Deo Volente

Beauty is only skin deep

2012-02-14T09:09:00.000-05:00

We may have a tie for first place for favorite Valentine card in this ridiculous family of mine.

Also in the running is one of Lily's early Valentines.

But certainly first place for this year goes to Abraham (6).

Karen is one of the longsuffering ladies in our church (read: Sunday School teacher to 2- and 3-yr. olds and head baby-sitter for 25 children 10 and under during their mothers' book study). She recently had the children decorate Valentines for their craft during the book study.

At the end of the craft, Abraham handed her a Valentine and announced it was for her.

She looked at the front.

("Mrs. Jones")

Then she opened it.

Being an expert at decoding, she read slowly, "Appears to be deeper than the skin of his."

She stopped. "Abraham?" she asked. "Is this something you copied for me?"

"Yes!" he answered. "From the Bible!"

"Show me," she said.

He grabbed a pew Bible and turned until he found the right page. "Right here!" he pointed.

And then she found the source of her Valentine text.

Leviticus 13:3
New King James Version (NKJV)
³The priest shall examine the sore on the skin of the body; and if the hair on the sore has turned white, and the sore appears to be deeper than the skin of his body, it is a leprous sore. Then the priest shall examine him, and pronounce him unclean.

In all of her years of teaching (and there have been many, many Valentines in those years), this is the

Very

First

Leprosy Valentine

she has ever received.

EVER.

...And Many More...

2012-02-08T16:59:00.000-05:00

I do believe I may have waxed, eloquently or otherwise, about Two being a better age than One.

I should know better.

I guess, like birth pains, the pain of having twin two-year olds is easily forgotten.

I just don't know how.

February 2nd was Groundhog Day. I guess. In our house, that little fact is totally eclipsed by a certain second set of twins having a birthday.

We grilled. We baked. We partied. I fought my usual losing battle with my camera, trying to take indoor pictures at night. We congratulated ourselves for moving them over into the big boys' and big girls' rooms (and out of cribs) successfully before their second birthday.

And a few days later, I was calling my mother trying to sell them off.

It all started when Jonathan flushed a stink bug down the toilet. The next thing I knew, Gideon and Salem were finding flies and other insect carcasses under baseboard heaters and heavy furniture and wedged in window casings. Their subsequent multitudinous flushings necessitated my leaving the kitchen to fix the toilet.

I should have remembered this chain of events from when Abraham and Miriam were 2. Fix one mess, return to place of origin to discover new mess.

When I returned to the kitchen, I found Gideon and Salem had peeled the labels off the tomato cans. Gideon had his cup stuck in the automatic water dispenser on the front of the fridge (so water was constantly running in a so-fun fountain onto the unfinished wood floor), and Salem had the top off the vinegar bottle.

My mother wouldn't take them.

In all honesty (and all of this has been honest), these two bring us constant laughter. Exasperated laughter, sometimes, but still.

Gideon has this shock of curly hair that I just love. It's funny, this wee bit of his Grandpa Allison that shows up in this house. He has expressive eyebrows and an uncanny sense of rhythm. Like King Saul, he's soothed by music. We're keeping our eyes out for some bongos for this one.

And Salem. Oh, Salem. I've never met a more condescending two-year old. She has the expressions and mannerisms of a forty-year old. Even Miriam wasn't this patronizing. And she loves to sing. She sings to The Head and the Heart, and Gideon dances and beats on the couch.

I am remembering all the other things that happen when you have (or when we have, at least) twin 2-yr. olds. The crayons and markers get thrown out or locked up (by the parents!). Any cups with drinks still in them are hastily poured down the owners' throats before they get discovered by those who have newly learned the joy of moving a chair to get things that are higher than they can normally reach. Toothbrushes are hidden. Silverware is regularly counted, and when it goes missing, floor vents are checked.

Nothing is safe.

Cue the "Jaws" music. And cue The Head and the Heart. I am lost in my mind, and I have no hope of recovery.

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Three-Layer Corn Bread

2012-02-07T20:12:00.000-05:00

Sorry, Dad. This is an incredibly boring post. I am only posting this because tonight's corn bread was a huge hit with the kids, and it was a heavily tweaked recipe in a library book. I can't post my notes in the book, and I don't want to forget what I did. I think Gideon had about 20 pieces.

Three-Layer Corn Bread

1 c. cornmeal (I used coarsely ground)
1 c. whole wheat flour (prairie gold is what I had; it worked great)
1/4 c. mixed grain cereal (but will just use oats when I run out of mixed grain)
2 tsp. baking powder
1 tsp. salt
2 eggs
1/2 c. honey or molasses (I used maple syrup)
1/4 c. oil or melted butter
3 c. milk or buttermilk

Mix dry; mix wet; mix together. Pour batter into greased 9x9. 350* for 50 minutes or until springs back lightly when touched.

It forms 3 layers. The middle layer is sort of custardy. This was a huge, huge hit with everyone. We started out with honey drizzled on top (heavenly), but laziness won over and we ended up eating it straight. The original recipe calls for white flour and bran, but I used what we had (all wheat, mixed grain cereal, etc.) and it was delicious nonetheless.

I doubled the recipe. Good thing.

Number Five Is Five

2012-02-01T14:50:00.000-05:00

Her name ... Eden Quinn Mable ...

means "delight, fifth, lovable."

It's a mouthful.

But nothing like what I usually am yelling: "EDEN QUINN MABLE-LIKE-TABLE!" because when my grandmother was telling people how to spell her name, she would say, "It's Mable, like table."

And out of all of our children, this one really does seem to embody the idea of delight and pleasure. I don't mean she is any more delightful than any of the other angelic beings (somewhat, ahem, fallen) that call her "Sister." I mean she finds delight everywhere. She has this infectious, throaty, lusty laugh that wrinkles her newly freckled nose and gets her eyes to sparkling.

Following on the heels of a set of twins (19 mos. after), and the fifth child to boot, she never lost time in paving her own way. And now she's five. Look out, world. (And look out, Mama, because Five is somehow the Official Age of No More Naps in this house.)

What she hates: cleaning, organizing, tidying, neatening, straightening.

Sort of a lot like a certain oldest sister of hers.

What she loves: chuckling, giggling, guffawing, snuggling, looking straight into your eyes and saying, "OK. [Deep breath.] Let me tell you what happened. [Deep breath.]" before launching into an involved explanation of why her best attempts at the aforementioned cleaning, organizing, tidying, neatening, straightening resulted in more toys out and more doll clothes strewn everywhere.

She is a fierce hugger. I worry for the elderly in our church who are the recipients of her love. "Brace yourself!" I wince as I see her headed their way with outstretched arms.

But I never see them wince.

I see them smile, their noses wrinkling and eyes sparkling.

Eden, you are a good middle child. Right smack in the middle of everyone, you defy those that say the middle children get lost, unnoticed in the crowd.

You will never go unnoticed. You will never be lost.

You are a delight to Papa and to me. And, also, to a little more than a half-dozen other children who share our table and your jokes and also, sometimes, your chores.

Happy belated, Eedles Sweetles.

Ginger Ale and Warm Tea

2012-01-31T08:53:00.000-05:00

But goodness, last week saw a lot of lying around.

The week started as a party (Eden's fifth birthday!)

and quickly turned into a plague.

After his nap on Sunday, Gideon (23 mos.) was throwing up. 9x in 4 hours, for those of us counting. Wait, there was only one counting?

The next day, it was Abraham (6).

I referenced the torn "Bland Diet" page taped to the inside of my cupboard and readied the ginger ale and warm tea.

I emailed Ethan at work and asked him to please pick up some holds we had waiting at the library. It turns out one of the holds was a "kit" with a children's book and an accompanying stuffed animal. Correct me if I'm wrong, but doesn't it seem to be an incredible oversight to lend out an item that could possibly be sneezed on, thrown up on, dropped in the toilet, and then plopped back into the gallon storage bag with its book and returned to the library?

We didn't do any of that.

But how would you know?

And how do I know where that thing had been before us? I'm not a stuffed animal fan under the best of circumstances, but the library can keep this city's germs to itself from now on, is all I'm saying.

Then Monday night, Jonathan (3) was sick. We plopped his mattress on the floor on my side of the bed so I could holler, "Use the bowl!" when he started to get sick. This was rather inconvenient, as that was the night that I also got sick, and having his mattress as an extra hurdle on the way to the bathroom proved almost deadly to him a few times.

Then Benjamin (10), then Miriam (6), then Jonathan AGAIN.

Ethan went to check on some room-cleaning progress, and found this:

So, yes. Next was Eden (5). We were so thankful to have the bed still set up in the sitting room/guest room/whatever it is now. The sick children would rest in there, and the others could play without disturbing them.

The entire week, Ethan had meetings every night. He would call on the way home and ask if I needed anything. The answer was always the same: "More ginger ale!"

Sunday night, after his evening sermon (from which the rest of us stayed home), he and I sat on the couch and breathed a sigh of relief. The terrible, horrible, no good, very bad week was over. The meetings were over, the towels were all clean, and the bowls were bleached and returned to their regular cupboards.

I went to bed happy.

I woke up to Miriam standing on my side of the bed. "I went into the sitting room and saw PAPA on the sick bed!"

Oh.

So yesterday Ethan had his share of warm tea, ginger ale, chicken barley stew, and yogurt.

I'll not make the mistake (again) of saying we're done. After all, there are two more children in this house (Lily [8] and Salem [23 mos.]), and there is always the chance that one of the previous patients could suffer a relapse.

I'll just go about fixing breakfast (French toast - this recipe but typical shape), making coffee (iced today, the high is 63!), switching laundry, and getting the kids started on seeds: starting some in eggshells and sprouting others. We'll also gather eggs, do some school, and spend much of the day outside (once it hits 50). Lily has her friendship bracelet to work on, and I've got my knitting.

And quite possibly, the day might also involve bleach and ginger ale and warm tea.

But really? It shouldn't bother. We've been there and done that; and quite honestly, we can stomach not stomaching things, and it takes more than a tummy upset to upset us.

Sickness

2012-01-24T21:02:00.000-05:00

My children seem to have joined the ranks of those who are down with some stomach bug. Never ones to follow the trends, my husband and I are a little perplexed by this blatant kowtowing to peer pressure.

So far it has only been Gideon (23 mos.) and Abraham (6). But I've been around the ward long enough to know it probably won't end there.

We are following the usual course of black tea, activated charcoal, toast, and ginger ale. Of course, there has also been a seemingly endless stream of "Sing-Along Songs" videos and "The Head and the Heart" on youtube, and the coveted vintage milk glass children's mugs have been pulled out for those convalescing.

What surprises me -- delights me, really -- is the special care that the others are lavishing on the couch-ridden ones. They fetch electrolyte popsicles, refresh ginger ales, and ask, "Do you need a blanket?" while rubbing their heads every time they pass.

And they go further. They change out retch bowls, bring the fan to air out the room, and read story after story after story.

Of course this would happen while Ethan has some meeting to attend every night of the week. But even that is manageable. I don't know if it's some strange kind of denial or simply maturing (that sounds better than "aging"), but sickness doesn't throw me so much anymore. I used to be all bent out of shape, fervently worried for the sick one(s) and unable to sleep except in fits and starts. Last night? I slept better than I have in weeks. I woke this morning to Gideon being sick in his bed, cleaned him up, washed his bedding, and aired out the room. What would I have done differently if I hadn't slept? Well, probably nothing except hollered to Ethan, "Please get up! If I have to deal with this, so do you!"

I'm not saying I'm any kind of hero. (I have too many witnesses to the opposite.) And I'm not saying I'd be a rock if we were dealing with anything truly serious, such as something permanently debilitating or life-threatening. I am saying I know none of this is my doing, and the grace of God through my children astonishes me always.

I'm saying I'm thankful. I'm thankful for a husband with a gentle sense of humor that keeps everyone giggling, even those of us sick and tired. I'm thankful that God has given me children with a natural tenderness I do not possess. In fact, right now it's 47 minutes past when Ben (10) and Lily (8) should be in bed, but they are keeping Abe company as he listens to Mr. Popper's Penguins on CD in the guest room. I can't help but think some kind of sweet memories are being made in there, sort of like those I have of my mother making up stories about a squirrel named Rachel when I was sick.

And I know I'll probably pay for my leniency later this week when others come down with it; but after all, they are building their immune systems.

And I have plenty of nurses on hand.

Carpe Her Post!

2012-01-19T09:00:00.000-05:00

My friend Mary directed me to this post by Glennon Melton of the Huffington Post this morning, and I am so glad she did.

Here's a snippet:

Every time I'm out with my kids -- this seems to happen:
An older woman stops us, puts her hand over her heart and says something like, "Oh, Enjoy every moment. This time goes by so fast."
Everywhere I go, someone is telling me to seize the moment, raise my awareness, be happy, enjoy every second, etc, etc, etc.
I know that this message is right and good. But, I have finally allowed myself to admit that it just doesn't work for me. It bugs me. This CARPE DIEM message makes me paranoid and panicky. Especially during this phase of my life - while I'm raising young kids. Being told, in a million different ways to CARPE DIEM makes me worry that if I'm not in a constant state of intense gratitude and ecstasy, I'm doing something wrong.

I don't want to rob you of the chance to laugh, empathize, and be enlightened by her insight, so I'll stop there. But you go read it. Really. It's so good.

And thanks again, Mary!

Tea for Ten, and Ten for Tea

2012-01-18T15:46:00.000-05:00

A Proper Tea is much nicer than a Very Nearly Tea,
which is one you forget about afterwards.

~A.A. Milne

My baby sister came for a Tea Party last week. Actually, she more than came, she brought the whole kit and caboodle! (And tea, and pot, and china, and table settings, and flowers, and crustless chicken salad sandwiches, and chocolate sponge cake roll, and grapes, and oranges, and scones...) And a Proper Tea it was, too, with various selections of tea, loose and infused, brewed to the correct temperature for the type of tea selected.

Sigh. My baby sister...is in her last semester of college.

Another nail in my coffin.

While she readied the preparations, we waited.

Some of us waited patiently.

Some of us not-so-much.

Again? The Patient:

The Not-So-Much:

It was going to be a girls-only affair, but Abraham's (6) announcement to Aunt Becca that "You girls get to eat goodies, while Mama and us boys are cleaning the pantry" quickly changed those plans. Aunt Becca declared there were plenty of goodies to go around, and don't boys like tea, too? More than cleaning the pantry, apparently.

Come to think of it, I probably should have done some preparations, too, in the way of dressing the girls up or possibly even just brushing their hair, but Sunday does come once a week and the thought of doing that twice in a week is just downright burdensome...

Come to think a little more of it, the addition of the boys to the party probably lowered the standards quite a bit anyway.

I'm so thankful our Good Friend Gerald made us the gorgeous long bench that sits on one side of the table. How else could so many claim to share the same seat as the worshiped Aunt Becca?

And then, even though she had only planned on staying the night, we begged and pleaded until she agreed to stay an extra day. In that time, she helped Lily (8) complete her first sewing machine project (a wallet), instructed Miriam (6) on sewing her Build-a-Bear, and played numerous games of chase, tickle, and Castle Panic with all.

I even snuck in some antiquing time with her, and no one wanted to see her go.

Although I do believe she may sympathize with the following on tea: "Tea should be taken in solitude" (C.S. Lewis).

But every once in a while, a Proper Tea for Ten is quite the thing.

When life runs out of gin, make gingerbread

2012-01-12T17:53:00.000-05:00

...or something along those lines.

Yesterday was a particularly grey day. Rainy and drippy, muddy and slippery, there hadn't been much cheer going on outside.

When I was growing up, rainy days were gingerbread days. I'm sure there was some scientific reasoning behind it, like the humidity helping the gingerbread. Or maybe there wasn't. Maybe it just felt right.

Whatever the reason (or lack thereof), rainy days make me want to do two things: smell gingerbread and go camping.

Rainy days make my children want to get out the art supplies. Oh, all right, EVERY day makes my children want to get out the art supplies.

So yesterday, bolstered by two cups of delicious caffeine (well, one-and-a-half, really, since Gideon drank half of my cuppa joe) and a notice from the library saying there were FOUR eagerly-awaited books ready for us, we got to work. The children painted and drew, and I stirred.

Some of the children photographed.

(And let me just pause and say right now that you really feel you've arrived as an adult when you spontaneously decide to put on a scarf, because "What today needs is a spot of color, and what I need is my hair out of my face" only to have a child find you in your scarf and declare loudly, "Everyone! Come see Mama! She looks ridicleee-us!"; and yet you find yourself leaving the scarf on long enough for all seven others to parade into the kitchen, pronounce [in varying degrees of vocabulary], "You look hysterical!" and also "Can I help?" and you even allow the first offensive child to grab your camera and document how incredibly silly you look. I feel so mature I can hardly stand it.)

And because two pans of gingerbread are just as easy to make as one, and because two batches truly make the kitchen smell twice as nice, and because I have a friend whose sick little ones have caused me to catch her for only five minutes in the past two weeks and surely they wouldn't mind a bit of gingerbread and some paintings, and the library gave me the perfect excuse to HAVE to get out so we might as well swing by and drop off some goodies...

We headed out. Out to deliver some love and sweets and, hopefully, cheer (I kept my scarf on ... according to my children, THAT was sure to get some smiles).

For more photos of everyday life, visit

Airport Closed

2012-01-09T12:00:00.001-05:00

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Dog Days of Winter

2012-01-07T21:26:00.000-05:00

Yesterday was a delicious day.

Today, too, really, only yesterday was especially beautiful and memorable.

I think it was partly because it came on the heels of several below-freezing days, days in which Lily and I traded off reminding each other every two hours to change the outside animal water. Lily would bring in the frozen rabbit water, and I would carry out fresh chicken water, and every two hours we would rinse and repeat. It was cold.

And then came yesterday. Nigh 60 degrees of warmth and sun and hope.

We headed for the hills, as is our tendency, and found ourselves meandering towards Sherando Lake.

Usually this is a summer haunt, one that includes bug spray and sunscreen and swimsuits. But yesterday it was all blue sky and semi-frozen water. We opted to hike around the lake.

We had almost reached the dam on the opposite end (hurrah for an exciting half-way point!) when we heard a new noise. "Listen!" Ethan instructed. "Can anybody guess what that is?"

It was the braying of the hounds. Way up in the mountains behind us, hound dogs had treed something and were braying away. About two minutes later, we were joined by three pickup trucks, three good ole boys in overalls, and three truckbeds loaded down with dog pens.

As the kids went ice fishing (fishing for ice), I was fascinated by the men tracking their dogs with their GPS devices and ribbing each other about exactly where on the mountain the dogs were and what they had treed.

Gideon was christened "Chief Uh-Uh." Soon after we left the dam, he crossed his arms in front of his chest. "Gideon, don't you want to keep walking?" I asked.

"Uh-uh!" he answered. And then every thing I or Ethan said to him was greeted with the same response. He ended up riding on Ethan's shoulders and drooling red lollipop onto the top of Ethan's head.

Chief Uh-Uh sticking his tongue out

We refreshed on Ritz crackers, lollipops, and gum (all I could scrounge from the van before our hike) and finished our walk. Partially-frozen Capri-Suns greeted us in the van, and we traveled home to naps and board games and library books.

It was just such a good day. The kind of day where there's a tiredness behind your eyes that feels good and where you feel like one more breath of fresh air might put you into a coma.

Do you know what I mean?

I mean, I was so refreshed I finally clipped Maverick's nails and then, today, gave him a bath and washed his bedding.

Dog days indeed.

Merrymaking

2011-12-29T12:50:00.000-05:00

This year, we

decorated
visited Bethlehem and finally saw the Christmas camel (hurumph)
had Grandma visit us
went to a movie with the whole gang and sat through the whole thing
Christmased (with friends) on Thursday
and Christmased some more (at Grandpa and Grandma's) on Friday
and Christmased some more (at our house) on Saturday
and went to church in the morning and then at night and then Christmased some more (stockings) on Sunday
wrestled
crafted
napped (at least, Maverick did)
determined it is, in fact, impossible to get a decent group picture
drove Grandma to the airport in Richmond on Monday
visited the Richmond Goodwill (where we made $1.00 after buying our purchases and having a man from a large family hand Gideon a wad of money and refuse to take it back) and Trader Joe's (I'm glad we don't have a Trader Joe's or Whole Foods here...it makes them ***so fun*** to visit)
undecorated right away on Tuesday (aaack!!! Get this stuff out of here!!!)
learned new games and skills to accompany new gifts
and are getting back into the routine.

Two new subjects arrive via post tomorrow, and then the children will be back in the land of learning. Because schoolbooks=learning, right?

I think my favorite things from this year were having Ethan's mom here, our late-night struggling through gift choices for my side of the family (Amazon's listmania was a lifesaver!), my brother's sauerbraten (my mouth waters at just the thought of it), and having the children draw names for present-giving. We've traditionally done the Dollar Store or say-it's-from-the-whole-gang routes, but this year we told them they would draw names. They loved the idea. We hit Target, divided into three groups with Ethan, his mother, and myself as the heads, and tried to avoid each other in the toy aisles. The children were deliberate and careful in their choosing, and the anticipation of receiving their own special gift was fun to watch. (Also, they kept their secrets! Amazing!)

Ethan's mom set up gift-wrapping shop in her room, and the children had their gifts wrapped soon after we got home. Miriam (6) made her own tag for Eden (4) (shown above).

It was a good, full Christmas. I dealt with my usual humbugness (only slightly vocally) and enjoyed the music and the lights and the excitement of the children.

And now I'm listening to pasta boil on the stove, children gleefully throwing blocks down the hallway, and Salem chatting away on her new "cell phone." The starlings and house finches and cardinals are flitting around the suet cage just outside the window, and I know what we're having for supper.

I'm a very contented mama.

Lunch

2011-12-14T13:33:00.000-05:00

I grew up with a salad at every meal. And I hated it. Probably this was due in part to the fact that I was the designated salad-maker. Chop the carrots, shred the cheese, find the sliced almonds. Like the ever-constant glass of milk, salad was enough to make me gag. That feeling still lingers, and it is the rare meal at our house that includes a salad. Baked broccoli, yes. Sauteed carrots, sure. But very few salads.

So today, after feeling sluggish/guilty/fat/squooshy/generally-irritated-by-the-fact-that-it-was-*already*-lunchtime, I got Lily's help and we made a huge salad. So easy: Romaine, chopped carrots, chopped celery, chopped apple, chopped cheddar, and all the leftover pork. Two choices of dressings: Ranch and Roasted Red Pepper Italian with Parmesan (which means, of course, there is hardly any Ranch left and plenty of the other. But that's fine with me!).

The kids licked their bowls clean, several asking for seconds. Jonathan (3), our resident gagger, declared, "Mama, you make bee-licious food. I love this."

Not salad.

Thereby re-confirming the fact that what you withhold from children will become precious to them.

And perhaps they will still have room for this afternoon's chocolate peppermint sandwich cookies.

December Doings...

2011-12-07T15:37:00.001-05:00

Crafting. Those of you who know me know I hate crafts. It's not just that I hate the mess it makes (although that's mostly it); I also, for the most part, just hate CRAFTS. I'm not impressed by scrapbooking, 1001 uses for toilet paper rolls, or glue-and-glitter kindergarten configurations. This is why I homeschool: so I don't have to deal with schoolmade ornaments that you have to try to simultaneously proudly display and discreetly hide. I am not even remotely tempted by the Cricut or Silhouette. (Mom, I know these terms are foreign to you. It's genetic.)

But.

I do enjoy decorating (and Karen, YES, someday I will actually hang pictures on my walls). I also find knitting (or, as Ethan correctly points out, more usually unknitting), crocheting, and machine-less (because I don't own one) sewing to be relaxing, in an exasperating sort of way. And it's a change of season, and December and all that. So we've pulled out some crafts that passed my test:

Costs exactly nothing (or nearly)
Takes less than 1/2 hour
Can be cleaned up in less time than it took to make it
Looks harder than it is
Is not something I can buy at Walmart or Michael's for cheaper.

So far, these have passed:

Finnish stars, for the living room and sitting room windows

Winter hat garland (made from toilet paper tube and yarn - HA!)

And next on the list are gingerbread ornament garlands (the dough is in the freezer now), snowflakes, and picture frames.

But I'm spending an awful lot of time yakking it up about a topic I find cumbersome, so let's move along.

Renovating. In this case, you of course should understand that the predicate of the immediately preceding heading is "Is," and the subject is "Ethan." First off -- the kitchen floor. He's been sanding the edges when he has time, researching what kind of dye/finish to use, and scheduling it in for sometime in January (after holiday madness, when we can afford to be out of the kitchen for a few days).

Also, there is the Sitting Room. This room has been the most wasted space in the entire house, which is sad, considering we can't really afford to waste any space. So we finally took out the massive couch (a freebie that the cats had shredded to bits and the kids use as a trampoline, throwing cushions everywhere). It's going to be an office/schoolroom/guest room. The room already looks 100x better without that stupid beige curved monstrosity in there, although the kids asked, "Do we still have to call it the Sitting Room if we don't actually have anything to sit on?" I pointed out that we started calling it the Sitting Room before it had a couch, and this was in objection to their calling it the Roughhouse Room. And also, they can sit on the floor just fine. And Note to Self: calling it the Sitting Room seems to have changed their activity in there not one iota. Or one somersault.

As Ethan's mom arrives in 11 days, we (read: Ethan) have also been working on finding a door, cutting it down to fit the character and sag of this 1846 house, painting it, and hanging it. Because probably a guest room should have a door.

Going. Well, technically, just Abraham and Ethan. Because in July, Ethan's mom took the four oldest kids to the movies. Abraham got sick in the parking lot, she brought him back, and she and the others caught the next show. "We'll take you," we said. "You will still get to go to the theater when you get better."

And so, five months later, we made good on that promise.

Now that I look at it, squinting and smiling and resting your hands on your son's shoulders kind of makes it look like you're strangling him. Huh. Maybe I should not have insisted that you face the sun head-on. Whatever.

Thrifting. I live with the thrift store king. Ethan can go into a thrift store, scout it out in 2 minutes, and determine whether there is anything worthwhile. And by worthwhile, I mean a really cool, unique piece of furniture for less than the cost of a pack of paper plates.

I have the knack of spending 45 minutes in a thrift store and emerging with something that will not fit, which is usually a blessing because nine times out of ten it is something no one wants to walk around with anyone wearing, anyway. (I never do seem to be able to locate that line between fashionable and absurd. I hit absurd every time.)

But...the past few times we have both gone in? JACKPOT! Bowls ($0.25 each) that match the ones we already have! A $2.50 moka pot! A huge $5 bag of Christmas-y material for ((gulp)) crafts! Solar Christmas lights (so the chicken coop can have a lit wreath). And...this baby.

It's a deer. Gideon is probably growling at it, because, according to him, that is what deer do. We have four that live in the field across from us. "GROWL, GROWL, GROWL, GROWL." Every time we pass lit Christmas deer in people's yards: "GROWL, GROWL, GROWL, GROWL, GROWL, GROWL, GROWL." But he's only 22 mos., and he can't hear me correcting him, especially not over his growling.

Chasing Chickens.

Gideon chases them like this:

And then they really do run.

Pinching, Squeezing, Kissing.

Because, really, cheeks are everywhere!!!

{pretty, happy, funny, real}: Nov. 17

2011-11-18T20:40:00.001-05:00

So, yes. I'm joining in on yesterday's linky. I'm a day behind. However, I am also a dollar short, so at least I am keeping the old sayings going.

But here I am.

Confession: this post is picture-heavy. I don't scrapbook, so I'm afraid that if I didn't post these, I would lose them forever. And I probably would.

PRETTY:

The newly EIGHT-year old, enjoying a card from a gracious churchmember.

The backyard, in the snow of Oct. 29. (What? So what if I'm just posting this...

it hasn't even been a month since then!)

Moss among the fall leaves on a recent mountain walk.

HAPPY:

Miriam, crafting

Gideon and Lily

Let me tell you what is so happy about the previous two pictures. This: where was I? Napping. Where was Ethan? Running errands. All by themselves, these ~~four~~ five (oops, forgot to count the photographers!) found coats and shoes (although they are not all wearing them in these pics), built a snowman, outfitted a snowman, found my camera, and took pictures just in case the snowman melted before I woke (!!!). A snow outing that did not involve me??!! GLORIOUS!!!

FUNNY:

Gideon peering into Ethan's coffee mug. Also, Gideon drooling into Ethan's mug. I think that's funny.

Ben and Lily enjoying Calvin and Hobbes. Lily's page was a little funnier than Ben's.

Miriam on the ramp the kids built. Catch some air, Mimi! Quick!

REAL:

Today was Lily's birthday (and I was on time for that). This is Salem (21 mos.) enjoying Lily opening her presents. (There is a video embedded in this post. Email subscribers may have to click over.)

For more photos of everyday life, visit

It's the Little Things

2011-11-09T22:11:00.000-05:00

Tonight, while Ethan was at prayer meeting, I sat on the floor at the end of my bed and sorted socks. Kids were dashing in and out of my room, completing one task and rushing back in for the next (or a reminder..."What was I supposed to do again?"). Jonathan (3) sat next to me on the floor and chatted away, absent-mindedly rolling pairs of mismatched socks.

I decided he needed a new task. "Go get me a book to read to you," I said. I don't think he was the one who hurried downstairs and picked out The Berenstain Bears Get the Gimmies; but whoever it was, I found myself holding the detached cover in one hand and the rest of the book in the other, trying to figure out from the torn first page the ending to the first line of the italicized lesson.

We finished the book (thankfully without any more torn pages), and the kids begged for another. "Just one more! Just one more!" they chanted. (It does occur to me now that the entire lesson of the book may have gone unheeded.)

"No, no," I said. "We'll have time to read tomorrow."

"Mom? Could I read to them a little before bed?" asked Benjamin. "I mean, if they want me to."

Everyone loudly agreed, and I succumbed. I unrolled Jonathan's pile of socks and started re-matching, expecting to hear Ben's voice on the bed behind me reading The Seven Silly Eaters, our current favorite picture book.

Instead, I heard his voice, clear and unrushed:

Alice was beginning to get very tired of sitting by her sister on the bank, and of having nothing to do: once or twice she had peeped into the book her sister was reading, but it had no pictures or conversations in it, 'and what is the use of a book,' thought Alice 'without pictures or conversation?'

He continued to read, giving the appropriate lagomorphic voice to Alice in Wonderland's White Rabbit and a convincing young girl's to Alice's lengthy soliloquy.

I was enchanted.

The children were enchanted.

It was so sweet, so tender, so fleeting. The chapter ended, everyone begged for more, and Ben sternly said, "That was quite a long enough chapter. It'll give you something to look forward to tomorrow. Let's get in bed. I'll pray for the boys, and Lily can pray for the girls."

He's ten now, this oldest of ours. Sometimes he's an exasperating ten, with a Tom Sawyerish knack for turning his chores into envied tasks: "I LOVE doing the kitty litter. It's fun to see how many treasures are in there!" and a propensity for martyrdom (do not ask my husband where he gets this).

But sometimes, many times, he causes a freeze-frame in all of the harriedness. Something he does or says jars me from the rushing and slows me down or time down or both for just a second.

I don't always notice. I probably don't even usually notice.

But tonight I did. And I cherished it.

Fall Foliage Trip

2011-10-25T15:51:00.002-04:00

Last Friday, in lieu of our regularly scheduled program (which was a trip to my parents' to celebrate my brother's birthday), we stayed home.

Well, we really didn't stay home. But we stayed away.

Four sets of pink eye (Salem, Gideon, Jonathan, and Eden) kept us from just about every social function last week. That meant we were spending a lot of time at home comparing shades of pink ("Would you call that salmon? Or peach? Gideon's are crimson!"). Pink eye is such a dumb thing...besides demonic eyes and sniffly noses, there's little to slow the stricken down. So they are running around the house, sneezing contagion upon whomever is within range, and whining incessantly. (In good health, there's just the running and whining.)

And I had had enough. No way was I going to spend Ethan's day off doing the usual (laundrymealslaundrymealslaundrymealslaundrymeals), but we couldn't go anywhere populated for fear of spreading this virus. (Well, honestly, I could have cared less about spreading it amongst strangers but Gideon's eyes were so demon-possessed looking there would have been no way to hide our irresponsibility.)

Ethan to the rescue! "Want to go for a drive?" he asked. And, as always, because I am always looking for a reason not to be doing laundrymealslaundrymealslaundrymealslaundrymeals, I said a hearty,

"Hallelujah!
A-men!
POTTY, SHOES, AND GET IN THE VAN!!!"

It almost rhymes.

And we took a little fall foliage drive.

I guess it's a family tradition now. This is the second year we've driven to Crabtree Falls in its autumnal splendor, and I hope we continue every year.

This is how you know you're on a good road:

GPS routing is not advised.
The post office meeting is at the Baptist church.
The road is too bumpy to take a decent picture.

Also, the last store you pass (about 20 minutes after the one before it) is a restaurant/general store/bait stop/potty stop/place to buy gum-chocolate-wine-sharp cheese-twizzlers-local cookbooks-quilts-cast iron pans/place to gut your fish.

Y'all, it's that good. It looks like a lodge, and the restrooms are CLEAN. I want to live there.

But back to the Falls. We opted to walk to them and enjoy the beautiful crisp air.

This is how you know you're on a good trail:

There is a "MANDA DIANE WILL YOU MARRY ME?" sign on the path.

See? Everyone wanted to read the sign.

Sidenote: Ethan wants this tree for a beam -

But back to the leaves. Everyone, hold them in front of your face! Those of you with pink eye, make sure you hold it in front of your eyes!

And then we saw some of the Falls.

But this was the view I kept watching:

You all are so gorgeous! Can I take you home with me?

Wait. I have to take you home with me?

I know, I know. But Papa will make it all better. He always does.

But goodness, I love this gang. I love that man and all our offspring.

And I sure did love getting out of the house.

The Napster

2011-10-18T14:18:00.000-04:00

I have very strong memories of napping with my mother. I must have been three, because it was before I started school at age four. Mom would climb into the bed next to me, lie on her side, throw her top leg over both of mine in some kind of wrestling hold, and brandish a wooden spoon. I knew she meant business; and I knew I was supposed to sleep whether or not I was tired.

Those memories came rushing back the other day as I dragged myself upstairs at that most groggy of times, about a half hour after lunch, to find two of my nappers giggling in their sister's top bunk. I set the four-year old back into her bed and dragged the three-year old into my bed. "You will nap with me," I said. "Lie still and be quiet. I am tired."

This is the three-year old. Perhaps I was expecting too much?

(This is a picture taken by a sibling. It always surprises me how the face angles and shapes look so different when the photographer is under 10. Is this really what they look like to each other?)

Anyway. Suffice it to say that that was the most aggravating, irritating, unproductive forty-five minute "nap" in recent memory. That child flub-bubbed my lips, fluttered my eyelashes, back-combed my eyebrows, poked my cheeks, and then ended it all by wetting two fingers and placing them at the end of my nostrils. There is nothing like the smell of slobber suffocating you to wake you from a shallow attempt at slumber.

And then it hit me: my mother's wrestling hold? The wooden spoon? Those were not to get me to sleep; those were weapons of defense! Those were not to aid my napping; they were to aid hers!

But that little three-year old will not be joining me for a nap anytime soon. Or if he does, there will be several precautionary measures taken. (But first I must procure a hockey mask.)

{pretty, happy, funny, real}: Oct. 13

2011-10-13T11:24:00.000-04:00

PRETTY:

Well, I had a choice. I could spend the $3.99 on ten fall roses or on another bag of apples. I went for the roses.

I'm pleased with my decision. The bag of apples would not have lasted the week that the roses have, and there have been no apple skins spewed onto the floor. Plus, the fruit flies prefer apples.

HAPPY:

This is the Dark Hour, or The Hour after the Littles Are in Bed. We've newly instituted this time when Ben and Lily get to stay up later than the others, and so far both nights have been a success. No littles are constantly tromping around the bedroom due to Ben and Lily's reading lights being on, and I'm loving the sweetness between these two that is not always present in the light of day. The only rules are that they must leave us alone and must find something peaceable to do. They have broken Rule No. 1 (leave me alone), but that was to ask, "Are you sure there's nothing we can do to clean so that you can sit down?" so I forgave them.

FUNNY:

This one is funny. Well, she and all 7 of her siblings. But for now I'll pick on Salem. For those of you who know Miriam (6), suffice it to say that she is Miriam to the nth degree. Miriam, but bossier. Miriam, but more of a tattle-tale. Miriam, but clingier (because, after all, her place is among the adults, right? Surely she can't be expected to hang out with children all day). She is simultaneously a mother's dream and a sibling's nightmare. By the time she's 2 1/2, I'll be out of a job.

REAL:

Pardon me while I almost lose it. Chicken poop is so gross. And so were the spiders that were living under the trash can. (And I know, I know, I'm wearing a stupid scrunchy. But I didn't know my picture was going to be taken! Just look at the boots.)

For more photos of everyday life, visit

Around here

2011-10-12T14:18:00.000-04:00

I took this picture last Sunday morning for two reasons, really.

The first was that this is the only view of mountains we have at our house. This is absolutely ridiculous: if you walk 1/2 minute up the road, you see that we are in the midst of many mountains and multiple ranges; but because of the "lay of the land," so to speak, you can see only a molehill of a mountain from our actual house. This causes me to say in wonder, almost every time we go anywhere (store? church? dump?): "Where we live is gorgeous."

The second reason was to document that I was actually up at sunrise. I don't care that the days are getting shorter and sunrise is happening later; that is still a rare occurrence at our house. We are not people who deem ourselves worthy of deciding to get up before the sun has decided to do so. And I'm not sorry.

The other monumental thing to happen this past week, besides me getting up early one day, was the chicken coop getting cleaned.

Chicken coop prior to clean-out

Those of you who have never cleaned a coop may not realize that it is a larger task than it first seems. The method we use requires that you only deep clean it once or twice a year. And that is a good thing, because it's a big deal. You take all the bedding (and poop) out, scrub everything, spray everything, let everything dry, and then put fresh bedding in.

Or you have Ethan do it.

Since Ethan had solved the dishwasher dilemma (in which, I should point out, the drain hose had come unattached -- that is, it had been attached and then unattached itself due to a faulty clamp), he was free to tackle other home projects. (Well, you know what I mean by "free." He has eight kids and a wife to helpfully advise from the sidelines.)

Some of the advice, actually, was superfluous and set to other work.

Ethan called to tell me he was coming home to clean the coop after a quick stop at Tractor Supply. "Anything you need?" he asked.

"Boots!" I said. "If we're cleaning the coop, I definitely need coop-cleaning boots!"

And he got me some.

And, as it turns out, they also work rather well as watching-the-coop-get-cleaned boots.

(But in the interest of dull disclosure...erm, FULL disclosure, I will admit that I spent a turn mucking out the coop. Until I found the mask too humid and the shovel too heavy and the spider webs too sticky and my BOOTS were getting dirty!!)

In all honesty, it wasn't as gross as I thought it was going to be. Especially not from my view on the lawn chair outside of the coop. In fact, the grossest part of the whole ordeal was the strange spiders that unraveled themselves from their little cocoon-like nests under the trash can. That was disgusting, and I may have shrieked and hollered, "Get the bug spray! Get the bug spray! Get the bug spray! Kill them! Kill them! Kill them!" a few more times than necessary. Then again, is there such thing as overkill when it comes to spiders?

See those reddish brown blobs in the white stuff? Those are spiders. Big spiders. They are all about to unravel their long legs and come scattering about. Cue the "Jaws" music. And get the bug spray!!!

So now that the coop has been cleaned and the dishwasher has been fixed, our ("our," of course, being the Royal "Our," which means I watch while Ethan does) attention turns to other projects. Pulling up the rest of the kitchen subfloor. When to take the A/C units out? Putting away the summer clothing (OK, this one is all mine). Getting the desk moved to upstairs. Deciding what to do with the sitting room and living room floors. Deciding when to move the youngest twins over to the "Boy" and "Girl" rooms.

I'm exhausted just thinking about it! How am I going to feel when I have to supervise it?

{pretty, happy, funny, real}: Oct. 6

2011-10-06T13:14:00.001-04:00

PRETTY and HAPPY:

FUNNY (chasing escapee chickens):

How to ride a trike, according to Gideon (above): put on Eden's crocs and then sit on stoop behind seat. This allows your feet to reach the ground. Grab the handlebars, start scooting feverishly, and be sure to check frequently to ensure owner of trike does not see you stealing trike AGAIN.

And then? All I have left is REAL.

This is the pile of shoes (and pair of pants) that are NOT going back into the shoe bench. Also? I finally found my good tweezers! (What were they doing in there?)

This is the dishwasher that we got after the old dishwasher died. It died-died. Then we put this one in, and my dishes were clean and sparkling! And then they weren't. And then there was water all over the floor, and under it. And then Ethan fixed-fixed the dishwasher (oops, unattached drain hose) and then started ripping out the floor.

And? There was wood under the floor! It's in need of work and TLC, but this tongue-in-groove wood was such a delightful sight under the gross linoleum and subfloor. The planks are 6", and Ethan is quickly removing the linoleum et al. during his time off work.

It only took us a year and a half of living here to find out there was wood under there! I know it's rough, but I love it. There's history in them thar woods. We will clean them up and call upon our local wood experts (Jason? Dad?) for advice. It drives Ethan crazy that the old floor is not *all up* yet, but I'm fine with it. Restoration mess is exciting. The scattered summer clothing all over my floor and wet towels thrown all over the bathroom? Not so much (but aren't you glad I spared you from pictures of THAT?)!

And for this last picture, I feel I owe some explaining. Yesterday a lady from church took Lily, Mimi, and Edee out for pizza. The others were sad and jealous. So, in a fit of temporary I'm-a-fun-mom-yes-I-am insanity, I gave the homebound kids "temporary tattoos" via a dry-erase marker.

And today, Gideon displayed his own artwork:

(And despite all photographic evidence to the contrary, we DO usually wear pants around here.)

For more photos of everyday life, visit

This Week's Random Ponderings

2011-10-01T21:36:00.000-04:00

It takes more than a dozen donuts to feed my family. More than a dozen!
The order of the day is bratwurst. No more hot dogs, thank-you-not-so-much, even for the kids. Bratwurst. Not Italian sausage. Bratwurst. Sauerkraut for me, relish for all but Ethan and Miriam, ketchup (Heinz) and mustard for everyone.
All the kids find each other funny. And all the kids find me hilarious. Especially when I'm giving my LOOK. I don't think it's funny; it feels mean and vicious and SERIOUS. But nothing makes them laugh harder than getting me riled and seeing that look. And when I ask Ethan what in the cockamamie world is so blasted hilarious about my serious face, well. Never mind. (Anyway, they never do!)
The White Horse Inn with Ethan makes kitchen clean-up go much faster.
The White Horse Inn without Ethan makes me sleepy.
A new dishwasher leaves the dishes much cleaner.
New window treatments make the kitchen much cleaner.
Rabbits can go many, many days without water. At least, I know one that did.
One thrifted light-up Gloworm makes 19-mo. old boys very, very snuggly.
One thrifted light-up Gloworm makes 19-mo. old girls very, very jealous.
And lastly, I am so glad this summer is over. Hot, sticky, buggy, bright=BAD. And not hot, sticky, buggy, bright=HUGE SIGH OF RELIEF.

Soccer

2011-09-10T20:21:00.000-04:00

Jonathan thinks soccer is the best thing in the world. I don't think it has anything to do with the actual game, seeing how he's too young to play in the 4-H club with his siblings. I don't think it has anything to do with watching them play, as he did very little of that.

I think it has everything to do with being thrown inconceivably high into the air and fallingfallingfalling back down into his father's arms.

He's not the only soccer fan.

Gideon (19 mos.)

Salem (19 mos.)

Thursday was the first soccer practice for our oldest five. Ethan and I were making bets as to how many kids we would have crying on the field, how many would be wiggling to go potty, and which one would all-out quit first.

But they proved us both wrong. Everyone practiced hard for the full two hours and filled our van with loud stories about what happened on the way home. Lily, Abe, Mimi, and Edee are all on one team (the 8 and under team), and Ben is on the other team (the 9 and older team).

It's a perfect fit for us. They meet at a park with a playground and covered shelter close to the soccer fields. It's a new 4-H club ("Health and Fitness") comprised mainly (entirely?) of homeschoolers. The price is cheap, the practices/scrimmages are Thursday afternoons from 4:00-6:00, and it ends at the end of October. There are no weekend games or commitments.

Perfect.

Oh. And did I mention the scenery?

Ben is the one in the red shirt (snort, snort). The coach realized half the players were wearing red. Half were wearing blue. The other two players (brown and black) became goalies. Who needs uniforms?

The scenery was a little different for the younger set.

Their scenery was much more ... munchkin-y. Don't you think?

Two Is Better than One

2011-08-26T19:41:00.000-04:00

I'm talking age here, not quantity.

Although, sometimes, twins are better. And sometimes, they are exasperating. And always, they are exhausting.

But right now I'm talking age.

While I enjoy holding someone else's newborn, snuggling in to breathe in their newborn-ness (unless they're formula babies, and then I have to breathe from afar because I find that smell nauseating, even in my own offspring), and marveling over the tiny-ness of new life....

I am so glad that child is not my own.

It's not that I don't like or even love someone else's child. It's that for almost ten years we have had at least one very much loved newborn/toddler in the house; and after ten years and eight children's worth of experience (or our experience with eight children, however you say it), it has been absolutely true that children become much more enjoyable after the age of 2.

So I'll snuggle your newborn and smile at your newborn and truly be awed by her cuteness, but you may have her back because she's really no good to me until she's at least 2.

Gideon and Salem have not yet reached the 2-yr. mark. But they're almost 19-mos. old, and they are showing promise of becoming worthwhile munchkins. For instance: I have been able to sit in church with them for the entire service, morning and evening, for the past three (four, maybe?) Sundays. This is monumental to me. Remember, their father is the pastor and does not sit in the pew (oddly enough). So while I can farm out the others, those two have been my special charges; and until recently, they won every battle. Say what you will about my parenting methods, but I know why they behave now. They behave because for one week while we were on vacation, Ethan sat with us as we were in a church two thousand miles from our own. And that one service, he handled the disciplining and correcting. And they sat, quietly, after that.

And also, they are close to 2.

And close to 2 means words make more sense to them, and consequences start to make sense. And it means that they can more effectively communicate what they want or are frustrated about, and they can better understand rather abstract ideas like, "Gideon's turn. You need to share."

It also means their sense of humor is starting to be honed, which is really important to me. It really is! The two kinds of people that absolutely annoy me the most are 1) worriers and 2) people without a sense of humor. I want to send both kinds of people to bed with no dessert EVER unless they can come back downstairs with a happy face.

And seeing an 18-mo. old crack up because I said in my most stern voice, "JON-JON! You come here RIGHT. NOW." when his name is really Gideon, thereby blowing my authoritative cover...well, that is funny. So ha ha ha, and now, Gideon, really do come here.

It's just so freeing (and yes, especially with twins) to have them reach these little plateaus of independence. I don't have to follow them around the hill that is our yard for fear they will fall on their faces. If they do fall, they are old enough and seasoned enough to wipe the dirt from their hands and continue on without the screaming that used to follow. They can get their own diapers, and take things to the trash, and put things back when I say, "Put that back."

And it's wonderful. It's wonderful!

Two is wonderful. And two are wonderful (and also, yes, exhausting).

But mostly, wonderful. (And exhausting.)

{pretty, happy, funny, real}: Aug. 18

2011-08-18T21:45:00.001-04:00

Bear with me.

Again.

These pictures are from our road trip back to Virginia from Colorado.

Kansas is on the way.

And, as you may remember, I have a soft spot for Kansas.

Kansas is calm. Kansas is rolling. Kansas is easy. And Kansas is where my pa's from (but we call him Dad). And so, for Dad, I took these Kansas pictures.

And also, I took them for me.

Come on...SUNFLOWERS for the highway signs? That's so cool!

This is solely a memory aid for me...for when I want to know where a large-family friendly hotel is in Topeka, Kansas.

Then Ethan asked, "Why are you taking all these dumb pictures? Hey -- why don't you get a picture of the place where we just got drive-thru coffee?"

And I said, "Why, thank you dear, that's a superb suggestion."

Because we are a TEAM!

And here's a little known thing you can do when you're driving in Kansas. Well, no, technically you can't. So don't ask me how this happened. But it did. Or maybe it didn't. I'm taking no responsibility (or lack of it).

But the next time you're on a very, very long road trip, crank up the volume, shake your graham-cracker encrusted diaper bottom, and see if you don't feel better.

For more photos of everyday life, visit

On Blogging

2011-08-17T12:22:00.000-04:00

I have a complicated relationship with blogging. I enjoy blogging, so long as I feel it requires nothing from me; and I enjoy reading others' blogs, so long as I feel they require nothing from me.

Maybe that's not so complicated.

But I hate formulaic blogging.

Do you know what I mean? These are the heavily followed, heavily commented upon blogs that contain post after post of

four bulleted items to include in every prayer time, or

ten numbered chores to be done each day, or

important underlined things never to be forgotten when trying to get out of debt, or

Nuggets of Wisdom Encased in Headings, or

Did you know you should end each post with an italicized question in order to get feedback?

and I just want to scream, "OH, GET OVER YOURSELF!!"

Because, really, most of the problems that women have (and it is mostly women) who read these blogs could be solved by the gentle, solid advice to "Get. Off. The. Computer." (Please do note my hypocrisy here. I am, after all, on the computer. But I shouldn't be.)

And so I try to stay away from these sorts of blogs. They have enough followers; they don't need me. But sometimes I have gotten suckered into following what I thought was a humorous, well-written (if not oft-written) blog about daily (or weekly, or monthly) life, only to have that blogger decide she (because it's always been a "she") needed to use her blog for money-making purposes; and before I know it, this enjoyable blogger has gone to some blogging conference and now daily (and sometimes twice a day) composes unenjoyable posts of four bulleted items to include in every prayer time, and ten numbered chores to be done each day, and important underlined things never to be forgotten when trying to get out of debt, and Nuggets of Wisdom Encased in Headings, and does she have to end each post with a question?

And then what am I to do? Because I know this person has it in her to be funny and poignant and witty and relate-able, and she's selling herself short (I hate it when people say "pun intended," so I won't) by making money and gaining followers.

Really, this is a no-brainer. What am I to do?

Unfollow her, of course! I don't know these people, and they don't know me. I don't have time to worry about Charlotte (name changed to protect the sell-out)'s writing career or financial status. Just as I am not under contract to finish a poorly-written book, I do not have to continue reading a blogger who has fallen.

What is the point of all this? I don't know, really, except to say that if you are not writing post after post of informative, instructive tidbits of wisdom, if you are not receiving comment after comment and link-up after link-up, if your self-esteem is not dependent upon feedback to your posts...

I think you're on the right track.

Teacher's Dirty Looks

2011-08-10T14:36:00.001-04:00

This summer is a summer I'd like to see gone. It's been hot, humid (which it's NOT supposed to be here!), and buggy. The yard work has been constant, and I've learned with this hilly lot of ours that I abhor yard work and gardening. I had suspicions that such was the case, but this summer has confirmed it. I love to look at other people's gardens, and I think wildflowers are marvelous. But the toil and sweat and bug bites that have to be endured to tend to such cultivation...I find absolutely not worth it.

And I'm not sorry.

All that is not to say that I'm ready for fall. I've had several homeschooling friends write blog posts full of hopes and dreams and curricula. I can almost see their eyes widening in excitement as they describe the year's course load.

And my eyes start drooping.

And all THAT is not to say that I want to have imbeciles for children. I want them to learn. I want them to engage in society on an intelligent level. I want them to get lost in a book (fiction or nonfiction) so that I have to say their name twice before they hear me.

I want all that...sort of.

But really? I'm not ready for the headache that is homeschooling. I am no longer new to this. The excitement of training little minds in the way that we would have them go and turning on quarter-sized light bulbs has considerably waned. The training is constant, and the light bulbs self-extinguish over matters so trite as who answered the last question or whether thumb-sucking is allowed.

And, too, I'm probably suffering my usual malady of over-reaction to excitement around me. 'Round about this time, homeschooling mothers everywhere gather to excitedly share what wondrous new methods and books will be gracing their homes this year. And that something inside of me that has always bristled at too much emotion, too much excitement, too much smiling...rises up to say, "Bah, humbug!"

I do feel that my homeschooling philosophy has somewhat evolved. I now feel that there probably is no "best" as far as curriculum is concerned. I've known smart classical homeschoolers, smart textbook homeschoolers, smart Charlotte Mason homeschoolers, smart eclectic homeschoolers, and even smart unschoolers. I've also known bratty, intolerable classical homeschoolers, textbook homeschoolers, Charlotte Mason homeschoolers, eclectic homeschoolers and unschoolers. And, might I add, their mothers.

Here's the thing: we (personally) don't homeschool because we feel our children will be socially or academically superior. That is an anticipated bonus for which we eagerly hope. But we homeschool because we truly believe that there is no such thing as a "neutral" education. You can only serve one master, and public schools have made it clear that their master is not Christ. I won't speak for Christian schools, except to say that I attended and taught at one, and my conviction is that that education would not bring you to a clear knowledge of the gospel. It taught legalism and social activism exceptionally well, and I remember tolerance of very bad biblical interpretations. In other words, it left a young, impressionable Christian girl (and woman, even) very confused.

So we homeschool because we can pick the material and methods that we feel best adhere to the Word of God, and we have a Standard that does not waver and a Master Whose throne we can boldly approach.

That does not mean that I look forward to homeschooling. I dread it. It's another thing to be borne with the gritting of the teeth and a grain of salt, as far as I'm concerned. There are those treasured days when light bulbs do come on and thumbs stay out, but there are far more when there is no point in measuring the days' worth by the lesson plan.

Unlike gardening, this cultivation cannot be left to the wild. I must, and do, and will bear down and buck up. We will crack open the books, occasionally even enjoying them. I will endure the sweat and toil, knowing that, for the time being, this is best.

And then I will count the hours until next summer.

Dream a little dream

2011-07-27T20:33:00.000-04:00

Ethan hates it when I tell him my dreams. First, they're usually the normal vague/surreal/alternative reality fare, and second, he is usually playing a distressed character that I have to rescue.

That, in itself, I find entertaining. He does not.

But last night I had a dream that I just had to tell him, despite his dislikes.

And now I have to tell you.

When I was in high school (or on break from college?), some friends and I took line dancing classes. It was fun and that was all. I proved that I have no real rhythmic talent, enjoyed the few classes anyway, and went on with my life. My life never, from that point forward, included line dancing.

That part is true.

But last night in my dream, my line-dancing friends and I were getting ready for some grandiose production. We were each assigned different colors of a garish, somewhat-resembling-Teletubbies outfit. Kelly was blue, Carol was fuschia, and I was purple. We were rehearsing with the group. As usual, I was frustrated because I just *could not* get the steps right for the Electric Slide. They were hopping; I was turning. They stepped; I crossed my leg behind. It was humiliating.

But. The choreographer/step caller was in front, calling all of the steps. In order. Correctly. I don't mean he was calling them in what I assumed to be the correct order; I mean they were the real, true steps.

What does this mean? Somewhere in my subconscious, I do know all the steps to the Electric Slide. But somewhere else in my subconscious, I also know that *I* could never remember all those steps from so many years ago.

I know it. And I don't know it.

Absolutely riveting.

Now who wants to hear my dream about being in college when the Incredible Hulk had Ethan and I had to save him?

Pontooning Lake Dillon

2011-07-25T13:20:00.000-04:00

Jonathan, our 3-yr. old, regularly asks, "Do you remember when Papa was driving the boat?"

And in case you don't (because, to be fair, you weren't there), here's what he's talking about:

Abraham and Grandma

Eden and Grandma. This is one of my favorites.

Everyone who wanted one got a chance to drive:

Ethan said, "Look at you, Edee! Are you a Pontoon Pirate?"

And then she cracked up. And I love it!

The End. (Well, three of them, anyway.)

{pretty, happy, funny, real}: Jul. 21

2011-07-21T15:53:00.001-04:00

I never know how to label my photos for {pretty, happy, funny, real}, so I just toss them out there and let you categorize them.

Anyway. Today is hot as blazes, and we were all dreading going outside to do the animal chores. (Do feeding/watering a dozen chickens and a rabbit count as doing "animal chores"? Absolutely. Now let me refasten my bonnet and straighten my apron.)

But we did venture outside, albeit reluctantly.

And when Ethan was checking the chicken feeder, he found a little something next to it.

Shock of shockers.

An egg! Our first egg! We were all thrilled, and I eagerly added it to 17 store-bought eggs for our lunch of egg burritos.

And those were the best egg burritos I've ever tasted...

today.

And just for fun, this is what I found as I was getting breakfast ready this morning:

Wait. Is that fun? It kind of also seems like a lot of work, especially as I'm trying to get breakfast on. And why can't they ever remember to move the remote and drape the blanket decoratively over the hole on the couch before they spontaneously gather?

These children!

For more photos of everyday life, visit

The Garden of the Gods

2011-07-19T14:39:00.000-04:00

Wednesday of Vacation Week we went to The Garden of the Gods. At least, I think it was Wednesday. Not that it matters. It doesn't. But it does nag at me...

I knew we would be going to Garden of the Gods, because every single person who found out we were going to Colorado Springs said, "Oh, you have to go to Garden of the Gods!"

But I never bothered to look it up. Why would I? I would see it soon enough.

But in my mind, I was envisioning some sort of lush...garden.

I should have looked it up. I would have seemed a lot smarter.

When we arrived, we stopped at the huge Visitors' Center so I could run in and grab some maps and general free info. Then we headed around the switchbacks.

And arrived at the Garden.

Ethan, his mother, and all the kids

Shoot. Now that I look at the pictures, I see that everyone is wearing the same thing they wore to the zoo. That means we must have gone to The Garden of the Gods on the same day that we went to the zoo. Which means we did NOT go on Wednesday.

This is why I blog.

Anyway, to get back to the Garden...it's a ROCK garden.

See how ignorant I can be?

I don't know if you can see it, but there's a little white dot on the big rock on the left. That's a climber.

Climber again.

"Forever free to the public"

I can't help but want to clean my camera lens when I look at these pictures. I don't know why that urge didn't strike when I was actually taking the pictures.

Probably because I was feeling inept at not knowing it was a rock garden. That ineptedness (ineptenacity?) translated to my photography skills.

Ah, well.

So on TUESDAY, we went to The Garden of the Gods, which is a ROCK GARDEN, and always make sure you have a CLEAN LENS when you start shooting pictures.

There. I feel so ept.

Next up: Pontoon Pirates!

Cheyenne Mountain Zoo

2011-07-16T10:19:00.000-04:00

Tuesday we went to the Cheyenne Mountain Zoo. In order to get $2 off each ticket, I answered an online questionnaire about zookeeping. That thing was WAY too involved...I actually had to read the online zookeeping manual and ask Ethan multiple questions about the diet of a wombat and whether or not zookeepers play with their animals.

But after the questionnaire, wherein I learned enough to make me doubtful that this trip would be fun (because fun and educational ARE NOT THE SAME, says my 4th grade self), we headed past the Ladies' Open and up to the zoo.

I did retain one thing from the grueling quiz. Giraffes are a big deal at Cheyenne Mountain Zoo.

And that is true.

And here's what happens when you stand this close to a giraffe and turn your back on him. You get a giraffe hairdo (hairdon't?):

But there was more than just giraffes.

There was Suki, the Scary/Friendly/Dancing/Nurturing Bear, depending on what position you were in:

There were fish.

And many other animals, including a baby wombat they got to pet.

Then there was the Sky Ride to the top. Gideon and Salem and I chilled out by the grey wolf while the others rode to the top and back.

(Sorry this one is so blurry...)

The boys and Papa

The girls and Grandma

I was very impressed with the zoo layout and how accessible things were for even the youngest children.

We stopped at the slowest McD's in the world on the way home and got ready for the next day...Garden of the Gods.

Colorado Springs

2011-07-14T13:10:00.000-04:00

We're back from our trip to Grandma's. Our three-day, 1500+ mile trip. The children were thrilled to get there, sad to leave, and anxious for Christmas when Grandma will be here.

For my own memory's sake, I'm going to post about each day there. But I do have several mountain loads of laundry, a filthy set of 4 car seats in line to be washed, and a van in need of a thorough cleaning. Then there's the chicken poop everywhere from a dozen chickens who decided the porches make excellent nesting areas. (Guess what, chickens? You have earned yourself a fence!!) And I suppose we should get the grocery shopping done as there is nothing here to eat.

So I'm going to be short and frequent in my posts about Colorado (that's the goal, anyway!):

First up: the Fourth of July Children's Parade in Monument:

Getting in line:

The pretty blonde holding my children's hand? That's their grandmother. I know, I know...

If you put our children into a group setting and ask them to do something that could possibly be perceived as, ahem, silly, this is what you get. These two are representative of the entire gang. They are "thrilled."

But while the Children's Parade was so embarrassing, the regular parade was lots of fun.

We went home, got a new battery for the van, and headed out the next day to Cheyenne Mountain Zoo.

We're not in Kansas anymore...oh, wait....yes, we are

2011-06-30T23:44:00.000-04:00

Specifically, we're in Topeka. Which, if you say it lots of times in a row, sounds Asian, especially if you add a "Hi-yah!" at the end.

Oddly enough.

AND we're all in one suite AND the children are all sleeping AND it's the same price we paid for two rooms and a creaky door last night.

Today's drive was long and flat and mostly ugly. I know Indiana, Illinois, and Missouri are populated.

I just don't know why.

But now we're in Kansas. Did you know there are beautiful parts of Kansas? There are. And I'm not just saying that because I have a soft spot for the state my dad grew up in and my aunt stayed in. If we had to live in Kansas, we could live in Lawrence and just never think about the fact that we would be TWO DAYS away from the coast.

Never mind. We could never live in Kansas. We could live on the coast and drive through Kansas every 5 years or so.

But I must admit we are barely in Kansas. I might be singing a different tune tomorrow when 400 miles later we are still in Kansas. Right now I'm vacillating between "We're off to see the wizard" and "We represent the Lollipop Guild."

The Roadkill Highlight of the day was a dead coyote. It was kind of a toss-up between the coyote and a dog, collar intact, that was probably loved to pieces.

Or maybe that wasn't love. Maybe that was an 18-wheeler. I really can't say. I didn't see it happen.

I'd better get to bed. I feel all peppy because we gained an hour on the road. Time zones are funny things. But I have a feeling it's not going to feel so funny tomorrow morning when everyone is up at 6:00 thinking it's 7:00.

But tomorrow (!!!) ... there will be a change in terrain and, hopefully, an end to this journey.

Not Louisiana, Paris, France, New York, or Rome, but...

2011-06-29T23:50:00.000-04:00

I don't even know what town we're in. I know it's not Gary, Indiana; Indianapolis, Indiana; or Taylors, Indiana. I only know it's not because those are the only Indiana towns I can think of, and it's not any of them. Actually, I'm only confident that one of those is even a real town. One of them might be just a song, and the other one might be misspelled (misspelt?).

It's the town where there's only a Motel 6, a McDonald's, a Kountry Kitchen, and a Thriftway grocery store. Do you know the one?

Nah, me neither.

But it's somewhere just over the border from Kentucky. That in and of itself is an accomplishment, as our goal was to reach Louisville (not LEWIS-ville nor even LOU-WEE-ville but LOWELL-ville thankyaverymuch) before we stopped for the night. But we reached Louisville and then just kept right on going until we hit...wherever we are. Let's just call it Vagueville.

The drive was pretty...lots of mountains and rolling hills and good ole farmland and flowers and rivers and mining towns and distilleries and even a dead mountain lion in the middle of the highway.

I know. That's so cool.

We left the house satisfyingly clean (that is, don't inspect the baseboards or open ANY closed doors, but you may admire the vacuum pattern in the sitting room) and the homebound animals in capable hands.

The children were far better than we anticipated. We listened to a really great dramatic recording (which surprised me...I'm usually not one for dramatic retellings -- just ask any tattler in our house) of The Magician's Nephew, part of the entire Narnia series that Ethan picked up thrifting.

Then came the part I've been dreading for days (maybe even weeks?). The hotel. You know, the hotel used to be my favorite part of traveling. Now it's my least. Eight children, two adults, and a dog is overwhelming. Of course we're not naive enough to announce we're eight children, two adults, and a dog; but even still, we usually have to get two hotel rooms. So tonight I'm sharing a room with two 16-mos. olds and three other girls, and Ethan has three of the boys and the dog. My room is a very "sensitive" room, as in don't-you-dare-step-on-that-grocery-bag-on-your-way-to-the-potty-or-the-babies-will-start-screaming-again. (So guess which room has the door that CREEEEEEEEEKKKKKKKKKKKKKKS every time you open it?)

Not that I'm complaining, mind you (which, of course, is what you say when you are, in fact, complaining). The first set of rooms they gave us after Ethan said we needed two beds in each room was a set with one queen in each. Um, no. Let me cart the kids-n-dog back outside while you explain that we need two beds in each room, FOR REAL.

But things are calmer now. Everyone's bathed and almost dry after sharing four towels amongst eight children, and the half-hour of all-out-ear-shattering-screaming from a certain toddler who takes not-so-kindly to a play pen in a hotel room has subsided.

I love road trips.

I do, really.

I hate hotels, but I love road trips.

(And, apparently-from-the-looks-of-this-post, also dashes.)

First Day of Summer

2011-06-21T14:18:00.002-04:00

It doesn't feel like the first day of summer. It feels like the ... 17th or 18th. Or maybe 28th or 29th. But not 1st. Not to me.

We sort of slid out of school. There was no "This is the last day of school!" or ice cream party or week of watching videos like there was when I was in school. We just sort of started dropping subjects, and then we woke up one day and spent the whole day not doing school. Shortly thereafter, one of my friends asked if I was going to continue school through the summer. "No," I said. "I mean, how can you with yard work and projects and all the stuff around the house that has to be done?"

And the very next day we did school. And life was a little bit easier, because the children were occupied and there was a semblance of order. And then I thought, "How can you NOT do school, with all of the things that have to be done and a need for order?"

Aren't I confusing?

Lately my house has been driving me crazy. The rabbit stinks, no matter how often you change his (her?) bedding, there are always crumbs on the floor (and I am up to mopping the kitchen floor daily, mind you), various pieces of laundry and swimsuits and Legos and books and shoes are always strewn everywhere.

Ethan came (again!) to my rescue last week. He marched into the girls' room and started boxing up toys. Some of them were thrown away, some were donated to thrift stores, and some were boxed for future use. The girls were eager to help (albeit easily distracted) and thrilled that their room was made so easy to clean.

Then Ethan went with me to pick up an outside rabbit hutch (with enclosed run -- and this thing is CUTE!). So the rabbit is out of the house and happy. And I am thrilled.

And once again I reminded that less is more/less is more/less is more. I am always the one to fight it hardest, thinking that we're taking something away from the kids or getting rid of something we'll desperately need or ... I don't know ... throwing something valuable away.

We never are! We never are!

Not that things are hunky-dory, mind you. The yard is still a wreck, the flower garden is mostly large weeds, there is a large trash pile in the middle of the driveway waiting for us to borrow a truck to cart it away, and I'm not sure where to put all of the blankets that have recently taken over the upstairs hallway.

But! Little by little, things will get done. And then winter will come and give us a break from the yard work, and we will be pining for the long lazy days of summer.

Wait. Long lazy days? Who coined that phrase, anyway? Was he seven? And single?

I am here standing beside myself

2011-06-07T12:11:00.000-04:00

(Can you name that quote?)

Abraham and Jon-Jon, wading through the creek at Braley Pond

So somewhere in the middle of the list of Habitually Neglected Things sits this blog. Also: the yard, meal planning, checkbook balancing, hanging pictures (our walls are still bare and I'm afraid I don't even notice anymore!), and every closet in this house.

So I'm going to deal with the blog today, because that's by far the most pleasant duty. (Ha! If I call it a duty, it means I need to do it, right?)

I'll start with books. Because everywhere I look, every day, that's what I see. I won't bore you with a recitation of all of the books lying around. I'll bore you with a random collection of books we are reading:

(There are links embedded in this post. Email subscribers may need to click over.)

(on loan from a friend: thanks, AllyeB!)

From the library:

And by "reading," I mean the children are reading their books and I ritualistically pick up my book about 0.3 seconds before I fall asleep. But the books are so pretty on my nightstand.

Gideon, running away (again)

Do you have any good reads to share? I feel a nap coming on...

Sprummer

2011-05-30T20:20:00.002-04:00

Is that what you call spring when it's acting more like summer?
You should.

Bum.
Is that what you call me when I don't act at all because I'm too hazy, hot, and humid?

You should not.

I can think of a million and eight reasons (OK, that's way too many and there's no way I'm thinking that many thoughts on a day like today...but I CAN think of eight and if I try real hard I might even get their names right) why I find it impossible to put away laundry or keep the kitchen floor clean or finally put away the baby gate that has not been used for three months and never used effectively.

It's just not that sort of a day/week/month.

It's the sort of a day when you sit outside, listening to your husband finish the trim on the chicken coop while you knit/unknit the same 8 rows three times before you figure out a way to convincingly fudge that tricky row. And the sweat from the unceasing sun drips down your back and you feel that you must have really done some sort of work that counts because you have the sweat to prove it!

Why do I have time to knit/unknit 8 rows but not time to put obsolete baby gates away?
You ask too many questions.

This weekend we had an overnight guest. Overnight guests always make me aware of how ... odd ... and lazy ... and random our household must seem. (Only seem, of course. Of course!) There is the inevitable clash between the way things work here and the way they work in the rest of the world, a clash of which I am usually happily oblivious. (Did you swallow the end of that last sentence? I can't keep it down!)

I don't know why, but I am always at my messiest when we have overnight guests. This is more than just a convenient excuse; it's also the truth! I don't know if it's because my subconscious relies on the extra hands for help or if it's that I figure they've seen the real us so why bother with the pretense of order or if it's the business of entertaining.

And I pondered all of this as I sat and knit and unknit and sweated. Wait...is sweat a regular verb or irregular?

There's just only so much time in a day. And maybe that's part of it. Maybe I don't want my guests to see me picking up dawn to dusk and yelling at kids to finish your chores finish your chores finish your chores and calling my husband to say, "Your kids are driving me crazy!" and threatening that you are not eating ANYTHING AT ALL until that trash is taken out!

Maybe instead of doing away with the pretense, I am fully engaging it: I want you to think that none of this external stuff is important to me. I want you to think that my children have a perfectly happy mother who can sidestep the clutter and sing through the whining.

Hmm. I do believe I'll ponder that for the next eight rows of knitting. You know, right after I put that gate away.

{pretty, happy, funny, real}: May 19

2011-05-19T12:22:00.002-04:00

Our friend Jim took this a few weeks ago at $0.31 Scoop Night at Baskin Robbins (which, as it turns out, is almost a mandatory church event).

He took it with his iphone and called it "News Update" (he's funny like that - just ask his wife).

I think Ethan might be on to something with his makeshift high chairs: just throw the top (free) newspaper away, and it's all clean!

For more photos of everyday life, visit

Where troubles melt like lemon drops away above the chimney tops

2011-05-16T06:57:00.000-04:00

...That's where you'll find me... (anyone else hear Judy Garland?)

Last evening, after Ethan got home from evening worship but before we were joined by a sick Benjamin (and later, a sick Salem), the two of us sat out on the front porch to enjoy some chai and some serenity. It wasn't yet dusk, and the sky was dramatic.

While all of those views were from the front/right side, to the left we had this:

Can you see the raindrops next to the tree?

And in the back, this:

All of those were taken simultaneously. Well, as simultaneously as they can be when you take them one at a time.

Then Ethan manned the camera, actually stepping off of the porch.

Oh, my goodness! What is that? Is that really, truly, an almost-finished coop?
Why yes, yes it is. And also, a rainbow.

I see it! I see it! The almost-finished coop! (If only it would stop raining!)
And also, the grass. But who can mow when there's the coop to finish?
And also, the double rainbow.

Can you see the double?

And then several children joined us to say that Ben (9) was feeling terrible, and then Ben joined us, and then Salem (15 mos.) joined us (also sick), and then Edee (2) ran out to tell me that her head still hurt where the knots are on her head from falling off the bench. Two of her knots are indeed from her fall, but the last knot (under her ear, and not where she hit) I'm pretty sure is a swollen lymph node. And Miriam (5) is complaining that every time she sneezes, her loose tooth hurts.

So truly, our twenty minutes on the porch (well, and Ethan's five minutes off) represented the calm before the storm.

I think I'll cancel school for today (because that sounds more responsible than just letting it happen) and focus on getting laundry done and doing lots of read-alouds. Oooh, and we also have "The Waltons"!

But first, I'm going to rustle up some breakfast and then take a little nap.

Benjamin, Tonight

2011-05-15T21:47:00.000-04:00

Convalescing with a newly thrifted Beverly Cleary, an orange popsicle,
and the chaser: homemade eggnog (Grandma E's recipe)

The children and I stayed home from evening worship after Benjamin kept heading downhill this afternoon. First his throat hurt, then he was achy, then he didn't want to move his head.

Now (9:30 PM), he's on the sitting room couch, enjoying the rare privilege of an entire couch to himself without others jostling and clamoring for his treats.

Only I'm not sure how much he's actually enjoying it. His throat hurts, and so does everything else.

Even so, he managed to garble out, "But I don't want to be pitiful. I want to be helpful."

I don't want him pitiful, either! But I do believe he's in for a little pampering.

"Annual" picture

2011-05-09T19:42:00.000-04:00

Every Mothers' Day, I ask Ethan to take my picture with however many kids there are that year.

Usually, I get sick and tired of rounding up kids and trying to have people simultaneously smile AND keep their fingers out of their noses. (Plus, I hate having my picture taken.) So more times than not, I give up in disgust before the picture has actually been taken and mutter a "Maybe next year."

This year, I asked, Ethan pointed the camera, and the kids kept their hands away from their faces.

Do note, however, that Salem is pulling Miriam's hair.

In next year's picture, my hair will be longer, my face will be thinner, and everyone will look at the camera.

At least, that's my annual resolution. HA!

Spring

2011-05-04T17:48:00.000-04:00

The air has been fresh and clean, the dandelions have been growing like...weeds, and things have finally started to slow down.

Not that things are ever truly slow around here. And if they are, there's usually a bad reason for it. Like...um...let me just pull this out of the air here...six kids gathered around a dead blackbird. In the living room.

But as things have whirled around me, occasionally slowing to remind me that, "Mama? You have a huge nose!" (the 2-yr. old), I have done my own whirling. And finally, yes, even slowing.

So much of my day is urgent stuff. The cats "went" outside their litter box. The dog threw up orange curry. The babies are stinky and one of them has pulled his own diaper off. No one can go into the laundry room, because everyone's eyes are watering from the smell of rabbit pee. And also, what's for dinner? (And please don't say spaghetti.)

But a lot of my day is also urgent stuff of my own doing. There must be no dirty clothes! All dishes must be put away! No loose papers should be on the floor! WHO KEEPS SPREADING BLANKETS AND PIANO BOOKS ALL OVER THE SITTING ROOM? THIS IS NOT YOUR PLAYROOM! We must have fine cuisine at every meal! (And if we don't, it must be because I spent all day searching for the perfect recipe.)

I revisit these thoughts of my own self-imposed regulations often. Sometimes I remember that these are emergencies of my own making; sometimes Ethan reminds me. And I'm glad.

It helps me to remember that this is NOT the person I want to be. I don't want to be the mother that never had time for anything fun because anything fun was messy. I don't want to spend hours fuming over misplaced shoes and slimy sippy cups (so THAT'S where those have been for the past three weeks!) and melted crayons.

It's time to unsubscribe from all those pretty blogs that congratulate the aproned mother with dinner ready and the newly crafted table runner freshly pressed. I don't need any more pressure to be a Stepford wife with Christian music playing in the background. My husband is no more fulfilled at the end of a day when he sits down to a full dinner and a martyred wife. He'd much rather stumble over crayons and Cheerios to fall into my happy arms than walk briskly into a sterile room where I glare at him for leaving his shoes on in the house.

The point for me to remember is that I so easily trade the important things of this life for the unimportant distractions. And really? Bathrooms, kitchen floors, refrigerator doors, and hampers are all distractions. So are curtains, slipcovers, and wall hangings.

"But Ozzie, underneath that organic cotton tea towel are freshly-formed loaves of whole wheat bread from flour I ground myself!"
"So what, Harriet? So what?"

I'm not saying slobs are holy. I'm just saying they are not by definition unholy.

And I'm saying I'm glad God doesn't look at any of that when He looks at me. I've been memorizing Colossians with six other women in our church, and I'm so struck by the gifts God has given us. Funny --clean baseboards, level curtain rods, and creative menus are not mentioned (although, granted, we're only in chapter 2. But I'm willing to wager they're not going to come up in chapters 3 or 4, either). Endurance, patience with joy, inheritance of the saints in light, hope of the gospel. That's the language of the Scriptures.

I'm glad most of my emergencies are self-imposed. I can self-dispose of them. My husband doesn't ask me to do anything further than love God and love him. He wants me to smile and look him in the eyes and be wholehearted.

And what does God want from me? To do justice, and to love kindness, and to walk humbly with your God (Micah 6:7-9, ESV).

And even that, even that, He empowers me to do. I can't do it. So He does it through me.

There are no emergencies in God's kingdom. It doesn't suffer from the tyranny of the urgent.

And THAT truly leaves me whirling.

{pretty, happy, funny, real}: Apr. 28

2011-04-28T10:00:00.006-04:00

This is what I walked into Tuesday afternoon.

Not that it matters that it was Tuesday afternoon. It could have been any afternoon.

Or every afternoon.

Regardless (or irregardless - are you regarding less or not regarding less?), here it is. Warning: it's not pretty.

(Jonathan: "Lot of mess.")

(There is a video embedded in this post. RSS readers and email subscribers may need to click over.)

For more photos of everyday life (that might actually be pretty), visit:

From last weekend

2011-04-26T23:14:00.001-04:00

Library visit

2011-04-26T11:26:00.000-04:00

Abraham (5), taken by Benjamin (9)

Last week I took the kids to the library.

This was the first time, to my recollection, that I have taken all eight kids to the library by myself. That doesn't *conclusively* mean that I have not done it before. It does mean I have blocked out any such memory.

Sometimes I do that.

It keeps me from killing my kids.

So anyway, we had the requisite "be quiet and stay by Mama" talk before we entered the building. The younger twins (14 mos.) were in the double stroller, and Jonathan (2) was holding onto the stroller with me. The other five were walking in a relatively orderly line.

We rushed in, and Ben (9) and Lily (7) headed to their sections to peruse books. I headed with the others to the little play area, which is bordered by picture books. The Older Littles started gathering books, and the Littler Littles played. (I really need other terms for them. How about "Nose Blowers" and "Nose Pickers"? Nah...too many crossovers. I'll have to think on this one.)

Confused yet? Why, yes, yes, I am. Thank you for asking.

Ben came over to me asking for help finding a book on making money. I pointed to the librarian (College Guy) and we headed over to ask.

"Excuse me," I said. "My son is looking for a book on how to make money."

"You mean like entrepreneurial opportunities?" he asked.

Ben quickly interjected. "No...more like ways I can make some money."

"Oh," the librarian said. "Like origami? Things you can make out of money?"

"Not quite," Ben said. "I need ... something to broaden my money limits."

*******************************
Let me just interject here. There. I've interjected.
*******************************

The end of this story is a disgruntled 9-yr. old in the "how to draw comic strips" aisle, scratching his head and muttering, "How am I supposed to make money with THIS?" The stroller babies were restless, so I hastily thrust my arm at the other end of the aisle and said, "THERE! There are baking books over there. You like baking! Grab some of those!"

So he did, and we checked out (all 99 books, and who on earth grabbed the Clifford and Dora and Spongebob and Barbie the Mermaid and Safety Council Guide to Strange Animals and the Queen of Christmas?).

We survived. The next day we feasted on Ben's Shortbread Cookies, which he very ably adapted from one of his baking books (COOKBOOKS! That's what they're called! Oh, for the life of me, that word has just been so evasive this morning!).

And I'm only a little worse for the wear.

Maybe I need a little something to broaden my mommy limits.

Gideon (14 mos.), taken by Benjamin (9)

{pretty, happy, funny, real}: Apr. 21

2011-04-21T10:00:00.002-04:00

[photo credits: Miriam, age 5]

For more photos of everyday life, visit:

Couch Potatoes

2011-04-20T09:44:00.003-04:00

(There is a video embedded in this post. RSS readers and email subscribers may need to click over.)

Confession

2011-04-19T18:43:00.001-04:00

I hate dyeing eggs.

I really, truly do.

I only mention this lest you think that trying to coordinate 6 kids' egg-decorating while 2 others are napping is not all it's cracked up to be.

You're right.

Although there was a lot of cracked, come to think of it.

It's messy. It's whiny. It's time-consuming.

And there are never enough eggs. And always too many.

The only upside to having dyed eggs today? It's a whole year before we have to do it again ((big sigh of relief)).

{pretty, happy, funny, real}: Apr. 14

2011-04-14T11:59:00.001-04:00

Spring Dance

For more photos of everyday life, visit:

Rain

2011-04-12T14:00:00.003-04:00

So today there is no sun in the forecast.

This suits my kids just fine. They've been begging for hot chocolate, anyway.

Whatever will I do when the babies join the throng of cocoa drinkers? My windowsill isn't long enough!

Plans for today:

Gather library books and deliver on the way to pick up friends from school
Put away winter coats that were washed yesterday
Check on chicks (moved to outside "brooder": think chicken [bunny] tractor converted to a chick playground with heat lamp by ever-inventive Ethan and then covered with tarps to protect from the forecasted weather of the next ten days)
Work on Colossians memorization (this week is review: all of chapter 1). It is possible!! I reviewed it last night, fell asleep trying to pin down the part after "mystery hidden for ages and generations" and woke this morning remembering it. Amazing.
Start lettuce seeds and Lily's flower seeds.

Of course, there is the usual laundryschooldisheswhat'sforsupperdiapersPickUpYourRoomRightNow! but that is so 1) duh and 2) overwhelming

that I think it doesn't really bear mentioning.

If I get ONE of these done (library books?), I will feel like today has been profitable. I really do hope it's the library books. I keep getting urgent library reminders in my in-box. Although dead chicks would also be irksome, so I'd best make sure they get bumped (gently) to the top of the list.

Things I Love (cont.)

2011-04-11T12:46:00.000-04:00

Kids at play.

Kids on bikes
on hills.

Grubby-handed gifters.

Reluctant models.

Babies.

And more babies.

Also yellow, flowered shoes, and baby boy knees {{SQUEEZE!}}.

Sunshine

2011-04-05T06:00:00.003-04:00

Yesterday was a sunny day here.

We hadn't seen the sun in a while, and it made us very happy.

Baby Boy was happy. So was Bunny.

Baby Girl was happy.

The older six were happy. (But they wouldn't stop biking/scootering long enough for me to take their picture.)

Maverick was happy.

My window boxes were happy.

The first daffodil to bloom in our garden was happy.

And then, later in the day, her friend started opening up to the tulips (but the tulips are still a reserved, closed bunch).

It was a lovely, sunny, happy day. And then it was time for supper, and we had to go in.

But maybe the sun'll come out tomorrow.

Forget Me Not

2011-04-04T10:10:00.000-04:00

When Grandpa was dying, he and Grandma moved into our house. I remember she kept the cookie jar full and never let a day go by without reprimanding, "Stop jumping! You're shaking the furniture!" When I was seven and Grandpa died, I had a nightmare related to a National Geographic special about monkeys. It showed mother monkeys carrying their dead babies on their backs, jiggling them to try to get them to move and be alive. I dreamt Grandma was carrying Grandpa on her back, jiggling him to try to waken him. I woke crying and ran to my father, who read me Scripture and prayed with me. I remember telling Grandma about my dream, and she held me and sang me some hymns, her voice quaking with age and emotion.

When I was fourteen, Grandma moved out of our house and into my aunt and uncle's. It was providential, really, as they were both in the medical profession and she ended up having appendicitis and then full-onslaught Alzheimer's.

When I was 16 or 17, I sat in the back seat with my youngest sister while Mom drove to meet my aunt half-way to pick up Grandma and bring her back to our house so my aunt and uncle could have a much-needed respite. My always-old Grandma looked even older, and she sat quiet in the front seat, absorbed in the picture books Rebecca had brought.

Then she broke the silence. "Sometimes I can't remember things," she said. "I can't remember the next word, or what I was saying in the first place." There was a controlled desperation in her announcement. "I just can't remember."

I remember the pause that followed. In that pause, I fluctuated between barely-contained humor and suppressed alarm.

Humor, because -- this is news? After you have been Queen of the Senile for so long? Come on, Grandma, you've been known to stomach drinking Ranch dressing because you thought it was milk and to try to down a denture tablet because you thought it was Alka-Seltzer.

But also Alarm, because -- you know about this? You are aware that things are not as they should be?

Then I heard my mother talking. "You haven't forgotten that the Lord loves you, have you?"

"Oh, no," my grandmother reassured. "I could never forget that."

I was swallowing hard in the backseat. The fact that my mother was being so serious and so pointed without a glib, "Oh, we all forget things" made me take note.

But it is what my mother said next that has stuck with me these last almost twenty years.

"Well," she said quietly. "Even if you do, even if you do forget, He never will."

I have thought of that often, especially lately. Our congregation has been watching one of her beloved elderly members as he has dealt with the daily blows of dementia, which finally led to him being moved a couple of hours away from this, his boyhood home, to family who can care for him. A friend wrote of her battle with cancer and the ensuing difficulties -- is this depression or just a rough spot in life?? -- and the conflict between life as it is and life as it should be. A friend tells me over the phone that she and her husband are considering divorce, and I don't even think to ask what will happen to their children, the children who look to their marriage to see a picture of Christ and His church. A friend blogs that he is leaving the Reformed faith for Catholicism.

Even to me these are hardly related cases. But they are all desperate. They are all difficult. In some cases, sin is the direct cause: we fall in our living. In others, sin is the indirect cause: we live in a fallen world.

I can't solve anyone's problem. There's no pithy proverb that will make the confusion, the hurt, the desperation, or the deception disappear.

My hope lies in this: HE will never forget. For Walter, He will carry him through these confusing times. I pray for peace for Walter and for clarity even in the confusion. For Andrea, He will sustain her through the valleys. I pray for joy for Andrea and for discernment of His gifts even in this trying time. For my college friend considering divorce and my activist friend leaving the faith, I pray urgently for the Lord's pull on their hearts, that He will show them the true way: how to have a God-honoring marriage that doesn't constantly drain, and how to see the Way that is the only Truth leading to Life.

I hope I never forget my mother's reminder. I hope I always remember.

But even if I don't, He will.

Practice Nicely Toothpaste Waiting

2011-04-02T22:42:00.000-04:00

I actually said that to my children tonight.

One of them had come downstairs complaining that we needed to buy more toothpaste so that they wouldn't have to share a toothpaste tube.

Ethan heard me and called in from the other room: "OK -- What are you doing that is distracting you?"

What was I doing?

Trying to communicate. Speaking not English my language first.

"Practice nicely toothpaste waiting"??? It frustrates me that THOSE were the words that came out of my mouth when I was fully focused on answering my child's request. What I meant was that this was a chance ... a golden opportunity, if you will (and she didn't) ... to practice patience and longsuffering, to show humility and deference to siblings.

I'm not sure that all of that - or even any of it - was conveyed.

Instead, images of Yoda singing from the Trinity Psalter (I do love it but there are similarities in the wording) came to mind. You could even put it to the tune of "Guide Me, O Thou Great Jehovah": "Practice nicely toothpaste waiting ... la la la la la la la."

I should have stuck with my normal dismissive "Mmm-hmmm" and kept my mind on the dishes.

Distracted mothering has its place.

Snow Gear

2011-03-29T00:26:00.000-04:00

Saturday evening's snow was made all the more tolerable by the fact that it was gone Sunday afternoon.

And also by fashionable footwear. Who can resist a 13-month old in pink pom-pom boots?

Some New Reading

2011-03-22T18:16:00.000-04:00

Finally, finally, FINALLY, my real-life friend Kendra has her own blog. Now I can quit saying, "My real-life friend Kendra taught me that..." every time I have a cool tip. I can just direct you to her blog.

My bread? Her recipe. Her yogurt? My recipe. You want to know anything about tapping maples, raising chickens, organic gardening, homeopathic treatments, being church accompanist, homeschooling, living life with a deployed spouse, renovating, or Canada? Ask her. (And notice, I stick this post under "Resources." Because she absolutely is!)

And to get her back for not telling me the address to her blog and just informing me that she was starting one (which led to about 8 minutes of googling that I could have spent ~~watching funny youtubes~~ practicing my Colossians memorization), I have linked to her twelve times. So go already!

Braley Pond Again

2011-03-21T13:46:00.001-04:00

Last week was hard. Not any kind of heart-rendering, soul-searching hard, but the kind of hard where you would give your children away for a good night's sleep. Or even if someone asked (but no one did).

Everyone managed to get sick, along with the rest of the East Coast. Even the laptop crashed. The only truly worrisome one was the laptop. Well, also Gideon (13 mos.), who sounds like he's on the last stages of pneumonia with a good measure of whooping every time he gets a cold. We call him Croupert. Because when you've had little sleep, that's a pretty funny joke.

But now everyone is talking in a permanently whiny voice and finding ways to irritate each other, which means we're on the mend. And yes, the laptop is also up and running.

I'm sure the week would have been much harder had we not visited Braley Pond last Saturday. That few hours of Sunshine and Outdoors readied me for the coming days of dosing and drowsing (them, not me).

Whatcha got there, Ben?

Oh, yes. Kayleen would be proud. And also, ewww.

And while they were catching crawdads (seven in all), Gideon worked on his fishing skills.

He caught a Salem (one in all).

I could just look at this view all day. Everything is so ... kissable.

Jonathan was the first to get sick, but we figured a dose of Vitamin D via sunshine and the babbling brook was probably just what he needed.

Probably the most fun moment for me was when Eden (4) came crying up to us with her net: "Everyone but ME is catching something! I will never catch anything! I can't do it!"

We were busy consoling her with "just keep trying," when she loudly interrupted,

"HEY! I CAUGHT SOMETHING!" And sure enough, squirming at the bottom of her net while she held it and fussed to us a good 20 yards away from the creek, was a little crawdad. The smallest find of the day.

And then this past Saturday, we celebrated semi-recovery with a trip to Augusta Co-op, Tractor Supply and Lowe's. I could just spend hours in Tractor Supply. We cuddled baby bunnies and chicks and drooled over chicken coops and wood stoves and books on gardening.

Lowe's provided the bulbs and flowers, and Ethan provided the window boxes emblazoned with color outside my kitchen windows.

And that was just the pick-up I needed!

Grow Old Along with Me

2011-03-07T20:45:00.000-05:00

Lately, there have been more and more reminders that I am, in fact, getting older.

One of the more recent ones came last week when I was childless at the drugstore. I picked up a package of zinc lozenges, a clearanced baby saline mist, and some off-brand chocolate.

It just hit me that even my shopping list sounds ... mature. I should have gone ahead and thrown in some corn removers.

But the reminder of my age came in the checkout line, where I waited behind a man who was apparently a friend of the female cashier. "Yeah, we just got back from our vacation. How did you know we even left?"

"Well," said the cashier. "I saw your mom last week. She said you guys were on your way. How was it?"

The man shifted his weight, leaning back on his heels and rocking up to his toes. "It was all right, I guess. But you know what the coolest part was?"

"What's that?" she asked.

"Check out these shoes I got!" Then he picked one leg up and rested it on the counter, so she could see his sneakers with the neon green soles. "Aren't these sweet?"

"I bet you paid a pretty penny for those babies," she said.

"Oh, yeah. These were $150. Best souvenir I got from the trip!"

I was dumbfounded. I mean, first of all, I'm a customer with zinc lozenges, nose spray, and off-brand chocolate, for crying out loud. Isn't it obvious I'm desperate? And here you are yamming it up about your vacation with your dirty shoe on the counter?

And also ... really? I was completely derailed by his shoe-and-tell. People my age don't show off their shoes. What do people my age show? Well, as little as possible, really.

And that's what got me. Here I had been, subconsciously equating myself with the guy ahead of me. "Hmm, a vacation, that sounds wonderful," I was thinking.

And then, like a fist in the face, the fact that he and I were NOT the same age struck me with the slap of his shoe on the counter. I snapped out of my vacationland dream to start doing some math. How old was this guy ahead of me, truly? Judging by his vocabulary, footwear, and lack of consideration for the elder behind him, I'd guess a good fifteen years. I am fifteen years older than a man???

And what on earth was he buying at a drugstore, anyway? Gum?

I'm also guessing his vacation had little to do with potty stops, wet carseats, or the fifth time through Hank the Cowdog on audio.

***sigh***

And I shouldn't have to add (but I will because some of you are no doubt too young to understand), the chocolate was little comfort. If my age can proffer any wisdom, take this: never scrimp on chocolate. And young man? $150 would have bought a lot of chocolate (and also some denture cleaner).

Sometimes we pout...

2011-02-25T13:37:00.003-05:00

... and Gideon is king.

From Pouting

For Morgan

2011-02-21T09:54:00.000-05:00

She was a January baby in Texas. They still need hats, yes?

It took about 100 times longer to actually *send this off* than it did to make it.

(From a library copy of Joelle Hoverson's entirely doable Last-Minute Knitted Gifts.)

Still Here

2011-02-18T23:45:00.000-05:00

Well, the camera's in the van, the children are sleeping, and the downstairs smells like popcorn. I only mention this so that you know I still haven't uploaded pictures, it's late, and I'm partially watching a movie.

My days are equally distracted.

But while I run circles around myself, others are moving forward: the babies, who turned one on Feb. 2, are both walking. Gideon toddles like a pro and Salem just today started crossing entire rooms.

And Abraham (5) learned to ride a bicycle. On the first try. Ethan started to tell him to try to get the feel of the bike; when he let go, Abraham took off to the other side of the school parking lot. He's fast and furious and proud as all get-out. Also, he wants a bike of his own. One that's not pink with flowers.

So we clap for the babies and clap for Abey and drop into bed exhausted at the end of each day. But actually and overall, this is a great time to be parents. The children are still young and sweet, and the biggest drama of the week was our oldest (9) chasing his siblings around to "smell my armpits! Smell my armpits!" (Which led to a discussion about gross and stupid behavior -- and also led to a same-day trip to the store to pick up a manly deodorant for sensitive skin. He's still my {smelly} baby.)

But now I smell popcorn, and I'm off to find the salt.

Good night!

Things I Love

2011-01-29T15:55:00.000-05:00

Well, really, HIM, mostly.

And also when he wears the hat I made him. I don't know how it makes him feel, but it makes me feel good!

Marmalade

2011-01-27T16:00:00.002-05:00

It caused Ben (9) to declare Kitchen Day the "Best Day of the Week" and to question, "Who needs dessert when we have fresh marmalade?"

Ethan stated, "I'm still not a fan of orange rind."

And D.H. Lawrence said, "I got the blues thinking of the future, so I left off and made some marmalade. It's amazing how it cheers one up to shred oranges and scrub the floor."

And, indeed, it is cheerful. And also, a fact I did not know, shredding oranges does necessitate scrubbing the floor.

Dad and Mom, look what's headed your way...

2011-01-26T21:15:00.001-05:00

BEFORE:

AFTER:

Brought to you by the color ... white.

Four

2011-01-24T10:10:00.001-05:00

This weekend officially marked the day that we changed from having four 3 and under to having four 4 and under.

That sounds only slightly better.

But I'll tell you what sounds significantly better ... having eight 9 and under. Those older four are a tremendous help!

Eden turned four Saturday. She has always seemed older than her age, so her turning four seemed somewhat tardy. We also celebrated the week before with extended family, so this immediate family celebration seemed ... redundant.

We had the requisite German Chocolate Upside-down Cake, the sunglasses (it seems we give a new pair every birthday), and the present that was broken the same day it was received (and ironically, it's the one I've held on to for years because I kept forgetting to give it to someone!).

I love this little girl. She's got a set of lungs to rival ... well ... Salem's. Her laughter is infectious and pretty constant ... except when it's absent and she's practicing being a moody 17-yr. old. She plays the part impeccably.

Happy birthday, Little One. I'm so glad you're still little, even if you are Four.

Eden and Grandpa enjoying a gorgeous Aunt-Hannah-made fairy cake

Opening a handmade doll dress and bonnet - can you believe Aunt Becca's work?

Gideon and Aunt Becca

The rarely spotted Uncle Daniel and Gideon

Jonathan and Grandpa napping

Grandma reading a gifted Jan Brett to Eden and Lily

Cousin Nat

Salem

Part of the birthday gang..

...and some more.

Don't toss the babies...

2011-01-19T20:11:00.000-05:00

Everything is a miracle. It is a miracle that one does not dissolve in one's bath like a lump of sugar.

~ Pablo Picasso

Pablo Picasso is a miracle to me. No, not a miracle, really, a mystery. I don't get him. Each of his paintings contains figures that almost seem to be art to me. I'm left with this dissatisfied feeling, this frustrated annoyance: "Who likes this stuff? Who pays for this?"

And I guess his quotes are really no different. "A miracle that one does not dissolve in one's bath like a lump of sugar"? Huh? That's almost a pearl of wisdom. Almost a faux pearl, at least. All right, I can't see it. It's nowhere near wisdom and I'm irritated he wasted the breath to say it.

But really, all of that is just a segue for this:

---ONE---

---TWO---

---THREE---