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Homeschooling as a Lifetsyle Moment:

Grades 11, 8, 6, K, & PreK

Farewell

Ten years ago, we bought a dog. After a year of no family pet, we were ready to dive back into the world of four-legged family members. Well, Mr. Blandings was. Truth be told, I was not that much in favor of a new creature mucking up the carpet and needing to be fed. But I've always thought that pets are good for kids and heck, I grew up with a dog, so ...

So we bought a dog.

The breed was somewhat incidental as far as I was concerned. I had always thought I'd go for a golden retriever, but (laugh with me now) I preferred something a little less hairy. We tossed around options, did some research, polled some friends and, in the end, went with a German Shepherd from a very fine breeder.

The dog was expensive. I remember at the time thinking, "Mutts can be awesome dogs. And they're practically free." 

Little did I know that that money was some of the best I would ever spend.

Gabe, as we called him, grew (and grew and grew) into a fine dog. From the beginning, he patrolled and herded and kept my kids close. He never tired of fetching balls, running laps, watching over preschoolers as they raced trucks, or acting as a pillow during movie time. He was a dress-up toy during their early years, and a patient ear during the turmoil of early puberty. He went on hikes, loved camping, ate more than his fair share of cheerios, and even found himself featured in a kids' film or two.

He was the background noise to my older kids' growing up years. 

And now he's gone.

I've never been especially sentimental about animals. Growing up around farmers will do that to you. An animal serves a purpose, does a job, or is a product. There's little romance in knowing the name of the bacon you'll eat next winter. Even family dogs failed to make it much beyond the level of hired hand in my house as a kid, and as a mother busy with small children I have little room and compassion for anything that doesn't have give back, if you know what I mean.

But Gabe? Gabe gave back. Oh, I was a cruddy enough dog owner. I hated his hair all over the floor and lamented my twice-daily vacuum routine in our common areas. I was impatient with his need to have his nose in everything and be aware of every little coming and going in the house. I was never fond of the massive mounds of poo he produced, either.

But I loved that dog. Never as much as he deserved, though.

Gabe's health failed drastically over the last weeks of his life, and I found myself with the chance to, in some small way, repay him for his kindness to the people I love. I helped him stand when his legs refused to lift his weight, helped him stretch when his back was too sore to accommodate. I don't begrudge a moment of that time spent with him, but it did have the sad effect of leaving a huge hole in my days. Like Logan, who has found himself wandering aimlessly, waiting for his friend, I find myself looking for Gabe every time I open the front door. 

He was a good dog. A great dog. A good friend.

We miss him. 

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. 

God knew

Right about this time two years ago, I was announcing to the world that I was pregnant and seemed to be staying that way, as far as I could tell. I had no way of knowing, of course, that our little Seven would be, well ... Seven. My list of what I "knew" was so short, actually, that I couldn't see past each new morning. Every day of that pregnancy was a gift.  I didn't want to ruin it by looking too far into an uncertain future.


When Seven was born, my awe for that gift blossomed even more. A new little person. Who would she be? How would she see the world? And, of course, what role was she destined to fill in our family?


I don't know about you, but one of the things that I love most about the gift of someone new to fold into your circle of family is the gentle unfolding of their place. It's as if a hole that you didn't even know existed is being filled, one day at a time, by a person custom fitted to the job. I have felt this with each and every one of our children, be they blessings via birth or adoption. Each person has added a new pattern to our quilt, a new flavor to our pot. 


Seven is now old enough that her personality is revealing itself in all its glory. She is a lover of beauty ("pretty!" is a favorite word), not above scrapping to make sure she gets her fair share, loves music, and prefers a steady rhythm to her days. Knowing her--learning her--has been a joy I can't put into words. Like her siblings before her, Seven has carved out her own special place in my heart, and in our family--the person we didn't know we were missing.


So many things about this child have been unexpected. Her entire existence, for one. Her healthy arrival. Her ability to skip naps and be fine, even at a very young age. Her utter embodiment of the term "girly." 


And, most of all, her relationship with Logan.


Logan has always been our slightly third wheel kind of boy. He's the one you can count on to dissent when everyone else agrees. He's the guy who never found his perfect match:  too young for Jo, too random for Atticus, too fast for Oliver, too impatient for Mani, too silly for Bee. He's the one who likes chocolate when everyone else likes strawberry, who wants to go sledding when everyone else wants to skate. 


I think we do a pretty good job of keeping Logan fully in the embrace of our family, but I have always suspected that his teen years might be ripe with the "no one is quite like me" drama that was the hallmark of my own high school years. Without an anchor, kids who feel like black sheep often become black sheep: rejecting the commonality that they find in favor of shrugging their shoulders and assuming that they will always be the odd man out. Without an anchor, those kids can feel lonely. They can drift. They can struggle to feel the love of their family, let alone the love of their Savior.


Seven is Logan's anchor.


I didn't expect it. Didn't see it coming at all. But it's true.


Seven gets Logan.

His goofy humor? Yeah, she gets that.

 His need to hug and be hugged? Yeah, she gets that.

His random goofiness? Yeah, she gets that.

His love of teaching and telling tales? Yeah, she gets that.

His ability to stop and breathe in beautiful moments? She gets that, too.


The best part? Logan gets Seven. Together, they are a team: a sweet spot balance between Great Dane boy and headstrong toddler. Carbon copies of one another in terms of features, they are a funny pair of contrasts in size. And yet, there she is: riding his hip in the aquarium, cheering for Logan (and only Logan) in the family soccer match, laughing as he pratfalls for her pleasure. And there he is: slipping into her room as I put her down at night because he didn't get to give her a kiss, asking if she wants to share his Easter treat, calling for her to come so they can go check the mail together.


I see this miracle love story being written and all I can say is thank you. Thank you, Lord, for being so generous as to give my son someone to relate to. Thank you, Lord, for giving my daughter a doting protector who cherishes her. Thank you, Lord, for making my family so amazingly beautiful.


Two years ago, I was stunned by what God was doing. Today, I am stunned by what He is still doing. When will I learn that His plans are, truly, perfect? Someday ... 

The Do Not Forget Things

Scrambling to run out the door. Five minutes late and in a NW downpour, of course.

Diaper bag restocked? Yes.

Snacks packed? Yes.

Entertainment bag ready to go? Yes.

Everybody pottied or in a fresh dipe? Yes.

Rain boots on, everyone? Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes and yes.

And then ...

"Logan, did you brush your teeth?"

Guilty shoulder shrug, slight grimace.

And I lost it. The stress, the rush, the late night licking envelopes to send support packets to churches--it all hit me in one, sick rush.

I lost it.

I sucked breath through my teeth, rolled my eyes, threw my hand on my hip, looked at the ceiling. Then I got that lanky, oversized boy square in my sights and let him have it.

"LO-gan! This is. not. o.k. Son! YOU HAVE GOT TO BRUSH YOUR TEETH! You are nine years old! Nine! Do I really have to remind you to brush your teeth every morning? Ser.i.ous.ly?"

His lower lip trembled. His big, beautiful blue eyes shifted shamefully to the floor, where he couldn't see his whole line of siblings staring at him in his moment of disgrace. His cheeks flushed white, then pink, then red.

And his shoulders? Those proud, tall shoulders of that burgeoning man-boy that spread so elegantly, reminding me daily of the handsome guy he's becoming? They were hunched. Cowed into submission by the angry words I was spitting in his face.

Just then, the face that I saw before me wasn't Logan at all. It was the image of a friend who has a nine year-old little man of her own. A boy who, sadly, will take a bride long after his Momma is gone and unable to help him pin the corsage to his tux. A boy who will not likely hand his firstborn into his own Momma's waiting arms one day and whisper, "Here you go, Gramma." A boy who will brush his teeth without his Momma's nagging for many, many years before he is grown.

The tears came before I knew what was happening. I grabbed my boy by his bent shoulders, hugged him close and begged his forgiveness. Pressed my lips to his forehead while it is still low enough for me to reach, wrapped my arms around him while he is still small enough to fit snugly inside my hugs. Loved on him. Felt him slowly, gingerly, uncoil and accept the kisses I couldn't stop myself from lavishing on him.

Because really, I don't give a whip about whether or not he brushes his teeth. Not in the big picture. What I care about is that I have this boy--this young man-- to love and cherish. I have Logan here, now. 

Those are the big things. The Do Not Forget Things.

The teeth? Well, they matter. But not more than my son. Not more than his heart, his pride, his sense of what it is to be loved and accepted. I'm just grateful that God, in His infinite love for both Logan and me, pulled me back just far enough to remind me of how blessed I am. Sure, I've got a boy whose idea of oral hygiene is, shall we say, lacking. But I've got a boy. I am blessed to be his mother. God willing, I will watch him lose every single baby tooth in his head and even be the one to hold his hand at the oral surgeon's office as they wrest the wisdom teeth from his jaw. I will most likely cry when he shows me the ring he's selected for his intended. I'll walk over the threshold of his first home and watch him crackle with excitement as he tells me about their plans for the place. I'll have lunch with him some day when I'm 70 and he's 43, and I'll tell him that he's too young to be worried about this or that. I will be a part of his life, and he mine.

That, well ... that's a Do Not Forget Thing. That's the stuff that matters.

Lairnin' Logan

Jo, Atticus ... they follow a pretty easy pattern. Read a book. Talk about a book. Maybe even write about a book. And voila! They have a file folder in their brain that they can access at any time to retrieve even the most minute details.


Teaching them is easy. In, fact, it's so easy that I'm fairly certain they could lairn (as my Poppy used to say) from one of those dry-as-toast video school jobs. Now, they'd be bored to bits--but they'd learn. Why? Because if they hear it, it's theirs. Plain and simple.


Logan hangs in there pretty well in this house dominated so often by words. Perhaps it's simply the fact that words--written, spoken, sung--are the backdrop of our family's life in a much deeper way than the average lot. I write: fiction, nonfiction, reviews, this blog, the occasional unit study, diatribes that never see the light of day. Mr. Blandings writes: press releases, articles, a now-massive Bible study for fathers that will hopefully make it to book form some day. Jo writes: short stories, one full novel, and more letters than you can shake a stick at. And Atticus writes: an epic novel divided, LoTR style into three "books," comic books, frighteningly observant articles, and the random poem.

Logan writes, too. Poetry, mostly. I'm proud to say that it doesn't rhyme, and that he uses words like "epicenter" correctly, even though he misspells it. He also has a story going. I haven't been invited to read it yet, but my hopes are high that I may get the nod sometimes soon.


Here's the thing: Logan doesn't think he's a writer. And that pains me.


Because he doesn't follow the words=learning all there is to know about a subject pattern set in place by Jo and Atticus, he thinks he's different. 


Case in point: Yesterday, driving home from a fun outing with friends. I hear a somewhat strained discussion behind me in The Walrus (our name for our big white van). I let it go for a minute, trying to get a bead on what was taking place. Whatever it is, Jo is not buying it.


"I do, too!" Logan shouts, slamming his hands into his lap and refusing to turn around and see eyeball to eyeball with his sister any longer.


I ask what's up.


Jo yells above the din of the preschoolers: "Logan says you think in pictures. But you don't think in pictures. You think in words. I told him that."


Uh, yeah. You think in words if you're you, Jo. Or if you're me. But if you're Logan?


If you're Logan, you think in pictures.


It's always been this way with my second son. From the time he was tiny, I could tell that he saw the world in a way that I couldn't quite touch. Logan could differentiate between red and scarlet, the scent of two types of roses, or the sound of bells of differing sizes. He loved certain clothes for their style, or for the way that the colors hit his eye. He adored spreading table-sized art books all over the living room floor and admiring them, memorizing the names of the artists. Foods that "looked nice" were more likely to be eaten than those that were simply tasty. 

As he grew, I transitioned from merely sensing Logan's differences to seeing them outright. He was an artist. A visual artist. 


Heaven help me.


I admit that I've probably failed Logan in the area of his art education thus far. Taking my cues from various sources that claim that teaching children the specifics of drawing at a young age stifles their innate talent, I have chosen to allow my own lack of skills in this area to win out. Logan has had the tiniest smidgen of what one would call actual art instruction--and most of that has come from a DVD. In my defense, I did try to hook up with a local homeschooling mom for art lessons, but it never came together past the first few visits. 


Instead, I've given him high-quality materials, as much access to them as possible in a household with six smaller hands anxious to grab, and all the cheerleading I can muster. For the most part, Logan seems satisfied with this.


Except, of course, when he has to bend his learning style to meet with ours. While he doesn't complain or whine, I know that he always has the sneaking suspicion that everyone else does better, is more creative, has it all right. No matter how much I tell him, he still seems to shy away from my praise of his written work and fall back into, "I don't really like writing."


Except, of course, that he does. He just writes with pictures.


Logan is only 9, and I'm still absorbing the emerging bits of his personality as he steps closer and closer to the edge of manhood. Nine is such a precious, awe-filled time for a boy. They are courageous, they are witty, and they are so silly that you want to pull your hair out. But oh, how deep their thoughts, and how full their hearts. 


I'll take a 9 year-old boy any day of the week.


And Logan? Yes, I'll take him any day of the week, too. The more I lairn, the more I fall in love all over again with this blossoming boy. Yes, his shirts are almost always smeared with oil pastels. His pockets are doubtless full of Lego pieces. He's most likely forgotten to brush his teeth. But he is boundlessly creative. He sees beauty in everything, from the way the moon hits the river at night to the sound coins make as they clink in my pocketbook. 


I'm learning more every day, and Logan is one of my teachers. 


Now, to see if I can score him a real art instructor ...