In the Heart of my Home

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.

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.

Am I in the Testosterhome?

Nicky: Kari, are you going to vote with Mom?

Karoline: Yep. I'm all ready.

Nicky: Do you know who the Republican is?

Stephen: Chuck Norris. Say it, Kari, so you don't forget: Chuck Norris.

Family Litany of Saints

My children surprised me with this video last week. They decided to offer our litany this month to our family's special saints. This one's a keeper--those dear voices do me in every time. (Apparently, even Karoline's favorite doll has a patron saint.)

Blessed Feast to you all!

 

And I thought we were finished with all of that

After weeks of laundry and buckets and dealing with the virus-from-hell Williamsburg, I thought we were in the clear. Apparently not. This is how I found Felicity yesterday. Poor dear.

The Fine Art of Fingerpainting

 

A few weeks ago, we had a fingerpainting party in the backyard.

My neighbor came over and brought with her an teenaged exchange student from France who was staying with her family for awhile.

The girls "painted" and we chatted. And a good time was had by all.

 

Our French visitor commented that she had never seen anything like it.

Later that evening, Katie said to me, "Mama, didn't you say that C was from France?"

 

"I did. She lives in France with her family and is visiting to have a chance to practice English."
 

"And don't the French have all that really good art. You know, like Monet and the Versailles and everything?"

"They do. Lots of very fine art."

 

"Then how in the WORLD could she never have heard of fingerpaints? Can you believe that? She's lived her whole life and never, ever, fingerpainted.

Amazing."

Six

From May 1998

Last weekend, I had the distinct privilege of serving breakfast to five six-year-olds. They had just "camped" in the basement because it had rained for days and days prior to this much anticipated campout birthday party. They had left Jimmy, Christian's godfather and their great protector from basement monsters and other such things, asleep in his sleeping bag and ventured upstairs for breakfast. Between bites of chocolate chip pancakes, the children discussed really weighty matters.

Alex, who had just turned six a few weeks prior, commented to Christian, the current birthday boy, that "Six is the best age to be."

Matt, who has been six nearly a year, disagreed. "Six is fine," he said, "but seven is better. When you're seven you can have first communion." Matt has just been to his cousin's first communion and was duly impressed.

"Yeah," agreed Kevin, who is nearly seven, "but first you have to have first confession."

They pondered that prospect for a while and Christian's cousin, Catie Lea, asked, "Why do you have to be seven to have confession?"

"Probably because the priests all decided that by the time you're seven you've done enough bad things to make a list," said Christian solemnly.

"Hopefully," ventured Kevin, looking concerned, "we can read the list by the time we're seven."

By this time, I was in the kitchen wishing I had this conversation on videotape. They were all so earnest one would have thought they were middle-aged men discussion the prospects of world peace. Except the children were not colored by years of living in an adult world. Everything in their world was decidedly simple.

Later that day, Christian was on the front porch with his buddy Victor, who had just flown in from England for a visit. It never ceases to amaze me how children can just pick up a friendship right where they left off, regardless of time or distance. These two had several philosophical discussions during the week Victor stayed with us, but the one that afternoon was particularly amusing.

"Cool, look at all these ants," exclaimed my gentle son. "Let's stomp on them."

"Christian, God made the ants and God made you. Now He wouldn't have us smashing them would He?" chided Victor in his very endearing British accent.

"God made cows, too, Victor, and you went to McDonald's in the airport and ate a hamburger for dinner, didn't you?"

I love this age! The last remnants of babyhood have disappeared from their once round faces and they are taking an increasingly sophisticated view of the world. But they are so trusting and so innocent. Life is coming into clearer focus; perhaps it's as sharp as it will ever be. Soon, enough, it will be confusing again. Confession will be real and necessary and debates will be over issues much bigger than ants. All in good time. For now, I agree with Alex.

Six is the best age to be.

The other day, I happened upon an overstuffed envelope filled with my old columns. Most of them pre-date my time on the internet. I enjoyed some quiet time, re-acquainting myself with the young wife and mother who wrote those columns. And since I'm in need of a bit of a blogging break, I'm going to share her with you in the next few weeks. I hope you are blessed.

Laughter

From November 20, 1997

For Mother’s Day, our friend Jim, who is Christian’s godfather, gave me a votive candle holder and some aromatherapy candles. The candles were supposed to dissolve stress in the lives of those who inhaled their fragrance. About a month ago, my sons were playing soccer in the house. The “indoor” soccer ball hit the candle and it went sailing across the wood floor, to be shattered when it hit the wall. My rowdy gang grew fearfully silent and all eyes fell upon mom.

 

A very brave nine-year-old dared to break the silence. “Geez, you know things are bad when your stress candle breaks.”

 

I looked up from the mess, grim-faced, and burst into laughter. Michael had effectively broken through the anger and used humor to defuse the situation.

 

One of my favorite proverbs is “A cheerful heart is good medicine.” My children have taught me to laugh, by their example and their inspiration. Some people are born laughing; they have wonderful senses of humor, laugh easily and make people laugh. I was a rather solemn child. But my kids make me laugh all the time. Laughter really does make us all feel better and childhood seems much funnier this time.

 

Patrick, our third boy, is our resident clown and he has held that position since before he could talk, though  his baby sister is an able understudy. When we moved into our new house, Patrick was a little over 18 months old.  He observed the comings and goings of various servicemen and added their titles to his ever growing vocabulary. As I was retrieving him from the car one day that summer, I noticed an ominous wetness on his bottom.

 

“Oh, Paddy, your diaper’s leaking.”

 

“My diaper’s leaking? Quick call the plumber; I’ve got a leak!” We’re still laughing about that one. 

 

Christian is usually the great philosopher. Serious like his mom, his humor runs deep. Occasionally though, he is so earnest, it’s funny. His friend Kevin is one of four boys and has two older sisters. Christian has decided that this is the perfect family because they fill the van and older sisters are nice to little brothers. We have explained to him that, try as we might, there will be no older sisters in his future.

 

He thought he had the perfect solution when he ran excitedly into the kitchen one day. “Mom, I just saw on TV how we can send 72 cents a day to these people in a poor country and they’ll send us a kid. We can ask for a boy or a girl. (I’d pick a big girl.) Can we buy two?”

 

“Christian, they don’t send you the child. They just use the money to help the child.”

 

“Mom, I know they’ll send them to us. I think they come UPS.”

If only it were that simple.

 

I gained a greater appreciation for the gift of laughter that my children give me continually early one morning when I inadvertently shared it with strangers. After driving my husband to work, I took the children to a bagel store in the heart of many business offices. We were clearly out of place amidst the rushed, suited, early-morning clientele. My children chatted with each other, happily unaware of workaday woes.

 

Patrick was in his prime, telling us stories with all the expression he could muster. He has a flair for the dramatic and his gestures and flirtations had caught the attention of several other customers. They were laughing so hard they held their sides. As we were leaving, one man stopped me. He apologized for eavesdropping and said, “When I saw a lady in here with four kids at eight in the morning, I thought you were nuts. But I’m really glad you came. That little boy made my day.”

 

As I buckled him into his seat, Patrick was confused and wanted to know why everyone was laughing at him. I explained that he had been blessed with a tremendous gift. He was able to tell stories and to use words to make people laugh and laughter was a wonderful thing. Michael caught the drift of the message and began to tell Patrick all the times that Patrick’s antics had made him happy. We laughed together all the way home and I thanked God for sending me angelic clowns disguised as children.

The other day, I happened upon an overstuffed envelope filled with my old columns. Most of them pre-date my time on the internet. I enjoyed some quiet time, re-acquainting myself with the young wife and mother who wrote those columns. And since I'm in need of a bit of a blogging break, I'm going to share her with you in the next few weeks. I hope you are blessed.

 

Not Bad

for this homeschool graduate's  first week at a "real" job:

Here

Here

Here

Dandy Day!

The day began with an announcement from Karoline:

"Mama," said she, her fist full of dandelions for me to put into a tiny pitcher, "we have so many beautiful yellow flowers and the neighbors have none. I'm going to pick them all and scatter them in everyone's yard just like Miss Rumphius. Then, there will be beautiful yellow flowers everywhere."

 

As luck would have it, Catherine shared a recipe for Dandelion Syrup on Kind Conversation. So, we suggested that Karoline and her sisters and her friends gather the flowers for syrup making purposes.

 

They spent a glorious couple of hours making their fingers a lovely shade of yellow.

They stirred some "dandelion soup."

They measured until there was enough.

They brought it in to boil and steeped.

We read Miss Rumphius and Dandelions  and The Dandelion Seed and Stars in the Grass at bedtime.

The next day, we added sugar and cooked and cooked.

Dandelion Syrup.

Brings sweet tea to a whole new place:-).

When I tucked Katie into bed that night she commented, "Some people call dandelions weeds. Don't they see the flowers? Everyone should have a girl to show her the flowers when all they see are the weeds."

Everyone should.

 

Little Miss Sunshine

She hears we're going on an outing and she hurries up to get dressed. On goes a carefully considered T-shirt with a crocheted shrug over it, embroidered jeans, pretty socks and sparkly shoes. She pulls her curls up so that they cascade down the back of her neck. She checks the mirror and scampers into the van. We arrive at our destination just a few minutes later. With the baby on my hip and Nicholas following behind, we follow her into the office. "I'm here," she calls out to the receptionist, "but I'm not sick. Nicky's sick. And maybe Sarah Annie. I'm just visiting."

I think the nurse might burst out laughing, but she manages to stifle it. The receptionist gives in to the giggle. The children are weighed and measured and temperatures checked. The doctor arrives. He asks Karoline how she is and is met with a full report of the last week, including every cake baked, a full accounting of Cox Farms and the hayride, and the happy news of her trip to Red Robin, complete with a rendition of the birthday song. Now we're all smiling from ear to ear.

By the time we leave with $200 worth of prescriptions, it's confirmed that Karoline has an ear infection and a fever, among other things. She gathers her stickers (and a few extras for Katie).

"Good-bye. I'll see you later. Thanks for having me!"

I don't think the sun has ever shone so brightly in that office.

Ooh, that's harsh

Katie and Gracie are struggling with the looming change in their relationship that's coming when Gracie moves at the end of this week. They've squabbled more than usual the last couple of days.

Today, playing Wii:

Gracie: No fair! You can't win all the time.

Katie: I can if I do. And I did.

Gracie: Then I'm not going to be your friend any more.

Katie: Fine. When you move, I'll delete your Mii.

Gracie (lip quivering): And then you'll never see me again.

Long week, this one.

I said, "Share!"

In a desperate attempt to keep Karoline awake while I dropped off boys at soccer practice late in the afternoon, I bought Katie and Karoline a strawberry milkshake to share. They were sitting side-by-side in the back of our full-sized van. After several peaceful moments up front with Brad Paisley, I heard, 

Karoline: MOM! Katie won't share!

Mom: Katie, I bought a big one for you both to drink. Please share with Karoline.

Katie: I really don't want to share. 

This surprises me, but communicating is difficult for me from the front of the van, so far from them and unable to see faces. I press on. 

Mom: Katie, really, you need to share with Karoline. Give her the drink.

Katie: She has the drink.

Mom: She does? (Now I'm utterly confused.)

Katie: I don't want anymore; she can have the rest.

huh?

Karoline: No, you have to have more. I'm sharing! I can't be a good friend if you don't have more. MOM, KATIE WON'T SHARE! MAKE HER SHARE! You all just won't let me be a good friend. I'm never going to get to heaven with a sister like this.

She cracks me up!

My little girls have a friend who lives behind us. Her name is Mallory. Yesterday she said to me, "Whenever my mom is mad at me, she calls me both my names. She says, 'MalloryDanielle!' That's how I know she's mad, because 'Danielle' has the 'yell' in it."

What's for Dinner?

Bikinis and Macaroni!
Yesterday, Karoline asked for "bikinis every day."
Since she doesn't have a bikini, I was a little perplexed.
"You mean you want to wear your bathing suit every day?"

"No, bikinis every day."

"You mean you want to go to the pool every day?"

"No, bikinis every day!"

Great. She's two years old and already we have a modesty and clothing issue.

"Karoline, I don't understand. You want bikinis every day?"

"Yes. I want bikinis and macaroni every day. It's my favorite food for summer, just like you."

Aha. She wants Zucchini and Macaroni! The ultimate summer comfort food. The mere smell of it transports me to my grandmother's kitchen or  the kitchen of my Aunt Lisette, where I am being smothered with love. And pasta. And parmesan.

What could be a better choice for dinner, on this, the anniversary of the introduction of the bikini?

Not Quite the Help I Had in Mind

Karoline: Mama, can I make the house all bright and shiny today?

Me (with some surprise at the unsolicited offer): Of course! That would be very nice. I'll go get a spray bottle.

Armed with a spray bottle and some paper towels, I made my way back upstairs, where I heard Christian: Karoline! WHY are you shaking glitter all over the floor? What are you thinking?!

Karoline, stomping with authority: You go away! Mama said I could!

Job Description

Karoline to Katie: Let's play "Babies." You be the mom and I'll be the girl. You drive me to soccer. Bring your checkbook.

Nicky-ism again

Nicky: I wonder why Sam doesn't write me anymore? I haven't gotten any emails from anyone since March 20. Well, that's not totally true. My last three emails have been from myself, because I was getting so annoyed that no one was writing to me that I wrote myself to cheer myself up.

I think perhaps that middle children in big families have exceptional social coping skills.

Nicky-isms

When Mike brought home the current standings for the ESPN Washington office pool, Nicky (who is eight) learned that his brackets are right up near the top. I asked him what he was going to do with the prize money if he should win. "You know," he said, in his slow, serious way, "money is losing value really fast. I think it's important I spend it right away."

Last night was an off night for the NCAA tournament so Nick tuned into the NIT. He asked Christian what "NIT" stood for.
"Not Important Tournament," Christian answered without missing a beat.
"Why would they name it that? It's bad marketing decision. No one is going to watch a Not Important Tournament!" Nick proclaimed.

And the boy who has a head for sports stats, money, and marketing decisions has decided that he wants to work at ESPN. Since his brackets are currently well ahead of the hosts of both Pardon the Interruption and Around the Horn, he's saving this weeks standings to attach to his resume one day.