace. I hope you never know what it's like to have your kids scattering all over the earth and not even know whose hands they are in."

And this, I think, is the thing I am treasuring up the most.

Because I'll be honest, my heart leaps with delight at the thought of three, five, seven Blandings clans popping up in the hardest-to-reach areas of the globe. My heart mourns the missed Christmases and the birthdays without cupcakes, yes. But on a larger scale, I admit that I dream of being the kind of woman who God uses to multiply not just through biology, but throughout His Kingdom in a mighty movement of seed-planting.

I know in whose hands I have placed my children. And trust me, they are far better off with Him than they would ever be in the safe boxes which I might construct for them.

My prayer is that I can keep this momentum, that my heart stays fixed on this desire. Even as my children grown, and their leashes get longer and longer, and the stakes for their hearts just creep higher ... Lord, never let me forget that risks taken in Your Name are to be applauded, not run through a cost-benefit analysis. Let me grit my teeth through the feats of faith that You might lead my children through as You use them for Your purposes. Let me be the first one to step up in prayer and practice.

And most of all, Lord Jesus, let me never value safe above saved. Especially not when it comes to my own beloved children.

Thanksgiving

Of what can I claim to not be thankful for? I have a simply amazing husband, a marriage I have fought for and found joy in, three children born of that love, two more whose birthmothers chose life for them, another who God is leading to us from across the world. I am loved and cherished by the family of my youth. I have friends to call when my heart is either burdened or rejoicing. I can homeschool my children. I write when I wish to write. I have a full pantry. My home is warm.

And in the midst of all of the blessing and giving of thanks, it is so easy to forget the One to whom all thanks should be directed.

It is easy to forget the greatest gift of all:
I am a beloved child of the Most High God.

Give thanks with me.

Psalm 118:1

Give thanks to the LORD, for he is good; his love endures forever.

TOS Review: Life on the Farm game

The best part of reviewing things, in my humble opinion, is passing along true gems that might get overlooked in the homeschooling world. Yes, yes, I get free stuff. And don't get me wrong, that's very cool. But the number one thing that keeps me writing reviews is being able to try something that I immediately want to rush out and buy for everyone I know.

This game is one of those items.

Life on the Farm is a Blandings family game, through and through. It is a classic ... and I've only had it for a month and half. Already, it's in our normal game rotation. I think it's even edging out Horseopoly, but Jo hasn't noticed, so we don't have a mutiny on our hands. (Yet.)



This is the kind of game that makes your kids laugh, starts fabulous discussions, can be played as individuals or teams, and requires some good old strategy skills. Before opening the box, Atticus predicted that it would be "Monopoly ... with cows." Turns out he was kind of right. Life on the Farm is what happens when the little plastic people from The Game of Life get out of the car, snatch the Monopoly money, and settle down on a family homestead. With dice.

You get sent to the back 40. You collect a milk check. Your cattle get sick. Taxes come due. Equipment needs to be repaired. And in the end, you retire.

All without getting your hands dirty. Nice, huh?



The game is $25 and would make a fabulous addition to any family's collection. Younger children (say, under 7) can easily buddy up with older siblings or a parent to play. There's high interest for adults, too; This is not a game you will endure, mom. You will enjoy it. Really!

The game is available through the family who created it, at some specialty stores, and at Kmart.com. (where it's currently listed at $19.99). It would make a great family gift for yourself, or for giving.

At the library

I ran into a friend at the library today. She had a grande something-yummy-with-whip in her left hand, and in her right hand were three of the novels that have been on my "to read" list for so long that I had even forgotten to put them into my Paberbackswap wishlist. She'd just come from getting her hair done, she said--and indeed, her hair looked as fresh and springy as the very hip dress boots she was sporting.

"You here with the little ones?" she asked, tilting her chin to Manolin, who was strapped into the stroller, scowling. Oliver stood dutifully nearby, mumbling, "Howwd dight, 'Li. Howwd dight, 'Li," as a reminder of his role in this whole process.

"Oh, no. They're all around here somewhere," I said, waving my hand to indicate that my offspring were lurking deep in the stacks. Not deep enough, apparently; Just then, Logan bounded by, followed closely by our rattling, overstuffed book bin.

"I don't know how you do it," she told me then, and I pondered this familiar phrase anew. What part is so novel? What seems impossible? At what point, I wonder, do I approach insanity in the eyes of the masses?

"It's not that tough," I said then, catching the beautiful sight of my daughter's lithe form heading towards me with a toothy grin, arms full to bursting with her haul of reading material. "They're great kids."

"Yeah, but ...." and she stopped for a minute, pondering the plausibility of it all. "You gave up all of this," she raised her latte and reading material, "for that." Again, she nodded in the direction of my little brood.

I couldn't think of a thing to say, so she filled the silence.

"I have the best of both worlds," she continued. "I've got my kids. And when they're at school, I get this too."

She offered me a the Cheshire Cat grin of one who has figured it all out.

Just then, Atticus--who must have spent the past ten minutes plotting out his sneak attack--wrapped his arms around me in a bear hug from behind, nearly toppling me over in surprise. I laughed so hard that Manolin and Oliver caught the giggles and started shrieking. Our joy echoed through the stillness of the library. I ruffled Atticus' copious strawberry-blond hair.

My friend was staring at me now. Her eyes had softened.

"My nine year-old wouldn't be caught dead hugging me in public," she admitted with a longing sigh.

I contemplated her coffee, her new haircut, her ability to read for hours on end, uninterrupted. I could still feel the firmness of my delighted, delightful Atticus' arms as they snaked around my sides. I made a mental note to check my Paperbackswap wishlist status, and to put a Starbucks card on my Christmas list.

"God bless you," I told her, and I meant it. "Have a great day."

The view from my couch

It's cold. It's raining. The sun has barely made its presence known.

But inside our little home, it's warm, and cozy. The fireplace is humming. Books are being read. Scarves are being knit. Children are laughing. Cookies are being nibbled.

Yeah. I'm blessed.

He is there

I read Danielle's blog post at 6 Year Med today, and I cried. I cried and I cried ... because that little girl, well ... she was my Oli. My dear, precious, sweet little Oliver.

The little bits that I know about Oliver's life before "coming into care" (as we say in the fostering world) come from a stack of medical files that I never should have been given. A social worker plopped them in my lap at a case meeting, and I realized right away what a gold mine I'd been given. Pages and pages and pages of completely irrelevant, minuscule details about Oli's physical state from birth to 7 months of age. I probably should have handed them right back. But I didn't. I held onto them. And in a quiet moment alone, I pored over them with a fine tooth comb, holding my heart in my throat as I stared into the dark little places where I had not been able to kiss boo-boos or soothe tears.

Oliver's birthparents, like the mother in Danielle's blog post, had a habit of literally dropping him in the ER. When his life was still numbered in weeks, he was deposited, like so much spare change, in the repository of institutional care that the hospital offered. The careful, professional notes made by countless nurses/angels who watched over him pierce my soul anew every time I ponder them:

"Mother contacted by phone and advised of patient's status. Mother asked that she not be called again until her son was ready to be discharged."

"Father visited baby for forty minutes, and spent the entire time playing with his cell phone. Was not interested in interacting with baby."

"Mother said patient had been vomiting for three hours. Left immediately after child admitted."


I read these things, and they make me mad. I'd like to think it's a righteous anger. I picture Oli, skin and bones, swimming in a cage-like hospital bed, hooked to tubes and monitors. I imagine sweet, soft-faced nurses leaning over him and whispering, "It's o.k., baby. You're all right." I pray that he heard these gentle words, and that they took root in his tiny soul.

I hope beyond hope that someone, anyone, took the time to hold him. In the rush of the night, in the chaos of the job ... I pray that a few moments were stolen where Oli's head rested on a loving shoulder, and that he felt hands that brought soothing comfort in the midst of it all. I pray that someone took the prompting to be God's hands, even as He was pouring out His heart for that hurt, sick little boy.

Some day, I hope to meet the angels God placed in Oli's path as he journeyed to us. I'd love to wrap my arms around the men and women who took note, the ones who saw wrong and wanted to make it right. I want to thank them for standing up and being counted. I want to thank them for my son's life.

Maybe I'll meet them here, in this life. Maybe I will meet them in heaven.

God places people in our path every day who make a difference. Maybe it's the person who does the obvious: the doctor who admits the broken baby to the hospital, calls Child Protective Services, and files a report. Sometimes it's the people we don't even notice, though. The person who bags the bread on top, so it doesn't get crushed. The elderly lady at the library who smiles and pats our back, telling us how it blesses her to see such a beautiful family.

God's hand is in all of it. HE IS PRESENT. Don't doubt it for a minute.

Our God is in the business of healing, rescuing, and restoring. He is a just and mighty god. And yet ... He cares even for the tiniest among us. The forgotten. The babies whose parents can't even be bothered to set foot in their child's hospital room.

He is there. Let us not forget.

Jeremiah 31

"At that time," declares the LORD, "I will be the God of all the clans of Israel, and they will be my people."

This is what the LORD says:
"The people who survive the sword
will find favor in the desert;
I will come to give rest to Israel."

The LORD appeared to us in the past, saying:
"I have loved you with an everlasting love;
I have drawn you with loving-kindness.

I will build you up again
and you will be rebuilt, O Virgin Israel.
Again you will take up your tambourines
and go out to dance with the joyful.

Again you will plant vineyards
on the hills of Samaria;
the farmers will plant them
and enjoy their fruit.

There will be a day when watchmen cry out
on the hills of Ephraim,
'Come, let us go up to Zion,
to the LORD our God.' "

This is what the LORD says:
"Sing with joy for Jacob;
shout for the foremost of the nations.
Make your praises heard, and say,
'O LORD, save your people,
the remnant of Israel.'

See, I will bring them from the land of the north
and gather them from the ends of the earth.
Among them will be the blind and the lame,
expectant mothers and women in labor;
a great throng will return.

They will come with weeping;
they will pray as I bring them back.
I will lead them beside streams of water
on a level path where they will not stumble,
because I am Israel's father,
and Ephraim is my firstborn son.

"Hear the word of the LORD, O nations;
proclaim it in distant coastlands:
'He who scattered Israel will gather them
and will watch over his flock like a shepherd.'

For the LORD will ransom Jacob
and redeem them from the hand of those stronger than they.

They will come and shout for joy on the heights of Zion;
they will rejoice in the bounty of the LORD—
the grain, the new wine and the oil,
the young of the flocks and herds.
They will be like a well-watered garden,
and they will sorrow no more.

Then maidens will dance and be glad,
young men and old as well.
I will turn their mourning into gladness;
I will give them comfort and joy instead of sorrow.

I will satisfy the priests with abundance,
and my people will be filled with my bounty,"
declares the LORD.

This is what the LORD says:
"A voice is heard in Ramah,
mourning and great weeping,
Rachel weeping for her children
and refusing to be comforted,
because her children are no more."

This is what the LORD says:
"Restrain your voice from weeping
and your eyes from tears,
for your work will be rewarded,"
declares the LORD.
"They will return from the land of the enemy.

So there is hope for your future,"
declares the LORD.

TOS Review: Gymathtics

I'll just be blunt: Jo, Atticus, and Logan were not impressed with Gymathtics. And nothing I did made it any better.

I read the back of the dvd box to them as Jo popped the disc into the player.

"It says it's multi-sensory learning ... helps you retain math concepts ... a whole lot of those basic skills ... things you really need to know ... and you get to move a lot! Won't that be cool?"

Logan eyed the television skeptically as cheerful, upbeat children began a follow-the-leader type exercise routine with a mathematically-inspired flair.

"Can you make your body into the shape of a square?" the mom on screen asked her bevy of wide-eyed, adoring, and enthusiastic kids as they began a new concept.

"No, I can't," Atticus answered.

I tried to play along, feigning excitement with the grating cheer of it all. I got down on the floor and pulled Oliver onto my lap, which is when I noticed ...

He loved it. Absolutely thought it was the greatest thing since the Wiggles. I'm not joking. He happily moved along with the older kids on the screen, and bobbed his head to the beat. I don't think he's any closer to knowing how triangles are constructed but hey, he had fun for half an hour.

So apparently, even though the folks at Gymathtics think they have a 2nd-5th grade math product on their hands, what they're really selling is a $24.99 educational/exercise program for preschoolers.

Disclaimer: I was given a free copy of this product for review purposes. Refer to my general disclaimer for more information on my policies regarding reviews.