In the Heart of my Home

The Impossible Becomes Possible

 

We have soccer goals set up in our backyard year ‘round. It’s a big backyard relative to most in our neighborhood and I’ve always imagined a gigantic garden all planted to bear goodness at least three seasons a year. Instead, we have a very small garden shoved up against the side of the house and a great, big soccer field.

I’ve spent hours (maybe cumulatively months or years) on the sidelines at soccer games, watching children of all sizes play the game. Looks simple enough; run and kick the ball. Night after night, when our boys were mostly smaller than me, they’d play “family soccer” outside with Dad. I was grateful for my pregnant and nursing excuses, but still I thought it looked pretty simple.

One day, I tried. The biggest of my boys were teenagers then. I had a girl well old enough to mind the baby and I got out there to run and kick with them. It was hard. It wasn’t even close to easy. I was wheezing in the middle of the backyard before long at all.

I’ve been thinking about that afternoon a lot lately. When all my babies were little, the days were long and sometimes the nights were longer. There were most definitely challenges. But I didn’t really consider it “hard.” I loved the long days and challenging nights and relating to small children came naturally to me. Truth be told, I understood people who hated the baby years about as well as my 12-year-old future National Team player understood my inability to execute a pass to him while being guarded by his brother. There was such joy in wee ones! It’s not hard! It’s a “good tired”—the kind you get after playing hard and scoring the winning goal in overtime at the State Cup.

Then we hit the teenage years. Sometimes I think I’m as suited to being a mother of teenagers as I am to being a forward on the National Team. I still liked being outside, wind on my face and fresh grass under my feet, but I wasn’t all that equipped for the game. Mothering teenagers, for me, takes a good deal more work and persistence and concentrated effort than mothering six children under twelve did. It doesn’t come naturally.

I watch as my children attempt new skills. This one can draw and it seems effortless. That one, six years her sister’s senior, struggles to capture same image, never satisfied with her result. This one has run rings around his competition, always, always confident with a ball at his feet. That one melted into midfield one day when he was six and swore through hot tears that he hated everything about the game. But they each have strengths in their own places.

The thing about motherhood if we are called at all, is that we are all called to be strong in this vocation. We cannot dissolve into a puddle on the soccer field and opt out in favor of a basketball court. We’re in this thing for the duration.

When it becomes difficult, when we are being pushed to grow and change and learn well beyond the curve, we tend to wrap ourselves in self-criticism and guilt. In begins almost imperceptibly. A little voice in our heads, reminds us that we aren’t doing it right and we didn’t do it right. Other mothers seem to manage effortlessly. We stumble around this age or that new stage and seem to do nothing but mess things up.

Take heart! I remind myself every day. Take heart! We cannot put on the mantle of self-criticism and guilt. If we do, our days are cloaked in fear and self-loathing. The reality is that being a good parent doesn’t come naturally to anyone. It’s not effortless. God doesn’t call us because He knows we’re capable. He calls us because He knows that His power is made perfect in our weakness. He speaks into our hearts the words of St. Paul, “For the sake of Christ, then, I am content with weaknesses, insults, hardships, persecutions, and calamities. For when I am weak, then I am strong." (2 Corinthians 12:10)

Content with weakness. Not to give up and sigh a wistful sigh of regret. Not to berate oneself for being insufficient. But content to know that He comes to us in the weaknesses and it is then that He strengthens us. It’s in the struggles that we grow. And it’s in our weakness that we lean most heavily on Christ.

God is all about making the impossible possible. He’s all about taking the woman who’s been afraid of teenagers since she was a teenager and equipping her to raise up to four at a time for 26 consecutive years. (See? He knew it would take me a long time to get it right.)

God makes the impossible possible. God takes the things that don’t come naturally and infuses them with grace. In the end, whether it’s soccer, or pencil drawings, or raising children, it’s not about us. It’s about Him. 

Thanks, Mom.

Stephen celebrated a birthday last weekend. It did not go unheralded in our house, but it did get delayed online. I am determined to guard my time from internet distractions. Even on birthdays--especially on birthdays. 

There was Pioneer Woman's French Toast Casserole in bed. And there was soccer with his buddies. There were cheesy tater tots for lunch. His biggest brother took him to dinner and a movie at the Alamo. All was good. And then, of course, there was the Super Bowl. This is our Super Baby, the boy who always celebrates around the Super Bowl. Always will. And it's just so perfect for him.

It wasn't a perfect year. Fourteen never is. Fourteen is hard work for my boys. Stephen is my fourth boy so I didn't freak out very much the way I did with the first three. I just held on tight and prayed that when the storm passed we'd both be better for having lived through it. And it did. And we are.

Stephen's a great kid. He's the most studious of the bunch of them, eager to learn and disciplined enough to thrive in a relaxed environment. He's ever the philosopher, a great lover of deep conversations about literature and theology. Yet, he still insists we call him Superman, so there's little doubt that, despite his love of logic, he's got quite the imagination. 

There is something else about Stephen: he notices. And he is grateful. No matter the storm of the day, no matter how many times we butt heads, Stephen is the child who, without fail, will turn to me as we pull up in the driveway after driving to and from practice and say, "Thank you, Mom."

Every. Single. Time.

And I am so, so grateful that he is grateful, that he notices, that he knows that this soccer mom gig is not for the faint of heart, that he appreciates the sacrifice. 

I've often wondered if his godfather whispered to him one day that "thank you"was a balm to a soccer mom's heart. Or maybe the idea was prompted by the Holy Spirit. I don't know. I just know that this boy, throughout all the tumult that was early adolescence, was always deep-down grateful. And he made it a point to say so. Some days, those words were bright spots of hope on an otherwise stormy journey. 

Every four years, my Super Bowl baby sees his birthday as a segue to two glorious weeks of Olympic fun in this house. In a family of athletes, where dad goes to work every day at ESPN and  people grow up to be sports media big shots, the Olympics are a Big Deal. Not a World Cup status big deal, but a big deal nonetheless. Nick will get all up in the stats and Stephen will make a case for staying up late. The girls will all want to be figure skaters and it will be a grand celebration.

 I'll watch the moms in the stands.

I'll have a pretty good sense of the time and energy and emotion and money invested in those few moments of competition. And I will hope that at the end of their long days, all along the way, they had a kid like Stephen, who never, ever forgot to say, "Thanks, Mom."

Here's a little Olympic Mom Mush to get the party started. 

C. S. Lewis and Pajama Pants

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Good morning! I've missed this space:-). I've been thinking about it a lot, but the actual keyboard time hasn't presented itself very much. The days have been full; we're working hard as a team here in my house to right the ship and get back on course after a season of considerable turbulence. I doubt our days will ever be smooth sailing, but I'm not feeling quite so seasick this week as last.

Enough with the seafaring analogy.

Sewing is slow-going. I finished Sarah's pajama pants. I made her a Size 5, which is clearly too big. I'm trying to decide whether I want to take off the waistband and cut off an inch or so and then re-attach it. I'm definitely going to re-do the cuff and cuff it up the entire width of the contrast fabric. I don't want the pants to drag. I'm toying with the idea of making the shirt in a 4. If she were a big sister, I'd make the 4 and know I could hand them down when she outgrew them. But, she's not and I'd kind of like to see her wear them forever...

I'm on a C. S. Lewis binge these days. Actually, I've been on a C. S. Lewis binge for quite some time. I bought the C. S. Lewis Bible when we renovated the house in late 2012. It matched the living room paint and looked so pretty perched there. I did read it, however; it wasn't just for show. I kept thinking of my cousin Ellie's reference to pretty Bibles perched in family living rooms of our childhood and didn't want that. However, I didn't write in it. It's out there in open space and I encourage the kids to use it whenever they want, so I didn't really want my notes and highlighting in it. At the beginning of the year, I bought another so I'd have one to highlight. I'm using these pencils to highlight and I do kind of love them. 

Mary Beth, Michael, and I have all reading through A Grief Observed. Mary Beth and I come together occasionally to think on it together. Grief is a strange thing and I've found we are approaching it very gently with one another. At the most recent funeral (yes, our funeral-going has extended into the new year), the priest quoted from Lewis' book. I think Mary Beth was surprised to hear that; Lewis wasn't Catholic after all. This observation has led to some good conversations about truth and about the man-made divisions in communities of faith. It's also led me to pull C. S. Lewis and the Catholic Church from my shelves and read it again with my current crop of teenagers.

I want to raise these children to know and love and understand the gift of the Church. I also want them to grow to be the kind of genuine Christians who meet people of all denominations in the place where Jesus is and to both share their own heart stories of His goodness and hear the stories others bring. Pearce's book is an excellent one for understanding how pride and prejudice of the denominational divide can affect the sense and sensibility of even the most brilliant and holy thinkers.

Homeschoolers have a reputation for hunkering down, for raising children in a bunker and not exposing them to either the secular world or to other religions, even other Christian religions. I think this is a mistake, especially in the high school years. Instead of avoiding anything that contradicts or challenges a family's belief system, it's important to come alongside them as they discover those things. They will discover them! If we leave that discovery to a time when they are supposedly more mature (and so, away from home), we might be surprised to learn that they have neither the wisdom nor the tools to navigate the confusion. It's far better, I think, to explore together and open a dialogue that will hopefully continue as they grow.

I'm also reading Lewis' The Problem of Pain with a friend. It's good to have a grown-up theological discussion right now. I'm in a place where I really want to dig deep and think some things through. And not just theological things. As I've pulled away from social media, I'm reading longer pieces--whole books, long articles, the slow, thoughtful pursuit of Scripture. I'm spending a lot of time with my Bible open and I'm journaling pages and pages on paper. I'm kind of obsessed with paper and pens these days. I think after years of tapping at keyboards, I've missed the feel of paper and the sense of order and satsifaction that comes with seeing my thoughts in front of me in my own handwriting. To be sure, those are the scribblings of pondering in my heart. I write them knowing that they are mine alone. Perhaps it's the assurance that I will protect them from exposure that has opened the floodgates. Or maybe it's just I really, really like using these pens;-).

 

What have you been sewing lately? Or are you embroidering? Pulling a needle with thread through lovely fabric to make life more beautiful somehow? Would you share with us just a single photo and a brief description of what you're up to? Would you talk sewing and books with us? I'd love that so much. Tell me about it in the comments or leave a link to your blog. I'll be happy to come by and visit!

You can get your own needle & thREAD button here in your choice of several happy colors.

This Moment

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And off they go! But your job isn't finished, Mom:-)

The sun sinks into the mountains behind us as we drive away. Goodbyes are said. The van heads home a whole lot lighter. One seat is empty where just a few hours ago it was full. Clearly, we are well entrenched in this new season of life—the season of goodbyes. We first sent a child to college six years ago. He returned home a graduate and then lived with us a couple of years while he worked to save money. We said goodbye unexpectedly three years ago when a child left at fifteen to take up residency in Florida with the U.S. National Team. We had four days to prepare for that leavetaking. He, too, returned.

 

For awhile, all nine children lived under one roof.

 

Late last December, the eldest left home again. Hard-earned money invested in a home of his own, he took a wife and left our home to create a family of his own. Two weeks later, his brother left for college. Yesterday, another brother followed. “The big boys,” as they’ve been called collectively since the youngest was two, have all gone. It’s eerily quiet in my house this morning, though six children remain.

 

I think it a happy liturgical blessing that the Church prepares for the feasts of St. Monica and St. Augustine in the last weeks of summer. Just as we send our children out into the world—whether to kindergarten or college—we have the reassurance that comes with praying novenas for the intercession of a mother-son pair whose faith is breathtaking.

 

St. Monica is the mother of St. Augustine. Her story is so worth the time of every mother. The brief version is that Monica was the wife of a pagan, who had a violent temper and a problem with alcohol. His mother was a difficult, irritable woman, who lived with the couple. Monica bore them patiently and with kindness. She prayed for their conversions and ultimately, they both died Christians.

 

Monica was also the mother of least three children who survived infancy. Augustine, her eldest, was a bit of a handful. He was a wild child who sorely tested her limits with immoral living and heretical philosophies. Monica stayed close to him and prayed mightily for his conversion. In the end, St. Augustine, under the direction of St. Ambrose, was baptized and grew into his vocation as one the greatest saints ever and a Doctor of the Church.

 

 

As I’ve witnessed the grief of mothers as they send their children off to school, I’ve noticed several things. The first is that every woman comes to this time a little differently. For some women, the grief is wide and deep and raw. I’ve seen that this is not the case for everyone. Unfortunately, a woman who aches cannot assume she will be supported and consoled. There is the real possibility that someone will scoff. This is unfortunate, because mothers do need community. The experience of launching a child into the world is not unlike the experience of childbirth. Birthing became a much happier, more humane experience when women began to share collective experiences and to advocate for measures that would bring comfort and support. So, too, we need to empathize with one another in the transition and the sending forth of our children from homes.

 

I’ve listened intently to other women this time around. Eyes wide open and ears alert, I’ve noticed a trend. Mothers worry that they haven’t done enough. As her daughter leaves for college, you give a mom a hug and assure her that she’s done a good job and all will be well and she returns your well-intentioned words of encouragement with wild-eyed panic. She worries. She worries about all the conversations they never got around to having. She worries about all the lessons in faith she never taught. She worries about all the moments of instruction and guidance and reassurance that slipped through her fingers. Was it enough? Did she do enough? Now that her job is over, will everything be ok? Sometimes, the grief upon leaving is commensurate with a mother’s fear that she has somehow failed to adequately prepare her child for the day of departure.

 

We are certain—because we know our child so well and we love her so fiercely—that it is not enough. We are certain that we’ve forgotten something. There’s more to do, more to say, more to love. And there is.

 

Here’s a hint, mom. It’s not over.

 

We don’t stop mothering when they leave home. God’s not finished and neither are you. St. Monica prayed for her son for seventeen years after she kicked him out of her house. She stuck close. He left Tagaste for Rome and she followed him there. She stay tuned into him, engaged in his life, and was prayerfully incessant. She wasn’t a nagging mother (or nagging wife, for that matter). Instead, she was a faith-filled servant of God who never stopped loving and was relentless in her firm resolve to live the Gospel. She was a teacher, a role model, and an agent of change in the conversion of people she loved well past their childhoods.

 

It’s not over.

 

It’s not too late. You aren’t finished mothering. Indeed, in many ways, it’s just begun. One of the saddest stories I’ve ever known is the story told by a grown woman whose parents were “finished” when they left her at college. They considered their “jobs” done. It’s not a job. It’s a vocation. Parenting is for a lifetime. In this age of entitlement, one thing is certain. If there is anything—anything—to which a grown child is entitled, it is the ongoing prayers of his parents and the sweet assurance that they will forever hold him tightly in their hearts. Whatever lies ahead, no matter where he goes and what he does, no matter the challenges, we will dedicate ourselves with confidence to the gentle kindness and firmness of conviction that St. Monica brought to mothering adult children.

Healthy Ways to Give and Get Love

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I've resolved to finish both the book studies begun here. I noticed that both of them petered out in the fall, one last year and one the year before. I figure if I start now, I can finish them both before whatever happens in the fall that makes me not able to finish things.

We were on Habit # 7 of The 10 Habits of Healthy Mothers.

Meg Meeker writes:

"We start to dream about her future because we want more. Maybe we want more than we had, whatever that was or wasn't. We want her to be polite because we weren't. We want her to come home during her summers in college because we never wanted to. She'll have a perfect mom. Our daughter will be the lucky one. We'll give her everything we missed.

"Can't you see? Early in our son's life, we lay out our hopes and dreams, not based on who he is, but on who we are. While we say that we will let him be who he wants to be and that we will love him unconditionally, the reality is, none of us mothers can actually do that. When we go to give him our love, our own needs become kneaded into that love and pretty soon, love can feel messy. But it doesn't have to be."

Ah. That collision of hopes and dreams with the reality that pains mothers so much, particularly as their children move through their teens and early twenties. We have talked about that before and you had plenty to say. It's interesting to me that I think I read this chapter differently than I did two years ago, when I first began this study and first read this book. I think that's because I'm more practiced in collision care. Happens all the time: they don't act according to my perfectly scripted daydreams. It doesn't always go as I'd hoped. Actually, it frequently doesn't go as I'd hoped.

"We fear that if we admit that it's going any way other than what we'd hoped, we'll also have to admit that something is broken in our children, or that something is off in our mothering. Neither of these is a fun thing to accept and so when it comes to feeling humbled or hanging on to a slow burn, we opt for the latter. Being angry is safe. It is easier to swallow than admitting that something is cracked. And it protects us from further hurt."

So let's just get that admission  out of the way right now. Let's say it aloud to one another: My kids are broken and so am I. If we can tear down the illusions of perfection and even the expectations of perfection, we can be genuine support to one another. Think about it: how approachable is the perfect woman in the PTO? How eager are you to share a cup of coffee and a heart-to-heart with the lady who has it all together? Let's struggle together. One point that several people spoke to when we listened to the Pat Gohn podcast was the pain caused by competition in friendships. I think we compete with each other and I think we compete with the ideal version of ourselves and our children. Chances are, we learned to do that from our mothers, who had their own ideal versions of themselves and of us, carefully guarded and perpetuated. Depending on how unhealthy this was, those lessons in accepting nothing less than the ideal can be very well ingrained.

It's not too late. We can learn this lesson. Our survival depends on it. If we can give and get love in a healthy manner, we will age beautifully. If we cling to the old paradigm, we will become lonely, embittered shriveled-up old women. I mean that. Nothing will age a woman faster than trying to make her children into something God never inteneded them to be. I promise you that your vision--no matter how lovely--is not God's vision. His is better. It might be really messy getting there. Nothing will make you uglier and more miserable than tightening your controlling grip when love goes awry.

Dr. Meeker suggests four ways to give and get love in a healthy manner.

#1 Take Calculated Risks

This means mom goes first. We tell them first how we feel, we apologize first, and we express our needs aloud. It's a good thing to be vulnerable and to take risks with our love. It's not a good thing to lock our hearts up in a chamber of anger in the hopes we won't be hurt again. With this vocation, comes ample strength and grace to do what we need to do. "If you lay your heart on the table and the person doesn't respond, you handle that. In reality, you can handle far more disappointment than you think you can." What you can't handle--really, truly--is to walk away with your lips pursed and your fist clenched inside your pockets. What you can't handle is anger. It will kill you.

#2 Don't Take Loved Ones So Personally

I think this one is my biggest change since I first started this study. Every time one of my children rejected a component of my Perfect Picture, I took it personally. What was wrong with my ideal? Why deviate from that plan? As they grow, there is great joy in seeing who they are unfold, in seeing the Creator's fingerprints on them. It is somewhat startling, I think, when we begin to recognize that the road to becoming who they truly are is strewn not with rose petals but with all matter of debris. The idyllic path is actually not often trod. Most kids take one of the messier routes and frequently they don't want us along for the ride (or at least they think they don't). They tell us so rather bluntly. Sometimes, "they have temper tantrums directed towards us and try to pull us into their private tornadic whirl."  This can be quite startling, to say the least. Tornados suck mothers in. We believe the anger in the vortex. 

"We can't afford to do this. When we are hurt by loved ones, we must stand back and assess their words as if we were mothers of toddlers. No, they aren't toddlers, but this helps us be more objective about the problem. When a loved one hurts us...review the words as thogh they were driected at a friend, not us. By removing ourselves from the moment [even if the moment is a season long], we can objectify the words [or actions] and try to see if they are reasonable of not."

#3 Learn to Read Loved Ones and Let Them Read You

The best resources on reading a loved on and letting them read you are Gary Chapman's books. I cannot recommend them highly enough:

The 5 Love Languages

The 5 Love Languages of Children

The 5 Love Languages of Teenagers

"Many mothers show love to their kids by cooking their favorite meals, driving them everywhere, or buying them gifts. While our intentions are good, these gestures don't ensure kids feel loved. Certainly kids learn to appreciate the work we do for them as they mature, but in the meantime, it is important to find the small things we can do to let them know that they really are loved by us. While they are growing up in our homes, much of our interaction with our kids is negative because we are correcting them or disciplining them. So find out what makes each child feel loved. When you do this and express it, it will come back to you tenfold.

#4 Express Love Even When You don't Feel Like It

Just be a big girl, already. Quit whining and complaining. Don't stay stuck as an adolescent. Do the hard things. Do them well. And do them gratefully. 

"Let's not be foolish The best love relationships require rolling up our sleeves again and again and saying a lot of things we really would rather not. Love requires that we take a deep breath and ask loved ones to forgive us for acting like jerks. It requires saying "no" to our kids and then being willing to reinforce the "no" for hours afterward. It means telling daughters that they can't wear teeny tops and skirts to school even when they wail and cry that kids won't like them. And it demands that we have the "talk" with our sons and daughters over and over about sex too soon with too many partners because hurt always follows. We do these things because we love our kids, but nothing is easy about doing any of them. "

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And it's not just about the kids. One of the greatest predictors of happy mothers is happy marriages. That doesn't mean it's impossible to be a happy single mother with happy kids. It does mean that the path is smoother for women in happy marriages. And by golly, ladies, we have to work at making marriage happy.

"So when a spouse drives us crazy, we must draw on the same internal gift that we use with our kids. Instead of complaining, we need to focus on appreciating him." When we live this model of appreciating over complaining, counting blessings instead of itemizing annoyances, we create a climate of love. Children learn from watching us. Let them learn genuine love in action.

{{This post is the 11th in a series discussing The 10 Habits of Happy Mothers: Reclaiming our Passion, Purpose, and Sanity.}}

The rest of our discussions of  The 10 Habits of Happy Mothers: Reclaiming our Passion, Purpose, and Sanity can be found here. 

Part 1(discussing Habit 1)

Part 2 (still discussing Habit 1)

Part 3 (still more on Habit 1)

Part 4 (Habit 2: key friendships)

Part 5 (Habit 2: your thoughts on friendship_

Part 6 (Habit 3: Value and Practice Faith)

Part 7(Habit 4: Say No to Competition)

Part 8 (Habit 4: Say No to Competition)

Part 9 (Habit 5: Create a Healthier Relationship with Money)

Part 10 (Habit 6: Make Time for Solitude)

 

Cutest Birthday Card Ever

*Love you, Bee. You've turned me into a great speller and you've teached me lots of things. Love, Kari

study in contrasts

A little further proof for the theory that children raised in the same home, according to the same rules, can turn out very differently:

There are chidlren in my house who cannot find their beds at night for all the stuff everywhere. And there are children who make their beds practically before their feet touch the floor in the morning and then send texts like this on the way to soccer practice:

 

God bless you, Stephen. We marked the page and put the book beside your bed.

Social Media, Teenagers, and the Meaning of Life

I’ve spent entirely too much time on Facebook and Twitter lately. I’m not on my own pages for more than a few minutes a day, but I follow my teenagers carefully. Supervision of social media is a parenting responsibility being trailblazed by my generation. There is no guidebook. No one has gone before us. And, honestly, the landscape changes almost daily. While I’d much rather be outside gardening than wading through the tweets of every teenager in town and many teenagers in far-flung places, it has afforded me an interesting perspective on life as a teenager in this new century.

Please read the rest here. 

But then come back! 

I want to keep discussing this one.

My favorite post ever on Facebook and teenagers is this one, by Danielle Bean, written on the occasion of her eldest joining Facebook. I love it all, but what astounded me when I first read it and what continues to amaze me is Danielle's ability to see the pitfalls before Kateri even ventured onto the Facebook teen world. That's one wise mama on the 'net.

We all need to wise mamas on the 'net. And the big hurdle we have to overcome is that it moves so quickly and it's all so new that anticipating where our children may get tripped up is not nearly as easy as Danielle makes it look. 

Clearly, I understand that learning to use social media during one's teenaged years is a necessary education. And, despite reports to the contrary, I'm definitely not social media hater. I went to Facebook reluctantly and I actually really like it there. I surprise myself with that statement. I went to Twitter (with Danielle's help), and honestly, I'm sure I don't quite get it. I can say the same thing, at the same time, on Twitter and Facebook and Facebook peeps chatter away, while Twitter folks (I will not call them Twits or Tweeps) ignore it. Go figure. I adore Instagram and the smallish circle of folks who brighten my days there.

Finally, my biggest assurance to people that I'm not anti-social media is the fact that a great deal of celebrating happened here when eldest son was named Director of Social Media for Sports at USAToday. In a moment, all the wrangling over Myspace and the steep learning curve we both climbed almost ten years ago seemed worth the time and effort. That said, the age of Facebook and Twitter entry in our house was raised substantially when a new 13-year-old said something ridiculously stupid and was erased from the face of internet interaction until he's old enough to drive. We're still learning here, folks.

My time watching what my kids say on social media is time well spent. I know that. It's also disconcerting. I want to tape Danielle's list on every computer in the house, somehow attach it to every smart phone. I can't tell you how many times I look at my husband (who knew me well in high school) and say, "I'm so glad I didn't leave an electronic record of that." And he will knowingly wink and concur.

My kids have seen me dissolve into a puddle of tears while staring at a computer screen. They've witnessed what social media can do to a reputation over the course of a single weekend. And I am aware that I set the example here, even as I make mistakes.

One thing I've learned and one thing that serves me really well is to walk away. I've learned to shut it all down for two or more days at a time and regain perspective that comes from looking into real faces and up at the wide open sky. I have learned how important it is to my mental health to be hands-free. I try to stay away from the internet on Fridays, Saturdays, and Sundays. For me, I find that three days in a row proves to be the most beneficial. Over time, I've tweaked it a bit. I make an exception for posting to Instagram, mostly because I find myself with lots of capture-able moments on the weekend because I'm mostly away from my screen. I love my iPhone most of all for its camera:-) And, after I missed the opportunity to meet a far-off friend on the spur of the moment, I learned to check my email occasionally, too. Obviously, I pre-program blog posts. Mostly though, I back away--way away--from the screen for a three day weekend every week.

I wish I could teach my children how valuable that break is. Here's the thing: when you feel most sad or discouraged or downtrodden, that's when you most need to click the whole thing closed and unplug. You're not going to find consolation on the internet. Stop looking for it there. Find it where Augustine did. 

Monday Moments

{These Monday moments? Jotted down on Sunday. Full of prom pictures. There's a Grandma in Florida who wants to see them all. Please indulge her, y'all.}

I find myself:

::noticing God's glory

Morning walks are full of signs of new life. Little buds, new leaves, berries not yet ripe. There are ducklings and goslings in the lake and I think some new bunnies under the hedges. The weather was absolutely glorious this weekend.

 

::listening to 

Sarah and Karoline playing "Prom." Kristin came over as the pre-prom bustle started bustling. She spirited the little girls upstairs for hairdos and makeup and manicures and pedicures. Then they put on dress up clothes. This is the (new) game that will never end.

 

::clothing myself in 

Cropped jeans, my favorite gray shirt and a big apron with strawberries on a field of black. This apron best hides beet stains and roasted beets are on the menu for dinner tonight.

::talking with my children about these books

Since I'm going to share my own reading on Thursdays at needle and thREAD, I thought I'd share some reading from our family's choices. 

Mary Beth and I are digging into the free Grace Livingston Hill downloads on Kindle. She didn't get terribly excited about hers but I read mine cover-to-cover over the weekend. Happy sigh. This is remarkable because it is only the second fiction book outside of books for my children's education that I've finished since 1990. It's also the second book I finished last week:-).

 I used to read fiction voraciously. Then I got cancer. I never finished a fiction book on my own again. I'm not sure why and I haven't spent much time analyzing it. Partly, it's because I hate conflict and every good book has some conflict. But that's not the all of it.

Whatever it was, I'm cured! I've begun my second Grace Livingston Hill book and I'll also be back tomorrow to share with you the very first fiction-for-mama book I've read in the last two decades.

::thinking and thinking

On Saturday, Patrick hurt his knee. We don't yet know how big a deal it is, but our hearts stood still in the moment, for sure. I was dispatched to drop in on Hilary and let her know that plans for prom would most definitely change. I interrupted the merry afternoon she had planned to ready herself for the big dance to tell her that Patrick was going to go on crutches. He wasn't to drive and he'd have to be really careful. What's more, he might be a little preoccupied, because knees are rather important to boys who plan on soccer careers. 

She responded with nothing but concern for him, with absolute certainty that they'd change whatever plans necessary, and the assurance that if it was in his best interest, they didn't have to go at all.

For his part, he determined not to show any sign of pain, not to take any pictures with crutches, and to dedicate the evening to making her smile. 

And smile she did.

They went to dinner at the home of friends and then, after dinner and before the dance, paid a visit to Mike's parents so that Patrick's grandparents could take in the glorious sight they were. 

It was an early evening as proms go, but the memory will linger happily a long, long time.

::giving thanks for

a sweet girl whose blue eyes brim, not because she's sad for herself, but because she cares so much about my boy.

::pondering prayerfully

When Mother Teresa received the Nobel Peace Prize, she was asked, "What can we do to promote world peace?" She answered "Go home and love your family."

::carefully cultivating rhythm

Hah! A few weeks ago, I ordered a big box of curriculum kinds of things. I explained to a friend that my thought was that I wanted an underpinning of things that would happen everyday--a little grammar, a little math, a little handwriting, a little spelling, some foreign language. I prefer more creative endeavors, and many days we do those, but I wanted something that would be there whatever came.

My words to my friend were, "I just want to be sure we hit the rhythm of learning even on the Mondays when I get up and say, 'Nicky hurt himself in Sunday's match. I'm off the doctor-xray-doctor. Just do the regular and keep things going.'"

We're going to test that this morning. Insert Paddy instead of Nicky and Saturday instead of Sunday. Here we go.

::creating by hand

We shall see. I've been known to accomplish quite a lot in medical waiting rooms. 

::learning lessons in

trust.

::encouraging learning 

I'm endeavoring to make sure that one day a week is dedicated to learning out of doors. From now until it's way too cold. Every week. Promising myself.

 

::begging prayers

for all the people who have joined our weekend prayer community. I carried your requests with me to Mass and I will keep a candle lit for you throughout the week. Elizabeth DeHority has left an update in last weekend's combox, for those of you who are continuing to hold her in prayer.

for lonely missionaries.

for Patrick.

for the repose of the soul of my Aunt Christina, who died this morning.

for baby Truman, who drowned in a few inches of water in a bucket this weekend, but was revived. Won't you watch and wait with us, keeping Truman, his doctors, and his beautiful family in your unceasingly prayers?

 

:keeping house

Patrick is going to re-write the chore chart. Mine is not working.

::crafting in the kitchen 

I ended up not going to the dance competition. Mary Beth's Saturday dances were shifted to Sunday and she went with Hilary and her mom. I stayed home with Patrick, changed out ice packs, and tried to be positive and cheerful. I gathered the first herbs from our kitchen garden to make roast chicken. We're having carmelized rosemary sweet potatoes and a spinach salad with beets and bacon dressing. Sunday dinners are wonderful, aren't they?.

::loving the moments

when I wonder if my heart could be any fuller.

::living the liturgy

We are using  33 Days to Morning Glory  in preparation for Marian Consecration on the Feast of the Visitation. Soon!

We'll celebrate Pentecost Sunday this coming weekend. My plans are just taking shape, but I know that Saturday's soccer will take us to Poolesville and that means we'll pick strawberries to be a part of a 7-fruit salad. I love the feast of Pentecost, but I admit to being a little sad this year to see the Easter season end.

 

::planning for the week ahead

When a week begins with an 8 AM appointment to the team doctor, followed by an MRI, I hesitate to make plans.

{Photo credit? Who knows? Some are mine; some are Hilary's mom's. Some might even be Stephen on my iPhone.}

Bully Reading and Ruffle Bumps

I used to think that bullying was not a concern of mine. My image of a bully was one of a big guy on the blacktop during recess, picking on the little guy with glasses. Since there was no blacktop recess in the lives of my children, I didn't worry too much about bullying. I was so wrong.

In the last two months, I've learned quite a bit about bullying. I've learned that the more likely vehicle in my children's lives is not a basketball thrown at them, but a cell phone heavily armed with foul language and pointed mean messages. I've learned that the bully isn't necessarily a big grade school boy, but may be a teenaged girl. Not that boys are immune; they are bullies, too, and bullying is just as likely to happen at soccer practice in a pleasant suburban neighborhood with private school and homeschool boys as on the public school blacktop. Oh yes, we are learning about bullies in lots of venues and from several angles.

Most of all,  I've learned that homeschooling doesn't matter one whit when it comes to bullying. To say this surprised me is an understatement. The things I'm learning! Homeschooled kids are bullied and homeschooled kids are bullies. All of a sudden, it's very much my business.

So, I'm reading Dear Bully: Seventy Authors Tell Their Stories. It's an anthology of essays written by accomplished authors, mostly authors for teens. Every perspective is represented here: the bully, the bullied, the bystander. So far, it's an interesting read, but not something I'd hand to tweens and definitely something that I'd read with teens.

In the knitting department, I planned to knit for hours as I waited for soccer games on Sunday and finish this scarf at last. But I got stuck on picking up the wrapped stitches (can you see them there?). I have some different directions and I'm hoping to conquer them tonight and then just cruise to the end. Once the wrapped ones are all picked up, I have to knit front, back, and front again in all two hundred stitches, to give me a three hundred stitch ruffle. That's a very long stretch of ruffly happy. I'm very eager to get there.

{Good news: I think the comments are working again. Yay!}

Go visit Ginny for more reading and knitting.

Hard to Know What to Say

Large Child comes in the house and knows immediately that little siblings are in his room. Touching his stuff. He heads off with alacrity to catch them in the act.

Wait," I call. "Come back. Where are you going?"

"To get them out of my room. I hate when they're in my room and I'm not there."

"Hold on. How is that different from yesterday when I came out of my bathroom to find you sitting on my bed, with your snack on my nightstand, your computer in your lap and my remote in your hand and you said you didn't know I was there?"

"That was your room. It's a public access room."

"A public access room?"

"Yes. Every single one of us started out in that room. It was our room, too. We slept in that bed. We were fed and comforted in that room. So it's only natural that when we want to relax and eat and be comfortable, we go to your room. Because we've learned that it's ours. All of ours."

He's quick, that one.

Small Steps Together: Mother Courage

I think back to those times: a little girl undergoing one surgery after another to construct an ear that was never there; a young mother facing chemotherapy and uncertainty; a mother of many warned by doctors that she could die delivering the baby she carried. In each instance, people commended my courage. But those weren't instances of courage to me. They were just doing what had to be done.

Courage was what I'd beg of God when I just couldn't keep breathing on my own, when my breath caught and I needed God just to exhale. Courage was my prayer when I let my teenagers go out into that great big world. What I wanted was to keep them home, hold them close, protect them forever. As my big boys began to march forth into life, they walked around with pieces of my heart inside of them. Suddenly, I was vulnerable. I saw that they were going to be hurt and I was going to watch them suffer. There was no way around it. They would make mistakes and get hurt. They would learn about what's out there in a fallen world, and get hurt. They would meet many, many people and some of them would hurt them. Nothing was ever so simple as it was when they were babies in my arms. Then, I could gather them up and soothe their hurts, chase away their fears, make every little thing “all better” just by my presence.  But as they grew, I found myself praying for courage. I began to understand that, for mothers, the heroic effort is in letting them go.

It's not so much that I wanted them to be little again. To want that would have been to wish away the beautiful people they had grown to be, to wish away years of loving and living together. No, instead, I wanted to be the mother I was when they were babies. I wanted the power to gather them on my lap and soothe them as I rocked. I wanted to shelter and protect and to be their whole world. I wanted to be able to ensure that their days were happy and healthy and holy. I wanted to cradle them in the protection of my arms. I wanted to love them with all my heart. And I wanted that to be enough. Instead, I must remember that for all their lives, my calling is to have the courage to love them, knowing that they will leave, and trusting that God will care for them more tenderly than I ever could.

Mothering older children takes courage, because just as sure as the sun will rise, so will there be trouble in the lives of our children. I am left to storm heaven on their behalf and to thank the Lord for the gift they are.I shore myself up for the years of mothering that lie ahead by reminding myself of the words of Blessed Mary MacKillop: Whatever troubles may be before you, accept them bravely, remembering Whom you are trying to follow. Do not be afraid. Love one another, bear with one another, and let charity guide you all your life. God will reward you as only He can. 

~republished from Small Steps Companion Journal

Small Steps focuses on courage this month. Would you share your thoughts with us, let us find you and walk with you? I'd be so grateful and so honored to have you as a companion. Please leave a link to your blog post below and then send your readers back here to see what others have said.You're welcome to post the Small Steps Together banner button also.

 

Giving Voice

The most interesting thing has happened over the course of the last few weeks. Some events in my very real, up-close life have conspired to completely reverse my opinions on social networking. (You can stop laughing, Dallas.) Maybe someday, I'll tell the story on these pages. For now, though, I'm uniquely grateful for the blessings born here on this blog and in the community of blogging women. I'm seeing the genuine joy a blog can be for the first time in a long time.

This morning, my dear friend Ann gave voice to a balm for the painful wounds of saddened friendships. It was a privilege and a joy to hear her dear voice across the miles as she uttered these sweet words: 

"I promise I will never speak an unkind word to or about you. I will never be jealous of you. I will never compete with you. I will never abandon or betray you. I will love you. I will pray for you. I will do all I can to help you go far and wide in the Kingdom. 

I will accept you as you are, always. I will be loyal to you. Before our loving God of grace, you have my words and my heart in friendship for this life and forever with Him.”

A gift. An amazing gift of true charity. Do listen to her whole message.

This afternoon, I was privileged to join a another dear friend across the miles. There is no wound so painful, no hurt so raw as a mother's heart just after she sends her firstborn to college. I know. Three years ago, I was there. And on the way home, I pulled over and called Dallas. (How funny, all these things keep ending up in Dallas. Huh. I'll have to think on that one day.) Anyway, I called Dallas. And the voice on the end of the phone told me to go buy a tablecloth. I can't remember why. But I remember the tablecloth. More than that, I remember the gift of love that was her voice. She was a woman "met" in the blogosphere, reaching across the miles with genuine charity.

Today, I talked with Lisa Hendey just moments after she watched her elder son take flight, bound for Harvard, three thousand miles from home. Sweet Rachel Balducci joined us--nothing like a southern accent and a warm shoulder to ease the pain and share the burden. Looking back, I still can't believe we put these moments on record and shared them. But I think they'll bless you. I know that conversation genuinely blessed me. Please listen. 

And offer a prayer for Lisa. Because it really does hurt in a way that only God can heal.

Rites of Passage

I used to like driving Patrick to soccer.

Three or so times a week, we'd make the trip. He sat next to me up front and we talked about all sorts of things. Sometimes we just listened to music on the radio in companionable silence. Those days are over.

Last Monday, he got his Learner's Permit. Now, he drives and I sit next to him up front. We talk about driving, both of us very intent on the task at hand.

And I'm sort of sad. Because I know what the next step is.

He's going to drive alone.

A Childlike Faith

Dear Mary Beth,

Sweet girl! You came to this day as you have come to every day of your life, with deep, unwavering, childlike faith and gentle grace. You do not have a story of tribulation to tell; indeed, there isn't even the slightest hint of doubt or searching or rebellion. Instead, you have a love story. As you approached the altar to complete the work begun in Baptism, it was so easy for me to remember your baptism. Behind you today, with her hand on your shoulder, was your beloved Mel.  She sang for you on your baptism day. "Rejoice and be glad! Blessed are you, holy are you. Rejoice and be glad! For yours is the kingdom of God." Blessed you have been. You are one of those rare souls who has been blessed with an extraordinary faith. You don't wrestle; you don't fret. You believe to the core of your being and you live what you believe.

It was Mel who first led you to the Atrium, where you sunk into the environment and seemed to come alive before your Lord every week. Mrs. Bishop nurtured that gift of faith and we all watched as it bloomed brilliantly. As soon as you were too old to be a child in the atrium, you became an assistant, sometimes twice a week, once with Mrs. Bishop and once with Mel. There, in the hush and the joy of children embracing the Good Shepherd, your own childlike faith grew.

 

Make no mistake, it's not a childish faith. You are not the slightest bit immature. Instead, it is a faith reminds me daily of your Confirmation patron, St Therese of the Child Jesus. She has been your companion for so long, hasn't she? Remember how you begged her for a little sister? You were the only girl, stuck between five boys. Tiny little one, you wanted to wish every day for a sister to love. I suggested we pray instead. So began our perpetual novena to St. Therese. And then, there was Kirsten Therese. With sure faith that your prayers would be answered, you begged your sweet saint for a "shower of roses." Mel was with you the day you helped Daddy and I welcome Karoline Rose to the world. And on the night you called the scariest of your whole life, you sat up all night with St. Therese and begged some more. What a gift you are to sweet Sarah Anne!

And there's another thing that has struck me in the days we've spent preparing for Confirmation: with the gift of extraordinary faith, God gave you another gift. He gave you the gift of a rare and enduring friendship. You really do have a best friend for life. I will never forget how you and Bailey giggled with sheer delight when you discovered that independently you'd chosen the same First Communion dresses. What a sweet picture you made that day, lovely little girls with darling curls. Your curls didn't come naturally but you begged me to help you make some for that day so you and Bailey could really match. I've watched you this year as Bailey has suffered. I know how your heart breaks for her and how constantly you hold her in prayer. And I know that Bailey, well enough to be sitting with you, being sealed in the Holy Spirit right alongside you, brought you a special joy.

 

Finally, it is fitting that girl whose heart nearly broke when Patrick chose not to be confirmed when it was "his turn" two years ago and who never lost faith in him and never stopped praying for him should be granted the great privilege and joy of standing right next to him as he was confirmed this year. No one loves Paddy the way you love Paddy and no one could have been happier to share her moment before the bishop with him.

As I kissed your forehead confirmation night, I inhaled the sweet scent of chrism that took me back to a beautiful baby in a white dress and bonnet. A first daughter. The answer to a lifelong prayer. In all my imagining, in every hope and wish and prayer, I could not have begun to grasp the gift that is you.

God bless you!

 
 

Man of God

Dear Patrick,

Did you know that you just kept singing all day, the day you were confirmed? We all know that you are not the most gifted singer, but sing you did. All day long, sheer joy bubbled up from you. Joy. You have found joy in Our Lord.

Two years ago, you told us that you could not honestly profess our faith. You had too many doubts, too many unanswered questions. You had learned too young that the Church is made of imperfect people. Alongside your seeds of faith, seeds of doubt had been sown. We appreciated the courage and honesty you showed in that moment. And we began a long, hard journey with you to find Christ.

There were nights I trembled with fear as I watched the storms rage within you. I prayed. Oh, how I prayed! There was a grain of faith there, I knew. A mustard seed, if you will. You tried to crush it.

We read great books. You talked to brilliant apologists. You remained unconvinced. You faltered. And you fell.  You learned that living in a family of faith means that someone will pick you up and carry you as far as you need, for as long as you need. You saw in your father the face of forgiveness and the example of sacrifice for someone else's sins. You softened and opened yourself just a little bit to the grace of the Lord. You heard the voice of Jesus in the confessional. I will forever be grateful to that good and holy priest. You returned to the Eucharist, tentatively at first.

There were so many, many people praying for you. Among them was a band of brothers in Louisiana and their sweet, faithful Mama. You knew they could be counted on to drop everything and pray through overtime of the State Cup finals. We could almost hear them cheering from so far away when you scored the winning goal. But you also knew that a faithful woman in the deep South joined her prayers with mine and your godmother's and the prayers of so many people who love you for a much, much bigger triumph.

On a warm, late summer afternoon, just as you were beginning to embrace Our Lord, your world was rocked. The baby boy newly born to the merry band of brothers died in his sleep. And that afternoon, as we sat at an outdoor cafe on the way to soccer practice and I tried to make some phone calls, you cradled your baby sister very close and I noticed you were trembling.

We all held our breath. How would tragedy test your faith? How would you reconcile the pain you were witnessing to the gospel?

You, you saw a new saint and claimed him for your own. He is your constant companion. Some of the first prayers Mrs. Mitchell whispered heavenward to her dear little one were prayers for you. We begged his intercession even as we mourned the loss of him.  September 1, 2009 was the day Patrick Foss began to step heavenward with a firm assurance that still astounds everyone around you. 

You began to prepare in earnest for your Confirmation, eager to complete the healing begun in baptism.

You chose Coach Harkes for your sponsor. He is the perfect choice for you. He understands you. He understands your intensity about all things. He understands the formidable challenges that come with your remarkable gifts. And he is a man of God.  He'll be there for you, wherever "there" is. 

Finally, it is so fitting that in the same place where seeds of doubt were scattered years ago, a new priest celebrated Mass. You were humbled by his profound witness of faith. You were inspired by his obvious love for the Eucharist. And, you were renewed in hope and faith in your Church. You left that makeshift altar in a school gym and walked home with the confidence of a man who was very sure of his God. In the Year for Priests, we are so grateful for the holy example of an extraordinary man of God.

Did I cry on the evening when you were confirmed? Oh, yes, dear boy. I definitely did. And no tears ever tasted so sweet.

God bless you, Patrick Gabriel Bryce.

 

What is it with me and carseats?

I was hanging the lining of Sarah's carseat to dry after the barfing episode and Katie wandered into the laundry room.

"So, I guess now that it's all clean and beautiful, you'll put it away until we have another baby? Sarah hates that carseat."

And the tears spring way too easily. I lean into the dryer even though there is nothing in there. I don't want her to see.

"No, we'll put it away until we find someone who needs it. My guess is that Mommy's too old to have another baby."

"That's ridiculous. We should adopt."

She skips away to discuss Haitian adoptions with Nicky, who would really rather adopt a boy his age than a baby.

I finish hanging the rest of the items from that offensive load; the Ergo is last to find a hanger. It smells so sweet now. We have at least one more season with my little one nestled against me in this carrier. I remember one of my favorite hugs ever, right around this time last year, when Sarah was asleep in the Ergo just after Paddy won the State Cup. She was sandwiched between us. Life was perfect that day: funny, interesting teenagers; utterly engaging middle kids; twirling, dancing toddlers; and a baby asleep on my chest. My dear husband utterly delirious to be in their company. One more season of the Ergo. I know that it is unlikely that I will give it away. It will end up in my hope chest with Michael's Peter Pan costume and Stephen's and Nicky's matching gecko shirts and Katie's crocheted bunny hat. All little pieces of fabric in the quilt of our lives.

Sarah's nearly 17 months old. She gets sick riding backwards. It's time to move on to a bigger carseat. What the heck? It's a carseat. Why do I care so much?

Because I know.

I've been here before. If I blink--if I dare to blink--the tears that fill my eyes will surely run down my face.

Remember this, from five years ago?

Don't Blink

For the first time in a very long time, I am neither pregnant nor mothering a baby. My "baby" is now two years old. And with a certainty that takes my breath away, I suddenly understand why wise women always told me that the time would go so quickly. To be sure, I’ve had more "baby time" than most women. My first baby will be 16 in a few days. I still think it’s over much too soon.

This column is for mothers of infants and toddlers. I am going to attempt to do something I never thought I’d do: I’m going to empathize while not in your situation. My hope is that it is all so fresh in my memory that I can have both perspective and relevance.

What you are doing, what you are living, is very difficult. It is physically exhausting. It is emotionally and spiritually challenging. An infant is dependent on you for everything. It doesn’t get much more daunting: there is another human being who needs you for his very life. Your life is not your own at all. You must answer the call (the cry) of that baby, regardless of what you have planned. This is dying to self in a very pure sense of the phrase. And you want to be with him. You ache for him. When he is not with you, a certain sense of restlessness edges its way into your consciousness, and you are not at complete peace.

If you are so blessed that you have a toddler at the same time, you wrestle with your emotions. Your former baby seems so big and, as you settle to nurse your baby and enjoy some quiet gazing time, you try desperately to push away the feeling that the great, lumbering toddler barreling her way toward you is an intruder. Your gaze shifts to her eyes, and there you see the baby she was and still is, and you know that you are being stretched in ways you never could have imagined.

This all might be challenge enough if you could just hunker down in your own home and take care of your children for the next three years; but society requires that you go out — at least into the marketplace. So you juggle nap schedules and feeding schedules and snowsuits and carseats. Just an aside about carseats: I have literally had nightmares about installing carseats. These were not dreams that I had done it wrong or that there had been some tragedy. In my dreams I am simply exhausted, struggling with getting the thing latched into the seat of the car and then getting my baby latched into the carseat. I’m fairly certain anyone else who has ever had four of these mechanical challenges lined up in her van has had similar dreams. It’s the details that overwhelm you, drain you, distract you from the nobility of it all. The devil is in the details.

You will survive. And here is the promise: if you pray your way through this time, if you implore the Lord at every turn, if you ask Him to take this day and this time and help you to give Him something beautiful, you will grow in ways unimagined. And the day will come when no one is under two years old. You will — with no one on your lap — look at your children playing contentedly together without you. And you will sigh. Maybe, like me, you will feel your arms are uncomfortably empty, and you will pray that you can hold a baby just once more. Or maybe, you will sense that you are ready to pass with your children to the next stage.

This is the place where nearly two decades of mothering babies grants me the indulgence of sharing what I would have done differently. I would have had far fewer obligations outside my home. Now, I see that there is plenty of time for those, and that it is much simpler to pursue outside interests without a baby at my breast. I wish I’d spent a little more time just sitting with that baby instead of trying to "do it all."

I wish I’d quieted the voices telling me that my house had to look a certain way. I look around now and I recognize that those houses that have "that look" don’t have these children. Rarely are there a perfectly-kept house and a baby and a toddler under one roof. Don’t listen to the voices that tell you that it can be done. It should not be done. I wish I hadn’t spent 16 years apologizing for the mess. Just shoot for "good enough." Cling to lower standards and higher goals.

I wish I’d taken more pictures, shot more video and kept better journals. I console myself with the knowledge that my children have these columns to read. They’ll know at least as much about their childhoods as you do.

I wish I could have recognized that I would not be so tired forever, that I would not be standing in the shallow end of the pool every summer for the rest of my life, that I would not always have a baby in my bed (or my bath or my lap). If I could have seen how short this season is (even if mine was relatively long), I would have savored it all the more.

And I wish I had thanked Him more. I prayed so hard. I asked for help. But I didn’t thank Him nearly enough. I didn’t thank Him often enough for the sweet smell of a newborn, for the dimples around pudgy elbows and wrists, for the softening of my heart, for the stretching of my patience, for the paradoxical simplicity of it all. A baby is a pure, innocent, beautiful embodiment of love. And his mother has the distinct privilege, the unparalleled joy, of watching love grow. Don’t blink. You’ll miss it.

Time to Build Another Trophy Shelf

This fine collection is the weekend's rewards.

 

The first one went to Nicholas, whose team won the 3rd grade boys league championship. Nicky has been a nervous wreck the entire season and threatened to quit before every game. Now, he has decided that basketball was "pretty cool." And he says he can't wait to do it again next year. We'll see...

The second trophy belongs to Mary Beth. Her team made it all the way to the championship and then their point guard didn't show up because she had a soccer game at the same time. Poor Mary Beth did every thing she could to play her position and the point guard's. They fell just short of being the champions and lost in the finals. Her trophy is slightly shorter, but Karoline likes it best because of the pony tail:-)

 

Trophy #3  belongs to Stephen. The last Championship Game of the weekend was Stephen's. They were down by 13 at halftime. The stands were packed. It was hot and loud and the place pulsed with excitement. Stephen was on fire (and everyone was calling him "Super," short for Superman). I have never seen a little boys' basketball team with so much heart. They won 39-36. Stephen had 14 points, giving him 199 for the season.

 

That leaves three more trophies. They all belong to Christian. He coached all three teams. One grateful parent after another came up to tell me how much they love him and how happy they were to have a coach with such a wonderful way with kids. He's intense and passionate and very quiet. A most unusual combination. He inspires kids with a love for the game and then he is the most patient teacher I've ever witnessed. And when the season came to end, the league commissioner singled him out as the only coach with three championship teams and the other coaches rose and gave him a standing ovation.

 

 

[Note: Patrick, who can't bear to be left out of a good sports story, reminds us that his Soccer tournament in Richmond was rained out. He managed to get himself invited to a local tournament, played entirely on turf. So, he played in the rain, scored 2 goals and 3 assists. His team lost in penalty kicks. He also reminds us (incessantly) that he made his penalty kick. By all reports, it was a beauty.]

The most miraculous thing of all must be that Mike saw every single game this weekend. I'm thinking that St. Joseph and John Paul the Great had a hand in that.

In Real Life...

We rarely follow the plans as written. In real life, my days look nothing like my iCal pages. Oh, I love the plans. They are like good recipes. I gather the ingredients, tinkering a bit to take advantage of what looks freshest and best at the grocery store. I glance through the directions and do what seems best at the time. And usually, whatever we're cooking comes out well. Cooking is an art, you know, with a little science sprinkled in with love. So, too, raising and educating children is an art. When it comes to our homeschooling days, I write the plans, but I don't become attached to them.

Because I do become attached to the children.

On Monday, iCal called for Outdoor Hour. Have you tried these? What absolutely wonderful gifts they are! We're on a roll with them this fall. Barb makes the Handbook of Nature Study come alive for us and graciously offers free guidance that is priceless. Everyone is enthusiastic.

We headed out to our new favorite, very local spot (we walked) and spent a pleasant time drawing. I had to drag the boys away because of an urgent girl potty issue. On  the walk home, the littlest girls each fell asleep in a stroller. We wheeled both strollers into the house and let them snooze. I seized the quiet opportunity to read William Shakespeare and the Globe to all children still awake. [Note to those who have followed my iCal plans previously: "School" didn't happen in any meaningful way on Friday of Birthday Week and I slid last Friday's plans to Monday. ]

My plans called for children to create a diorama of the Globe Theatre. Somehow, in my keeping room, those plans morphed. Big boys became team captains; teams were picked; cardboard, duct tape,  craft paint and glue guns were sequestered to opposite corners of the house. Daddy was named Judge. A deadline of three weeks hence was set. One child was frantically researching on his iPod Touch. Another was printing madly from the computer upstairs. A hush fell. And then the man arrived to deliver the dishwasher.

The man barely stepped from his truck before competing teams of children were begging for appliance boxes. Wise man, he gave them the box from our dishwasher and then stripped the box from another. More quiet.

Big boys left for soccer. I slipped out with a lone ballerina. I left her at dance and spent 33 minutes alone, in the quiet, at Adoration. Not that I was counting minutes or anything. What a beautiful gift quiet with Jesus is!

After I gathered my dancer and a week's worth of groceries for a family of eleven, I returned home. Globe Theatre construction resumed after dinner and continued well into the night. I went to sleep thinking what a perfect day it was: nature, Shakespeare, Adoration, soccer and dance. A good meal. A quiet night. What more could I have wanted?

Don't answer that. I know there was no math, no Latin, no grammar, no time whatsoever at a desk. But really, truly, it was perfect in my book. A day when seven children from 3-17 are meaningfully engaged and working together all day long? How often does that happen?

The next day, while I hustled three sick children to the doctor, the children at home ignored my plans and kept right on working on those Theatre dioramas. There was a brief skirmish over toothpicks that resulted in my emergency trip to the grocery store, but mostly, work was steady. I thought about the iCal plans. Tuesday is our heavy geography block day.  This Tuesday was about scale drawings, popsicle stick construction standards, and wee felt actors.

Truth is, my days rarely look like the pages of Serendipity. They are not that neat. They are not that beautiful. They are not that full. Well, maybe they are that full but not in the way they look there. We pick and choose from the plans and the books. I hope you do, too, as I think it would be near impossible to do them as written. We change things out and abandon things that don't work and add things that work better. We abandon the plans altogether to binge on a great project.

"Simplicity" seems to be a goal and a virtue in pockets of  the blogosphere. For some people, simplicity is next to godliness from what I can tell. Things aren't simple here. At least, when I put my head on the pillow at night, in the three seconds before I fall asleep, they don't seem simple. There's is a lot going on.

A few weeks ago I read an authoritative email that declared that the secret to homeschooling success was to never, ever deviate from the curriculum as written. This seems foolish advice to me. If you are using my curriculum, please, please consider it in light of your children and your home and your energy level. Please use your common sense and your mama-wisdom. Please don't attempt to do it all. And please, if you find a better way to do it, write and let me know. I might just do it that way, too. 

Along those lines, here are some tweaks I've not yet had time to tell you about:

• Mary Beth abandoned Botany in a Day for Apologia Botany. The new notebooks offered by Apologia are just amazing! She is creating a beautiful notebook and doing all the activities and experiments and thoroughly enjoying Jeannie Fulbright's style. With the addition of the other living books in the Young Ladies' Curriculum and nature study, this is a very full botany course. And yes, Jen has the Ivy Basket all written and ready for you. She's waiting on me to finish my pages before we  post. I'm getting to it, I promise. Pray I get the gift of writing time with Mary Beth.
• Patrick, Stephen, and Nicholas are using Apologia Astronomy. Patrick is reading from MacBeth's astronomy suggestions. And we will also add this very full Teaching Company course to the study. I hadn't planned on Astronomy at all. The boys asked for it when they were unable to answer a trivia question Mike posed at the dinner table just after the school year began.  
• We haven't forgotten about the Writer's Workshop. Esther Hershenhorn, the author of S is for Story, contacted me when she learned of our plans to use her book. She was very interested in our ideas to create workshops using S is for Story. The book arrived just a couple of days after Bryce died. The author, who is just lovely, suggested that I might find these mini-workshops (click on Young Writer Extras) helpful while I wait for Colleen to join me again in writing on Serendipity. I do! Maybe you will like them, too? It's really nice when people who believe in sharing the joy of teaching reach out to each other and help in a time of need. Colleen was touched by the kindness of this stranger and so was I.
• Our Alphabet Path travels this year are mainly focused upon the Author Studies and the Science Trails, since Katie has already traveled the Path twice. However, we are truly enjoying the inspiration of gifted teachers like Jessica and Blair this time around. It's fun to see how beautifully the plans come to life in the talented hands of those ladies. I find myself having to refrain from wanting to do it all;-).
• Speaking of Jessica, we're loving the Little Flowers notebook pages! We use Little Flowers here at home and these pages are just wonderful. We aren't such good Little Flowers crafters and I don't always get to the edible goodies, but I'm sure glad to have Jessica's ideas to add to our days.
• The big boys are doing our geography studies along with us. I can't handle three different high school programs to supervise. I need to keep my boys close. Works better that way. I'm way out of writing time now. Maybe another day, I'll share how it all looks. Basically, we're taking books from the Sonlight high school lists and matching them with the geographical regions we're studying. All the plans are there; it's a pretty simple thing to pull what works for each kid.

And now, I truly must go. Gosh, it was nice to blog again. I had no intention of writing so long this morning. God's good; it's happy to be here.  Thanks for listening.

Blessings on your day!