dust devils

Today is stay-at-home-and-clean day, so I decided to tackle Hudson's floor in his room because I could not remember the last time I had, and I realized last night that perhaps that might explain the spasmodic sneezing episode I had every time I walked in there AND the fact that he has a spasmodic coughing episode each night when he gets in bed. Since we don't have a garage, Hudson's room, by virtue of being the biggest bedroom, has become the parking spot for all of our wheeled toys. So I had the kids wheel out the two bikes, two tricycles, two scooters, schoolbus pushtoy, two shopping carts, one baby stroller, AND a large fleet of trucks. And I can barely speak of the filth that I encountered once I could actually see the floor. It was appalling and made me think of an article I read a few weeks ago about some study that showed that kids whose moms don't work outside the home are healthier, in part, because their mothers have more time to clean the house. HAH. So I hung my head in shame, sneezed 6 or 7 times, opened a window, turned on an episode of "Little Bear," and got to work. After 3 Swiffer pads I decided the floors looked much better and debated taking the rugs out to pound them. I opted for leaving them there and just running the vacuum over them because "Little Bear" was over and there were snacks to dole out. Then I decided to be finished and we rode bikes to the park, because it is sunny and in the upper 70's here in Houston.

I got two new floppy sunhats for myself. I know I look ridiculous in them and I just don't care.

Harper has decided she loves horses this week. She has been dragging this Radio Flyer horse around the entire house, sometimes stopping for a quick ride. She grooms it and talks to it in a low, sweet voice. She feeds it carrots and apples and popsicles. We have had the horse since the Christmas she was 2 and it has been largely ignored up until now. I went through a horse phase at some point too, which culminated, much to my delight, in my getting to choose our summer vacation to a dude ranch.

Hudson got some new Keens ($45 marked down to $16 at Nordstrom Rack!! Where all of our shoes dreams come true, apparently) and he claims they make him jump higher and run faster and that he can now do a backflip off a rocky precipice into the ocean, just like Bear Grylls.
He does insist on wearing them with socks and, really, who am to call fashion faux pas. Have you SEEN my floppy sun hats?

We were listening to a Veggie Tales cd in the car a couple of days ago and I realized how annoyed I am by songs that mention Satan. I mean, WHY? Satan, for example, is not strolling around blowing out This Little Light of Mine. Nor is he sitting on a tack and then yelling, "Ouch!" because he doesn't like that we've got the joy, joy, joy joy, down in our hearts. I guess the kids are a bit young for The Screwtape Letters, but come on.

Cute girl in toile dress. Hiding it under a bushel? NO!

indoor plumbing and grasshoppers

I read the Little House series when I was young (I was 8? 9?) so as Harper and I are reading them aloud I am remembering. I had a vague unease at the beginning of On the Banks of Plum Creek that something sad happened, and I began to recognize the foreshadowing. I had a deep feeling of dread when Pa bought all the materials for the house on credit because the land was so rich and the wheat crop that he labored over was sure to be plentiful. Then his boots are falling apart so he takes $3 from his fiddle case to buy new ones, only he runs into Reverend Alden who just happens to need $3 more to put a bell in the belfry (and here is where I wanted to give Harper a lecture about, "you know, 'church' actually has nothing to do with a building, and as far as Jesus was concerned, the money would have been better spent on Pa's boots than a stupid bell for the belfry" but I refrained and reminded her that the "being mindful of the needs of others" that is part of the prayer we say before meals probably applies here) and so he gives him the money and tries to patch his pitiful boots once more and then the next day the swarm of the millions of grasshoppers descends and eats the wheat and the garden and everything. And Pa can't get his new boots and he can't pay for the house and WHAT ARE THEY GOING TO DO??? If this is the book in which Jack the dog dies I'm going to have to stop reading, because there are only so many plagues I am ready to explain to a 5 year old.

In other happier, but completely unrelated news, Helena has learned to snap! I think she is a snapping prodigy because Harper just learned a few months ago and Hudson still can't. So, yay for you, little snapper!! She is saying more words now but some of them sound really weird. The word 'spoon' sounds really guttural and she keeps her lips mashed together when she says it: "uuummmnnn" is about as close as I can get to transcribing it. Today I got her to make the 's' sound and then I said "SSSS-poon!" and she parroted back, "Sss. ummmmnnnn." It's cute and hopefully not a sign of some speech disorder.

The toilet in the kids' bathroom is extremely temperamental and insists on getting clogged up at very inopportune times. Though I suppose there is never a good time for plunging. I spent 20 minutes getting it unclogged yesterday and then headed straight for my computer to look for "new construction" houses on har.com in our price range. There are plenty. The only drawback is they are approximately 45 minutes outside of Houston. So, the question is, would I rather have a toilet that flushes when it is supposed to (and sinks that drain properly, and refrigerators that don't require me to mop them out with an entire roll of toilet paper every 3-4 days, and blinds that are not disgusting..) OR would I rather be 14 minutes from the zoo and museum district. Then I think of Ma Ingalls and I'm just glad I'm not crunching on grasshoppers on my way to milk the cow. Grasshoppers that mean my husband will have to walk 300 miles in his broken down boots to get a job. BUT, I don't think I mentioned that I sustained an injury from the plumbing. I can't really move the right side of my torso or neck right now and typing is actually quite painful. I think Ma would consider this fellowship in suffering, right?

The Taming of the Shrew (and the martyr) Part One

Warning: this might be a series because I have a feeling I will need continual reminders.

Warning #2: There are no cute anecdotes about the kids or even a picture.

Warning #3: This hurts my feelings and it might hurt yours too.

I read this quote on Amy's Humble Musings a few weeks ago and haven't been able to get it out of my head:

There are many Supermoms (at least 2 on my street) who can throw a birthday party for 27 kids without becoming a shrew or a martyr." --Prudence Macintosh.

It turns out, I am a shrew AND a martyr, and I've never even planned a birthday party for 27 people. In fact, we've haven't had anyone over for dinner since we moved into our house. Because of the dirty blinds etc. And the whole weird vegetarian thing. And because I am so insecure about my cooking that I'm secretly afraid I'll poison everyone. (martyr, see?)

I was at the park with the kids a few weeks ago. One of the parks that we go to that is smack in the middle of a neighborhood where the median home price is around $850,000 (read that in the Sunday paper). So usually it is me and the nannies. Because if the median home price is around $850,000, even the stay-at-home moms have nannies. Anyway, we like these parks because they are generally clean and I feel pretty sure that even if someone manages to lick something or get a skinned knee, we probably aren't going to get hepatitis B or find a used hypodermic in the tunnel slide. We can explore my hypocrisy on that later. On this particular day there happened to be another mom there. She had two sons who looked to be around 4 and 2. She was on her phone the entire time, wandering behind them, occasionally admonishing them to "be careful" or helping them off something that was too high. I caught snippets of her conversation as she would wander into my radius, and the phrase I kept hearing, again and again was, "But that was MY TIME! and now I never have any time for ME!" I never caught what tragedy had befallen her to so cruelly steal her MY TIME away--perhaps her nanny had quit without much notice, or her preschool plans had fallen through, or their Gymboree class had changed days. Anyway, I found myself feeling quite disgusted with her lament. Disgusted that she was so unable to deal with the loss of her gym time or her weekly mani-pedi or her shopping for new jeans or her volunteer work or her writing of The Great American Novel or whatever. You know why?

Because it sounded just like me. I whine that whine continually. And it wasn't until I heard it coming from someone else that I realized how obnoxious it sounds. To, for example, someone struggling with infertility. Or someone whose adoption has just fallen through. Or someone who longs to be married but is not. Or maybe someone like Sarah, who went to Ecclesia (I regrettably didn't get to know her) and who died, at 28 years old, of a rare cancer this last week after a noble, joy-infused struggle. Or maybe a nanny who has her own kids in daycare so she can care for someone else's kids. Or maybe a husband who works very hard to provide for his family only to get home to a cranky shrew whining about ME, MINE, MY.

So the struggle is to embrace the US, the WE, the OURS. I remember learning, when my parents and I were traveling through Amish country many years ago, that the Amish sing in unison and not harmony in worship. Because it reminds them of the US, the WE, the OURS. We are in community. We are one voice. Not in the weird, crazy, utter abdication of individualism like what we see in Ayn Rand's Anthem, where, in order to make her point about communism, she has the narrator refer to himself in the plural until the very end, when he discovers the light bulb and realizes he is an "I". But in the sense that God loves community enough that He Himself is IN IT (see: the Trinity). So we should see ourselves as beautifully unique AND also beautifully able to practice agape.

Which doesn't mean that I think it's sinful to want to go see a movie or take a walk or get a cup of coffee by myself on occasion. Or go to dinner with my friends once in awhile. I think the key is weighing my motives. I gave birth to three kids in three and a half years. That was our choice. Three baby humans require much of me, even more so, perhaps, now that they are maturing. I resolve not to be a shrew or a martyr in the midst of all this blessing. I resolve to remember that when I signed up for this Gospel-infused life (or WAS sighed up FOR, if I am true to the Reformers) I did not sign up for a ME-focused life. But neither did I sign up for a husband-focused life or a child-focused life. My chief end is to glorify God and enjoy Him forever. The result of that will be US, and WE, and OURS. May it be so. I write it because it holds me accountable. May it be SO.

The red shoes

A few months back my friend Mrs. S noticed that we wear lots of red shoes. I hadn't really thought about it but then I decided to gather them all up one day:

Those are my new Frye boots. I've wanted some since somewhere around 1990. I never planned on red but that's what Nordstrom Rack presented to me at a 70 % discount, so, red it is.

The Daddy gave Hudson a haircut. Before:

and after:

I also got a haircut, though not from the husband. I went to a local school that trains hair stylists. It was an interesting experience. The trainee does most of the cutting and then the teacher swoops in at the end to demonstrate New Techniques. At this point a whole crowd of students hovered over my head and it made me feel a little like a patient with a very rare disease (freakishly thick, wiry hair, perhaps?) at a teaching hospital. I like the haircut, though it frightened me that at one point there were two ladies working with two flat irons to style my mane. Because nothing says "I'll never be able to recreate this at home" like two people wielding two scorching hot styling devices and spending almost an hour to reach the desired effect.

It looked completely different after I washed it. Ah, well.

We finished the stingray pajamas and Stingray-ee, after initially expressing genuine delight with his pj's, wore them only one night before deciding they were a bit snug. So, rather than make Stingray-ee another pair of pj's (which has been suggested)I have rather callously suggested that maybe he should go on a little Reducing Plan like Pooh did that one time he got stuck in Rabbit's window.

And yes, yes I will absolutely be starting my own Etsy shop to sell hand-stitched stingray pajamas (one size too small) and painfully homemade looking octopi. I will sell them for around $1000 apiece because I took a semester of Economics at Texas A&M and learned all about supply and demand. And please, if more people knew about my hand sewn masterpieces it would be like Twitter or something. BILLIONS in growth potential.

Little Bo Peep has lost her sheep

Well, I just spent 45 minutes trying to get Helena out of her bedroom. She managed to lock herself in there even though I was less than two feet away folding clothes. The husband happened to call just as I realized our predicament, and, much to his Very Great Frustration, he tried to talk me through the picking of the lock. To say that I am mechanically minded is akin to saying that William Faulkner uses concise sentences to write about normal, well-adjusted families. So, really, really NOT. The husband is the type of person who never looks at instructions because he intuitively knows how to put things together in an efficient manner. At some point in the 45 minute tutorial over the phone, he said in utter frustration, "I mean, haven't you ever THOUGHT about how a doorknob WORKS??" and I had to confess that indeed I had not. Not once. Plus I don't know where any of the tools are. It was not a highlight in our marriage I confess, and I'm still not entirely sure how I got the door opened, though I eventually did. It involved unscrewing the doorknob and taking it off. And then pliers. Thankfully, Helena didn't seem the least bit bothered by the whole thing. She played with her puzzles and unfolded a rather nicely folded fitted sheet that she found in one of her bins.

Remember when Hudson locked me out on our patio?

I was actually thinking about being a shepherd today. Not in the God sense, necessarily, but in the literal sense. I realized about myself that I think I might actually be pretty good at the tending of the sheep--the feeding, the herding, the protecting from wolves, the shearing (though we don't do much of that around her, obviously, and when we do, the husband is in charge). The hard stuff is when the kids get older and stop acting so much like stupid sheep with tiny brains. Sheep never ask the shepherd what a spirit is, as Hudson asked me today (blast you, catechism cd!). Sheep aren't selfish, or emotionally insecure, that I know of. A sheep would never burst into tears when told that his choice didn't win in this round of "eeny meeny miney moe." Sheep don't ask you to read one more chapter or want to learn to sew. Sheep do not inadvertently lock themselves in their bedrooms. But I suppose neither do shepherds get the satisfaction of watching the sheep begin to understand that they are more than just a body, that there will always be another round of "eeny meeny miney moe," that disobeying Ma On the Banks of Plum Creek will lead to nothing good. For the strength to do more than just herd and feed and protect and shear--that is my prayer today. Also, that the doorknob will go back on the door.

The year of the dog

Well, happy "birthday" Sasha. Whatever made you choose our doorstep that cold, rainy morning, we'll never know. But even I have to admit, you have fit in pretty well here. I like you more now that you don't poop inside and chew on stuff that doesn't belong to you. I don't like to have to canvass the yard for poo before anyone goes outside to play. I don't like that you require a bath every week because you get inexplicably rank. I do like it when you curl up next to me (or, as you really prefer, ON me) when everyone is asleep and you seem to embody contentment.
I think it is pretty hysterical when you have what Harper refers to as your Reaction--sprinting through the house in concentric circles like a Dog on Fire. I think it's kind of sweet, albeit really loud, pitiful, and annoying, when you howl after we put you in your kennel and you can hear us outside getting in the car, leaving you behind. They almost sounds like words, those plaintive howls. The husband claims you started doing that when we started letting you sleep in our bed. Maybe he's right. Now that you have tasted of communion, you can't stand the pain of separation. Dogs are good for metaphors, after all.

So, little dog who was uninvited to the party, we'll keep you, I guess.

We are not busy

A couple of months ago, I answered the query, "How have you been?" with the standard, "Busy!" Then, after a moment's reflection, I recanted, and confessed that actually, no, we aren't busy at all, and I didn't know why I had answered that way. I guess that I equate "busy" with "productive" or maybe "purposeful" or perhaps even "popular" and possibly even "virtuous." I know that this is faulty thinking, and that more apt synonyms are probably frazzled, exhausted, and distracted.

So, we are not busy. We have one day a week (Wednesdays) where we have to be somewhere in the morning at a particular time (we get together to play with two other homeschooling families)and somewhere in the afternoon at a particular time (Harper's ballet class). Two Friday mornings a month we get together, rather informally, with a group of friends at a park. We go to church most Sunday mornings. And that is all we have planned. See? Not busy.

There are all sorts of philosophical and spiritual and emotional and educational reasons to homeschool. On any particular day, I have several internal debates in which I revisit our decision. I'm sorry to report that there are many days when "Because the thought of the carpool line makes me fall into apoplexy" is the most compelling reason I can muster. That's not good. There's no use in creating a vacuum if you aren't going to fill it with something Good. So, the goal for these days we've left wide open is to really strive to be productive--joyfully, actually productive.

RESOLVED: to have sufficient time to clean the house properly (and with a happy heart--Oh, the agony of this impossible aspiration), to read aloud, for an hour or two if interest dictates, to go to the museum on the day it is free and find a Georgia O'Keefe painting of a shell to copy, to practice kindness and thoughtfulness and generosity...it's an endless list, really, and every day I think of something new that I'm not doing and should be. Then I get overwhelmed and I can't keep the dishes from piling up and I just mopped yesterday and the floor is already sticky and crumbly again and the 20 year old mini-blinds are so encased in filth that when I, with great trepidation, took a Clorox wipe to them this morning (for the first time since we moved in here 19 MONTHS ago) something inexplicably disgusting began flaking off and wafting to the sill and I wanted to simultaneously vomit and weep so I gave up and we took a bike ride to the park and Hudson had a meltdown in the middle of the street because his nose is running and this is, for reasons I can't understand, THE SADDEST CONFLUENCE OF EVENTS TO EVER BEFALL ANY FOUR YEAR OLD BOY IN THE HISTORY OF FOUR YEAR OLD BOYS RIDING BIKES, and so, again, I am using a tired, frustrated (read: TOO LOUD) voice and counting the minutes to nap time. Then it's nap time and Harper's hour of quiet time passes so quickly and now she wants to sew some pajamas for her stuffed stingray because she had such a great time with the octopus-making a few days ago:
and I really just want to say no. No, I do not want to sew any stingray pajamas. I also do not want to load the dishwasher. I do not want to read On the Banks of Plum Creek out loud. I do not want to deal with the mini blinds. I do not want to clean my desk (which is piled up with stacks of papers and books) or my bedside chest(which is piled up with stacks of clothes that need to be put away). I do not want to do another load of laundry.

So.

Instead of all of that whining, how will I fill the vacuum today? How about this:

1. A faithful, kind husband (who has a job that he truly loves).
2. Healthy kids (who obey far more often than they disobey).
3. Healthy grandparents (who love our kids and are not too far away for frequent visits).
4. A good many good friends.
5. 73 degrees and sunny (in the middle of February).
6. Many good books, yet to be read.

Now, I feel better. Perhaps we might even make some pajamas for a poor stingray who has none.