Chasing Butterflies with Sarah

Listen up folks - I've got an important announcement to make. I've been saying it to my children for years, and have even lectured students in my classes about it. It's time I sit you all down and have the talk with you as well. Get comfy, 'cuz there's some preachin' comin' your way.

If your life isn't poignant, you aren't paying attention.

That's it. Do you need me to repeat it? If.your.life.isn't.poignant.you.aren't.paying.attention. It's as simple as that. Go ahead - let it sink in for a minute.

I think it's important to start off with a good, solid understanding of what poignancy really is, and what it isn't. Most of the time this word evokes feelings of deep sadness or mourning for people. And, it can be that. But, it's so much more, too. Merriam-Webster dictionary describes the word poignant as piercing, deeply affecting, cutting, designed to make a lasting impression. There can be pain in the poignant, to be sure, but there can also be unfathomable joy, peace, revelation, desire, empathy, epiphany... the list goes on and on. The best moments of poignancy, if you ask me, are the ones that contain both ends of the spectrum - the comfortable and the uncomfortable - at the same time. Those highly acute moments - which stretch our emotional muscles to their fullest, until they are positively taut and buzzing - are the places where we truly experience what it feels like to live; where the most complex things in life are boiled down into one self-contained, momentary emotional high note.

Let me give you an example. The other day I took my girls to the zoo. We ambled through the ape house, traipsed by the tigers, and loitered in front the baby lions. We shared happiness, jokes, questions, gestures, and memories. These things were good, but they were not poignant. That didn't come until we sat ourselves down in the theater, giggled at each other in our goofy 3-D glasses, and watched as the a movie scrolled across the giant IMAX screen in front of us. Typically, I do not find that screen moments = poignant moments, which made it all the more painfully and startlingly wonderful when I looked over and saw my youngest child chasing the butterflies that appeared to leap off of the screen toward her.

She is allllllllllllllmost six years old. That means something. Anyone who has ever had kids, and watched them grow beyond that age, or anyone who honestly remembers what it was like to be a child of five years old, knows that five is significant. It is special in a way that no other age is. (Yes, yes... I know that can be said equally of every other age as well. But, that doesn't make it any less true.) Since she is our last, this is the last time I will be a mother to a five year old. In the fleeting days of this year of her life, in the shadowy darkness of that theater, I witnessed the special gift of five-years-old in the most poignant of ways possible. All of the innocence and incorruptible curiosity that is five was positively leaping from her dancing eyes and outstretched hands. Elation! Abandon! Freedom! Excitement! It was all there, on display, for what I knew would probably be one of the very last times ever for her as my child, and me as her mother. As I watched her, I couldn't help but feel an immensely proud pain in my heart. It was as though that bubble of joy that she exuded was being drawn up with the rushing winds of time. I could not experience her five-ness without the immediate and stinging realization of her imminent six-ness following behind to swallow it up. The moment was as delicate as the butterflies she was chasing, and every bit as fleeting, as well.

That was poignancy. It was dropped into my lap like a bittersweet gift. Thankfully, I've learned enough to savor such moments. When Sarah's joy had subsided, and she took her seat again, I looked around and noticed a handful of other beautiful, young children reaching toward the dancing images. A few parents took note, wearing knowing smiles like my own. Many shushed their excited kiddos, coaxing them to sit down once again and be quiet. Most, however - most! -  missed the experience entirely. That is why I am lecturing you. I don't want you to miss out.

It seems to me that so many people today, tired of their lives of quiet desperation, seek the calm, the smooth, the easy, the expected. Contentment is enough. Complacency. Sameness. Equanimity. I understand the urge to have these things. We should know them well, and live much of our lives in their comfortable embrace. However, a heartbeat requires peaks and valleys. Without them, we are flatlined. We are dead. It is the same for our emotional hearts. Relying on the safety of the known narrows our capacity to feel the highs and lows; to learn from what they have to teach us, to be filled with the knowledge and reality of their existence - even when painful.

I guess that's it. Lecture over. I truly hope you either really enjoyed it, or really didn't. Whichever it is, I win, since either reaction causes a bit of a blip to the heart rate on the ol' emotional EKG. Like any good teacher, I can't leave without giving you some homework. Below are several opportunities for you to work your poignancy muscle. I hope they help you hit some peaks and valleys, in order to get warmed up for the rest of your day, the rest of your week, and the rest of your life. Trust me on this - poignancy is out there - all around you - all the time. I truly believe that there is beauty, love, pain, grace, mercy, challenge, joy, etc, etc, etc. in every circumstance and every life. In short, the poignant is all around you. At least, the capacity for it is. Whether or not you allow yourself to find and experience it is often more about whether you are willing to look, than where, or even how hard.

Oh, and one more thing - there will be a test on this. It's called life, and I sincerely hope you do well on it. 

Not Your Typical Sports Report

1.) Read synopsis. 2.) Look Through Photos. 3.) Think and Be Moved

Big Baby, Little Baby

The Ending to an Old Fashioned Love Story

A Day at the Park 
And Yet, He Loves Us Still

Grooming Tips for the Uninitiated

I believe I've mentioned before that I'm not exactly what you might call a girly girl. (If I haven't - what was I thinking? There's enough blog fodder there to last for months!) I do try to stay presentable, of course, even if my standards are way lower than those of most of the ladies I know. (Hint: I do not have makeup. None. Don't even own a tube of lipstick.Seriously.)

For me, grooming generally involves brushing and flossing (the former everyday, the latter as often as I remember, or when an overwhelming sense of guilt prompts me to action, or when a visit to the dentist is imminent.), washing my hair (Suave shampoo and conditioner, often not even matching scents), and shaving (for special occasions, or at least before doing so would clog the bathtub drain - whichever comes first). Beyond hacking back the tangled undergrowth of underarm hair once in a while, and battling bad breath, I'm not over fussy when it comes to grooming. That is why it is all the more perplexing (to me, and especially to them) that God gifted me with three lovely girls.

My younger two, so far, are on board with my fuss-free philosophy. In fact, they'd probably never brush their teeth or hair, if given the chance. However, my oldest daughter is dangerously close to actually being a teenager, and even more dangerously close to acting like one. She has discovered all kinds of new-fangled things: like straightening irons, sweeping updos, and 'product'. This last one really threw me for a loop. I took her for a simple haircut about a year ago, and she and the stylist (barber, for us oldschool types) chatted away comfortably about 'product' the whole time. Seriously - it was liking trying to decipher a secret code. From what I gathered, there is apparently shampoo and conditioner out there that does stuff other than just get your hair clean and tangle free. I'm not exactly clear on all the details, but I have learned that it costs more than 88 cents a bottle, and is dearly coveted by my daughter. I'll have to look into this more.

For now, I am just trying to keep up. When she asks me about a specific nail painting technique or piece of fancy-pants hair technology, I usually just smile and nod. (And call my girly friends.) But, despite feeling like a blind person in a foreign (and expensive) land, I couldn't be happier. This is why motherhood is so great - I'm going to get to learn something new right alongside her. Inside I am screaming, "Don't buy into the Hollywood lies! You're beautiful the way you are! Run! Escape! Flee while you still can!" But, I somehow doubt that haranguing my pre-teen with these esoteric sentiments would be the best choice. So, I'm gonna learn to get girly too, even if it comically (though temporarily) disfigures us both. Remember - I'm going to have to teach this girl about makeup in a few years. Yikes.

For now, she's grateful for my help - however little I have to offer, and I am learning how to browse in the cosmetic and haircare aisle without breaking out into spots, seizures, or sermons. I think we're going to make it through this, and (if I can get past my prejudices and preconceived notions) we might even look good doing so. Watch out world - the Farrier girls are coming thru! Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go figure out what on earth shine serum and straightening balm are. They sound like the perfect antidote to expensive dental and orthodontic visits, but I'm betting I've got it all wrong...

Hair!

If I never hear the word hair again, it will be too soon. You see - I have three daughters. And, they all have hair. And that hair - it has to be brushed. I know - none of those things are startling revelations in and of themselves, but there is a deeper meaning behind each one that has led me to consider encouraging them to enter a Buddhist monastery, but only for the haircut and to save on laundry expenses. Let me explain.

First off - I have three daughters. You know - girls. That means they have feelings. Lots of them, and they like to express those feelings. All the time. Out loud. I usually don't have conversations, per se. Instead, I'm often on the receiving end of a rapid-fire, three-fold conversational assault. The pre-teen fires, and I volley back, simultaneously returning a query from my seven-year-old. We continue this parlay for whole minutes at a time, while I dodge the constant tommy-gun prattle that my four-year-old deftly aims my direction. To put it lightly, they like to talk about what they're thinking, feeling, and experiencing. They are each very strong, but none is what you might call the silent type. That's because they're daughters.

The next deeply unnerving truth in my life - my daughters all have hair. Yes, I'm glad they have hair, especially in light of the fact that the oldest was nearly bald until she was 2 1/2. But, those days are gone. Now, they're all fully-tressed, each with lustrous, healthy, gorgeous heads of hair. One has highlights that would make even the most skilled hairdresser weep with jealousy. One has hair so benevolent and compliant that it can practically curl, shine, or French-Roll on command. The other has such perfect, uniform, ringlet curls that we literally have to schedule an extra fifteen minutes into our errand-running days, just so we aren't made late by all the people who stop to compliment her. In short, these girls have got it going on in the hair department. Why, you ask, does that make me want to weep copiously and head for the hills? Simple - with great hair, comes great responsibility, which leads me to point number three.


Hair must be brushed. Seems simple enough, doesn't it? But - let me assure you - when you combine point number one (girls who love to talk about what they're feeling) and point number two (girls with tons of hair of varying temperaments), it makes you really start to reconsider the full ramifications of point number three (that hair must be brushed). Sure, the act of hair brushing itself is simple enough. But, so is changing a flat tire, unless it's 32 degrees, raining cats and dogs, and the cars are honking and speeding by your head, mere inches away. This, in a nutshell, is how I've come to view our daily grooming ritual. I feel like I've got post-traumatic stress disorder from my previous run-ins with tangles, tender heads, and tantrums. It's gotten so bad lately that I've begun contemplating alternatives to the dreaded morning ritual. Perhaps they don't really need their hair brushed every day after all... I'm sure they would look very good in hats... How long does it take to do cornrows?... Hmmm...

In the interest of full disclosure (and, mostly, to make sure you don't think ill of me or my wonderful children), I should note that we have tried every tangle spray and different brush type in the universe, but to no avail. And, though I do sincerely (ardently, feverishly, fully, and earnestly) hope that my children will grow out of their tenderheadedness, I don't look for that to happen any time in the near future, since I still suffer from the dreaded disorder myself. We generally run a pretty tight ship around here when it comes to behavior, but I don't blame the girls for their vociferous reluctance to get their hair brushed. I, on occasion, still let a mild utterance or shriek fly when encountering my own tangles, after all.

So, there's nothing left to do but restrain myself from drastic measures, and keep enduring the screaming, struggling, fighting, flailing, ouching, oohing, ahhing trio, until their tresses are tamed, or baldness becomes the new style for little girls. After all - I have three daughters. They all have hair, and hair must be brushed. And so, we soldier on together.

Presenting My Findings

I was chatting with my husband on the phone today and he told me how sweet our youngest daughter has been to him this morning. Before he leaves for work each day he always goes in, kisses the girls, and tells them goodbye. Typically, he gets snores, snorts, drool, and grumbles in response (especially from me, I'm ashamed to admit). But, apparently this morning our four-year-old opened her deep, dark eyes for a moment, smiled the biggest smile you can imagine, and told him how much she loved him, and couldn't wait until he got home from work again. Then, she insisted on one more hug before rolling over and going back to sleep.

Fast forward about an hour. The same, sweet child had come into my room sometime in the interim, and snuggled down in bed next to me. I awoke to see her precious little face, and I wrapped my arms around her, marveling at what a miracle each and every new morning is. After a moment, she opened her deep, dark eyes, stared intently into mine, and said, "When are you making shrimpy noodles for me?" Hmmm... Somehow that didn't go like I thought it would. But, that's okay, because a mom is not a dad.

Dad is fun and spontaneous. Dad is the bringer of treats. The taker to new places. The fun driver. The adventure seeker. The excitement in an otherwise monotonous life. Dad has cool stuff that is off limits and infinitely  more appealing because of it. Even though he is a grownup, he still buys stuff just for the pleasure of having it - the quintessential definition of a toy. Plus, to my girls at least, Dad has gifts and talents that they can only dream of. Not only can he fix any broken item and always find the right battery or bulb, but his mysterious anatomy allows Dad to pee outside. Awesome.

Mom, on the other hand, is not so spontaneous. Mom is the maker of food. The everyday chauffeur. The monotony in an otherwise exciting life. Mom has ordinary stuff that is (at least, in the minds of the kids) common property and infinitely more expendable because of it. Mom never was a child, and only buys things that are useful, necessary, and on sale. Not only is Mom the essence of prudence, but her anatomy doesn't do any cool tricks except, apparently, for enabling her to find things.

Look, I watched 'the film' in fourth grade and paid avid attention to the wonder and magic of the female reproductive system. I understand fallopian tubes, and ovaries, and complicated hormones as well as the next gal. Yet, despite three pregnancies, two ultrasounds, and full-color photographs of the exploratory surgery to my lower abdomen (I'll have to explain later), I have yet to understand how a uterus helps women find things. But, it must be so. No one wanders around my house plaintively whining, "Daddy, can you help me find my..." And, I'm certainly not the one who constantly asks the other members of the household where things are. Nope. Quite the contrary - apparently I am the one who always knows where things are (or, at least, should).

Naturally, I have concluded that beyond just being able to create and grow a baby, a uterus must also be a tracking device. Someday a white-coated scientist will discover a little, blipping microchip-like structure embedded deep inside a womb, and the mystery will finally be solved. Mind you, for such a find as that, it will have to be a female scientist, of course.

Until then, I will be content to not be able to water the flowers anatomically. I will also be more than happy to be the finder of lost things, the ho-hum helper, and the maker of shrimpy noodles. Dad may get the morning and evening hugs, but I get all the rest while he has to be at work. The greeting he gets tides him over until he returns home again at the end of the day. The greeting I get is filled with the promise of hours and hours together. Dad's spontaneity and my monotony make a fine balance for our family, and one that serves us all very well. In fact, I think you'd be hard pressed to find a better combination. And I should know - apparently I'm equipped to find anything...

The Pajama Conundrum

I have *finally* finished the last two (of many) loads of laundry today. Hooray! Every week I marvel at how five people can wear so many clothes - and we're not even layering yet! As I watch the stacks grow ever higher, it never ceases to amaze me that the pajama pile is usually the highest for each of us. Granted, that's partly because PJ's are kind of the standard uniform for home schoolers. However, it got me to wondering - how many sets of clothing does a person need exclusively for drooling and dreaming in? Come to think of it - how many clothes does a person need at all?

This is kind of a dangerous train of thought for me, and I often get myself into trouble when I start to ask such questions. You may recall that I have blogged in the past about my struggle with 'stuff'. I used to have a real problem with it. ("Hi. My name is Andrea. I'm a stuff-a-holic.") Like most recovering addicts, I have becoming something of a zealot, much to the chagrin of those around me. I don't try to be preachy, but sometimes I can't help it.

Over the last two years our little nuclear family has been through a lot - much of it spiritual, and perhaps a tad cerebral as well. The long and short of it is that we have been searching for who we are, and what we're supposed to be doing in life. In that process, we've seriously considered everything from building on to our home in order to have more space available, to packing up and moving to a tiny island in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. (I'm still praying earnestly for that last one to come true, by the way. Just a heads up.) Anyway, in the process of examining every possibility, God has asked us to lay everything at His feet, and hold nothing sacred but Him. This is why I'm wondering how many nightgowns we really need.

I have never felt more rich in my life than I do right now - when I have the least amount of items that I've ever owned. I gotta tell you - it's a good feeling. My home is less cluttered. My schedule is less cluttered. My heart and mind are less cluttered. And, my relationships (including with God) are less cluttered than they ever have been before. The open space that was created when I got rid of so much junk has since been filled with wonderful things. It's enough to make me want to rent a dumpster, open wide the doors and windows, and chuck all of the rest out, in order that I might be emptied to be even more filled with God's goodness.

But, that's the problem. I honestly don't know where to stop. I wasn't being rhetorical in asking how many jammies a person needs. I think that, as a modern, middle-class American, I am not well equipped to make a decision like that. Here's just one reason why: according to an article by MP Dunleavy of MSN, one in ten households in this country rent storage space - almost double what it was 15 years ago. Considering that houses now have, on average, 60% more square footage than they did just a generation or so ago, and the number of people living in those houses has gone down 20%, you have to wonder what they're all squirreling away. I bet at least some of it is PJs.

Want another reason why I'm ill-equipped to make decisions about physical possessions? I recently came across a blogpost about a beautiful and challenging book by photographer James Mollison, entitled Where Children Sleep. In it, there is no spin. No storytelling. No statistics or guilt trips about modern American life. Instead, there are only pictures. On one side of each page is a photo of a child from somewhere around the world. On the other side, a picture of where that child sleeps. What stunned me was the near-absence of personal belongings in most other countries, and the overwhelming glut of it in pictures from the United States. Even (or - more accurately - especially) in images of  children in the U.S. who are living in abject poverty, there is still stuff everywhere. It is clear that most modern Americans are well 'equipped' for life, but are we better off for it?

So, what's a gal to do? I suppose, in trying to decide how much stuff our family really needs, I could follow Madison Avenue's suggestion and buy even more clothing, in even more luxuriant styles, and with even bigger price tags attached. But, I'm pretty sure that ship has sailed for us. On the other hand, we could divest ourselves of all of our worldly goods, though the winters in Iowa do get a bit cold to be without any pajamas at all. Plus, a decision like that would only further my reputation as a zealous ex-addict.

Instead, I'm trying to take a more balanced approach. We clean out rooms and closets frequently - considering the difference between 'need' and 'want' as we do so. We weigh the pros and cons of each item we own or buy, including how much time and energy it will take to properly care for it. We remind each other (and ourselves) that we don't have any responsibility to our inanimate possessions, and that we only want to surround ourselves with things that truly bless and enrich our lives. We pray. We ponder. And, I blog - in hopes that you (my faithful readers) will know exactly how many sets of PJs (or anything else, for that matter) each of us really needs. I do sincerely want to hear your opinions and thoughts. And, if you could get back to me before the next laundry day, I'd appreciate it even more.

Deep Thoughts

My daughter threw up last night. As a mother, I wanted to rush to her, take her in my arms, and tell her everything would be alright. I wanted to make her feel better. As the person who mops the floor, however, I just had to take a moment to step back and marvel. I must say, when my kid does something, she does it big. The fallout  was spread three feet wide, five feet long, and (I kid you not) produced a splatter zone that was up to eighteen inches high in some places. Floor, mopboard, cabinet, and door - nothing was spared. At least it was on hard flooring. I shudder to think of what would have happened if it would have been on the carpet. I think that would have been cause to just torch the place and start anew. At the very least, FEMA and the National Guard would have had to have been called in.

But, there were no reinforcements coming, so it was up to me to handle the situation. I honestly did have to stand there for a moment and just try to assess how on earth I was even going to deal with it. There weren't enough paper towels in the western hemisphere to tackle this mess, and all of the rags I considered using were trapped in the bathroom, on the other side of Lake Lost-It. So, I headed outside, filled a bucket with water at the spigot, and grabbed the mop. Thirty-five minutes and three bucket-dumps later I had made a path wide enough to get in to where the rags where stored, so I could start on the woodwork. Needless to say, there are more diverting ways to spend an hour, but none more worthwhile.

What is it about being a parent that makes us able to handle such situations? There are no classes that teach you how to clean up puke. And, it's a task that most people would avoid at any cost. Yet, there I was, at 10:00 at night, mopping away with a smile on my face. What is that intangible element that makes us willing to deal with boogers, and puke, and poop so willingly - even joyfully? You can't bottle it. You can't buy it. It can't be concocted or forced, or even pretended. That's right, ladies and gentlemen - it is love, pure and simple, and it wells up from a spot somewhere deep, deep within us when we need it most.

Which, I guess, is a good thing. I've always believed in fighting fire with fire, so to speak, and the only way you can deal with something that literally comes from deep, deep within (like my daughter produced all over my bathroom floor) is with something that figuratively comes from deep, deep within. I'm just glad that expressing that deep, maternal love doesn't leave a splatter zone, and can be safely done with carpeting and soft furnishings around. 

An Open Letter to My Parents

Dear Mom and Dad:

This apology letter is long overdue, but I didn't realize it until now. You see, having been a parent for almost eleven years, I think I've finally come to realize that there are some things I need to say to you.

1. I'm sorry I hung on you. As a kid I used to wonder how much difference it could possibly make when I 'rested my hand' on your purse or in your pocket while we were shopping. Apparently the hand of a six year old really can weigh upwards of 100 pounds. Who knew? Must have something to do with increased gravity at malls and grocery stores. I get it now. Sorry. 
2. Please forgive me for kicking the back of your seat while on long car trips. Ditto for putting my feet under your seat. Ditto for anything else in any way associated with your seat. I used to think you had magic powers because you could tell when I was pushing my toes into the springs in the bottom of your seat. Now I know that it doesn't take magical powers to detect such a major annoyance, just to keep from slapping the person causing it. I get it now. Sorry.
3. I offer my deepest apologies for having let well-intentioned, but undermining, guest speakers at school make me doubt your parenting skills. I don't know why I thought that a dental technician student or a burned out ex-Cop would care more about my oral hygiene and overall health than you would, but I guess sometimes I did. Thanks for being sure that we always had access to quality toothpaste and never had access to meth while we were growing up. Above all, thanks for not being the kind of parents that cause the schools to have to bring in those guest speakers. I get it now. Sorry. 
4. Wow - what was I thinking when I wore some of those outfits? Though I swore I would never, ever say this at the time - you were right. They looked ridiculous. Yes, they looked like everyone else's clothes, but that makes it even more sad. So, I'd like to offer my apologies to not only you, but also to all of my friends' parents as well. I'm sorry for the attitude we gave and the shameless begging we engaged in just so that we could look like total idiots. I get it now. Sorry.
5. If I could, I would go back in time and un-say the words, "When are we having dinner" about ten thousand times. I don't know why I couldn't keep straight in my head that dinner time always came sometime between when the after school cartoons ended and it was time to go to bed, but apparently I couldn't. Despite the fact that you never failed to feed me once, I tested you every single night of my young life with that annoying and pointless question - often multiple times in one evening. Wow. I get it now. So sorry.
6. Words cannot express how badly I feel about having dropped clothes into the hamper that were not really dirty just because I didn't want to take the time to fold them and put them away. Sometimes I feel guilty when I hear that we are on the verge of a world-wide water shortage, since I know it's my fault in large part because of all the extra laundry I created. Worse yet - the problem I started is only going to get bigger because of my three children. Just fair warning. I get it now. Sorry world. I advise you to enjoy the cool, refreshing taste of drinking water while you still can.
7. Sorry for breaking stuff. I know that you know that I didn't mean to do it. But, I also now understand how heartbreaking it is to come in and see a beloved family heirloom scattered in a hundred pieces all over the floor. Or, have to pay to repair or replace an appliance due to gross misconduct on the part of the young user. (That goes double for the time I ruined the VCR by over zealous application of Pledge while dusting.) I get it now. Sorry.
8. I'm sorry for being surly. Seriously. I don't know what else to say except that sometimes it is your patient example - and ONLY your patient example - that is keeping me from sending my own pre-teen to go live in the yard. I get it now. Sorry.
9. I should never, ever have begged for toys. I had more toys than I needed - certainly more than I deserved, especially in light of the fact that I usually left them out where they would get broken, lost, or stepped on late at night by a weary parent just stumbling to bed to get a few hours of sleep before the chaos erupted again. I am so sorry for begging for new toys, for crying over broken toys, and especially for not picking up my toys. I sooooo get it now. Sorry.
10. Finally, let me apologize right here and now for all the tiny things I did to strip away the dignity you worked so hard to build when you were an adolescent and young adult. For loudly blaming that farting sound my little bare legs made on the wooden pew at church on you, Dad. For falsely claiming that Uncle Mark was pulling in the driveway as you hurtled across the living room, clad only in a towel and a deeply worried expression, Mom. For interrupting every kiss and romantic overture with a hearty, "Ewwwww..." For all of the compromising photographs I took, the embarrassing things I inadvertently said in public, and for requiring you to be at my beck and call for bottom wiping for all those years. I get it now. Sorry, and thank you.

Above all, Mom and Dad - thank you for allowing me to live to adulthood.

I only hope that these apologies (and the future apology letters I know I will end up writing - especially once my children reach the teenage years) will somehow make your golden years a bit easier. I'm sorry I haven't said sorry earlier, or more often.

I want you to know that you have my full support if you choose to fall asleep at family events, nap in the middle of the day, and insist that you be home and in bed by 8:30 every evening. After all, there is not enough time to make up for all the sleep I caused you to lose, even if you do live to 120. (Which, of course, you won't, since all that sleep deprivation took a toll on your health.) Sorry.

Rest assured, I can promise you this - I will gladly let you embarrass me in front of my friends, wear whatever clothing you think looks best (even once your eyesight goes and you're pulling items randomly from the closet), turn the TV up as loud as you want, take up tedious hobbies, wear ridiculous glasses and forget to put in your teeth, and even spend all of my inheritance on ceramic knick-knacks and commemorative plates with obscure politicians on them.


The only thing I ask is that you please, please, please don't ever tell my children how much like them I was at their age...

Who Am I? Why Am I Here?

Every once in a while my children say things that catch me off guard. Most of the time they're funny. But, often they also carry a deeper, philosophical significance that makes me see the world in a different light.

Not that long ago, my middle daughter was sitting down to a meal and moodily poking around at what she found on her plate. (Of all of our three girls, she's the most likely to be a tiny bit picky about food.) It was clearly apparent that she wasn't happy...

In all of the hustle and bustle of getting lunch on the table, gathering everyone from the farthest reaches of the house, and tidying up the kitchen, I ended up (as usual) hollering out every name that I could summon to the tip of my tongue, and assigning them in a more-or-less random fashion to whichever child (or cat) was closest. I think I even called my youngest daughter by her grandmother's name at one point.

After everyone was seated and our food had been blessed, I encouraged my little reluctant diner to give the new food a chance.

Me: Try it, sweetheart. You'll like it!
Her: How do you know?
Me: I'm your mom. I know you. I know you'll think it's good.
Her: You don't know me. Sometimes you don't even know my name...

Well, she certainly had me there, didn't she? Of course, I'm not suggesting that my momentary amnesia when it comes to names was an indication that I don't know my own children. However, maybe sometimes we do make unfair assumptions about people. Perhaps we get to the place of being so sure that we already know someone, that we stop trying. Maybe it isn't that that we don't know each other, but that we become overconfident that we do know someone that causes children to feel misunderstood, married couples to drift apart, and colleagues to frustrate one another.

But, as bad as it can be to stop trying to get to know someone, have you ever considered what happens when that someone is you? I've come to the place where I'm starting to ask - have I boxed myself in? Am I missing out on opportunities to learn new things? Have new experiences? Be a better person? Have I limited myself because of what I assume to be true about me?

My daughter's statement was a funny but potent reminder to me that it's not fair to stop listening, stop learning, stop getting to know the people around us. But, as much as we owe the courtesy of continuing to learn to other people, we also owe it to ourselves. So, if you'll excuse me - I'm going to go try something new. You never know - I just might find that I like it!

Corrupting the Youth

Socrates and I - we're like two peas in a pod. We both like to hang around all day in comfy clothes, have a little bit extra around the middle, and have been accused of corrupting the youth. For him, of course, the outcome of such accusations didn't go well. (Note to self : stay away from mobs and Hemlock.) Thankfully (at least, so far) no one in any official position who could cause me anything more than minor annoyance has questioned my motives when it comes to teaching. Faithful readers, I am going to let you in on a little secret that some of you might not know - though I am fully trained, licensed, and equipped to be a standard classroom teacher, I would rather take a sound beating than do so.

Let me be clear - I have nothing but the utmost respect for public schools and their superintendents, principals, teachers, etc.... But, I've seen their job, and I do not want it. I don't envy them the gags and tied hands that come with mandated curriculum, the endless carrot and stick of chasing standardized test scores, and the ceaseless internal politics inherent in the system. No, I'd rather circumvent all of that and spend my time corrupti...er, uh, teaching the youth. At first, I started with my own. After all, who better to experiment on than flesh and blood? I'm ultimately responsible for them anyway, so I figure I have the right to corrupt them as much as I want. The thing is - they loved it. Positively thrived. We did all sorts of unorthodox and heretical things - like teaching division before multiplication, coloring outside the lines, introducing ancient history before we even studied basic maps skills, and going out into the world around us to learn about the world around us. It was nuts, but it was working. And, aside from the occasional query about socialization or prom, most people were cool with our choice in lifestyle and education. That is, until the chicken incident.

When I was 25 years old, I embarked on a grand new adventure.. And, because we like we like to do stuff together, my then five-year-old and one-year-old came along for the ride as well. In fact, it was totally a family affair, with three generations of us present and excitedly peering over what I immediately recognized as one of the most powerful science lessons I'd ever taught - the innards of decapitated hen. That's right, the family that butchers together, stays together... or something like that. We processed around 20 birds that day, but the real 'meat' of the experience for me (couldn't help myself there - sorry) was the learning.

Do you know how cool the inside of a chicken looks? Are you aware of the amazing similarities (and differences) between chicken anatomy and human anatomy? If you are, you'll know what a privilege it is to see God's handiwork laid out in front of you even as you experience it silently humming away inside of you. If you're not, you're probably still worriedly wondering where your gizzard is. At any rate, just as our roundabout explorations of division and multiplication had taught me more about math than I had ever previously known, and our forays into the real world taught me more about life than I had learned in my 17 years of formal education, that one day showed me the reality of the scripture that says we are fearfully and wonderfully made better than just about any other thing I had experienced during my first quarter-century of life. Wow. I was hooked.

I started telling everyone I knew about the experience. My children excitedly chimed in in the background, "tell 'em about the guts, mommy! Tell 'em about the guts!" However, instead of being met with enthusiasm or curiosity, people looked at me like I was covered in innards, and not just talking about them. Apparently, not everyone is on board with allowing children to see nature at its best. In fact, one person suggested that I was damaging my children's psyches, and another went so far as to suggest that this was borderline child abuse. There I go again - corrupting the youth. Socrates, my friend, I feel your pain.

Well, wasn't this a fine mess I'd gotten myself into? What was I to do? On the one hand, I could choose to deny myself and my children the opportunity to learn about the glorious handiwork of our Creator in order to shield them from whatever unpleasantness it was that such opportunities supposedly contained. On the other hand, I could - well - just not. I could just not care what people thought. I could just just not worry about the opinions of others. I could just not take the conventional road. Hmmm... what to do, what to do?

Our next butchering experience was even more fantastic - hogs. Wow! We then moved on in quick succession to sheep and goats. It was glorious. Not only did we get to enjoy (and learn about!) the lifecycle of animals raised in fresh air and sunshine, but we also got to give our beloved livestock a quick, painless, and humane end. (And, of course, there was also all that fresh, yummy, healthy meat.)  My kids can tell a spleen from a kidney. They know not to contaminate the work surface with bile. And, more importantly, they also know where to find the bile and what it looks like. We have poked and prodded, stuck our fingers down aortas, tested the strength and stretch of various tissues, and even laid out whole body systems to explore.

After a while, the enthusiasm my children had could not be contained, and they began (once again) telling friends and family about their experiences. Slowly, reluctantly, even painfully people started coming around to at least being willing to be curious, if not entirely certain about whether to join in the fun or run for the hills. Eventually, with much coaxing and encouragement, butchering day at our house became a social occasion. There would be curious eyes and tentative fingers everywhere as we talked our way through anatomy and biology and chemistry and theology. It had happened - I had branched out beyond just corrupting my own youth, and had started doing so to my children's friends as well. When would it end?

I suppose there must have been a point at which Socrates knew he had crossed the line. Somewhere along the way he had gone from being an educational pariah to a local hero because of his unorthodox traveling classroom and his endless rhetorical questions, but he had to push it. He couldn't be content just raising awareness, introducing new ideas, and living outside the status quo.  Boy, do Socrates and I ever have a lot in common! I, too, have kept pushing. I speak openly, now, about how much fun it is to home school. I no longer fear to tell people that we choose real-world experiences (even butchering!) to augment our learning. And, just last week, I did the unthinkable and brought a set of sheep lungs, complete with trachea, to forty or so young children between the ages of five and twelve. That's right - I was no longer taking the children to the guts, but had branched out into taking the guts to the children.

It was a beautiful specimen - very pink and healthy and fully intact. The initial 'ewwww's changed to 'oooohhhh's when the kids first got to see the lungs up close and experience their beauty and magic. The best part of the day were the excited 'aaahhhhhh!'s that came when I inflated the lungs to their full capacity. Now those kids fully and deeply know what I learned and my kids learned during our first day of butchering - indeed, we are fearfully and wonderfully made.


So, I guess I have a choice to make once again. Am I going to learn from my buddy Socrates and back off before the disapproving crowd rushes in, or will I (like he) continue to corrupt the youth every chance I get? Tough decision. Hmmm.... what to do, what to do? I guess I'll have to get back to you on that. Next week I'm supposed to be teaching about the nervous system, and if I'm going to have a brain to take in, I need to start making phone calls.

(p.s. - I really did inflate a set of sheep lungs, and it really was a rockin' experience. You can see the video for yourself here. Science and learning are cool.)

Bypass the Good to Reach for the Best

I can never seem to get over just how busy life is, especially at the start of a new school year. There are classes to fit in, books to pick out, field trips to attend, new friends to meet, and so much more. I am blessed beyond my wildest dreams with opportunities to learn, grow, share, play, dream, volunteer – the list goes on and on. It seems like every day brings new, wonderful activities into my life. The question I often face isn’t what can I do, but what should I do? Or, more accurately, what should I do without?

It occurred to me one evening this past week, as I dove into bed, utterly exhausted, after midnight, that I had had a wonderful and productive day. Sure, my school time with the girls was shorter and more rushed than I would have liked it to be, and I ended up having to grab a fast-food lunch because my morning appointment went longer than expected, but I had gotten so many things done – good things! As I lied in the state just between dreamland and the real world, I looked back at all the good things I’d done during the past week, and the many more good things on my calendar for the weeks to come. Many, many more good things. Suddenly I was more than just tired. I was weary.

How was it that I had come to dread the busyness of my days, when they were filled pursuing what I knew to be fruitful endeavors? As I started to go over the responsibilities that I had for the next day, I realized that I need to gather the library items that were due. We make a trip to the local library each Friday. It’s a highlight for my children, since books hold such magic and possibility. Library day is like Christmas to them. For a moment, I was absorbed in the happy thought of how much fun we would have on our weekly ritual together, until I realized that the best part of library day for my girls isn’t picking out the books, but the promise that we will read them together.

You see, it isn’t the place or the people or even the books themselves that makes library day one of their favorite days of the week. It is the fact that checking out a book, to them, is like putting down earnest money on snuggle time with mom – no distractions, no schedules, no phone calls. My heart sank when I realized just how many of those books from last week had been left unread because we were busy doing other things. Good things, mind you, but things that got in the way of the best thing of all – just being together. Had I really been trading in my best life for the many good things that had fallen in my path?

The only way I finally found sleep (and peace) that night was to make a promise to myself to do something about this profound night-time revelation. It has not been easy, and I have been amazed at how much of a constant struggle it is to say, “no” to things that are worthy and good in order to save time and energy for the best things – the ones I know are what I want to pursue. Difficult, to be sure, but worth it. I measure my success over every lingering lunch and snuggly story book - far greater rewards than I had felt in all of my busy good deeds.

Parents - I invite you to join me this school year in acknowledging that there is only so much of you to go around, and that’s ok. For this brief period in time we have a heavy responsibility to a few precious people who deserve all that we have to give them. To those who don't have children, or who have already blinked and seen their children grow up, I invite you to join me as well. After all, perhaps in the end the sign of a truly successful life isn't necessarily in how much good you did, but how much of the best you reveled in. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some children and a husband who want to be with me, and I can't imagine anything better than that.

Laundry

Well, here I am, in the middle of laundry. Again. Or, maybe more accurately, still. It seems to be a never-ending process at my house. I realize, of course, that the odds are stacked against me, since there are 5 people living here, three of whom still regularly spill any liquid or semi-solid they are responsible for conveying any distance farther than one micron. (I will not divulge the names of these people in the interest of protecting my fifth amendment rights.) So, our baskets overfloweth. Of course, not all dirty clothes are created equal. Last week I had to wash the same shirt four times because it was so filthy. In the end, I went ahead and threw it in the dryer anyway, despite the fact that the stains were still there. At that point it's easier to try to convince the smallish person who owns it that it always was that shade of grey than to waste any more laundry detergent, stain remover, energy, or time - especially time. Plus, grey goes with everything, so it really was a win-win situation.

I have the same problem with laundry that I do with dishes and our annual tax return - there are just so very many steps involved! Isn't it enough to gather the clothes, carry them to the laundry room, sort them, check for stains, and pop them into the machine? Apparently not. There's also the transferring, the drying, the folding, the putting into the baskets, the carrying into the rooms, and - the piece d'resistance - the putting away! It's enough to drive a person crazy. I mean, I often skip several of those steps (and not always the ones you might expect) in an effort to save time and preserve my sanity, but the process is still way too long, and nudist colonies have been looking more and more attractive to me in the last several years. That is not to say, however, that the feelings are necessarily mutual. I can only guess that my appeal to a nudist colony has waned in the last decade or so, even as my interest in them has grown. Because of this inverse relationship, I will continue to be a slave to my washer and dryer.

Perhaps the real problem at our house is not the amount of laundry, but the amount of clothing. That may sound paradoxical, but follow me on this for a minute. My middle daughter has 23 t-shirts in her drawer. Her three-year-old sister, I believe, owns even more than that, but it's hard to tell. (One time saving measure I have taken up to lighten my laundry load is to have the girls put away their own clothes. I only know that the basket comes back empty, but still haven't quite figured out where she is stashing all of her things.) Anyway, this overabundance of clothing means that we can, quite literally, go two weeks or more without having to switch on the ol' Maytag. And, often we do. Ergo, the next time we have laundry day, it's a real whopper. I suppose that, when you average out all the time I spend doing laundry over the course of a year, it might be about the same as everyone else spends. I guess when it takes a week and half of sorting, washing, drying, and folding to catch up on two week's worth of laundry, I'm not really saving myself much time after all.

It would seem logical, then, that the answer to my little problem, would be to get rid of some clothes. I should just figure out how often I want to do laundry, and then make sure we have exactly the right amount of clothing for that time period. Therefore, if I want a five day break between washes, I think we should pare down to 5 outfits, 2 pajamas, and 2.876 towels each. (That includes a bath towel, a hand towel, two wash rags, and the appropriate number of kitchen towels we would need for five days, divided among all five family members.) But, let's be honest - I don't really want to do laundry every five days. Maybe once a week? Once every ten days? I've got it - how about once every two weeks? Of course, that would require everyone to have 23 t-shirts and... wait... now we're back to square one.

No, I don't want to do laundry for a week and a half straight every two weeks, but I also don't want to have to do laundry every day. Just between you and me, I'd prefer to never have to do laundry again. Of course, that means that we can't have any clothes, which takes us back to the whole nudist colony dilemma. Perhaps if I could find one where everyone was terribly nearsighted. Or, better yet, we could just start out own. Unfortunately, that would require a lot of research into state and local laws, zoning regulations in this county, which SPF is most effective for which areas of the body, etc... And, of course, I don't have time to do any of that research because the dryer just buzzed, and I've still got 42 loads of laundry to do before I'm off the hook. If you'll excuse me, the laundry cycle is calling my name...

In the Good Old Summertime...

My dear, adoring public - I must apologize. I have used this blog for many purposes. It has been my sounding board. My confessional. My soapbox. My diary. It has housed my deepest thoughts, and the wildest wanderings of my cerebral frontiers. And now, I must admit to you that I have allowed a terrible a injustice to occur right here in these hallowed pages. (Well, characters, more accurately.) I can stand it no longer. Justice must be served.

You see, I have complained bitterly about winter in this blog - whined about it, some might say- and, alternately, have been in ecstatic raptures about spring in previous posts. Through all of the weather writing, I have neglected the blissful bounty of summer, and I think it's time for summer to get its due. After all - living during these fleeting three months in Iowa is like no other experience in the world. This year we had a very wet latter part of spring, and it has blossomed now in these past few weeks into a glorious, sticky, sun-drenched July. It's hot, it's humid, and it's glorious - everything summer should be.

This morning I picked green beans - ice cream bucket after ice cream bucket of them from my friend's garden. She shared her bounty with me, just as a neighbor did when they dropped of a bag of summer squash on my doorstep. I will return the favor to someone else with something from my garden, because it is summer. In Iowa. That's what we do. The soil here is so rich and alive that anyone can grow anything, but there is something mystical and satisfying about being a part of 'the club.' Whether it's a backyard container with a single tomato plant, or a half-acre survival garden, we are all part of that group, whose membership is made possible by our beloved state's benevolent weather and good, clean dirt. And, it's a good club to be a part of it. There is something inherently wholesome about sun-warmed, dirt-fresh, dimple-fleshed produce from the garden, and the grubby fingernails and toes that go along with them. They makes you want to do the right things - like eat better, read a bedtime story to your children,  go to church more often, and make homemade ice cream.

Of course, it's not just the produce and gardens that inspire goodness. It's in the air. Yes... We do have more than just humidity in the air, though sometimes it can be hard to detect. Listen... listen.... can you hear it? That sound - just now? It is the frogs in the neighbor's pond. The crickets in your basement. The cicadas thrumming away in the top of your maple trees. It is the crack of a bat, the whir of a child's bike tire, the distant rumble-grumble of thunder. It is summer, singing its endless and humble song. From the percussive rattle of metal wheels and horses' hooves on my gravel road, to the woodwind's mellow refrain as the wind blows through the pasture grass - it is summer. If you're not paying attention you will miss this concert, and it's playing its heart out just for you.

This week I made it a point to take a break from the beans and the weeding and the work. I wiped my hands on the kitchen towel, slipped into my worn sandals, and stepped outside of my air conditioning and busy life. I chose to spend an hour or so sitting on the swing with my friend during the hottest day we've had in years. The sun and humidity were intense, but the joy even more so.We heard laughter in the forefront and lawnmowers in the distance. It was nice. Tonight I found myself returning to that swing because of the delight of an enraptured three-year-old, who proudly pointed out that she had found the moon. Indeed she had - a more important and astute discovery than most people make their whole lives. We lingered for a while as the yellow, new moon skimmed across the sky, listening to the breeze in the corn. When the lightning bugs showed up and the whole sky was lit with star upon star upon star, I knew they were simply the flashbulbs and marquee that come with any headlining act, for I was in the presence of greatness.

They are dedicated and capable, practiced and finely-tuned, but don't be fooled - this band has been booked for a limited engagement. I'm ever so blessed to have been given - free of charge! - a front row seat (and a swinging one at that) for this multi-sensory, life changing, outdoor musical extravaganza. They have the biggest stage, best acoustics, most talented musicians, and most outstanding special effects you'll see anywhere. When the kitchen is empty and the clothes have been left half-folded, you'll know where to go looking for me. After all, it's the social event of the season. I surely do hope to see you there.

What's in a Name?

Shakespeare waxed poetic about the beauty of Juliet. In the story, of course, Juliet was in love with the handsome Romeo, who also dearly loved her, even though their families were bitter rivals. Juliet pined about the fact that her only love (Romeo) was sprung from her only hate (the family Montague). It is her famous "What's in a Name..." soliloquy that many eager young thespians memorize and recite. Yesterday I, too, was thinking of Juliet (well, at least a Juliet) and, like her, pondering the nature and meaning of names.

See, we have three kinds of chickens in our little flock. Our old hens (which are a breed known as Production Reds) were purchased from a neighboring hen house after their peak function was past. They had been housed with 1200 other Production Reds and lived only to eat, poop, and (of course) lay eggs. These kinds of ladies are known, without any effort at romance or honor, as 'spent hens' after they are around 18 months old. Remember, there is no glass ceiling or social security program for poultry. They were lucky to have been brought to our green yard and cozy hen house, where they have been allowed to live out their days eating bugs, being given swing and sled rides (sometimes against their wills), and laying the occasional egg as they chose to do so. Since arriving here, my girls have called this batch of chickens Henny Pennies.

Why Henny Pennies? I don't know. Though some of them did have their own names (including Le Morte and Mr. Chicken - I am not making this up), it is rather difficult to tell one spent hen from another, so it made the most sense to my girls to name them as a group. Plus, it distinguishes them from the two other types of chickens we have. Besides the Production Reds, we also have two white hens. One is a Leghorn, and the other a Californian. We came by both of these gals separately and in a somewhat strange fashion. Tracy came first. She had been purchased along with 29 other tiny, day-old white chicks by a friend of ours. The others in her group quickly grew fat and sassy, since they were Cornish Rock Cross - a breed that grows 6 pound birds in 8 weeks. Alas, there was one lone, mis-sorted Leghorn chick in the bunch. It soon became apparent to my friend that 'Mini-Hen' (as she had been dubbed by the resident namer at their house) was better suited for a hen house than a freezer. So, she came to live with us, and was promptly renamed Tracy.

The other white hen was part of group that we chicken-sat for over the Christmas holidays. (Hey - don't laugh. You would do the same for your dog or cat, right?) When the owner of this bunch came to pick his ladies up, he couldn't tell the difference between our Tracy and his white hen. (I find it incredibly insensitive of him to not be able to tell one white girl from another, and am infinitely glad that we got to keep this hen so she didn't have to go back to her obviously racist owner.) Anyway, her new name is Not Tracy. So, we find ourselves having conversations like this:

Me: Did you put the chickens in tonight?
Child: Yes, all the Henny Pennies are in, but not Tracy.
Me: Do you mean not Tracy, or not Not Tracy?
Child: Yes.
Me: But which one did you...
Child: [re-donning shoes] I'll just go out and put her in so I don't have to explain, ok Mom?

Our last group, which started out as a batch of 15 half-grown, mixed-sex (11 hens and 4 roosters) Rhode Island Red chickens purchased from Craigslist, have been affectionately known as Juliets. (I told you I'd eventually be talking about Juliet...)  Their numbers have since dwindled to six. We lost four hens to predators and cold this winter. One rooster was hit by a car. The other three had to be 're-homed' after they got a bit aggressive with the girls. And, alas, we lost one Juliet hen to a hawk yesterday. So, we're down to just six Juliets now. Our Henny Pennies have suffered some serious losses this past year as well, and now number only two. With those eight, along with our pair of white hens (who, of course, each already have their own names) it is looking more and more like we could move from group identity on to individual monikers for my lovely laying ladies.

Since it is my children who come up with the names (and spend the most time with the chickens) I'll have to check with them and see what they think. I'm inclined to keep things simple. And, since I'm able to both distinguish between and remember the names for Henny Pennies, Juliets, Tracy, and Not Tracy, I'm content to keep to keep things the way they are. Plus, as amusing as it can be, the process of getting the girls to agree on a name is rather like giving birth. There is much yelling, fist clenching, and the occasional Lamaze-style breathing through pursed lips. Just yesterday we travailed to bring forth names for our two new goats, which had to be agreed upon by three young girls. The process is harder than you might imagine. But, at the end of the labors, we were presented with our bouncing, brand new names - Marshmallow and Kid. The girls are happy, and the goats are indifferent, so I think it was a success. But, I'm not sure that our insurance will cover another naming for at least a year, so perhaps the hens will keep their current classifications after all.

Electron Annie!

Time and all my best laid plans
Cease to exist with shovel in hand...

 I garden the same way I clean house - randomly, and with reckless abandon. I often find myself out for a leisurely stroll around the yard or to pick up a bit of litter after church, and end up hours later with grass stains on the hem of my Sunday skirt and good, clean dirt under my fingernails. Oh, and a smile on my face. The same is true for cleaning (though it's less poetic to write about). I don't know how many times I've started in just to tidy up a little pile of papers and ended up mopping floors in good clothes. I'm not much of a planner, you see. Plus, life is so much more interesting that way, isn't it?

Do you remember looking at drawings of atoms in your high school chemistry book? They were so neat and ordered - the plump, happy protons with their cozy little neutron spouses, surrounded by a passel of electron babies whizzing around them in an orderly (albeit breakneck) manner. The diagram always implied that electrons followed a set pattern - much like the planets around the sun - always predictably in line and never bumping into one another or flying off into another 'nuclear' family's territory. In fact, scientists actually believe that electrons aren't quite the chubby little atomic cherubs we thought them to be. There is a theory called the Heisenberg's Uncertainty Principle that describes electrons more in terms of being a wave than a particle. Bill Bryson (one of my favorite authors) summed it up thus in his excellent book A Short History of Nearly Everything:

What this means in practice is that you can never predict where an electron will be at any given moment. You can only list its probability of being there.... until it is observed, an electron must be regarded as being "at once everywhere and nowhere."

Well, there you have it. I must be an electron. At least, that's surely what my family must think of me. My children certainly believe me to be either everywhere or nowhere at once, apparently. Sometimes they can't hear me when I'm standing right next to them, and other times they marvel that I have seen or heard their devious little schemes. I guess you can say that this is one example of how well home schooling works. These three kids already have an innate and deep understanding of the complexities of  Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle, and they're only 10, 6, and 3. For example, while they're not sure that it's totally possible for me to be in two places at once (or to disappear completely), they understand it, at least, as a theoretical possibility. They've also done some practical research on the topic, and have mapped out the most probable locations in which to find me. Apparently, according to them, I'm most likely to be in the bathroom or on the phone. Go figure. But, I digress...

I woke up today planning on cleaning, doing laundry, and catching up on bookwork. I'm not willing to concede that I'm still not going to do those things at some point today. Actually, I'm kind of already doing them, since I've got laundry in the machines, the dishwasher is open and half full, and my table is sprinkled with financial documents just waiting to be entered into the computer. There is still some probability that you might find me at one of those locations at some point today, albeit a low one. If I were a betting gal, though,  I'd say that it is much more likely that you'll find me outside today. After all, I've already felt the lure of the sunshine and gotten a bit of dirt under my nails while putting in some orphan plants given to me by a friend. (Of course, along the way I also started digging out an old tree stump, began weeding a flower bed, transferred a few strawberry plants, and got the yen to mow.) Whatever I end up doing, you can bet it will be seemingly random, but that's only to those uninitiated in the finer points of physics. After all, even those electric robot vacuums clean all the spots on the carpet eventually in their endless 'Roomba Rumba' dance through life.

I'm sure there are elements of the atom that scientists will continue to unfold as the years go by. God's handiwork is not well or easily understood by mere human minds, much as some scientists like to think otherwise. However, until they come up with a better theory, I'm in agreement with ol' Heisenberg. After all, just because no one can actually predict with any certainty where an electron (or I)  will be or what it (or I) will be doing in any given moment, I am content to know that God makes His own perfect order and purpose in what appears to be a confounding, seemingly haphazard series of events. At least, that's the story I tell my husband and children, and I'm sticking to it!

(I'm throwing in a bonus picture with this blog entry. Just in case I didn't really express myself well in words, or if you're more of a picture type person, below is an excellent illustration of exactly what I was talking about.)

Pregnancy - Nature's Hostile Body Takeover

Warning: This blog contains mature content that is not suitable for children. Or men. Sorry, guys... This one is for the ladies only. Don't say you haven't been warned!


I am now just over three years out from my last pregnancy. It is a bit off putting to be in public, surrounded by pregnant women and nursing moms, and to realize that I have aged out (or, as I prefer to think of it, 'experienced out') of that club. I really thought that babies and bellies would be my reality for eternity. After all, I have spent 2 1/2 years pregnant, 5 years breastfeeding, 3 days in labor, and exactly 38,465,342.8 hours worrying about parenting decisions I've either made, am making, or have yet to make. Being a mom isn't for the fainthearted.

No one tells you what it's going to be like, do they? I mean, I know part of that is our fault, as new mothers, because we are so convinced we know what we're doing that when a well-meaning friend tries to give us advice, we roll our eyes and snicker behind our hands at them. "Well, sure you had to use a pacifier with YOUR baby, but MINE won't have any anxiety issues, and therefore won't need external comforting." Spoken like a true preggo or newbie. Just wait until the middle the night about 3 days in - you know, right after you've gone home from the hospital and it's just you and Angel Baby staring at each other by the glow of the nightlight. You'll be desperately digging in the bottom of the diaper bag to find that pacifier too, momma. Trust me on this one.

No, new moms aren't known for their willingness to take advice, but maybe that's because they feel ever so slightly lied to. Let me give you an example. When a pregnant mom asks me what pregnancy was like, I tell the truth - it was wonderful. I loved every minute of it. Couldn't believe what a magical experience it was. Would do it again in a heartbeat. Etc... This, of course, is the perspective I have about it now. You know, now that I'm on the other side of it. Now that it is becoming a memory. Now that I've reaped the rewards. I'm not lying when I say that pregnancy is awesome, but perhaps I'm also not telling the truth, the WHOLE truth, and nothing but the truth as I might have been experiencing it at the time.

The whole truth, of course, involves a bit of unpleasantness. It involves aches in body parts I didn't even know I had. Before I got pregnant I was only vaguely aware of being in possession of a cervix.  I had never seen said cervix. I didn't have an owner's manual on it, had never changed its oil or had it tuned, and I certainly didn't know it could hurt. Further, I never guessed that it would become fair game for discussions with colleagues after visits to the doctor. Let's face it - it's fair game for discussion with everyone near the end, when even great-aunt Lucy will ask how far dilated you are. (This is the same woman, by the way, who always chastised you for not acting like more of a lady when you were young, and now she's hollering into the phone to see how stretched and skewed your most private of parts has become.) By the end of it all, 3 doctors, 10 medical students, 18 nurses, and a cleaning lady who doesn't know how to knock before entering will all have seen the very same cervix you've still not been properly introduced to.

The whole truth also involves, shall we say... anatomical reorganization. These are similar to the theories discussed in college geology classes - poles shifting and causing wobbles and a loss of balance, new hilly eruptions and subsequent foliage cover, bulges in the equator, and the heartbreaking, gradual sinking of northern mountain ranges. Stuff just doesn't stay put when you're pregnant. Your belly button thrusts forward, as if trying to escape the disruptions to its previously-peaceful domain. Your feet widen. Your organs squish and slosh (sometimes even leaking). Fact of the matter is, you even get new body parts. It's true. Look it up. (Or, if you're pregnant, just look down.) Let me explain...


The human body is full of strange sounding parts. You have to wonder if the only reason some people go into medicine is because no other area of science or technology would hire them because of their funny names. They only backed into stellar careers in gastroenterology or otoloaryngology because their initial interviews at, say, NASA or the National Parks Service went something like this: 


"I'm terribly sorry, Mr... uh....Kiesselbach, is it? Though your credentials are excellent, we can't run the risk of you discovering something truly remarkable and then wanting to name it after yourself. It's just a PR nightmare. Have you ever considered medicine, though?" 

So, that's why we now have parts inside each and every one of us that sound like they're more likely to be out of a Star Wars movie than a medical text. I kid you not - if you looked hard enough (and knew where to look) you could find your very own Hydatid of Morgangi (didn't he rule the Mongols in the mid 1500's?), Islets of Langerhans (makes you want to vacation there some time, doesn't it?), Space of Moll (right next to the Black Hole of Moll), and White Line of Tolt (every bit as spectacular as the White Cliffs of Dover, but not nearly as crowded). 

Anyway, these funny little innards are silently working away inside you all the time. But, when you're pregnant and breastfeeding is the only time that your Montgomery's Tubercles kick into gear. They're actually little bumps around your nipples that secrete a special oil to keep things properly lubed for breastfeeding. Montgomery originally described these glands as "a constellation of miniature nipples scattered over a milky way." Very poetic. Most women, however, describe them as just another part of the hostile body takeover that is pregnancy. Oily bumps. On your breasts, no less. Great. Unfortunately, they go perfectly with those dark hairs you sprout on your upper lip and the unexpected gift that is urinary incontinence. You see why pregnant women don't exactly fall for my 'everything is beautiful' explanation of motherhood?

No, one cannot deny that there are some parts of pregnancy that aren't all glowing beauty. Here's the thing, though - that doesn't all magically go away when you give birth. That first post-baby look in the mirror is quite a shock. Your breasts sag. Your belly is floppy. Your stretch marks shine. Your leg hair is thicker. You see things you haven't seen in 9 months, and they're not pretty. Worst of all, you're convinced you're never going to be the same again. And, I've got to level with you here - you won't. Sure, things will get better. Heck, you might even get back into your old clothes and look just as smokin' as you did before, but you will still be forever changed. You will regard your body with new respect. You will cherish the memories, and honor the sacrifices it has made. Those aren't stretch marks - they're battle scars, and you've earned 'em, momma -  just like you've earned a special membership into the exclusive Mommy club, and the right to tell expectant mothers the same truth about pregnancy you heard all along- it's absolutely wonderful!

Friendship Happens

I am amazed at the process of friendship. It happens when you least expect it, often when you don't even want it to, and most of the time it is completely beyond your control. I mean, there I was one day going about my own business, when I happened to meet a boy. He was nice. I liked him. We talked on the phone, went out to dinner a few times. Next thing you know, we've been married 10 years and have 3 small children living with us. (I'm told they're our children. But, of course, we're far too young to have kids of our own. I think they just popped in from the neighbors' house and liked our food so they stuck around.)

Anyway, somewhere between that Friday night in September almost 15 years ago and now I've gained a best friend -  my husband, and three amazing young ladies with whom I am privileged to spend most of my waking hours. Let's be honest here, I spend much of my sleeping hours with the younger two as well, as they still tend to migrate to our room at night. There you go again - a perfect example of friendship occurring in the strangest of ways. Who else would I allow to cry at me, poop at me, vomit at me, and kick me all night and still love as much I do these children? And, don't forget - they're also eating all my food. Friendship is a funny, funny thing.

But, of course, it doesn't stop there. Attached to my husband (at least figuratively, if not sometimes literally) are relatives. He's got parents, brothers, cousins, aunts, grandparents. These people slowly started encroaching on my circle of acquaintances from the very first day I met Mark - initially as only as faceless characters in the stories my future-husband told me over dinner.  Of course, that soon changed. With each passing holiday or social gathering they gained standing in my friendship lineup - moving up from batboy into cleanup position. Now, these people are among my heavy hitters - often my go to batters. How did that happen? I'll tell you how...

Since I wasn't exactly out husband shopping that night in September almost 15 years ago (I know I've said that already, but 15 years... seriously!?), I wasn't thinking of the long-term consequences of that boy calling me up the next day. I know we need to educate young people about the effects that their youthful indiscretions and energetic actions can have on the rest of their lives. But, I'd say I was far better informed about sex, drugs, and rock and roll as a teenager than I was about the cold, hard facts about acquaintances, friendship, and love. Oh, you think you'll be able to play around and stop whenever you want to, but before you know it you'll wake up a dozen years later with an in-law habit that won't quit, craving time with your husband's friends, and (as long as we're being frank, here) hanging out with a totally different crowd than you used to when you were young and innocent.

Often, they'll expose you to bad habits - like baseball and seafood. You'll start inviting them over more and more often, spend your money on vacations and gifts. At some point in the process you will have to look at yourself in the mirror and admit that you are addicted. Not only that - but you've gone and spread the addiction to your own friends and family as well. There will be times when you'll look around you and see your family, his family, and families you never even dreamed of knowing all hopped up on sugar and good times together, and you'll have to admit that you're the one who brought this about. You're the one who created this chain of people addicted to each other. You're the one - you and that night 15 years ago. How did it all spiral out of your control so quickly?

Next time you're surrounded by these family and friends, brought together only by your actions, I hope you're pleased with yourself and the situation you've created. I hope you're pleased with yourself when you realize that the term 'in-law' has become obsolete and unnecessary. I hope you're pleased with yourself at night when you can't sleep because you're worried about people you didn't even know when you were a kid. I hope you're pleased with yourself when no one can remember who was on the groom's side or the bride's side at the wedding, since they're all piled in together at one table during the holidays now. I hope you're pleased with yourself when you realize the imperceptible process of friendship that has taken place in your life. I hope you're pleased with yourself and the people you're surrounded by. I do sincerely hope so, because I know I am....

Success By Any Other Name...

I was voted most likely to succeed in my high school class. Well, most likely to succeed, or smartest. I don't really remember, and it's not worth digging out my yearbook to find out. To be honest with you, it didn't mean a whole lot to me then, and it still doesn't today. In fact, I haven't even thought about any of that stuff in over 10 years, until it was brought to mind in a somewhat jarring fashion today.

A colleague of mine recounted a conversation she had recently with  someone who 'knew me then'. When this woman found out that I was spending my time changing diapers and helping fellow home schoolers, she shook her head and said of me, "she had so much potential..." Apparently, at least according to her, I could have really been someone. I guess that's a nice vote of confidence, but I was as disappointed by her statement as she must have been by my lack of "success".

See, all this time I've been laboring under the misconception that I am not just someone waiting to be, but that I already am someone important. I guess I figure that I have been living up to my full potential - making a difference in the world in a meaningful way, doing good deeds, living a life of purpose and importance. A life of wiping noses and cleaning up spilled beverages, to be sure, but an important life, none the less.

I can't really blame her, I guess. I know that, by the standards of this world, I have failed to achieve the success that I could have. I don't have a high-falutin' job or a fat paycheck. I don't have a big, fancy house or an expensive car. I don't even have cable. My children still wear hand-me-downs, and I shop at secondhand stores for clothing, and discount stores for everything else. How can I be sure I'm meeting my full potential when I don't even meet any of the standard measures of a success these days?

Well, it turns out that there are better measures to be found. Just this evening my youngest child came up to me, in all of her innocent, earnest, three-year-old wisdom, and asked, "Mommy, how tall do you weigh?" I replied (in what I thought was the most appropriate answer to such a question)  "I weigh 5' 10".

Apparently I was wrong. She said I weigh 22 minutes, and that that's too big. Hmm.Who knew? Just goes to show you, even valedictorians get the answer wrong once in a while. (Ok, technically I wasn't valedictorian of my class, since I graduated early and wasn't eligible to be considered for the honor, but it fit into the theme of the blog nicely, so I just went with it.)

I know, I know... my three-year-old's unit of measure doesn't make any sense. (And, who said that 22 minutes is too big, anyway? Sure, I could stand to lose a few seconds here and there... But, I think that I'm very healthy at 22 minutes, especially if you take into account that I'm a tall girl - I do weigh almost six feet, after all!)  Anyway, her unit of measure may be not be logical, but neither is any other if you think about it. The fact that I had the time to talk with my daughter tonight is worth far more than a six-figure salary. Having her help me make supper was better than a power lunch any day, and the fact that she really knows me and I really know her are far, far better things than any amount of fame or world-wide notoriety I could have achieved.

When I graduated from high school, I was ready to take on the world. To leave my mark in life. I wanted to reach for the stars. I wanted to succeed.  I finally realize what that all means. What good is it to gain the whole world, but lose your soul by selling out, giving in, and giving up what matters most? How can you leave your mark in life when you are so much like everyone else that you don't leave a lasting impression?  This summer I laid on the lawn with my giggly girls watching a meteor shower. My five-year-old would gleefully reach up and try to catch God's fireworks as they shot across the sky. We may have failed to actually ever reach any of those blazing stars, but the fact that we were there and trying together is its own kind of success...

Busy, Busy, Busy

Forever more I reject the titles 'overbooked', 'too busy', or 'procrastinator.' Instead, I would appreciate it if from this point forward you would just refer to me as 'The Evil Knievel of Scheduling.' Thank you very much.

It's not that I feel cheated, per se, in the fact that I only have 24 hours in my day, like everyone else. But, seriously - if they're talking about selling carbon credits, can't we at least discuss the option of selling spare time too? I can see it now - special banks and exchanges for you to make deposits and withdrawals of, well... time. Choose increments from 10 minutes (for unexpected bouts of constipation or a bonus game of solitaire) all the way up to one week (helpful for vacationers and college students cramming for those final exams). Everyone's always worried that social security alone is not enough to cover the expenses of seniors. Well - I say, let them sell their extra time! What else are the sleepless hours from 6:00 a.m to 8:00 a.m good for, anyway? Bored teenagers getting into trouble after school? Sell that time and put the money in your college fund! Better yet - plan ahead and invest that time so you won't end up a frazzled home schooling mother of 3 with a part time job and a lobbying addiction that cuts into even her Facebook activities.

Oh, who am I fooling? Even if they did create a Time Exchange Bank it would probably be taxed to the point of being worthless, ultimately costing millions in bail outs and user fees. After a lengthy Congressional Investigation and the involvement of the UN Commission on Banking Practices the whole thing would be shut down, defaulting on time loans left and right. Millions would end up late for work, late on bills, late handing in homework, and with no extra time to see to their stress-induced digestive complaints. I suppose the best answer for those who find themselves short on time is the age-old, tried-and-true, common sense solution of staying up too late every night to get things done. (And you thought I was going to say something about planning ahead and using wise time management techniques. Hah!) After all, why would a candle have two ends if we're not supposed to burn both of them at the same time?

I am a night owl by nature. Even as a kid I never went to bed early. I'm lucky if I've got my teeth brushed by midnight these days. The post -10 p.m. hours are the only time I've got to myself. Much as I love having company while I do dishes (and fold clothes, and make supper, and sweep the floor, and talk on the phone, and take a bath) it is nice every once in a while to have my brain to myself. Today I was typing up an email to send out to hundreds of families about a very important legislative meeting. I was mumbling aloud in order to hear if the email made sense. I had just said, "... meet under the rotunda for lunch..." when I was suddenly assaulted by a barrage of questions.

Five Year Old: Lunch? Did she say lunch? I love lunch!
Three Year Old : Why you say lunch, Mommy? Mommy? Why you say lunch?
Nine Year Old : Yeah, that reminds me. I'm hungry. Can we have noodles for lunch?

That'll teach me to proofread aloud! Befuddled by the confusion, I was compelled to hastily wrap up the email (I'm not entirely sure, but the words hungry and/or mommy might have slipped into it, unbidden) and go make lunch for the girls. Yes, it was noodles. Like someone struggling to rise to consciousness, I am slow to understand and vulnerable to the power of suggestion when I multi-task. I think my children know to wait until the very moment when my eyebrows lower, my lips purse, and I exhale lightly, ready to finally coalesce a brilliant idea I'd been working on for months, before they ask for something.Well, either that, or they wait for when I'm on the phone. That seems to work for them as well.

The net result of all this is that my productivity and focus are not what they could be. I suppose I could send my children off to school each day and really get down to business in my nice, quiet home. Better yet, I could get an office, with my own computer dedicated only to work, its keyboard never covered in anything sticky. I could even have an assistant who would follow me to meetings and carry my file folders, rather than the assistants I have now who follow me to the bathroom carrying broken toys for me to mend. I could enter the world of high finance instead of the world of low-slung diapers; mingle with CEOs instead of mangling PBJs; make my mark instead of cleaning up the marks left by others. But, where would the fun be in any of that?

Evil Knievel didn't jump puddles with a Schwinn, baby, and the Evil Knievel of Scheduling doesn't take the easy way out either. Let 'em have their cubicles and meetings, their secretaries and their powerpoint presentations. I'll take the risky path any day, and love every minute of it. The high yields of happy, healthy children are far more important to me than a safe investment in the status quo. Besides - what else are the hours from 10:00 p.m. to 2:00 a.m. for, anyway? It's not like I can sell that time...