Thought experiment

Imagine for a moment what you would be like as a mother if you had never read any parenting magazine or website; any book on how to raise, teach, or discipline your kids; any blog about how some person you've never met runs her kitchen and her bathroom and her nursery and her yard.

Imagine what you would be like as a mother if the main observations you had made about being a mother were of your immediate and extended family of origin, and your other observations were of people whom you know personally (internet only soul-acquaintances get no more than half credit, and that's just to be nice).

You wouldn't necessarily be better, but you would surely be different. The world's experts and pseudo-experts, fearmongers and doubt-raisers, tyrants and aspiring tyrants, paranoiacs and politicians, bloggers and braggers (forgive the redundancy) are good primarily for a laugh. After that: vanity, vanity.

When I try this exercise, I envision some concrete things (like fewer stupid library books brought home out of some sense of should-itude), but mostly less worrying about if I'm spending enough time and dispensing enough affection and disciplining with enough wisdom. I see myself not thinking about how Goneril's kids were all potty trained at 18 months (or four years), and caring what Brunhilde will say if I confess I'm really sick of everything I swallow and spray and put leftover pizza sauce in being a HEALTH!! issue, and searching for meaning in Zdenka's disclosure that her 3-year-old learned how to read in 100 easy lessons, and trying to figure out if a cluttered house is a sin or if thinking a cluttered house is a sin is a sin.

I trust whom I trust, and realize that only one of them is trustworthy. The rest, mostly as unqualified as I to make most of the everyday judgments I must make, provide comfortable camaraderie, not confirmation of the rightness of those judgments. Everyone else is comic relief, and if I can't laugh about it, I steer clear.

So we beat on, boats against the current

Making the bed in the morning: my empowering act of defiance against the chaos of the day to come.

Mind those corners, now

(I think FlyLady has a similar philosophy about shining the kitchen sink every morning. I’d do that too, if only I could find my sink .)

Extra credit (but only a little) for identifying and completing this post’s title.

Extra credit (a lot) for identifying and sustaining other islands of sanity amid the swirling currents of household chaos.

Homeschooling 201

Now that we have the basics in hand, we can move through some more advanced material.

The skies are falling this month, most observably tonight. So, hand your oldest child a printout containing pertinent details about this particular falling sky, and bribe her to read it to her siblings. Read a summary of the more interesting angle over your lunch hour, and look excited when you announce that the family gets to take a field trip out to Country Church to watch the shower.

Then, make Quiet Hour into Quiet Two Hours; the little loves need more nap if they're going to be up late having fun. Plan a paper plate supper. Take a long walk downtown to buy $1 notepads--for journaling observations, of course--and a couple gallons of bug spray. Keep everyone from fighting with ease: "If you say that to your sister one more time, I'm leaving you home. Get it?"

Load up the van around 8:30P and drive 20 miles to your light-pollutionless location. Let the urchins run amok as the sun sets. Spread blankets, and "encourage them" to lie down for the big show. They will be tired. They will fall asleep.

You will be alone in the quiet in the dark under the stars with your husband for as long as you like.*

The end.

*Not counting the baby, who will likely still be awake and wallering. Beggars can't be choosers.

Equipment

I'm always impressed by the "nursing" aisle at the store. Even breastfeeding can turn a profit for someone. My own largely unused collection of breastfeeding paraphernalia acquired by way of various fears, tragedies, and conventions is all the proof anyone needs that the profiteers are good at what they do. It also calls to mind my secret impious analogy of individual Communion cuppies to pumping. I mean, I guess you could do that, but why?

Anyway, this nursing doll thing amuses me in similar fashion. Like a little girl needs a special doll and clothing to figure out how to nurse her "baby." Geniuses, these marketers. My kids have only recently learned what a bottle is since they have gained a cousin who uses one, but no doll has ever gone hungry in our house.

On the Vanguard, Act 2

The scene opens with Rebekah coming downstairs with a smelly baby who has just awakened from his nap and the first tomato juice of the season processing on the stove after a long afternoon of gutting and cooking. She is dismayed to hear someone knocking.

Dude On Doorstep: You look like the mom.

Rebekah (holding and surrounded by kids): Right.

DOD: I'm sorry about my accent. I'm from Europe.

Rebekah: Oh, where in Europe?

DOD: Estonia. Most people don't know where that is.

Rebekah: Right above Latvia and Lithuania?

DOD (looking shocked): How did you know that?

Rebekah: We like geography. Hey, kid. What are the colors of Estonia's flag?

Kid: (Makes face and then hides like a jerk.)

Rebekah (so as not to offend Estonian further): Blue, black, and white, right?

DOD (dumbfounded): Are you a homeschooler?

(Curtain)

No, Estonian dude, I just hang out with them on the internet. He also failed to stump me on why flamingos are pink and what rhinos' horns are made of. I tried to comfort him by explaining that I simply consider it my job as a mother to know these things. Sadly, his product was so redundant and expensive that I couldn't help him out even after we spent at least half an hour discussing it on my porch.

Dura mater one day, pia mater the next

A little Saturday morning cartooning from yon better days:



Weekend it up, y'all.

Time management, recommended

Some people have Franklin Planner-type brains, and can manage their schedules by nature. Some people can afford Franklin Planners, and manage their schedules by will. And then, there's the rest of us.

work less; get more done!

I used to be better about remembering things. Back in college, I didn't use a planner at all. When I was teaching high school, I made do with a dry erase marker board, the "month-at-a-glance" kind. When I took up space in an office building, I had Outlook ping me a few days before something needed done. And when I graduated to Home Management, I kept track of this and that on Post-It notes.

But now I'm four kids into this gig. My Post-Its are all covered in breakfast cereal, Outlook is in the basement, and someone ran over my dry erase board with his tricycle. All that, and I'm getting soggy around the hippocampus: A couple of months ago, I forgot all about the Ladies Aid summer picnic. I was supposed to take the potato salad. I don't know which level of Hell I'm destined for, but it's sure to be filled with mosquitoes and empty ketchup bottles.

Don't let it happen to you. Do what I did and should have done ages ago: Get one of these.

I really like mine. The number one selling point of the BusyBodyBook around here is its columns. I keep my tasks in the first column, my two homeschool-aged kids' tasks in the second and third, and Dad's schedule, insofar as it impacts me, in the fourth. Column five is for meal planning. Ta da! It's almost too easy. I mean, I haven't forgotten anything of any real consequence in weeks!

Plus, it's bound with plastic covers--very good at repelling milk. And mimosas.

Chirp?

from twitterfeed

• Waking up now. Late. @everyone clamoring for pancakes. Feeding them toast.

• Pouring coffee now. From my own coffee pot. Now I’m eating leftover chicken.

• Dishes in sink. Sink in #Kitchen. #OurHouse is full of sinks full of dishes. Full of some crazy wicked amazingness, too, of course. Like @babies and @dad and @me. We’re all the craziest.

• @dad is leaving for #Work! @baby4 is crying! Picking her up now. Carrying her over here. Putting her down here in the kitchen. @baby4 is the wickedest craziest baby. Is this tweet too long? Are you still reading this?

• #OurHouse is pretty something, y'all, and I’m still standing here in the kitchen with this crazy baby. @baby4 is kicking her feet around and I’m watching the sink fill full of water.

• Dishes done! @baby3 is singing a hymn, and she’s off-key. Hilarious!

• Tweet. Still here! Standing right here! @baby2 just roared and woke his sister. Wow!

• I’m thinking about walking to #MyRoom and doing something about these pajamas. What do you think? :)

• Quick question for all you thinking types: shorts – ever OK? Yes or no?

• Going off-line for awhile. #Garden needs some weeding! @babies are totally going to help! All this weeding and not a single tomato yet to show for it!

• Getting some lunch at #Kitchen. Homemade peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and overripe bananas! Yum!
  

• @baby4 keeps rolling herself over! Then she gets angry about being on her belly and starts shouting! Ha!

• Enjoying a great quiet hour, doing some dishes. We have the cleverest quiet hour. @babies are all quiet. It lasts about an hour.

• @baby1 got her jump rope stuck in the tree! I tried to get it out with a stick and hit myself in the face with the stick! Ha!

• Sitting here on #TheCouch with @babies and enjoying 32 picture books by some really creative people! I heart picture books! *
  

• Going to #Kids’Room to pick up @baby4. She’s poopy! Amazing!

• Walking around aimlessly with @baby4. @baby3 is crying for some amazing reason. Too crazy lazy to find out why!

• @dad is due home in an hour. Rushing to thaw the chicken in the microwave! Or should I tweet, “mic?” Would that be peppier?

• Eating in #DiningRoom! Trying hard to keep my cool as @babies all chew with mouths open and spill milk on the carpet! Who puts carpet in #DiningRoom? Crazy!

• VBS week over at #Church! Awesome! @baby3 and I are sitting in #OurHouse eating @everyone’s leftovers! Every family needs a jackal! Ha!

• Putting @baby3 to bed so she can rip up the blinds next to #HerBed trying to see what her siblings are doing over across the #ParkingLot! Ha ha!

• VBS is over! @babies are tired, dirty and grumpy! Crazy! We heart VBS!
  

• Getting everyone to sleep!

• Getting everyone to sleep!

• Getting everyone to sleep!

• Wow, what a day! @dad and I are lapping up wine like crazy crazies and talking through the diaper report! Funno!

• Bedtime! Tweet ya later! Tweet dreams! Tweet long and prosper! TA-WEEEEEEEEEEEEET! Ha h-- . . .

• sigh.
  

PS -- Could someone explain to me what those pound signs think they're doing in there?

*no, I don't.

Oooh! Life is like a box of CHOCOLATES . . .

Try as I might, I cannot think in prose. I can hear, over and over again, that God so loved the world that he gave His only begotten Son, but I can't really begin to understand what on earth that might mean until it's set out for me in song.

Similarly, I can hear and thus repeat to myself that being a mother is an honorable calling, that children are blessings, that it pleases God when I humble myself to chisel black tar from the tender bums of His eternal creations. But in my feebleness, I am enabled in my vocation when I have a lovely, poetical image to paste over the wailing, grubby urchins in my direct line of sight.

Prior to reading this, I had nothing that I really liked. While not entirely unique, Harrison's image of her children as precious gems on a beautiful gown resonates with me. Check it out, and then feel free to share your favorite metaphors for parenting and children in the comments here.

I would have more to say on the topic, but this sparkly on my lap needs a new nappy.

Call it a sugar rush, if you will

The legs of maternity’s journey are comprised almost entirely of guilt trips—or so it sometimes seems. From your first forkful during pregnancy (is that the Best Bite for Baby?) to the last factoid of education under your watch, there’s always someone who is more than happy to tell you how irrevocably your ignorant, incompetent parenting is ruining your children forevermore. If you can manage to tune out that tragic chorus, your hyperactive conscience will gladly fill in the doomsday gaps.

At least that’s how my crazier days feel. Crazy or no, the joy of a guilt-free moment breaks upon me in a rush of giddy relief, and gives me hope for more sensibility to come.

A simple realization prompted the glee of this moment. Most days, we pull off a fairly admirable application of the food pyramid, if I do say so myself. BoyOne didn’t have any processed sugar (no graham crackers, no nothing) till his first birthday cake; and then (excepting what was administered behind my back by well-meaning parishioners), he had practically none till his second birthday. BoyThree, by contrast, has participated in most family feasting since an undisclosed, far more tender age.

Undergirded by a chocolate fudge foundation, of course

Here comes the giddy rush: While I wouldn’t change what we did with BoyOne’s diet, I have no regrets about BoyThree’s rather more adventurous nutritional habits. Woo-hoo!

Oh mothers one and all, if only we could grant ourselves (and each other) this grace more often, and in matters more serious than Baby’s First Twinkie. (Not that twinkies aren’t serious. And not that BoyThree has had a twinkie yet. That I know of.)