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Homeschooling as a Lifetsyle Moment:

Grades 11, 8, 6, K, & PreK

Surrendering the master {big family, small house}

When people find out how many children are in our family, they tend to make one of two assumptions:

1. That we live in a sprawling house on property,
OR
2. That we subscribe to the "stacked like cordwood" mentality and have people sleeping in closets and whatnot.

The answer, on both counts, is no.

The entire stateside Blandings clan lives in one 3 bedroom, 1500 sq ft (give or take) townhouse in your basic suburb. We have a 200(ish) sq ft backyard of our own (that opens onto a nearly 2 acre common area). We converted our garage into play space, school storage, and a pantry. And we make do.

We live here because God wants us here. Because we can afford it. And, in all honesty, because we bought this place when we were a family of 5 and it seemed like we were done.

We make do by keeping "stuff" to a minimum, aligning our priorities with our family vision, and by being very, very patient with one another. That patient part? It's usually the most important.

The biggest shock, for most people, comes when they find out that years ago, Mr. Blandings and I moved out of the master bedroom. Doing the math, it just made sense. Four boys or 2 adults? Hmmmm .... I think the four boys rate the space, don't you?

This isn't a revolutionary idea in large family circles, but seems to be rare to the point of absurd to most folks. You gave up your master bedroom? The one with the private bathroom? The one with the big walk-in closet?

Yeah. I did.

So, to satisfy the curious, here's how it looks in our house. These photos were taken on a random day to most accurately reflect the situation. Please note that there is no sweet and wonderful theme to this room. We opted instead to let each boy personalize his own little space on a blank backdrop. Note also that the only real "toys" in this room are the little guys' Lincoln Logs and trains. So while there's a book shelf full to bursting that ends up scattering its contents from time to time, the room is rarely more than five minutes away from being what passes for clean. I've done this on purpose-- it's that whole "keeping stuff to a minimum" that I talked about earlier, as well as the benefit of that garage play space.

This is the view from the bedroom door. You'll probably recognize the big set of shelves from Ikea. They hold special treasures, library books, and things that teens and pre-teens don't want their younger brothers to have. Securing that shelf to the wall beside it was one of the hardest home improvement projects ever, BUT ... the end result is that I can scale it and it won't even think of tipping. Worth the hours of frustration. 

The sides of the room are divided by personality, for sanity's sake. This side belongs to Logan (top bunk) and Oli (bottom bunk). Both of them tend to be a little more on the random, messy side ... so it's for the best that they deal with one another. The wall hooks you see under the windows are for backpacks, clothes to be put back on, belts ... whatever shouldn't be on the floor. Logan's only piece of permanent "collection" is the Pooh Bear print given to him by Benny years ago. He adores it. Right now, he also has Atticus' Moon In Your Room light (also a gift from Benny) and a whole lot of flight school stuff. Oli has wall stickers that glow in the dark. He tells them good night each and every evening.

This side belongs to Atticus (top) and Mani (bottom). As you can tell, Mani is a stickler for making his bed. And Atticus decorates with mementos of his achievements, as well as a Nepali silkscreen of Jesus given to him by Bee. Those small square windows serve as night stands, of sorts, to the older boys, allowing them to keep things nearby in the night. And that stained glass window is mine, y'all. I just don't have anywhere else to put it and it makes my heart sing when I drive up to the house and see it, so it stays there.

Behind the Ikea shelf is a small area for reading. It's also where the plastic bins of trains and Lincoln Logs are stored. Those bins will be replaced with large baskets as soon as we can find large enough options for a decent price at our favorite thrift shops. And see? I told you the place was anything but perfect. That bookshelf is embarrassing.

This shot gives you a better idea of the size of the reading area. The trains and Lincoln Logs usually don't get played with over here; they prefer the larger area under the windows. However, Atticus loves to drag his pillow down from his bed and stretch out in this spot to hang out.

Looking in the closet. Those small dressers belong to Oli and Mani, and area labelled with photos to help them keep their clothes in order. You can't see the large area to the right, which holds a small table (to be pulled out when needed for play) and Atticus' hanging clothes. Those are Logan's above the dressers.

And, I'd be remiss if I didn't mention that this is also, clearly, the armory. Check the lightsaber collection!

The view from the wall with the small windows. That armoire holds Atticus and Logan's folded items. It belonged to Mr. Blanding's parents, and so is a treasured piece of family history. The door to the right of the armoire is the master bathroom, which is kept heavily childproofed (and has a childproof handle) to keep Oli safe.

So there you have it. Four boys. One room. And still enough space that no one minds sharing. 

Growing

With each of my children, the time they have spent in our bed and, later, in a crib, has gotten longer and longer. Jo was ushered into a toddler bed at just 16 months old-- a combination of her Hudini escape abilities, the unforgiving nature of our ancient hardwood floor, and my desire to see her easing into the sweet little bed I'd been gifted by my cousin. The following children followed a similar trend, with a few months tacked on each season. Truth is, I just appreciate the sweet baby days now more than I did  in my early days of mothering. Yes-- there is so much goodness coming as the milestones are reached ... but, oh ... how precious are these moments here, now? 

As a result, Mani was two and a half when he graduated from the same crib each of his siblings has occupied straight to a big boy bunk. And Seven? Well ...

Seven is three months shy of her third birthday. And she's been pottying like a big girl for a year now. So, really, it was time.

Working together, Mr. Blandings, Atticus, and Logan made this bed. Part school project, part needed thing ... homeschool happiness!

With life being what it is right now, it took forever to get the project to completion. But finally, it was ready. I took Seven and Reuven to the library so that it could have its final assembly in secret. We returned home to the grand unveiling.

Funny how Seven didn't even notice that her beloved crib was in pieces and sitting in the hallway. Or that the animals she likes to enjoy rest time with were scattered on the floor. (Big no-no in her world!) Instead, she made a beeline for that girly white, four postered little bed.

The menfolk were rewarded with a, shall we say, exuberant reception. Atticus even recorded it for posterity's sake. He is a sucker for that baby sister, I tell you.

After noting that her special elephant quilt from Nepal was neatly folded atop her new bed, Seven showed us how big girls get into bed without being lifted.

Then Dolly-Baby joined her and, of course, she hasn't looked back. Because while I wasn't quite ready to admit that she's not a babybaby anymore, she most certainly is. She's happily transitioned to her new bed without a hitch. 

Another milestone. 

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?

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?

Joshua 1:9

It is no small thing to put your son on a plane and send him halfway around the world.



It is no small thing to watch him collect his belongings, listen to him dream over what God has in store for him while he is abroad.


It is no small thing, too, to see him cast a glance over his shoulder as he walks through the massive, sliding doors of the airport and search for you--one last time-- to offer a reassuring smile.


I'm going now. I'm off! Can you believe it, Mom? I'm doing it! I'm really doing it. Just like you always said I would ...


Five years ago, I wondered and worried and prayed over the spectre of fear and defeat that threatened to swallow Atticus. Night after night, I would pray with him, asking God to cut his anxieties down to size, to give him victory, to help him claim the steadfast heart that Jesus wanted for him as a young man of God. More often than not, Mr. Blandings and I would slip into his bedroom just before we turned in for the night and pray once more; this time, it was Joshua 1:9. Every night, over and over, we prayed this verse:

Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous! Do not tremble or be dismayed, for the LORD your God is with you wherever you go.

We recited it by day light, when the worries appeared. Over math that seemed too difficult. Over words that seemed too hurtful. Over fears about the future. Over questions that seemed too deep. Over a heart that seemed destined to cower.


Years later, I can tell you that the roots of this Scripture are so deep in my son's spirit that I have seen him whispering it to himself as he prepares to walk into a crowded room of people he doesn't know. 

Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous! Do not tremble or be dismayed, for the LORD your God is with you wherever you go.

Today, Yahweh walked alongside Atticus as he took one small leap from boyhood to manhood. The God who hung the stars in the sky stood nearby as Atticus and Mr. Blandings made their way through security, found their gate, and settled in to wait a while. Then, it was Yahweh who carried my beaming boy on to a gigantic Airbus. Right now, the three of them are hurtling through the sky en route to Nepal and whatever adventures and blessings await them there.


Five years ago, none of this would have been remotely possible. Five years ago, it was a struggle for Atticus to strap into the car for a ride across the mountains without mentally steeling himself for the fiery death he knew was lurking just around every bend. Yet today, with God's help and to God's glory, this same young man kissed me fiercely as I prepared to leave him at the airport. His hands were not clammy, his face was not pale, his heart was not racing.


I must have held on a little too long for our last hug. The truth is, my heart breaks just a little bit with each day that I am away from any of my children, and knowing that it will be two weeks before this gawky man-boy is laughing at my side brings a hard lump into my throat. I was pondering this, holding on tight, as Atticus started to pull away. Sensing my hesitation, he leaned in just a tad closer, found my ear, and whispered.

"Joshua 1:9, Mom. 'Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous! Do not tremble or be dismayed, for the Lord your God is with you wherever you go.'"

I cried just the tiniest bit as I let him go, even though really, it would have taken nothing for me to break into full-fledged sobs.  But to what end? Has God not commanded me? I will be strong and courageous. I will not tremble, nor be dismayed, for the Lord my God is with my son ... wherever he goes.

Atticus

Before I became a mother, I knew that I wanted sons. The picture I held in my mind always revolved around me sitting on an overstuffed sofa with a little boy on each side of me, clamoring to get a closer look at the oversized copy of Goodnight Moon I held on my lap. Sometimes, it included two cute little mop tops sitting on the kitchen counter while the mixer whipped together our latest batch of chocolate chip cookies. And, of course, I had visions of bunk beds and dinosaur-shaped pillows and army guys strewn on the floor and me, standing in the doorway in the dark sighing long deep sighs as I listened to my little men breathe.


I got that. Times two, actually. And it's been all that I dreamed of ... and more.


But back before I knew that God had not two, but four boys planned for me, I had Jo. And then, of course, I gave birth to Atticus.


Atticus. From the moment this little man emerged, quiet and contemplative from my womb, he has been everything you could want in a son. Sweet. Charming. Funny. Painfully intelligent. Kind. Loyal. Just.


And so darn cute it makes me cry, even now.

Atticus was a long, slim little package that grew longer and slimmer as the months wore on. Today, he's almost comically tall for his age, but his weight hovers in the 40% percentile. He's quite graceful for an 11 year-old, and has never been one to drop his entire weight on the couch (unlike others in this house), or lose awareness of his lanky limbs. Atticus is, if anything, extremely self-conscious. And more than a little concerned with hygiene, if you must know. Daily showers are his thing.


His wit and wisdom are something of legend in our family. By the age of three, he was using words like, "ominous" and "inconsiderate" in routine conversation. At four, he became exasperated with a well-meaning fellow passenger who tried to give him a kiddie version of how an airplane stays aloft.


"You don't know about lift and thrust, do you?" Atticus asked, before proceeding to outline the underpinnings of jet engines to his astonished row-mate. To this day, I'm not sure how much the man appreciated being schooled by a 4 year-old.


Today, Atticus' main passions are robotics and filmmaking. Neither floats my personal boat, but I am learning (by default) more than I ever wanted to know about the wonders of silicon, the merits of making a humanoid appear real but not too real, the importance of lighting, and why PCs are the superior programming tool. I refuse to believe the last bit, but am willing to give him the rest. It's Atticus, after all. He's probably right.

I've been very open on this blog about the struggles Atticus has had with Sensory Processing, as well as anxiety. I've had my share of guilt and doubt and worry over they years as I've watched my brave son face his giants. But God has been faithful. At age 11, Atticus is learning some hard-won but powerful lifelong lessons from swimming in the waters I would never have chosen for him. Chief among them is this: God can be trusted. 


God can be trusted. It is no small thing to step back and hold your hands palm up and say these words. At nearly 37, I still grapple with this fact far too often. To know that Atticus is weighing it now, so long before adulthood, gives me hope that his path with Christ will be real, genuine, and life-altering.


In less than a month, Atticus will strike out on his very first mission trip with his dad. Our goal as parents has been to send our children on international mission trips as soon as they seem ready. We desire for their hearts to be molded not just by what they hear, but by what they see, what they taste, what they smell. Not everyone has the luxury of sending their pre-teens to Mexico, Bangladesh, or Hong Kong. Mr. Blandings and I realize that we are imminently blessed to have so many open doors through which our children can travel with us. And yes, it is a blessing. A child who returns from the outskirts of Tijuana with blisters on her hands and the taste of a destitute single mom's tortillas on her tongue has encountered a Jesus she will never forget. Maybe, just maybe, Mr. Blandings and I will raise children who don't fall into the stereotype of second generation Christianity (see this blog post for a beautiful definition). There's no guarantee, of course. But oh, how desperately we desire this.

Atticus is ready to take the plunge. He is headed to Nepal in November, by way of South Korea. On his to-do list for the stop-over is a visit to the DMZ, which tells you a little bit about this boy's curiosity and character, right? His task, once he arrives in Kathmandu, is to use his vast (and somewhat startlingly developed, might I add) video skills to create individual movies of all the children at the orphanage, and all the church planters at the Bible school. Once home, he'll take his raw footage and put together bits for the children's sponsors and for fundraising purposes. He's thrilled that he's found a way to use one of his God-given talents to build up the family ministry and, most importantly, to impact the Kingdom. As his parents, we're grateful to the Lord that He stepped in to open our son's heart and eyes to the power that even a young boy can have when it comes to spreading the Gospel.


My vision of havingcountries where Maoist strikes shut down the cities for days on end. But you know, it never included a boy who would rather program a robot than make cookies, either. God has given my family an amazing opportunity to serve--and eventually to live--in a country where He is largely unknown. He has given us hearts for those who have yet to hear His word. And He can be trusted. So I send Atticus off knowing that this trip will imprint upon his young soul truths about his Creator that can be revealed no other way. 

What an outrageously beautiful gift.

Stretching

Jo was 10 when Mr. Blandings introduced her to the formal mission trip. Together, they trooped off to Tijuana, Mexico. It was just a week, if I'm remembering correctly. They worked in a slum populated with hundreds of beautiful people and some less than savory ones, too. At night, they slept in a tent encircled with barbed wire and fencing to keep the bad guys at bay. By day, Jo learned to string electrical wiring, became intimately acquainted with a handful of aggressive ticks, and ate some of the best tacos she's ever encountered. Mr. Blandings, for his part, learned that taking a kid along on a mission trip means that you're one part missionary, one part dad ... and that's sometimes easier said than done.

It was quite a learning experience for everyone, including me. After sending my baby girl off to serve in a somewhat rugged area, though, I knew this: I want all of my kids to have that experience. And I want them to have it while they're still fairly young.

There's no better way to truly impact a child's worldview than giving them the chance to wrap their brains around some seminal truths. Even kids who, like mine, have been without the luxury of their own Wii, handheld games, cable t.v., designer clothes, etc., have plenty to consider themselves blessed with. I know that this isn't a revelation to you, but many children in many parts of the world struggle to merely eat, stay safe, and get educated. The thought of clean clothes, clear water, and creature comforts would strike them as absurd riches. 

While I know I'm blessed that my children aren't being raised that way, I do want them to realize that what they have is a gift. Even more, I want them to see their own laps as overflowing ... and learn to pass it on. 

Jo was never what I'd call a perversely jaded child. But, nonetheless, she came back from Tijuana changed. Why? The family whose home my daughter helped to build had a small baby. The baby had a hacking cough, a fire-red diaper rash, and no clothes (thanks to "neighbors" who had stolen the family's belongings the night Mr. Blandings and Jo arrived). But day after day, the baby's mother raved about how blessed her baby was since she would soon have an actual, solid roof over her head. 

That kind of joy changes a person, no matter what stage of life you're in. When you're a child, though, it alters the way you see everything: your home, your family, your friends, your community, and your faith.

Jo has now been on two trips. Her dad loves traveling with her because she's fun, she's spontaneous, she's gracious, and she can roll with whatever happens--and on the kinds of trips Mr. Blandings likes to take, a lot can happen. There are many "not sure what this is" meals served on dirt floors. Lots of sleeping wherever the opportunity presents itself. Plenty of dirty clothes worn day after day. Plenty of squatty potties.

Jo has always been the kind of kid who can take it, love it, and come back for more. 

Atticus, however, is not that kid.

There's always been something a bit more fragile about my oldest son. He's not the kind to wear his underwear two days in a row, or to skip showering, or to eat anything that may have sat on the counter a touch too long. Atticus carries hand sanitizer in the same pocket he stows his Swiss Army knife in, because he likes to make sure the blade gets a good going over. You know ... just in case. Atticus will gladly pass on a camping trip that might get too hot, or too cold, or be located somewhere that might be rainy for the bulk of the trip. He knows that it's safer to fly than drive, that handling a nightcrawler may possibly give you a rare parasite, and that sunscreen can--and should--be reapplied with fair regularity.

As a matter of fact, pretty much being in our family stretches the bits out of Atticus. I'm fairly certain that God gave him to us simply to keep him from becoming the kind of man who moves to New York city and lives, works, shops, etc., in the same building for his entire life. Unless, of course, being in our family makes him more that way. I can hear it now:

"Honey, your parents called. They want us to come to that family gathering."

((deep sigh)) "Well, alright. I'll feel guilty if I don't. But we're bringing out own food. And for goodness sake bulk up on EmergenC before we get there. You know how someone there is always biting their nails or picking their nose or something disgusting."

Mr. Blandings started trying to come up with a plan for Atticus well before his 10th birthday last spring. He toyed with staying in the US and accompanying some friends on an annual outreach to some migrant workers here. Then he tossed around a Canadian project someone we know works with that does a theater project with kids. There was even a comfy gig in South Africa entertained. But nothing came to fruition. A whole year passed, and still, he wasn't sure what to do.

Finally, after much prayer and pondering, Mr. Blandings just flat out asked Atticus where he wanted to go. To our surprise, he said Nepal.

Yes, Nepal is still where our family plans to land. But understand this: when we actually take up residence, we'll sort things out to be as comfortable as possible for our crew. We'll have beds, mosquito nets, food prepared in a fairly familiar fashion, and western toilets. We will, in other words, be hanging on to some of our American notions. And we'll be doing it after a year transitioning in Chiang Mai.

But a mission trip to Nepal ... living with Nepalis ... eating with Nepalis ... well, it's going to stretch Atticus. He might see a spider--a big one. He won't recognize the food. He's going to ride without a seatbelt and maybe even on a motorbike--without a helmet.

You see why God's plan of allowing us that year in Thailand is such a brilliant idea? Acclimation.

But this, well ...

Concerned, Mr. Blandings and I pulled Atticus aside after he announced his destination. We gently, lovingly, pointed out to him all of the potential pitfalls I've already mentioned here. In truth, we steered him to something a little easier. He was having none of it. 

In desperation, I told him my biggest fear. "Son, I want you to be comfortable."

He looked at me like I had disappointed him--and that's a very sad look to receive from one's own child. 

"Mom," he told me, "It's not about being comfortable, right? It's about being available for Jesus. I can do that.  I know I can."

So late this summer, Atticus will head to Nepal with his dad. I have no idea where they'll be staying, what they'll be eating, how they'll be getting around, or what God has in store for them. But I do know this. That boy is going to come away from this trip eyes opened wide for the spreading of the Gospel. After all, he seems to have a pretty good head start.