It's the birthday come down day, and tempers are short. I think I've mediated fifteen spats today. Can you say
E
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Friday, May 25, 2007
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
Atticus
I admit to being a very fearful mother when Atticus was born. I had normal second-time mom anxieties: will I love this baby as much as my first? How will I handle two? Will my children love each other? Will I feel too stretched?
Now, as he stands on the cusp of his seventh birthday, I realize that all those fears were perfectly well founded.
You're picking your jaw up off the floor now, wondering how in the world a mother of three (a mother of three who wants more kids!) can possibly say these things. Very easily, actually.
Do I love Atticus as much as I love Jo? As if you could possibly love two people in the exact same way! One of the biggest fallacies of motherhood is that we love all of our children "the same." How is that possible? There is no way that I can love Atticus with the mother/daughter kinship I feel with Jo, just as there is no way that I will ever swell with love for Jo in the same way that I do when I see Atticus revealing a little bit more of the man he will someday be. The love of a mother is very much like the old standard for institutionalized racism: separate but equal. Atticus taught me that as I watched his personality emerge over the early months and years of his life as my eldest son. You can love two people fiercely ... you just love them where they are.
I was terrified of somehow falling behind in juggling two children. Here's the truth: if you micromanage every detail of every day, yes, you will find that anything more than one child is too much to ask. When you begin to accept that pants can be worn for more than one day and that you are by no means entitled to an eight hour stretch of uninterrupted sleep every night, you begin to see that the problem is you--not the number of children you have. Atticus showed me that.
Another worry was whether or not my children would connect in the way that would keep them close well into adulthood. While I can't say that we've crossed the line that I can point to and say with absolute certainty that they will always be siblings and best friends, I can say that this fear is one that I have found to be a bit within my control. While the Lord clearly made my children with complimentary personalities, He also gave me some great tools for ensuring that they treat each other with love and respect. Atticus' huge, soft heart doesn't hurt, of course. He is willing to suffer just about any indignity at the hands of his beloved big sister: he has been coerced into tea parties and pony games since birth, after all. On the other hand, his sister adores him with an almost epic devotion. Logan would fight to the death for either of them. (On our bad days, I actually fear that someday he will.)
And finally, as I looked at my big belly on May 24, 2000 and wondered about whether or not I would feel overly extended in parenting two children ...
Atticus has taught me that if you do not feel stretched in your parenting, you are probably not committing your whole heart to the process. Motherhood is not a gentle walk in the park; if it was, what would be the point? The entire act would be completely narcissistic. The idea of self-sacrifice is what makes parenthood an admirable calling--to willingly lay down every right, every desire and to pick up the the care and nurture of someone else for the sake of nothing but their eventual well-being. This is something that I never would have learned if it had not been for Atticus. Having just Jo allowed me to still keep an eye to myself. But the gift of Atticus showed me that this needy little man deserved so much more than a momma who worried about whether or not she was going to get to finish that story she was working on.
My oldest son has a heart made of something more pure and yet more vulnerable than most. I can't imagine the plans the Lord has for it; something that innocent and soft in the world is a frightening thing to me. There are days I would actually prefer that his emotions were held firmly in check, that his fears were buried under a bit more bravado. Atticus at his best is a goofy, jumping jack of a boy giggling for all he's worth. Atticus at his most sensitive is a trembling heap of little boy flesh frozen by what he thinks might possibly happen. Atticus is the boy who asks needs to understand the orbit of the earth around the sun to feel secure in the firmness of the earth, the one who must understand the surfactant of human lungs to be sure he is actually breathing. This takes a toll on a mother who is distracted, but on a good day ... the depth of understanding and the genuine awe of creation is almost too much to bear.
So while I look at Atticus turning seven and wonder where his anxious spirit will take us over the next few years, I also remember how deeply rooted my own fears were as I felt the grip of the contractions that would eventually bring him to us. And I can clearly see how easily they were defeated, with just prayer, time and faith. I know that Atticus will learn this same lesson. I am honored to watch him walk that journey.
Happy birthday, Atticus.
Now, as he stands on the cusp of his seventh birthday, I realize that all those fears were perfectly well founded.
You're picking your jaw up off the floor now, wondering how in the world a mother of three (a mother of three who wants more kids!) can possibly say these things. Very easily, actually.
Do I love Atticus as much as I love Jo? As if you could possibly love two people in the exact same way! One of the biggest fallacies of motherhood is that we love all of our children "the same." How is that possible? There is no way that I can love Atticus with the mother/daughter kinship I feel with Jo, just as there is no way that I will ever swell with love for Jo in the same way that I do when I see Atticus revealing a little bit more of the man he will someday be. The love of a mother is very much like the old standard for institutionalized racism: separate but equal. Atticus taught me that as I watched his personality emerge over the early months and years of his life as my eldest son. You can love two people fiercely ... you just love them where they are.
I was terrified of somehow falling behind in juggling two children. Here's the truth: if you micromanage every detail of every day, yes, you will find that anything more than one child is too much to ask. When you begin to accept that pants can be worn for more than one day and that you are by no means entitled to an eight hour stretch of uninterrupted sleep every night, you begin to see that the problem is you--not the number of children you have. Atticus showed me that.
Another worry was whether or not my children would connect in the way that would keep them close well into adulthood. While I can't say that we've crossed the line that I can point to and say with absolute certainty that they will always be siblings and best friends, I can say that this fear is one that I have found to be a bit within my control. While the Lord clearly made my children with complimentary personalities, He also gave me some great tools for ensuring that they treat each other with love and respect. Atticus' huge, soft heart doesn't hurt, of course. He is willing to suffer just about any indignity at the hands of his beloved big sister: he has been coerced into tea parties and pony games since birth, after all. On the other hand, his sister adores him with an almost epic devotion. Logan would fight to the death for either of them. (On our bad days, I actually fear that someday he will.)
And finally, as I looked at my big belly on May 24, 2000 and wondered about whether or not I would feel overly extended in parenting two children ...
Atticus has taught me that if you do not feel stretched in your parenting, you are probably not committing your whole heart to the process. Motherhood is not a gentle walk in the park; if it was, what would be the point? The entire act would be completely narcissistic. The idea of self-sacrifice is what makes parenthood an admirable calling--to willingly lay down every right, every desire and to pick up the the care and nurture of someone else for the sake of nothing but their eventual well-being. This is something that I never would have learned if it had not been for Atticus. Having just Jo allowed me to still keep an eye to myself. But the gift of Atticus showed me that this needy little man deserved so much more than a momma who worried about whether or not she was going to get to finish that story she was working on.
My oldest son has a heart made of something more pure and yet more vulnerable than most. I can't imagine the plans the Lord has for it; something that innocent and soft in the world is a frightening thing to me. There are days I would actually prefer that his emotions were held firmly in check, that his fears were buried under a bit more bravado. Atticus at his best is a goofy, jumping jack of a boy giggling for all he's worth. Atticus at his most sensitive is a trembling heap of little boy flesh frozen by what he thinks might possibly happen. Atticus is the boy who asks needs to understand the orbit of the earth around the sun to feel secure in the firmness of the earth, the one who must understand the surfactant of human lungs to be sure he is actually breathing. This takes a toll on a mother who is distracted, but on a good day ... the depth of understanding and the genuine awe of creation is almost too much to bear.
So while I look at Atticus turning seven and wonder where his anxious spirit will take us over the next few years, I also remember how deeply rooted my own fears were as I felt the grip of the contractions that would eventually bring him to us. And I can clearly see how easily they were defeated, with just prayer, time and faith. I know that Atticus will learn this same lesson. I am honored to watch him walk that journey.
Happy birthday, Atticus.
Monday, May 21, 2007
Logan
Logan turns five tomorrow. This is something to celebrate, because three years ago, I couldn't have told you if either of us would ever make it this far.
I could pull out all the nasty little things that I hear parents label their kids right over the little ones' heads and give you a more complete picture of who my little Logan was at two, but I won't. I believe very strongly in the power of words. Instead, I will tell you that Logan was a very determined little boy who had to learn to reconcile his wants with the level of obedience and self-denial required to interact with other people.
Logan was a toddler who did all of those uncivilized toddler things that make parents cringe. I was a mother who had absolutely no idea what to do to tame what I saw as a sin nature run completely and totally amok. I can't count the number of times I cried over him, for him or with him. I spent the better part of eighteen months fairly certain that I would fail my son--certain that there was no way that I could help him to be who it was that God had designed him to be. I had visions of him hating me as an adult. Worse, I couldn't shake the fear that his lack of respect for authority would translate into a complete lack of faith.
Midway through Logan's third year, I found that my prayer had shifted. It was no longer about my son; instead, I was now praying that God would change me. "Make me the mother he needs, Lord. Show me how to help him. Let me see what he sees." The shift was pivotal. Just as Logan found his voice and began moving into the larger world of communication, I felt my role in his life finally make sense.
See, Logan is what I now think of as a passionate child. He has emotions that bubble up and overflow, and frankly, the mess splatters far from the pot. But the other side of that heat is a way of seeing the world that goes beyond anything I have ever experienced in my life. The world my Logan lives in is one where love is complete and all-consuming. Where injustice hurts more than physical pain. Where beauty is something that you must stop and breathe in, not merely gaze at. Logan feels joy so total that it must be expressed with movement and song. He feels sadness so deeply that he must withdraw and process. These are the gifts of my Logan.
My role in all of this for the past year and a half has been to act as his human thermometer. I watch Logan carefully--far more carefully than Jo or Atticus--and try to stay attuned to how his passions are running on any given day. Situations that would be speed bumps for my other children during times when they are tired, emotional, not feeling well or crabby are disastrous for Logan. We turn down play dates when he is likely to find them more taxing than thrilling--something I never felt I had to do with my other kids. Logan is still fine tuning the art of not allowing what is inside of him to froth over onto the people around him. Until he gets that particular discipline down, my job is to give him small boot camp sessions in which to stretch himself in safety. This is a big job; it's been one of the most humbling experiences I've had in parenting thus far.
As Logan leaps ahead into the grade-school years, I see my role shifting again. I know that it's time for him to put all the things that he has learned into practice, bit by bit. Time for the mommy thermometer to stay on the shelf more often, and to allow Logan's own inner regulator to begin to bear the brunt of figuring out what an appropriate reaction is or how to handle a particular setting. It's exciting to watch him ski just along the edge of later childhood. With his many gifts, I know that he is in for some true joys and amazing disappointments as his horizons slowly expand. Thinking of Logan losing his first tooth, reading his first chapter book, becoming a big brother ... my heart beats faster knowing how fully he will appreciate those moments thanks to the fiery passion in his heart.
I am eternally grateful for the gift of being Logan's mother. I look back on the past five years in awe, realizing that I have been to the depths of places I never knew existed. I have looked into my heart and examined my own motives. I have redefined what success is. I have learned volumes from this child--things that I could never have been taught any other way.
Happy Birthday, Logan.
I could pull out all the nasty little things that I hear parents label their kids right over the little ones' heads and give you a more complete picture of who my little Logan was at two, but I won't. I believe very strongly in the power of words. Instead, I will tell you that Logan was a very determined little boy who had to learn to reconcile his wants with the level of obedience and self-denial required to interact with other people.
Logan was a toddler who did all of those uncivilized toddler things that make parents cringe. I was a mother who had absolutely no idea what to do to tame what I saw as a sin nature run completely and totally amok. I can't count the number of times I cried over him, for him or with him. I spent the better part of eighteen months fairly certain that I would fail my son--certain that there was no way that I could help him to be who it was that God had designed him to be. I had visions of him hating me as an adult. Worse, I couldn't shake the fear that his lack of respect for authority would translate into a complete lack of faith.
Midway through Logan's third year, I found that my prayer had shifted. It was no longer about my son; instead, I was now praying that God would change me. "Make me the mother he needs, Lord. Show me how to help him. Let me see what he sees." The shift was pivotal. Just as Logan found his voice and began moving into the larger world of communication, I felt my role in his life finally make sense.
See, Logan is what I now think of as a passionate child. He has emotions that bubble up and overflow, and frankly, the mess splatters far from the pot. But the other side of that heat is a way of seeing the world that goes beyond anything I have ever experienced in my life. The world my Logan lives in is one where love is complete and all-consuming. Where injustice hurts more than physical pain. Where beauty is something that you must stop and breathe in, not merely gaze at. Logan feels joy so total that it must be expressed with movement and song. He feels sadness so deeply that he must withdraw and process. These are the gifts of my Logan.
My role in all of this for the past year and a half has been to act as his human thermometer. I watch Logan carefully--far more carefully than Jo or Atticus--and try to stay attuned to how his passions are running on any given day. Situations that would be speed bumps for my other children during times when they are tired, emotional, not feeling well or crabby are disastrous for Logan. We turn down play dates when he is likely to find them more taxing than thrilling--something I never felt I had to do with my other kids. Logan is still fine tuning the art of not allowing what is inside of him to froth over onto the people around him. Until he gets that particular discipline down, my job is to give him small boot camp sessions in which to stretch himself in safety. This is a big job; it's been one of the most humbling experiences I've had in parenting thus far.
As Logan leaps ahead into the grade-school years, I see my role shifting again. I know that it's time for him to put all the things that he has learned into practice, bit by bit. Time for the mommy thermometer to stay on the shelf more often, and to allow Logan's own inner regulator to begin to bear the brunt of figuring out what an appropriate reaction is or how to handle a particular setting. It's exciting to watch him ski just along the edge of later childhood. With his many gifts, I know that he is in for some true joys and amazing disappointments as his horizons slowly expand. Thinking of Logan losing his first tooth, reading his first chapter book, becoming a big brother ... my heart beats faster knowing how fully he will appreciate those moments thanks to the fiery passion in his heart.
I am eternally grateful for the gift of being Logan's mother. I look back on the past five years in awe, realizing that I have been to the depths of places I never knew existed. I have looked into my heart and examined my own motives. I have redefined what success is. I have learned volumes from this child--things that I could never have been taught any other way.
Happy Birthday, Logan.
Mornings
Since dh is actively looking for another job, I've been thinking a lot about our morning routine. This falls into the category of not appreciating what you have until is it (almost) gone, as I've been in the same morning schedule for so long that I rarely stop and think about how wonderful it is.
Morning in our house is family time. You have no idea how fabulous this is when you have young kids. Having a flip-flopped day of daddy-time ensures that dh sees the kids at their best instead of their "it's-all-sliding-downhill-where-is-my-bed?" worst.
We almost always have what would qualify as a large breakfast. There's fresh fruit of some form (strawberries, kiwi, sliced apple, grapes, etc.) every morning as a starter. The three kids and daddy tend to gather around the fruit plate while I'm cooking the main course. Over my shoulder, as I'm flipping pancakes or whipping up omlettes, I get to spy on them. Logan usually suggests a game (he's game crazy): Memory, a puzzle, Chinese Checkers, etc. DH almost always bites, and the set-up ensues. Listening to them giggle and chat in the background as I cook is truly one of the best parts of my day.
We eat at a fairly leisurely pace; dh doesn't have to be out the door most mornings until after 9, so there's no hurry. He almost always sticks around downstairs long enough to help clear up the breakfast dishes and help hand out Chore Paks. And (shhh!) most days I get a shower. Alone.
It's a pretty nice way to start the day.
Morning in our house is family time. You have no idea how fabulous this is when you have young kids. Having a flip-flopped day of daddy-time ensures that dh sees the kids at their best instead of their "it's-all-sliding-downhill-where-is-my-bed?" worst.
We almost always have what would qualify as a large breakfast. There's fresh fruit of some form (strawberries, kiwi, sliced apple, grapes, etc.) every morning as a starter. The three kids and daddy tend to gather around the fruit plate while I'm cooking the main course. Over my shoulder, as I'm flipping pancakes or whipping up omlettes, I get to spy on them. Logan usually suggests a game (he's game crazy): Memory, a puzzle, Chinese Checkers, etc. DH almost always bites, and the set-up ensues. Listening to them giggle and chat in the background as I cook is truly one of the best parts of my day.
We eat at a fairly leisurely pace; dh doesn't have to be out the door most mornings until after 9, so there's no hurry. He almost always sticks around downstairs long enough to help clear up the breakfast dishes and help hand out Chore Paks. And (shhh!) most days I get a shower. Alone.
It's a pretty nice way to start the day.
Friday, May 18, 2007
Spelling their way out of a paper bag
Today was the day of the big local Spelling Bee. I admit it: I always enjoyed Spelling Bees as a kid. Why? I was good at it. Good enough to get out of class once or twice at the end of the year and hey, that was good enough for me! Mix Spelling Bees and my cute kids and it sounds like a really grand day in my book.
My children are also natural spellers. I don't take any credit for this whatsoever--there is no special method that I've used in teaching them, no intricate set of instructions or lesson plans to pass on. People often ask me what I use to "teach" spelling, and I will freely admit that I have sufficiently mangled the concept behind "Spelling Power" enough that I can really only say I use it as a glorified word list.
Jo competed for the second year in a row. The field of 15 narrowed quite quickly, and before I knew it, she was one of only three spellers left on the stage. Last year, this was where Jo caught set of the table of medals waiting on the side. I literally saw her counting the number of people on stage, then looking back at the medals with a huge grin. She stood up on her next turn and completely bombed a word that hasn't given her pause since first grade. So much for the competitive spirit!
This year was a different story. Jo hung in there to the very end ... which was, I can tell you, a long time in coming! Jo and a fifth grade boy played spelling ping pong for 45 minutes (that was 76 rounds) before he was finally declared the winner. Whew!
Jo is completely satisfied with second place; last year's third place victory was the impetus for her to set a goal that she would beat that performance. And she did!
Atticus made his very first appearance in a Spelling Bee. Our beloved, sweet little man doesn not look kindly at the spotlight. He tends to be very shy and unassuming, and public performances are verboten in his book. Frankly, I was surprised when he wanted to compete. When he announced that he would be giving it a go, I reminded him of the process and spent the next month preparing him for how to handle the stress. (Stress is a very big factor in Atticus' life.)
I have to tell you, I was very impressed when Atticus took the stage. He squirmed a little, but stood when it was his turn and spelled loud and proud. He made eye contact with me once or twice. He even smiled. I was so proud--especially knowing how heavily his little heart must have been thumping. He went three rounds, and placed fourth ... just outside of the "winner" category.
Obviously, his bravery makes him more than a winner in my book!
We came home and celebrated with a lemonade and brownie tea party in Jo's room. Logan is well enough to participate, so a good time was had by all.
Did I mention that we didn't do any other school today? Oh, yes. I am still using Spelling Bees as an excuse to play hooky!
My children are also natural spellers. I don't take any credit for this whatsoever--there is no special method that I've used in teaching them, no intricate set of instructions or lesson plans to pass on. People often ask me what I use to "teach" spelling, and I will freely admit that I have sufficiently mangled the concept behind "Spelling Power" enough that I can really only say I use it as a glorified word list.
Jo competed for the second year in a row. The field of 15 narrowed quite quickly, and before I knew it, she was one of only three spellers left on the stage. Last year, this was where Jo caught set of the table of medals waiting on the side. I literally saw her counting the number of people on stage, then looking back at the medals with a huge grin. She stood up on her next turn and completely bombed a word that hasn't given her pause since first grade. So much for the competitive spirit!
This year was a different story. Jo hung in there to the very end ... which was, I can tell you, a long time in coming! Jo and a fifth grade boy played spelling ping pong for 45 minutes (that was 76 rounds) before he was finally declared the winner. Whew!
Jo is completely satisfied with second place; last year's third place victory was the impetus for her to set a goal that she would beat that performance. And she did!
Atticus made his very first appearance in a Spelling Bee. Our beloved, sweet little man doesn not look kindly at the spotlight. He tends to be very shy and unassuming, and public performances are verboten in his book. Frankly, I was surprised when he wanted to compete. When he announced that he would be giving it a go, I reminded him of the process and spent the next month preparing him for how to handle the stress. (Stress is a very big factor in Atticus' life.)
I have to tell you, I was very impressed when Atticus took the stage. He squirmed a little, but stood when it was his turn and spelled loud and proud. He made eye contact with me once or twice. He even smiled. I was so proud--especially knowing how heavily his little heart must have been thumping. He went three rounds, and placed fourth ... just outside of the "winner" category.
Obviously, his bravery makes him more than a winner in my book!
We came home and celebrated with a lemonade and brownie tea party in Jo's room. Logan is well enough to participate, so a good time was had by all.
Did I mention that we didn't do any other school today? Oh, yes. I am still using Spelling Bees as an excuse to play hooky!
Thursday, May 17, 2007
Is it us?!
Logan is sick.
Again.
Throwing-up sick, which is never fun. He doesn't have a huge fever, but he is couch-bound and unable to keep anything down. No interest in listening to stories. No interest in the elaborate tent that his big brother made out of his part of the bunk bed in an attempt to make him smile. No interest even in my pulling the t.v. out of the closet and offering up a screening of "Carmen Sandiego."
This is sick.
I am laughing inside, I have to admit. Golly, no ... not because my baby is sick! I am laughing because lately I have been reading two very contradictory books: "Christian Unschooling," and "Managers of Their Homes." I have been trying to reconcile the two philosophies--and the two inclinations I have in my own heart. I haven't found my way through it quite yet. But clearly, today is a day of Christian Unschooling. Because there will be very little Managing of My Home for the next 24 hours, I dare say.
Again.
Throwing-up sick, which is never fun. He doesn't have a huge fever, but he is couch-bound and unable to keep anything down. No interest in listening to stories. No interest in the elaborate tent that his big brother made out of his part of the bunk bed in an attempt to make him smile. No interest even in my pulling the t.v. out of the closet and offering up a screening of "Carmen Sandiego."
This is sick.
I am laughing inside, I have to admit. Golly, no ... not because my baby is sick! I am laughing because lately I have been reading two very contradictory books: "Christian Unschooling," and "Managers of Their Homes." I have been trying to reconcile the two philosophies--and the two inclinations I have in my own heart. I haven't found my way through it quite yet. But clearly, today is a day of Christian Unschooling. Because there will be very little Managing of My Home for the next 24 hours, I dare say.
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
Submission admission
Truth time: I have not submitted any of my writing in two months.
I would love to blame this on the beautiful weather, but the fact is that it was still raining buckets eight weeks ago. No, this has nothing to do with the amount of time we've been spending outside, or how I've been making a more concerted effort to give each child more one-on-one time. Those would be really nice things to be able to say, but they'd also be lies.
The fact is that I am having a hard time figuring out what to write right now. I think it's simply the limbo-like feeling that hangs over my life right now manifesting itself in my creativity. Try as I might, I can't get my head on straight enough to write anything that makes a whole lot of sense.
Usually these dry spells entice me to drag out the forgotten pieces I've shelved. I rework them, add new perspective, tweak and fine tune. Then I send the final product out and wait for the inevitable rejection letters. By the time they start rolling in (email is so helpful in this regard!) I have moved on to a completely new story and feel much better about my talent on the whole.
This time I don't feel the urge to rework. I don't get excited at the thought of editing. And really, this lack of passion has me puzzled.
I guess I'll just wait and see what comes of it. Maybe there's a great story bubbling under the surface here. Or maybe it's my time in the desert. Who knows?
I would love to blame this on the beautiful weather, but the fact is that it was still raining buckets eight weeks ago. No, this has nothing to do with the amount of time we've been spending outside, or how I've been making a more concerted effort to give each child more one-on-one time. Those would be really nice things to be able to say, but they'd also be lies.
The fact is that I am having a hard time figuring out what to write right now. I think it's simply the limbo-like feeling that hangs over my life right now manifesting itself in my creativity. Try as I might, I can't get my head on straight enough to write anything that makes a whole lot of sense.
Usually these dry spells entice me to drag out the forgotten pieces I've shelved. I rework them, add new perspective, tweak and fine tune. Then I send the final product out and wait for the inevitable rejection letters. By the time they start rolling in (email is so helpful in this regard!) I have moved on to a completely new story and feel much better about my talent on the whole.
This time I don't feel the urge to rework. I don't get excited at the thought of editing. And really, this lack of passion has me puzzled.
I guess I'll just wait and see what comes of it. Maybe there's a great story bubbling under the surface here. Or maybe it's my time in the desert. Who knows?
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