This

I am one of those Christians who doesn't think God is enraged when the questions come His way.

One of those Christians who thinks asking, like Mary, "How can this be?" is not an affront.

One of those Christians who wrestles and finds that somehow, God is closer and more dear because of the struggle rather than in spite of it.

But whenever I begin to slide into the place where I kick and scream, I am reminded, "Lord, I believe. Help my unbelief."

Because so many bits of my life make absolutely no sense.

The rhymes don't quit stick. And the reason? Totally lacking.

And yet, I have no doubt that it's God who does the leading. It's God who has taken me-- us-- to those places where we scratch our heads and say, "Not my will, but Yours."

I wondered greatly what God was doing when I saw those two pink lines. A baby? Now? As our fundraising is finally ramping up? A baby? Really? I'm almost 40 for Pete's sake.

It made no sense. It simply flew in the face of what everyone-- most especially Mr. Blandings and me-- expected God to be doing in our lives right then.

And yet ...

It is this little person, this little soul, this little flash of sunlight from the Lord, that has made some of the darkest moments bright here since his birth. It is this little man who has reminded me, again and again, that God's ways are higher, and better, and more perfect than anything I could have planned.

And I am grateful.

Making home

Our lives are in boxes. Small boxes, big boxes. Sealed cardboard containers full of both the important (baby books) and mundane (cheese grater). The things that make a life a life.

Our days are currently spent opening boxes and finding homes for the essentials. We've purposed to keep some boxes sealed-- the idea being that at the end of our stay here, we may find ourselves less inclined to label these unopened time capsules "must haves" and be more likely to part with them as we book plane tickets to Nepal. Still, the supply of boxes that must be opened and sorted seems endless. 

Even pared down, even after ruthlessly purging, even after having sent bags upon bags to Goodwill, friends, and neighbors ...

We have a lot of stuff.

So we open boxes. Put towels in drawers. Hang photos on walls.  Stack puzzles on shelves.

We make home.

The first few days here, in this cavernous, mid-century home, I felt like an intruder. A visitor comes and goes. But an intruder takes away from the space, violates it. Seeing my sewing machine claim real estate, sitting at my humble kitchen table ... all of it was wrong and unknown and somehow seemed an affront to this house, in this neighborhood, in this city. 

This is not a place we would have chosen to land. The house is more than double the size of our previous one. The style of it is all wrong for us. Our neighbors are all elderly. No one gardens anything but flowers. Well-manicured flowers. The kind that bloom with the sole purpose of being immediately cut and plunked in a vase on a coffee table.

Have I ever mentioned that we don't actually own a coffee table?

But I digress. 

Here I am, adding bits of me--of us-- to this place. Claiming it, one step at a time. Finding my footing. Embracing the here and now. Letting the foreign, unsettledness of it fade and a new ease with my norm seat itself.

This morning, as we sat at breakfast, eagle-eyed Logan peered out the open French doors. In a shot, he was up, pushing the littles along with him, shouting for Seven to grab her magnifying glass. I admit that I was irritated. There is so much to get done today, I grinched. Can't we just get through breakfast so that you guys can go off and play and I can maybe, just maybe, get this kitchen totally set right?

But the kids were too fast for me, and before I could open my mouth to berate them ("You didn't ask to be excused!") I was hearing squeals of delight. Mani came racing back in, face already flushed, voice high and thin in his excitement.

"Spiders! Four spiders making webs right out there!"

I handed Reuven off to Jo (whose interest in spiders falls somewhere between "pour bleach in my eyes" and "I could vomit right now") and followed Mani out to the deck. As advertised, four small spiders were working industriously to fill in the frames of perfect, empty webs. Each went about his or her work, oblivious to all of the eyes observing, not to mention the exclamations.

"Look at how fast they work!"

"I can see his spinnerets!"

"How do they measure it all so perfectly?"

It was Seven who finally tugged me down to peer through her oversized magnifying glass and fully appreciate the beauty of the find. She waxed poetic on the sheer joy the spider must have in making something so fabulous. Then, thoughtfully, she puckered her sweet little lips and asked the most obvious question, as only an almost-three year-old can.

"Why do the spiders make the webs, Momma?"

And I had to answer her with the only truth I know, the only thing I have to cling to right now amidst these boxes and upturned schedules.

"It's their home, baby. They make them because it's their home."

"Oh!" she clapped, going up on her tip toes and shivering with that contagious, little girl joy. "They make them for their families!"

And this is how God used four spiders, an interrupted breakfast, and a precocious preschooler to remind me that while my eyes are cast ahead, following a greater, long-term goal, I must do this thing here, before me with as much enthusiasm. Why? Because it is my home. And it is for my family.

Sunday morning comin' down

Seasons of life are funny things. Since my family straddles several right now (are we in the "growing family" category? The "parents of teens" camp? Midlife? All of the above?), we find ourselves finding our own norms and making our own rituals and rhythms as the old ones begin to feel stretched. One area where the expansion of our family has been most keenly felt, as of late, has been in our Sunday morning routine.

Our church offers three Sunday morning options: 8 a.m., 9:30 a.m., and 11:15 a.m. For years, we have bounced between the 9:30 and 11:15 options, never quite settling on one but instead letting the events of the morning (and menfolks' ushering schedule) dictate which service we'd be attending. We're early risers, but our love of big, celebratory weekend breakfasts, combined with more than a few small people to wrangle from pjs, to potty, and into acceptable church attire, meant that more often than not, it was 10:30 before we were walking out the door. That meant that Mani, Seven, and Reuven were unlikely to get their normal nap in. It also meant driving home with hungry children who had been up since 6:30 a.m. and were more likely to be whining than singing "Jesus Loves Me."

Fast forward to our arrival home. A frantic rush to pull together a suitable lunch. A crying baby just wanting to be nursed in a quiet spot. A frazzled Daddy halfheartedly assigning clean-up duties. Older kids wiped out and just wanting to find a book and a place where no one will ask them for anything.

And then, it's 3 p.m. A couple of hours, then it's dinner and bed. Where has the day gone? 

In the midst of one unhappy Sunday afternoon, Mr. Blandings turned to me and asked, "We do this again why?"

And I knew just what he meant. Not "Why do we go to church?" or "Why do we have all of these kids?" He was asking why we were doing the same thing, over and over every week ... when clearly, it worked for no one.

So we sat down and thought it over. Why hadn't we ever tried the 8 a.m. service, we wondered. Sure, it was early. But if we ate a light breakfast-- just enough to get by-- we could be out the door by 7:30 easily. Then we could come home and substitute a fabulous brunch for our normal elaborate breakfast. If all worked according to plan, we would still be able to work in naps, and maybe even a few hours of quiet family time that we'd all enjoy. Imagine that!

With a little trepidation, we tried it out. We're creatures of habit, we Blandings, so it felt odd at first. The 8 a.m. service has no childcare option, so we're still one of the only families attending with small children in tow. The difference at this service is that the general population is over 65 and somehow doesn't seem to mind the happy babble of babies nearly as much as people still in the active stages of parenting young kids. The music is a little quieter, the tone a bit more subdued. The first week, we hurried to shush Reuven the second he offered up his indignation at waiting for her early morning snack. Rather than being startled at the intrusion, nearly everyone who noticed (very few folks, it turns out) turned to smile and attempt to elicit the same from him.

In other words, we were very, very quickly more at ease in our church home of 10 years than we have ever been.

In addition to finding a beautiful niche for our family worship, we've also enjoyed the benefit of Sundays being relaxing. No, really. 

We chill out on Sundays now. 

A little pre-planning on Saturday nights (baths for everyone, everyone's church clothes laid out and ready, a simple breakfast of yogurt and fruit or granola and dried blueberries all set) and the morning goes off without any major snags.  

When we return home, Mr. Blandings pulls out board games with the littles. 

The bigs help me assemble brunch in the kitchen.

We all listen to music and sing.

Then we enjoy time around the table.

Tea.

Muffins.

Bacon, fruit, egg dishes, whatever else sounds fun and festive.

And then we have the rest of the day. Enjoying one another. Being together. And celebrating all that's good on a Sunday.

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. 

Cake, family culture, & a recipe to boot

A couple of years ago, our family Bible studies slipped from simple, elementary themes and on into deeper theological waters. In other words, they finally gained the traction that one gathers once general knowledge is down pat and real theology comes to the forefront. Another way of putting it would be to say that they got more fun.

And longer. There's always that.

Sitting around the kitchen table, with the hum of the dishwasher as our background music, we have debated elements of the early church, women in ministry roles, and predestination. We do not conduct Bible study as a "Now hear this, children!" affair. Rather, we invite (require?) that everyone bring their thoughts, convictions, and questions to the table. We walk through it together., and we talk until we run out of steam. Not the kind of ruminating one should do without a proper sweet within their reach, in my opinion.

Thus was the Blandings Bible Study Dessert tradition born. When we sit down to chew on the Word, it's with a cup of tea or coffee (your choice) and a little something extra to sustain you through what could be quite a ride.

It's not always a fancy offering. It could be a scoop of ice cream or slices of in-season fruit and a nice cheese. Even these are served with presentation in mind, because the whole point, in my mind's eye, is creating a family culture of gathering, savoring, reveling, and enjoying. This time, I decided, should not be an afterthought, no matter how rough the day has been. It should feel special. It should feel sacred ... because it is.

Perhaps because it is thought of as a privilege-- and something of a story time/tea party/Q&A session-- we don't have rolling eyeballs when Bible Study time rolls around. Quarrelsome littles who have lost the chance to stay up beg to be allowed to linger for our gathering time, rather than being put to bed. In other words, it seems to be working. Our family loves and looks forward to this time together.

And while I can't guarantee that your family will find the same joy in a Bible Study Dessert tradition, I can at leat get you started with a tried and true favorite recipe. This is a classic, adapted to my family's tastes from my Mamaw's recipe. It's requested about once a month here, and is so easy to make that I rarely turn down the asker.

MG's Bible Study Carrot Cake
makes one 9x13 cake

Cake:

4 eggs
3/4 cup canola oil (or coconut oil, for a very moist cake)

1/2 cup applesauce

1 cup white sugar 

1 cup light brown sugar

3 teaspoons vanilla extract 

2 cups all-purpose flour 

2 teaspoons baking soda 

2 teaspoons baking powder 

1/2 teaspoon salt 

3 teaspoons ground cinnamon 

2 cups grated carrots

1 cup crushed pineapple, drained 

1 cup chopped pecans 

Frosting:
1/2 cup salted butter, softened 

8 ounces cream cheese, softened 

4 cups powdered sugar 

1 teaspoon vanilla extract 

Directions

1. Preheat oven to 350 degrees F. Spray a 9x13 inch pan.
2. In a large bowl, beat together eggs, oil, applesauce, both sugars and 2 teaspoons vanilla. Mix in flour, baking soda, baking powder, salt and cinnamon. Stir in carrots & pineapple. Fold in pecans. Pour into prepared pan.
3. Bake in the preheated oven for 40 to 50 minutes, or until a toothpick inserted into the center of the cake comes out clean. Let cool in pan while making frosting.
4. To Make Frosting: In a medium bowl, combine butter, cream cheese, powdered sugar and 1 teaspoon vanilla. Beat until the mixture is smooth and creamy. Frost the still-warm (but not hot!) cake. Serve immediately. Store leftovers & fridge & serve cold. (My personal fave!)

On Easter

I've had a hard time with Easter this year. Normally, this is the holiday that brings me the greatest joy. Normally, I am the one pulling out all the stops. We prepare throughout Lent, we analyze the walk that lead Jesus from the garden to the cross, I challenge my kids to put themselves in the shoes of Pilate, Barrabas, Judas, Peter. We talk. We pray. We digest.

And then, we rejoice. On Resurrection Sunday, we burst into full bloom and sun ourselves in the absolute peace that comes from knowing that Jesus has overcome.

It is a good season. It is a beautiful holiday. It is everything that I love passing on to my children.

And this year it struck me that, perhaps, Mr. Blandings and I have been doing it wrong.

My planning started out with the same excited hum that I always feel just prior to Lent. I pinned some fun crafts on Pinterest, thought of all the fun hands-on ways that I could draw my little ones in, pictured the bright smiles we all seem to have on Easter morning when we greet one another with the required, "He is risen!" "He is risen, indeed!"

Everything was shaping up to be pretty darn wonderful, right up until the point where I stumbled upon a section of Acts that gave me pause. Don't think I'm daft for asking, but did you realize that the main reason that the church met was to celebrate the resurrection? The focal point of every meeting was what we call communion. Yes, God was worshipped. Yes, letters were read. Yes, the fellowship of believers encouraged one another. But read closely and you get the distinct feeling that if Paul walked into most Protestant churches today, he'd be a little lost. Unless it was the first Sunday of the month, of course. In that case--bring on the crackers and juice!

(I'm not even going to go into what constituted communion in the early church, or the various Protestant denominations today who offer weekly communion. Those topics could fill entire posts of their own, and I'm no expert on them anyway, sooooo ...)

After reading through those sections of Acts which pertain to the gathering of believers, I was nudged into an uncomfortable spot. I took my questions to Mr. Blandings, and together, we discussed, we pondered, we researched, we prayed. We prayed a lot. And in the end, both of us were convicted.

Convicted of what, you ask? Easy. We were convicted of turning the resurrection into a holiday, a special event, something trotted out and celebrated and put back into a box until the next spring. We were convicted of not impressing upon our children daily the message that Jesus suffered, died, and was buried, then rose again in accordance to the Scriptures. We were convicted of being too comfortable with teaching that is more about practical how-to applications and less about the immediacy of the gospel.

This newfound conviction changed the way I am viewing Easter this year--in fact, I wouldn't be surprised if it changes much more than just this one season. I will be making Empty Tomb cookies tonight with my children ... but I'll probably do it a few more times this year, too. We'll have those yummy sticky rolls where the marshmallows evaporate to leave a gaping hole ... but why can't they be a random treat throughout the year? "Giving something up" might just become a new way of life around here. And I think that the newfound practice of communion during family worship just might be here to stay. In other words, maybe Easter will be celebrated all year long.

I don't think I'm the first person to be led to this place, and I don't think it makes me "special" or "more of a Chrsitian" than anyone else. I don't think there's anything inherently wrong, either, in pouring love and effort and exuberance into a very special culmination holiday. But I know that two hearts in this household--mine and Mr. Blandings--have both been drawn into a deeper walk with Christ thanks to this calling, and I'm happy in the knowledge that I can celebrate my favorite holiday year-round.

30 ways

This year, we're trying out a new schedule here at Casa Blandings. Adopting the Nepali schedule to which Bee is tied, we "did" school from the end of August until Mr. Blandings and Atticus left in November. Then we took a long break. A very long break. 


A break which I now see that I needed. Badly. 


This long break was a godsend in more ways than one. Not only did it allow us to throw ourselves fully into Advent and Christmas, it also gave me permission to do something that somehow, I hadn't been able to completely engross myself in for a little while:


Really enjoying my kids.


During the long, quiet nights while Mr. Blandings was away, I pondered the rut that I think all homeschoolers find themselves in from time to time. We teach. We train. We coach. We orchestrate. And if we're not careful, we forget to be embrace. 


This is my theme, always. Be there. Drink it in. Bask in it. 


And you know, for the most part, I do. But sometimes, no matter how hard I try, the joy leaks away. Without my noticing, the wonder drains away, the giggles become less frequent, and I'm left with the good ... but lacking the best.


I'm not o.k. with that. No parent should be--whether you homeschool or not. Life is not making sure dinner is on the table, making sure the baby doesn't fall head-first from the dining room chair, or sighing your way through another read-aloud session punctuated by the shushing of preschoolers. No matter how real those moments are, there's still more. Much more. 


With that in mind, I purposed to create a month's worth of joyful moments with my children. 30 individual things that were guaranteed to bring smiles to the faces of my children--and to my own. I wrote them down, even though it felt a bit like cheating. See, I've always thought that spontaneous fun is the best kind. I still do. But what if your normal routine chokes out the chance for sparks of brilliance more often than you'd like to admit? In that case, I reasoned, it was o.k. to create a target (fun!) and aim my arrow (planned activities) straight at them. 


Shortly after completing my list of 30 fun to-dos, I was sharing with a friend how refreshed I felt. How much more inclined I was to abandon "must" in favor of "can." How my children seemed more patient with one another. How I was loving homeschooling again.


"I need that!" she gasped. "This is January, after all. It's almost time for the Yellow Bus Blues!"


I was so caught up in my own happy that I'd actually forgotten, if you can believe it. And that was what told me that I really should share. 


So, readers, here's the deal. Over the next few weeks, I'll be posting some of the best of the best of the ideas that made our December a refreshing, energizing, filled-up oasis. They aren't holiday themed. Most of them don't require any extra stuff or even much planning. But they do accomplish an important task: Turning your hearts to your children. Shaking off the dust of the rut, and truly tuning in to the souls around you (both little and big) who are what this whole homeschool journey is all about. 


I invite you to check back tomorrow for the first idea. Then, leave a comment and share some of your own. I'd love to gather even more ideas to add to my repertoire. April is fast approaching, and I'm putting together another list of 30 ways--not because my kids wants it, but because I do!

Family

Take me to the river.

We live just over 2,500 miles from our nearest relatives. It's been this way since 2002. Before that, we were a six hour drive from family, so while it was something of an adjustment to realize that we couldn't get in for long weekends and the like, it wasn't a huge shock. It just ... well, it just was.


Many people can't imagine not living down the street from mom and dad, or at least within an hour or two or someone with the same last name.


For us, it's not awful. Perhaps it's because we have never in our married lives been closer than two hours to an extended family member. I really don't know. But whatever the reason, it always strikes me as odd when people are shocked or saddened by the geography of our family tree.


True, there are times when I realize that my children have missed out on having grandparents attend AWANA awards, or have never had the full-scale family birthday bash, complete with a whole line of cousins hiding behind the couch and sneaking M&Ms by the handful. They don't get random overnights with aunts and uncles, and they've never experienced the Sunday supper tradition of everyone crowding 'round a table after service and devouring three full chickens in less time than it took to put those things out of their misery.


They don't have those things. At least, not with people whose genes mimic their own.


And maybe this is where it all gets murky for me and finds its way around to me just not understanding the big deal:


My kids have these things. They have them with what we consider family.


There is Benny's family. When I look at her precious seven year-old, I remember his watermelon-streaked smile as he dug into his first slice that summer of 2004. I can't erase the image of her now-nine year-old as a stoic, tank of a toddler dashing past doughy little Logan all those years ago. I'll never forget the birth of her first daughter, the winter we learned to knit, or the fact that she was the one who passed on the pumpkin spice bar recipe that lights up our autumn palates.


There are countless others, too. The couple who ministered to my kids through AWANA for years and now regularly send me notes thanking me for sending on pics of some of their favorite kids. The lady who has bought Jo a birthday gift every year since she was six, just because she always wanted a little girl. The pastor who never passes by Seven without touching her cheek and reminding her that she was a blessing straight from God. The neighbor who taught me to make the most kickin' arroz con pollo you've ever tasted. 


Like three of the children that I call my own, no blood ties bind us to these people. Somehow, doesn't that make the weaving of our lives that much more poetic? Our love is based not solely on history or shared ancestry, but on respect, on trust, on afternoons spent herding toddlers through zoos, sharing recipes for cold salads, and discovering new passions.


Family isn't always blood, you know. But it is always, always love.

A great many things

There is much to be said for parenting a single stage of childhood. There are no diapers to change during chemistry experiments. No toddlers losing prized mp3 players. No nap times to consider when booking sports lessons.

Look who's (bear) walking

These are just a handful of the things I worried about when we began the slow peeling back in our hearts that would eventually lead to adding to what seemed like our already complete family. Three children (a nice, manageable number) born in just four and a half years allowed us the luxury of not stretching much beyond our current comfort zone. No one was too far ahead of anyone else. No one was too far behind anyone else. It was very neat and perfect, although I admit that at the time, I wasn't quite as appreciative of this fact. One weaned, it seemed, just in time for another to be born. I changed bulky over night diapers for no less than seven years solid. And Bob the Cucumber and Larry the Tomato were like live-in relations who just never got the hint and moved out.


Now I straddle a couple of stages, and no, it's nowhere near as neat and tidy as life would have been had we taken our cues from those seemingly wiser than us and just quit already. We tag-team things like Karate Awards Night for Atticus and Logan (it was my turn to go last week), and other things we parade to en masse, taking up an entire table during a fellowship dinner and fellowshipping with ... well, ourselves. (Note to AWANA leaders: tables that only seat 8 may not cut it ...) My older kids miss out on some things, like events that only happen from 11 a.m.-2 p.m., because that's prime napping time and woe unto him who thinks I'm giving that up lightly. My younger kids have never been to a library story hour.

Jo taking a break from cleaning rabbit cages to play with Seven

Sometimes I look at all of this and wonder if the pros outweigh the cons. I ask myself what the conversation will be like, twenty years from now, when they all gather in someone's living room without Mr. Blandings and I. I imagine Jo will be hosting, because she is Jo, and she likes to host things, and it will allow her to set the ground rules anyway which is very convenient when you have a somewhat Type A personality and many younger siblings. I imagine Logan will be late, and Atticus will be flustered, and Oli will watch with rapt awe, and Mani will simply bask in being somewhat difficult, but really meaning well. Bee will be there, but she will be quiet and sweet and remind everyone not to talk to loudly or get too carried away. And of course, there will be Seven, who will be deliciously independent and fawned over, and yet not at all able to understand why everyone finds her so darn funny.

Who? Moi?

So what will they say? What will my children make of this life they didn't choose when they're old enough to have some hindsight? The homeschooling? The missions-based, evangelical Christianity? The stay-at-home mom submitting to the head-of-household dad? The international focus? The Bible As Authority upbringing? The mix of children, biological and adopted? The cultures represented? The frugality? The make-do attitude? The span of ages? 


Oh, to be a fly on the wall.

I think it's love.

In truth, I have no idea what they'll say. I have my guesses (Atticus will insist that he had it the hardest, I guarantee it; Mani will be the rockstar baby brother, I guarantee that, too) but only time will tell. Until then, I get to enjoy this sprawling, chaotic brew of family bubbling over.


Big kids. Little kids. And the melding of the two. 

Stuck in the middle with you

I remember the phenomenon from the days before my own family could justifiably be called "large." A couple we knew had seven children at the time. And try though I might, I couldn't keep them all straight. I could name the oldest three, and I knew the youngest two ... but those two in the middle, well ... they kind of eluded me.

I figured it was just me. Or maybe it was just them. After all, my mom is the youngest of seven and it's not like I couldn't keep track of all of my aunts and uncles. Surely it was just something specific to me, or to this family. I mean really ... their kids were like little cookie cutter cuties, each one with the same little nose, the same shade of hair, the same beautiful eyes. And honestly, they had a lot of girls. Who could blame me?

After a while, I figured out who was who. I even started to be incredulous at my own inability to decipher who was who back when I didn't know them so well. The differences were obvious, after all.  And seven, well ... seven isn't so many kiddos once you cross the invisible line between three and more than three.

Within the past year or so, however, I've noticed that the odd "floater" syndrome has been applied to my own family. And yeah, I admit it: I don't get it. To me, each little person is, well ... a little person. Not interchangeable. Highly individual. As unique as a fingerprint. How could you possibly mix them up? Or, worse yet, forget one?

And then it occurred to me. As we stood in the church lobby on Easter Sunday, all swarmed together and talking with folks as they exited the service, it came to me: it's those darn middle kiddos that get lost in the shuffle.

Somehow, the older ones make their mark. They are generally well-spoken, represent themselves well, and able to be of assistance to those around them. The younger ones get by on cute. Who doesn't remember the name or personality of the little moppet who grins at them behind their momma's shoulder all the time? But the middle ones, well ... they're just floaters. Neither older, nor younger. Not teen, not tot. Just ... middle siblings in the large family sea. 

It didn't take much to confirm my hunch. Simply listening closely to people's questions and comments was enough to seal the deal and cue me in to who was who in our family based on the observations of others:

The absent one

The responsible one

The smart one

Blandings Boy

The special one

The silly one

The littlest one

Logan, currently located smack dab between two sets of three siblings in either direction, is our Invisible Man. Somehow he's the most likely to be overlooked. If you are a close personal friend of our family (and hence, actually know the kids by name and not just order of acquisition) you'll probably find this fairly shocking. There's very little about Logan that says, "Forget me." He's the one most likely to make a splash, least likely to ease into wallflower mode, and yeah,  "inconspicuous" is not his middle name. He's our artist. Our cheerleader. Our Over the Top Man of the Moment.

And yet ... he's just "one of those Blandings boys." Not because anyone is being mean. Not because he's disliked. But just because, well ... there are a lot of us. And it's easy to remember the names of the ones you'd like to ask to babysit someday, or the ones who do cute things. But it's kind of hard to remember the slightly show-offy pre-teen who can't sit still.

The only hope for Logan is this: for his older siblings to become too mature to be interesting, and for the younger siblings to grow into a less-adorable adolescence.

Or to blow something up. 

There's always notoriety, after all.

Until then, he's just the middle Blandings. I guess there are worse things.

Value

My life's theme right now is "surrender." The season I find myself in has little room for much outside of the very real, very present, very pressing priorities of my home and family.


Raising six children takes up a lot of time. Being a good wife requires concentrated attention. Keeping a house clean doesn't happen unless you work at it. Homeschooling is no "fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants" endeavor.


So I'm feeling a little stretched. That's where surrender comes in. I've opened my heart before God, prayed, talked with my husband, searched Scripture, waited for answers. I promised myself that when they came, I'd listen. Not in that "looking in the mirror and then forgetting your own face" kind of way ... but in the real hearing variety of listening. Tuning in. Taking it to heart. Doing it.


Then the truth started rolling in, and the "Yes, I Can!" part of me kind of wished I had never asked in the first place.


Truth: There is only so much Mary Grace ... and there are so many good thing vying for a piece of what I have available. My husband, my children, my friends, my church, the stories that clatter through my head, the reviews, the extended family, the laundry, the projects I want to complete.


Truth: The world may want me to believe that I can have it all, but I'm wise enough to know that I can't. Or am I?


So, quietly, humbled, I listened. I started shedding the weight that I was no longer meant to bear. I scaled back. Resigned from this and that. Cancelled get togethers. Informed folks that my phone time has been pared to virtually zero. Let my husband pick up the library books.


I felt free.


It lasted about three days before a well-meaning acquaintance cornered me in the grocery store and invited me--relentlessly--to her Bible study.


"I'm not committing to anything right now," I smiled, trying to back away.


"But this isn't a commitment. It's fellowship. Besides, it's imperative to be in the Word," she continued.


"I am," I assured her, "with my husband. Daily."


"But you need the mentoring of other women. It's Biblical."


"I'm fine right now," I answered.


"The only way you can contribute to other believers is by being in community."


Clearly, she didn't realize that my family's Bible studies involve more than the required two or more. She implored me to reconsider, yet again, before I lost her near the orange juice.


I returned home to an emailed invitation from a fellow mother at my church, asking me to come to a fundraiser highlighting the evils of human trafficking. It was, the email promised, a chance for us moms to "do something of value for the Kingdom." I was instantly offended ... and saddened. I realized that several of the things I had just let go were probably, in the eyes of many, of more "value for the Kingdom" than what I had held on to. What good is changing diapers? Where is the glory in teaching math? Who will remember that I pack my husband's lunch each day?


Who, indeed.


In this season, I am doing Kingdom work with every lesson I plan, every nose I wipe, every dish I wash.  Keeping my eyes centered on my home allows me the freedom of not rushing, not overextending, and not burning out. The days will come again when I have more time to dedicate to outside pursuits. But not now. Right now I'm just too busy. Too busy adding value to my own family.

Brothers and sisters

Here's what's breaking my heart lately: the dawning, sad revelation that Oli and Mani, well ... they aren't destined to be the chummy buddies I thought they'd be.

Oli (2) & Mani (5 mos.)

Mani has surpassed Oli in so many ways.

Oli (age 3) & Mani (19 mos)

His speech. His reasoning. His physical abilities. His size. His play. His everything.

Mani (age 2) & Oli (3.75)

18 months in age stand between them. And yet ...

Oli (4) & Mani (2.5)

Oli is the two year-old, and Mani is going on three.


There are days when it doesn't matter. Days when I see them as twins, and simply do the next thing in my long list of get-'er-dones. 


And then, there are days when the blossoming relationship between Mani and Seven yanks me back to reality. Yes--these two are destined to be buddies. They are already in love with one another. Already connecting and nurturing and sharing the giggles and grins that set the foundation for peerhood.

Seven (4 mos.) & Mani (2.5)

And there sits Oli, trying so very hard to keep his footing in a world that moves faster, burns brighter, and laughs harder than he can fully understand.

OIi (4)

It is bittersweet, the innocence that Oli embodies. He is not wise to the ways of the world, and for that, he seems much younger. But he is also beginning to realize that he is being passed over by so very much.


In the end, it does not matter--this sad longing that I have that will go unfulfilled. It is God who crafts my family, and He knows the who and the why and the how. As my dear friend Benny reminded me this morning, I can only see what lays in front of me, and His vision goes farther and longer than mine ever could.


But still I mourn for the could have, would have, should haves. Even as I watch with awe and wonder the bud of a relationship that is opening between Mani and Seven ... I pull Oli a little tighter to me and try to make up for what he doesn't even know he will miss out on.


Perhaps this is what special needs parenting is all about.