Settling in

Things are finally starting to settle into a semi-routine. The crazy hectic non-busyness of summer has mostly dwindled; and we are easing into a new pace of sorts, discovering how we do this thing of functioning as a family while keeping the dishes and the laundry clean, schoolbooks found, and babies fed and dry.

Eden (6) enjoying her first taste of cotton candy. "It's yucky," they all agreed.
"Mama, next time you can just get more funnel cakes."

The tips and tricks of mothering a large family are few and effective: 1) assume the role of Child of the Light rather than Martyr, 2) learn to love your job (aka Fake It 'Til You Make It), 3) fiercely love your husband, 4) realize you do, after all, have it really, really, really good so choose to laugh, and 5) get off the computer. 

Simple, really.

I am amazed at how complicated we like to make things. 

(I readily admit, it's undoubtedly taxing [esp. that 3-yr. old in green]; but it's not rocket science.)

Friday morning

I'm sitting here looking out the window, and there are delicious signs of fall. The morning glory has climbed almost to the middle of the telephone pole across the street, our butterfly bushes are gargantuan with a few purple blossoms left yet, and the porch swing is swaying gently with the breezes still left from last night's cold front passing through. If I look very selectively, I can perhaps forget that the windows are in desperate need of washing and that the front porch needs a good dose of elbow (and knee!) grease and a rather vicious scrubbing.

The children are sitting at the breakfast table, giggling and enjoying each other. If I listen very selectively, I can perhaps forget that I know their humor is over the comment, "It smells like rotten eggs in here. No, it smells like throw up on top of rotten eggs in here."

Signs of fall, and signs of The Fall.

There are no deep thoughts here (obviously), just a glimpse of my morning.

A mini-tirade on giving birth many times

You've been warned. (And if you haven't, read the title. Now you've been warned!)

Six weeks ago, I gave birth to our tenth child. It was my eighth pregnancy, sixth singleton labor.

  

In the days, weeks, months preceding Zeb's birth, I overheard many people -- doctors, midwives, nurses, friends, church family -- telling others, "This is her tenth. This is a walk in the park for her!" or the like.

And I really had to bite my tongue.

The thing is, I don't think it matters if it's your first or your tenth, multiples or a singleton. Giving birth is No Fun. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts.

And each labor, each pregnancy, even, is a First. It's your first time being pregnant with a child, or it's your first time being pregnant when you have a toddler, or it's your first time being pregnant with twins, or it's your first time being pregnant with twins when you have twin 5-yr. olds, or it's your first time being pregnant when you're 36 and already have nine children, or what have you. (Or what have me!)

And the same can be said of labor. Each labor has its own variables that make the outcome seem unpredictable, and the veteran mother has only the consolation that she has done this before. She has done this before.

"I have done this before." That became my mantra this pregnancy, only instead of being a consolation, it became a bit of an obsessive reminder. "Oh, no! I have done this before! I know this will hurt, and this will be messy, and this will disrupt our lives for quite some time!"

And I was right.

There were new variables this time (there always are). This time it was pre-eclampsia and the sudden, "You need to have this baby. Do you want to have it tonight or tomorrow?" and the ensuing strangling fear that always precedes my labors.

But in the end, we had a chubby, healthy baby boy and a chubby, healthy mama, and that's wonderful.

Wonderful, but not in any sense easy. Wonderful, because I have a husband who has done this coaching labor thing 8 times and is stronger and wiser for having done it that many times. But still not easy. Not for me, and not for him.

I guess I'm just saying that doing something unpleasant many times does not always make it pleasant. Doing something hard many times does not always make the hard thing easy.

And that's all.

Ten Little Indians

So, yes, our tenth little Indian has arrived. A boy! ("Of course," say all the children. "Now we're even again.") We have five girls, and we have five boys.

And one of the things, you see, about marrying a man with Swedish and American Indian lineage, is that you have married into lineages that are not subtle. In your children, your own Welsh/German/British lineage will be swallowed up by Swedish bright blue eyes and pale skin or Indian dark skin and dark chocolate eyes. This is another Indian.

The children meeting their brother for the first time

Oldest brother and youngest brother

 

His father and I have secretly taken to calling him Manuel Gonzalez, because in the hazy glow of late-night television, there is something so very Hispanic-looking about his shock of dark hair, round face, and intense eyes.

But that's not his real name.

Do you know it is very hard to come up with ten names that you like enough to attach to your last name and claim as the chosen names for your offspring?

Especially if you have self-imposed regulations, such as, "It shall be of two or three syllables, be a rhyme or slant rhyme with our last name, and be found in the Old Testament."

Just to make things interesting.

We almost gave up this time. We almost said, "Let's just say those rules were for the first nine children. We'll start a new pattern with the second nine"... but that was just exhausting and terrifying to even joke about (and also, not that funny), so we stuck with our original pattern.

His very first open-eyes photo

Zebulun ("Zeb") Warfield Allison

July 13, 2013 @ 3:59 PM

10 lbs., 9 oz.

And honestly, the more you say his name, the more you get used to it. I actually am rather (OK, extremely) fond of it now, despite having to explain constantly that "It was one of Jacob's sons...one of the tribes of Israel" or "Grandpa Walton's name was Zebulun, remember?" depending on the audience.

His name means "honor." His middle name is after the theologian B.B. Warfield (another tradition, the boys all have middle names of theologians: our oldest: "Robert" [after my father and my father-in-law, both theologians in their own rights], the others: "Machen," "Van Til," and "Vos"). The boys will have no excuse to be unfamiliar with Reformed theology!

The Lord has been good. He always is. Each child reminds me of my insufficiency and His sufficiency. Each day I am reminded of His love to me through my unruffled husband and this crazy mob of children with their bright blue eyes and dark brown eyes and pale skin and tanned skin.

It is an honor, indeed.

For Gerald

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This post is for Gerald. He came up to me Friday night, at the ice cream social that followed the closing ceremony of this year's VBS, and said, "So I noticed your blog is dead."

Well, and it is. But only "mostly dead," as any "Princess Bride" aficionado can attest.

So here I am, struggling to figure out what on earth would be worth posting, and coming up with very little.

But when has that ever stopped me?

Here goes.

I am going to write about Gerald.

Gerald is a woodworker, a Southerner, an outdoorsman, and the husband of one spitfire named Mary Ann. And of course, you say both of her names when you say her name, because she is a Southerner and a spitfire. And don't all spitfires have their middle names said often?

Miriam Marlys (8), our own spitfire. And as my mother-in-law said, "Oh, no! I'm a middle name!"
It gets used often.

 Gerald and Mary Ann thrive on ensuring that the younger generation in our church does not grow up ignorant nor unspoiled. So they do things like take the oldest boy to the gun show and reward anyone who sits with them in church with an entire family-sized package of cookies.

Are you aware of the candy war that is an ongoing part of each Sunday's worship service? Every Sunday, at least six of my children are usually to be found cuddling with adopted grandparents and aunts and uncles all over the congregation. They sit with them through the service, asking for help to find the right hymn or their place in Scripture. Or for a different colored marker.

And then at the end of the service, these longsuffering saints rifle through their pockets and pocketbooks for a Werther's, or a package of mini-M&M's, or some rainbow goldfish, or a lollipop, or whatever little bit of sugary goodness they can offer.

(Except for the one time Midge offered a box of raisins. The ensuing tears and tantrum from a certain son of ... someone's ... ensured she did not offer raisins again. ::sigh::)

But the love that my children experience every Sunday does not stop with the evening service. Within the last month, Midge and Dotti gave two of my children painting lessons (and baked cookies with them), Paul dropped off an "awesome" tent and camping pack (complete with gear) for Ben, Barbara took a child out for his birthday (and the other Barbara post-poned taking the boys out for pizza so that Birthday Child could also attend), Mary Ann had several children over to "help" (help what? consume root beer floats and Happy Meals? I'll come over and help!!!), Gerald chauffered Miriam (8), Karen chauffered Ben (11), Helen supplied us with vintage kitchen glasses (delivered via June), and myriads of others loved on them during VBS.

And I wonder, I really do, if my children know how very blessed they are. I wonder if they understand this mystery wherein the older generation thoroughly loves on the youngest ones, and not just the pastor's kids. It's universal. If you are a child, you will be cuddled and hugged and smiled at and held and prayed for fervently.

And in return? Well, my children know the names of the members of our congregation. They pray for them daily. They often know more about their week's plans than we do! Lily (9) has decided that the previously abhorred piano lessons are absolutely wonderful because Anna (16) decided to talk to her one Sunday, and Anna plays the piano beautifully.

It's overwhelming, and in a totally wonderful way.

When I met Ethan, I thought how ridiculous all those lists were that our youth group leaders made us write. You know, the "My Ideal Husband" lists. He blew those lists out of the water. He was more than anything I could have even known to list or want or expect. He was more. He is more. He becomes more.

And the church is so very like that. If I were to write a list of "What I Want in a Church," well, it would be inconsequential. The closest (and wisest) I could get would be to stick with what the Bible demands of a church. A shepherd and his qualifications. Elders and their qualifications. Deacons and their qualifications. The means of grace. Discipline. All the "one another" verses.

But my children will expect so very much more. They will expect to have others correct their own children when they need it. They will expect to be able to have other children sit with them when they are grandparents.  They will expect to call church members "Brother" and "Sister" and then really treat them as if they mean that.

And I couldn't be happier. I just couldn't! Without words, without lengthy explanations, without a treatise or a formal study or a lesson plan, and with only a reasonable amount of chocolate, these saints have taught my children what it is to be the Body of Christ.

We are so very blessed.

And in other summer news...this is what Ethan calls "The Ramona." After having her flick her unbrushed hair into my face for the 3,000th time during a reading lesson, I asked, "Do you want a haircut?" Eden (6) said, "Yes!" and so we watched a youtube and I gave her one.

And I must admit, she fits the part of Ramona perfectly, often to my chagrin!

And the trampoline. After years of debating and "but is it safe?" we realized that we were arguing against our normal sensitivities and falling into "Worst Case Scenario" thinking, which is a stupid place to be. So Memorial Day brought the trampoline, and we have been thrilled with it!

And...there you have it. See, Gerald? Only Mostly Dead.

Hanging around

We are (hanging around, that is), and so is this bug/allergies/virus/whatever-combination-of-nastiness-it-is.

(Both photos courtesy of the 9- and 11-yr. olds.)

We even went and got the baby swing out of the attic for Ada. I remembered another child who was sick at this age that would only be comforted in the swing. Ada seems to be soothed in it as well.

But, alas, everyone else is really too big for the swing. So we've had to fight for positions on the couches. Some of us have even been known to stretch out on the floor.

Ethan was down with it over the weekend ... a difficult thing for a preacher who must preach! But the Lord supplied him strength on Sunday; and while it was not an easy day for him, he did survive through his Sunday School teaching and the morning and evening services.

I stayed home with the kids. We survived, too.

Yesterday was an odd one for me. I woke up feeling groggy and detached and unwilling to participate in any of the day's activities. I went ahead and did school and laundry and meals, but in between I laid around and mumbled for children to *please* be quiet and go find something to clean.

They were merciful to me and even deep-cleaned the kitchen after dinner. I owe them a huge one for that!

Ethan likes to say I'm "invincible" after the first three months of pregnancy. It's really not true -- I can remember a few times when I have been down with a bug and pregnant -- but it does seem that the Lord offers strength and immunity! I'm not sure whether yesterday's malaise was a bit of the bug or due to the fact that I didn't drink nearly enough water (as in, probably 12 oz. all day--EEEEK!!! I usually drink anywhere from a half gallon to a gallon!), I didn't start my day with diluted orange juice (I have a theory that my blood sugar needs this), I didn't eat until late in the morning, I didn't take any apple cider vinegar, I got to bed late and was up with baby early, etc., etc., etc.

And so here we are. We are all functioning at about 70%. Wait. 100% for me is probably about 70%. So maybe I should say we're functioning at about 50%.

Wait.

Am I making any sense?

Wait.

Do I ever?

Well. Whichever it is, I'm off to drink a big glass of water and find something to clean.

Quietly.

Transitions

I've been thinking about 11-year old boys lately.

Probably because I have one.

And I've never had one before this one.

I'm thinking that they thrive on routine (and everyone who has ever read a parenting book, go ahead and say "Duh" altogether now...).

And I'm thinking that this is the age I taught and loved in "real school." This is one of the Golden Years, one of the few years when they are actually competent enough to be truly helpful and still eager enough to want my approval and praise. 

Also, I think they like to have a say in things. This is really tricky:

1) I don't always want an 11-year old opinion;
2) I don't always have/make time to hear an 11-year old opinion;
3) I don't know how to succumb to an 11-year old opinion.

But I'm realizing that part of this transitioning from little kid to older kid to independent person is going to involve my letting him make some decisions, correctly express those decisions, and act on those decisions. And the decisions are going to have to be bigger than what he will wear today (and to be fair, even his 3-yr. old brother gets to make that decision for himself).

No answers, just questions and ponderings and realizing that being one of the ones in control means I am going to have to occasionally loosen my grip.

(And I welcome advice!)