In typical "me" fashion, I have found that over the course of the last three weeks, our schedule for getting stuff done has been decidedly hit or miss.
I am a remarkably disorganized organizer--a feat that should win me some sort of medal but, alas, does not. The house stays relatively tidy (except, of course, for the Lincoln Logs that Logan scatters from one end of the house to the other), the laundry is 90% under control, the children are clean, meals are served at 8 a.m., noon and 5:30 p.m., and I usually don't forget the dog out back in a rainstorm. Somehow, though, school has slipped through the cracks of that very bare-bones to-do list.
I have found that we are getting started somewhere around 10 a.m. This is not acceptable because frankly, Logan has lost any interest in reading whatsoever by that point. He is generally so engrossed in whatever elaborate drama that he has constructed that the mere mention of actually reading a book aloud to me is enough to send him into one of his oh-so-flattering whine fests.
While I am in the middle of explaining to him in my Very Gentle Mommy Voice™ that while his irritation is acceptable, his tone most certainly is not, I am apt to hear Atticus piping in with, "Well, what are we doing?" If I answer with something that he finds interesting enough (say, a SL read aloud or science), he will joyfully begin routing his sister from her room by flinging open her door.
This is generally not a good thing, as Princess Jo enthroned in her inner sanctum usually means that she is knee-deep in writing a story for her newspaper or, possibly, designing a sign for her door that says something like, "Soldiers Needed! Strong, strapping youths (boy or girl) apply within. Pay is not good, but adventure awaits!"
In other words, she is busy. And she doesn't want to be disturbed, not even by a giddy little brother announcing that "Lincoln: A Photobiography" is going to be read post-haste. Her first reaction is inevitably to shout, "Door closed rules! Door closed rules!" This is code for "Please knock," but must, apparently, be yelled at the top of one's lungs in order to cross the language barrier that exists between a big sister and little brother.
This outburst means that I now have to disentangle myself from the fine art of disciplining Logan ("Do all things without complaining or disputing.") to rebuke Jo ("Likewise the tongue is a small part of the body, but it makes great boasts. Consider what a great forest is set on fire by a small spark.") and to remind Atticus that his sister likes to be gently interrupted, just as he does.
By the time I get everyone downstairs, it feels like lunchtime already and I am not very inclined to tackle those things that I must use a little romancing to get my children to perform. Their patience--and mine--is already shot. The tone of the day is one of endurance rather than joy.
I hate that.
So I am recommitting--right here, right now--to getting back on track with our schedule. To making an effort to pull things to order before they disintegrate into too much willy-nilly free-for-all. To be the mom I know I can be. Hold me accountable, o.k.?
I followed a link from Mother Joy's blog to the ourstickfamily.com site. Why? Because ... (truth comes out) I have seen and coveted these stickers for the past three or four years. They are just too cute. Plus, I think they are great advertisements for families that exceed the one child limit here in the PNW. :-) So ... here are my two potentials thus far. Whatcha' think would look better on the back of a black '99 Suburban? Feedback required, y'all. :-)
Choice A--
Choice B--
To J., for taking my three children with only a little notice when I was sick in bed yesterday. I rested a lot better knowing they were in good hands. THANK YOU!
I added a counting wedgit to the bottom of my blog on Saturday night. Two and a half days ago, essentially. Lo and behold, I logged in this afternoon and was shocked to see over 90 hits in that time period. ((insert your own catchy jaw-drop smilie here))
And my 12th grade English teacher told me no one would ever want to read what I wrote. :-)
Despite our better judgement, dh and I allowed the children to breed the two 4-H project show bunnies together a few weeks back. While clearly no one in our house is anywhere near being an expert on these matters (Jo is only one year into her 4-H career after all) it does appear that the mating was successful. The doe, normally a spunky but sweet little gal, has become a nipping, growling and otherwise nasty little beast--just like a few pregnant humans I have encountered in my lifetime. Unlike human beings, though, rabbits have an additional unsavory (but useful) behavior that they engage in just prior to the birth of their litter: they pull their fur out. Our little doe has been molting quite heavily, which Jo took as a sign that she was indeed gestating. When she and Atticus put the nesting box in to her cage, we all watched in awe as the rabbit immediately began putting the straw just so ... and then began lining it with fur she carefully plucked from her body. How cool.
The breeder that the children purchased both of the rabbits from says that this is a very good sign in a first-time mommy-to-be. And, even though Jo never figured out exactly how to do the whole palpitating for pregnancy thing, this is pretty well proof positive that she'll be presenting us with some baby bunnies in the very near future--as in, this week.
So, cigars all around! The bunnies are expecting. I say that counts as credit for animal husbandry, biology, genetics and zoology ... and the little kits aren't even here yet.
We're knee-deep in our study of the Civil War, so it's really no surprise that our house has become a battlefield. As the mother of two boys, you'd think that I would have been expecting this all along.
I haven't. I am one of those slightly batty moms who still clings to the hope that my boys will somehow skim the surface of the shoot-em-up stage. DH and I have denied our sons actual toy guns, choosing the wimpy way out--we have allowed swords, bows and arrows, plastic cowboys and Indians, and little green soldiers toting more artillery than the guys in Iraq probably get to play with. Maybe this, we said to ourselves, will give a little direction to their clearly war-like play for a little while, and then they'll move on to something else. Like horticulture.
All of this has done nothing but fan the flames. We knew it probably would, but still ... neither dh nor I can stomach the idea of buying anything that resembles a gun for our children to play with. Thankfully, our boys have friends. And birthdays. And, as all parents know, the equation looks something like this: boy's age>4 + friend + birthday party = guns. Most of these items have been tame compared to the "KILL 'EM ALL!!!" bazookas that grace the shelves of most mainstream toy stores, but Atticus and Logan were thrilled to receive them.
Even though they now have a slim arsenal to pull from, the boys' main fascination is still with reenacting full-scale wars. And despite not having seen anything more violent than the old black and white "Lone Ranger" television series, Logan and Atticus are perfectly capable of setting up a rather elaborate field of death. Lincoln Log cannons, Lego trees and some cleverly contrived civilian homes are staged all over my family room. And who can forget the marble bombs, modeled after the pirate battle in "Swiss Family Robinson"? Complete with slain and wounded warriors, of course.
Studying the Civil War has given more of a plot line to their bloody battles. Now, I watch in near-horror as my 5 and 7 year-olds line up green Army guys and try to decide who is in charge of the Blue and who commands the Gray. They don't seem to necessarily have a preference; this is probably my fault, since I insisted that all of my children learn both "My Old Kentucky Home" and "Dixie." At any rate, casualties seem to plague both sides equally. At least I can console myself that they understand that war means some boys aren't ever going home again.
I have fully surrendered to the fact that it actually is impossible to keep testosterone-fueled boys from their desire to exact (pretend) violence on other people. I'm not saying that I understand it, I'm not saying that I like it, and I'm not saying that I let my boys indulge in it from sun up to sundown. What I am saying is that the drive is there, and it must be satisfied in some way. At least it is tempered by other interests. Neither Atticus nor Logan focuses on war all the time. They each enjoy reading, board games, sports, drawing and building with various mediums. This tells me that they are fairly well-rounded. I guess they just need a little mock bloodshed to rub off the edges now and then.
My in-laws are coming for Thanksgiving. If you know me IRL, you already know that a) I am a mousy, peevish hostess who does, indeed sweat the small stuff and b) my relationship with my MIL is a largely one-sided affair in which I pretend that I don't fully understand her innuendos and ever-so-slightly veiled insults so as to keep the tenuous balance of our family life intact.
In other words, the turkey isn't the only thing getting roasted this year, folks.
Thanksgiving is normally a rather casual affair for us, but I know that MIL will fly cross-continent with great expectations. None of which, mind you, are actually based on any interaction she has had with our family in the real world. MIL is well aware that my family is, by and large, vegetarian (except for Logan, who must be kept clear of cattle at all times, lest he actually sink his teeth into their flesh for want of red meat). This translates to a Thanksgiving table that doesn't exactly mirror the ones you see in Norman Rockwell representations; instead of a gigantic stuffed bird dominating our table, the centerpiece of our celebration is actually a rather tasty three bean and corn pilaf. We do, however, roast a small turkey breast for the occasion as a concession to Jo's desire that we pretend to eat like every other red blooded American family on that Thursday. Never mind that no one really eats much of it. For Jo, it's the thought that counts.
Which is precisely MIL's point. It's the thought that counts--and her thought is that we need an 18 lb. bird baked golden brown gracing our dining room table on Thanksgiving, so that's what counts.
MIL will also be disappointed yet again that I have no formal china. This was an issue when dh and I and I registered for patterns 12 years ago, and it still stands today as a monument to my lack of interest in formal gatherings. By golly, if she's eating turkey for Thanksgiving this year, it's going to have to be on my everyday Mikasa dishes. Did I mention that I don't bring out a fancy tablecloth for Thanksgiving? That my serving pieces are mismatched? That I don't make that !@#! green bean casserole that everyone and my husband's mother loves so much?
How about the fact that we don't have a television and can't watch parades? Or (gasp) FOOTBALL!
As I always hasten to mention in these rants, my MIL is not an evil person. She is just a person that is so far from me on the spectrum of needs and wants as to almost exist in a separate plane. I am flannel pajamas, hot chocolate, cross stitching and children laughing. MIL is pantyhose, champagne, a dinner cruise and quiet adult conversation.
For further illustration, let me take you back to a trip we took with my in-laws when dh and I were engaged. The not-quite-in-laws rented a "rustic" cabin for us to all visit just prior to Christmas. They had stayed in the cabin previously, and commented over and over again how "far back" it was, how "quaint" and, again and again, "rustic." Now, you must remember that I grew up visiting a great-grandmother who had an outhouse. Knowing a bit about my soon-to-be-in-laws, I set the "rustic" bar a little higher, having already decided that there was no earthly way that they would be peeing outdoors. This is about what I expected:
A nice, cute, pest-free log cabin with a little porch for taking in the view. Not a bad way to spend a weekend in my book--especially not if it has a fireplace for reading around in the evening.
Of course, I was way, way, off. Here was my MIL's "rustic cabin":
Can you see the satellite dish or the gourmet kitchen from this view? How about the hot tub? I think, in retrospect, it was the decorative farm equipment in the yard that made it "rustic."
Clearly, we are different people, this MIL and I. Bound together by our love for a single man, we are now a family in the most uncomfortable of senses. Neither of us quite knows what to do with the other, even after 15 years.
I can't honestly say that I am looking forward to Thanksgiving. Just knowing what a high level of alert I will have to maintain during their visit is enough to give me hives. Topics to be avoided include: homeschooling, Christianity, politics, future plans, adoption, the children's interests, the Bible, my lack of gainful employment, war in Iraq, why dh isn't looking for a job in their state, why we don't call SIL, why we don't visit, why we don't have a bigger house, our nonprofit, missions in general, church planting and how we are raising our children. Yes, I think that about covers it. My life, I mean.
Hopefully, this holiday will pass with minimal friction and much love and understanding on everyone's behalf. Hopefully my MIL can be satisfied with plain dinner dishes and paper napkins, and I can be happy with my kitchen table groaning under the weight of a turkey so large as to feed a family in western Africa for three weeks. Hopefully we can enjoy our visit together and actually give thanks for the chance to bask in one another's company.
Even without the champagne.
