“Hair, hair, it’s everywhere…” ~Graham Tether in The Hair Book. I don’t know how Mr. Tether did it, especially since the book was written way back in 1979, but that line must have been written about my family. I, myself, have a ton of thick, coarse, black, curly hair. My two older daughters both inherited heads full of beautiful ringlets, though theirs are lighter in color. My oldest son has unruly auburn waves of hair that grow so fast we cannot keep it looking neat and tidy no matter how often we cut it. My younger son sports a buzz cut, only because that is the easiest way to tame his coarse, curly, brown locks. Even Tim, whose father and brothers were all pretty much bald by their mid-20’s, has a pretty nice head of brown hair. He keeps his very short to avoid the inevitable wild waves that have a mind of their own. In fact, the only one without much hair around here is the baby, who at seven months old, has just a bit of dark brown peach fuzz covering her little round head. Ironically, the baby seems to be the only one in the house who really loves all our crazy, curly hair. She is so enamored with hair she seems always to have a fist full of it. Most of the time, it has been forcefully ripped from my head. Once in a while, she will get her chubby baby hands near one of her sister’s heads and they become her latest victim. There is evidence of her hair fascination wrapped around her fingers, and wrapped around her toes. There are stray strands in her crib and all over her soft fluffy blankets. I have lost so much of my hair to her little baby grip, I am surprised I do not have bald spots all over my head!
Lately, I have been worried about hair for even more reasons that just the constant loss of my own. I have started to worry that, somehow, though I cannot begin to imagine how, the baby is not going to share the telltale family curls. Her hair, though there is still so little of it, does not seemed to curl or twist at all, even when it is wet from her bath. Though I never loved, or even liked, my own hair growing up, I have come to appreciate curls now that my children are sporting them on their adorable little heads too. Curls are just a given in our family, at least so far. If the baby does not get curls of her own, I fear what her hair might look like as she grows up- I have never styled hair that does not curl. I do not have a clue what to do with straight tresses. So, though I have not lost much sleep over baby’s lack of curls (only baby’s own lack of sleep), I really have been a tiny bit concerned. But then, thanks be to God, the other morning as I was going over some schoolwork with the “big” kids I noticed one tiny little flip of hair on the back of the baby’s head. We all got so excited when I showed it to her siblings. Her sister immediately reached out to touch the miniature curl and it fell as quickly as her little face did when we frightened the poor, confused baby with our squeals of delight.
Only time will tell what our beautiful baby will look like when her hair finally does come in but for now, I guess I’ll just have to be content with the fact that she does have some curls- I just wish they were on her head instead of in her hand!
Thursday, March 18, 2010
Monday, March 15, 2010
What's your story?
The power of stories is amazing. Jesus told stories to teach the people about God’s love and His will for their lives. Ancient people told stories to pass on their history. Good teachers use stories to teach their students about the world around them. Stories teach us, they connect us to our past, they touch us and they can change us if we let them. Stories are powerful.
My children, like most children, love to hear stories. They love the stories we read in books from the library and the ones on our own bookshelves but most of all, they love the stories Tim and I tell them. Not a week goes by that we do not hear, “tell us a story from when you were little.” They have heard all the stories we can remember, by now. They have asked their grandparents for stories of their childhood as well, and they have heard all those stories by now, as well. Yet they never get tired of hearing them. They like the story about when I watched Frosty the Snowman in the middle of summer. They love the story about the day a little girl I went to school with jumped off a swing on the playground and broke her tailbone. They especially love the story of the time their daddy accidentally shot someone in the bottom with a B-B gun. Though it is sometimes hard to remember interesting stories, it is really very special for Tim and me to share our memories with our children.
One day, when posed the question for about the millionth time, I turned the tables on the kids. “Why don’t you tell me a story from when you were little?” I asked them. They smiled and pointed out that I knew every story from when they were little, after all being their mother, I have been a part of nearly every story of their lives. “By now, you know all my stories too,” I reminded them. It took a little coaxing but eventually they started sharing. They told me stories they thought were funny like the time when my five year old was just a baby and he spilled his sister’s chocolate banana smoothie all over the counter in front of his high chair and then proceeded to suck the smoothie off the counter and when my eight year old son was a toddler and he climbed out of his high chair and ran off to play in the middle of dinner with the seat belt still fastened around his waist (though, obviously, no longer fastened to the high chair). They told me about their scariest moment in life, when a few years after his high chair escape, my older son darted quickly into an elevator at the mall only to have the doors close immediately and take him to the second level all by himself. That event traumatized my oldest daughter (and me) as much as it did her brother. Then they told me about their very favorite story from when they were little. The time my good friend and I planned a surprise weekend trip for the two of us and all our children. I heard about how exciting it was that day when they thought we were just going to the park with their friends and then they peeked in the back of the mini van and saw a big duffel bag. They got to talk to each other through walkie-talkies on the ride to Orlando where we stayed in a two-bedroom condo. They got to go swimming together, to go the grocery store together to buy special treats like chocolate pop-tarts and m&m’s, and then to spend the night together, only to wake up to eat their pop-tarts and go swimming together again. The smiles on their faces as they talked about that memorable weekend were priceless.
Sharing my stories with my children is always a special time but having them share their stories was even more meaningful. Though I did know all the events they talked about, it was great to hear them from their perspective and to find out how much the memories mean to them. It was a chance to find out what matters to them, what makes them laugh, what scares them, and what memories they hold most dear. Stories have a way of uniting people and there is no one I’d rather unite with than the people who I hold most dear. I thank God for the stories I have already experienced with my wonderful family, and the many more we are sure to experience together in the future. I pray that your life and your family have just as many wonderful stories as mine.
My children, like most children, love to hear stories. They love the stories we read in books from the library and the ones on our own bookshelves but most of all, they love the stories Tim and I tell them. Not a week goes by that we do not hear, “tell us a story from when you were little.” They have heard all the stories we can remember, by now. They have asked their grandparents for stories of their childhood as well, and they have heard all those stories by now, as well. Yet they never get tired of hearing them. They like the story about when I watched Frosty the Snowman in the middle of summer. They love the story about the day a little girl I went to school with jumped off a swing on the playground and broke her tailbone. They especially love the story of the time their daddy accidentally shot someone in the bottom with a B-B gun. Though it is sometimes hard to remember interesting stories, it is really very special for Tim and me to share our memories with our children.
One day, when posed the question for about the millionth time, I turned the tables on the kids. “Why don’t you tell me a story from when you were little?” I asked them. They smiled and pointed out that I knew every story from when they were little, after all being their mother, I have been a part of nearly every story of their lives. “By now, you know all my stories too,” I reminded them. It took a little coaxing but eventually they started sharing. They told me stories they thought were funny like the time when my five year old was just a baby and he spilled his sister’s chocolate banana smoothie all over the counter in front of his high chair and then proceeded to suck the smoothie off the counter and when my eight year old son was a toddler and he climbed out of his high chair and ran off to play in the middle of dinner with the seat belt still fastened around his waist (though, obviously, no longer fastened to the high chair). They told me about their scariest moment in life, when a few years after his high chair escape, my older son darted quickly into an elevator at the mall only to have the doors close immediately and take him to the second level all by himself. That event traumatized my oldest daughter (and me) as much as it did her brother. Then they told me about their very favorite story from when they were little. The time my good friend and I planned a surprise weekend trip for the two of us and all our children. I heard about how exciting it was that day when they thought we were just going to the park with their friends and then they peeked in the back of the mini van and saw a big duffel bag. They got to talk to each other through walkie-talkies on the ride to Orlando where we stayed in a two-bedroom condo. They got to go swimming together, to go the grocery store together to buy special treats like chocolate pop-tarts and m&m’s, and then to spend the night together, only to wake up to eat their pop-tarts and go swimming together again. The smiles on their faces as they talked about that memorable weekend were priceless.
Sharing my stories with my children is always a special time but having them share their stories was even more meaningful. Though I did know all the events they talked about, it was great to hear them from their perspective and to find out how much the memories mean to them. It was a chance to find out what matters to them, what makes them laugh, what scares them, and what memories they hold most dear. Stories have a way of uniting people and there is no one I’d rather unite with than the people who I hold most dear. I thank God for the stories I have already experienced with my wonderful family, and the many more we are sure to experience together in the future. I pray that your life and your family have just as many wonderful stories as mine.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
I dare you!
Ever play truth or dare as a kid? I remember playing it lots of times. I played with my friends when we had sleepovers and I even played, occasionally, with my sister and brother when we’d stay up late together giggling and goofing off instead of sleeping. Though it was supposed to be fun, truth or dare always made me nervous. The truth part wasn’t so bad- I have always been a very honest person, but the dare part always caused me stress. What if I was asked to do something I just didn’t want to do? Or something I knew I wasn’t supposed to do? I almost always chose truth and avoided the dares as much as I could. As an adult, the opportunity to play truth or dare hasn’t come up much. In fact, until recently I have been able to completely avoid the challenge of dares in my grown up world just as I attempted to do when I was younger.
So, how has truth or dare manifested itself in my life again? Last year, good friends of ours told Tim and me about a unique way of observing Lent. They had seen the movie Fireproof and had purchased the companion book entitled The Love Dare. They decided to use the 40 days of Lent to journey together through the book, which consists of 40 days of “dares“. Our friends’ excitement about their personal Love Dare results inspired Tim and I to try it together this year.
We are about halfway through Lent, and about halfway through the Love Dare book. So far, it has been a little reminiscent of my past truth or dare experiences. It has been a little unsettling. Day one of the Love Dare was entitled “love is patient”- the title alone was enough to make me anxious. The dare itself was to not say anything negative to your spouse. It sounds easy enough but immediately I started trying to analyze it. Does it just mean that we should not criticize each other or does it mean, like it says, that we can’t say anything negative, like no complaints? No venting? No snapping in frustration over little annoyances? Needless to say, I didn’t quite perfect day one, yet we moved on. Day two was “love is kind”- this time we were dared to perform an unexpected act of kindness. This was a lot easier, but the reading that preceded the dare itself spoke of gentleness, helpfulness, and willingness. None of which are my greatest strengths. Now I won’t go through each of the dares we have so far confronted, but I must admit they have all challenged me in one way or another. The readings have enlightened me and the dares themselves have revealed a lot of truths about myself and my marriage. Thankfully the truth is, I have a wonderful marriage and an amazing husband. I, however, often think more about what I want to get from my marriage than what I want to put into it. The Love Dare has helped me to see how much more I can do for Tim, and how much more I can do to strengthen and nurture our relationship.
I’ve always shied away from dares because they take me outside my comfort zone but in marriage sometimes that is just what we need. It is so easy to get into comfortable routines and to lose sight of our spouse’s needs. Marriage is a beautiful sacrament, a sign of God’s grace in our lives, but it needs to be nurtured. I have found out that a little dare can be a great way to grow in truth…and the truth is we can all be more loving, can’t we?
So, how has truth or dare manifested itself in my life again? Last year, good friends of ours told Tim and me about a unique way of observing Lent. They had seen the movie Fireproof and had purchased the companion book entitled The Love Dare. They decided to use the 40 days of Lent to journey together through the book, which consists of 40 days of “dares“. Our friends’ excitement about their personal Love Dare results inspired Tim and I to try it together this year.
We are about halfway through Lent, and about halfway through the Love Dare book. So far, it has been a little reminiscent of my past truth or dare experiences. It has been a little unsettling. Day one of the Love Dare was entitled “love is patient”- the title alone was enough to make me anxious. The dare itself was to not say anything negative to your spouse. It sounds easy enough but immediately I started trying to analyze it. Does it just mean that we should not criticize each other or does it mean, like it says, that we can’t say anything negative, like no complaints? No venting? No snapping in frustration over little annoyances? Needless to say, I didn’t quite perfect day one, yet we moved on. Day two was “love is kind”- this time we were dared to perform an unexpected act of kindness. This was a lot easier, but the reading that preceded the dare itself spoke of gentleness, helpfulness, and willingness. None of which are my greatest strengths. Now I won’t go through each of the dares we have so far confronted, but I must admit they have all challenged me in one way or another. The readings have enlightened me and the dares themselves have revealed a lot of truths about myself and my marriage. Thankfully the truth is, I have a wonderful marriage and an amazing husband. I, however, often think more about what I want to get from my marriage than what I want to put into it. The Love Dare has helped me to see how much more I can do for Tim, and how much more I can do to strengthen and nurture our relationship.
I’ve always shied away from dares because they take me outside my comfort zone but in marriage sometimes that is just what we need. It is so easy to get into comfortable routines and to lose sight of our spouse’s needs. Marriage is a beautiful sacrament, a sign of God’s grace in our lives, but it needs to be nurtured. I have found out that a little dare can be a great way to grow in truth…and the truth is we can all be more loving, can’t we?
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Wild week!
Sunday morning, 5 am…I am enjoying the solitude of the wee hours of dawn with the baby when I hear someone in the bathroom. I go to investigate and find my five year old son, who has obviously awoken with a nasty stomach virus, getting ill very near to, but not quite in, the toilet…and so begins another crazy week in my life. I stay home with the sick child and the baby while Tim takes the other children to Mass. For the next 48 hours my son battles his stomach bug, several times we are sure he is better and then it starts up again.
Tuesday morning, he is finally better and I am praying that no one else get sick. My two older daughters and I, along with my mom, have tickets to go see Little House on the Prairie the musical at the Tampa Bay Performing Arts Center. We bought the tickets back in September and have been so looking forward to the show. Thankfully all tummies seem sound at 5 :40 when we set off for the theater, which is about 45 minutes away. After being in the car for close to two hours, most of which was spent in an endless line of creeping traffic we arrive at the show with only 2 minutes to get to our seats. Somehow, we make it. The show is fabulous, worth every minute of the stressful drive and the sprint to our seats. The girls are both beaming as we leave the theater. We decide to treat them to milkshakes on the way home and quickly realize that we never received our change from the parking attendant before the show. In our mad dash to make it in time we handed him $20 for the $5 parking fee and, whether intentionally or not, he kept it all.
Wednesday seems a normal, uneventful day until we are leaving for my 8 year old son’s baseball practice at 6 pm. My oldest daughter looks at me, quite suddenly and says, “I feel sick”. She stays home with the phone nearby and uses it to call me about 20 minutes later to inform me that she has caught her little brother‘s stomach bug. When we get home from baseball I, too, start to feel a little funny. “I’m sure it is all in my head, just paranoia because the kids are sick,“ I tell Tim. No such luck. My daughter and I spend a very long night outside the bathroom together taking turns running quickly in to be sick.
Thursday morning, 5 am… the baby awakens for her normal early morning snack. I wake Tim up and tell him there is no way I can nurse her, then retreat, once again, to the bathroom. He tries unsuccessfully to rock her to sleep and ends up giving her a jar of baby food and then falling back to sleep with her on the couch. At 9 am, he gets our, now perfectly healthy, five year old to pre-school and calls in sick to work so he can care for the other children while I am out of commission. The day passes in a blur for me. I, somehow, make it to the couch where I do not move until about 6 pm, completely worn out. In the evening, I drag myself up to totally disinfect the bathroom, hoping to prevent any further illness. I throw in a load of laundry, which has been mounting to frightening heights through all this. The next day is my middle daughter’s 7th birthday so Tim and I hang 7 balloons on her bed, a family tradition. Then, finally, I get myself to bed hoping the baby will sleep well.
Friday morning, my daughter’s birthday. Tim has taken a (previously planned) vacation day to celebrate with her. She requested a month ago to go camping for her birthday. We booked the campsite right away. Though the winter had been unusually cold we were sure by March 5th it would be perfect camping weather. We were wrong. The forecasted low temperature is 40 degrees. This, coupled with my still not-quite-normal tummy, makes us adjust our plans. We decide to go spend the day at the campgrounds but to go back home to sleep. When we head out I still have not felt well enough to eat since dinner on Wed. and I am nervous that it may be a disastrous day but it is my daughter’s birthday and I don’t want to ruin it. I spend the ride hoping and praying that my tummy is okay and that the stomach bug does not hit my little girl on her special day. God, thankfully, obliges and we have a wonderful day. Once home, we set up a play tent in the family room and tuck the kids into their sleeping bags.
Saturday morning. I wake up and look around the house. It is painfully obvious that I spent two days doing nothing. The house is trashed almost beyond recognition, the laundry is literally taking over, and the refrigerator is bare. I am overwhelmed with all that needs to get done. As I attempt to clean up the kids are rambunctiously playing, they are underfoot, loud, and wound up. I snap and yell at them. I have had enough! “I’m going out,” I announce as I grab my grocery list and storm out. God bless poor Tim, he is left with all 5 kids and, of course, the messy house. I head straight for church, the groceries can wait. I need time before the tabernacle to pray, to regroup, and to relax, its been quite a week. I arrive at church only to find that the oratory, the small chapel at our church where the Blessed Sacrament is kept, is locked. Apparently it is open only during the week. I am not deterred. I decide to drive to the next closest Catholic church. I know it is always open. When I arrive there, I am greeted at the door by a man in a suit with a name tag from the local funeral home. Yes, you guessed it, unless I want to crash a funeral Mass I am not going to get in there either. At this point, I figure I have two options. I can either cry or laugh. Amazingly, by the grace of God, a smile slowly spreads across my face. I decide to pray right where I am, “Okay, God I get it. Here I am trying to escape my life, if only for an hour, to focus once again on serving you and striving for holiness but I know my crazy, busy, unpredictable life is my path to holiness. I know that in my home, with my family, is where I serve you best, even if it is hard to see at times. Thank you Lord for the reminder, and thank you so much for helping me through another wild week.” And then I set off for the grocery store.
Tuesday morning, he is finally better and I am praying that no one else get sick. My two older daughters and I, along with my mom, have tickets to go see Little House on the Prairie the musical at the Tampa Bay Performing Arts Center. We bought the tickets back in September and have been so looking forward to the show. Thankfully all tummies seem sound at 5 :40 when we set off for the theater, which is about 45 minutes away. After being in the car for close to two hours, most of which was spent in an endless line of creeping traffic we arrive at the show with only 2 minutes to get to our seats. Somehow, we make it. The show is fabulous, worth every minute of the stressful drive and the sprint to our seats. The girls are both beaming as we leave the theater. We decide to treat them to milkshakes on the way home and quickly realize that we never received our change from the parking attendant before the show. In our mad dash to make it in time we handed him $20 for the $5 parking fee and, whether intentionally or not, he kept it all.
Wednesday seems a normal, uneventful day until we are leaving for my 8 year old son’s baseball practice at 6 pm. My oldest daughter looks at me, quite suddenly and says, “I feel sick”. She stays home with the phone nearby and uses it to call me about 20 minutes later to inform me that she has caught her little brother‘s stomach bug. When we get home from baseball I, too, start to feel a little funny. “I’m sure it is all in my head, just paranoia because the kids are sick,“ I tell Tim. No such luck. My daughter and I spend a very long night outside the bathroom together taking turns running quickly in to be sick.
Thursday morning, 5 am… the baby awakens for her normal early morning snack. I wake Tim up and tell him there is no way I can nurse her, then retreat, once again, to the bathroom. He tries unsuccessfully to rock her to sleep and ends up giving her a jar of baby food and then falling back to sleep with her on the couch. At 9 am, he gets our, now perfectly healthy, five year old to pre-school and calls in sick to work so he can care for the other children while I am out of commission. The day passes in a blur for me. I, somehow, make it to the couch where I do not move until about 6 pm, completely worn out. In the evening, I drag myself up to totally disinfect the bathroom, hoping to prevent any further illness. I throw in a load of laundry, which has been mounting to frightening heights through all this. The next day is my middle daughter’s 7th birthday so Tim and I hang 7 balloons on her bed, a family tradition. Then, finally, I get myself to bed hoping the baby will sleep well.
Friday morning, my daughter’s birthday. Tim has taken a (previously planned) vacation day to celebrate with her. She requested a month ago to go camping for her birthday. We booked the campsite right away. Though the winter had been unusually cold we were sure by March 5th it would be perfect camping weather. We were wrong. The forecasted low temperature is 40 degrees. This, coupled with my still not-quite-normal tummy, makes us adjust our plans. We decide to go spend the day at the campgrounds but to go back home to sleep. When we head out I still have not felt well enough to eat since dinner on Wed. and I am nervous that it may be a disastrous day but it is my daughter’s birthday and I don’t want to ruin it. I spend the ride hoping and praying that my tummy is okay and that the stomach bug does not hit my little girl on her special day. God, thankfully, obliges and we have a wonderful day. Once home, we set up a play tent in the family room and tuck the kids into their sleeping bags.
Saturday morning. I wake up and look around the house. It is painfully obvious that I spent two days doing nothing. The house is trashed almost beyond recognition, the laundry is literally taking over, and the refrigerator is bare. I am overwhelmed with all that needs to get done. As I attempt to clean up the kids are rambunctiously playing, they are underfoot, loud, and wound up. I snap and yell at them. I have had enough! “I’m going out,” I announce as I grab my grocery list and storm out. God bless poor Tim, he is left with all 5 kids and, of course, the messy house. I head straight for church, the groceries can wait. I need time before the tabernacle to pray, to regroup, and to relax, its been quite a week. I arrive at church only to find that the oratory, the small chapel at our church where the Blessed Sacrament is kept, is locked. Apparently it is open only during the week. I am not deterred. I decide to drive to the next closest Catholic church. I know it is always open. When I arrive there, I am greeted at the door by a man in a suit with a name tag from the local funeral home. Yes, you guessed it, unless I want to crash a funeral Mass I am not going to get in there either. At this point, I figure I have two options. I can either cry or laugh. Amazingly, by the grace of God, a smile slowly spreads across my face. I decide to pray right where I am, “Okay, God I get it. Here I am trying to escape my life, if only for an hour, to focus once again on serving you and striving for holiness but I know my crazy, busy, unpredictable life is my path to holiness. I know that in my home, with my family, is where I serve you best, even if it is hard to see at times. Thank you Lord for the reminder, and thank you so much for helping me through another wild week.” And then I set off for the grocery store.
Monday, March 1, 2010
Sounds like my life
I was flipping around through various radio stations the other morning after dropping my son off at pre-school. I don't listen to a lot of country music but every once in a while I will tune into the local country station when I can't find anything good on the Catholic radio station we have here in the Tampa Bay area. So, as I was driving home and thinking ahead to my day of home schooling the older kids, cleaning up my messy house, cooking dinner, and all those other exciting tasks I get to tackle day in and day out, I flipped to the country station and heard a song that sounded like it was written for me....
It was almost frightening how much it did sound like life to me, my life! The broken washing machine (for us it is the dishwasher this week), the teething baby, the bills to pay and the worries about how we're going to pay them, it sounded like it was straight out of my own life! The song made it sound almost humorous how we can let life's little nuisances get us down but it really spoke to me. I, too, find myself frustrated, even depressed at moments, about all the little things that can go wrong in life. I, too, can let all the challenges in life drag me down and wear me out. I lose perspective, I forget about my blessings, I feel like no one really understands how hard it can be at times. Thankfully, you won't ever find me drowning my sorrows in alcohol but I do, do an awful lot of wallowing some days.
I guess this song is proof that I am not the only one who struggles with discouragement and despair over life and all its trials, both big and small. So, if your life seems to be as full of broken appliances, fussy, whiny kids, mounting utility bills, and self-pity as mine is these days, maybe you, like me, are focusing a little too much on the ordeals of life. Maybe, it is time we start counting our blessings and offering our suffering up for those with even bigger problems than ours.
(post script-- for those who are familiar with the whole song, the reference to an unexpected pregnancy in the second verse does not happen to apply to my life right now but I have experienced that, too. To read all about my surprise pregnancy click here).
"...I say hey man, what’s going on
He said I don’t know where to start
Sarah’s old car’s about to fall apart
And the washer quit last week
We had to put momma in the nursing home
And the baby’s cutting teeth
I didn’t get much work this week
And I got bills to pay
I said I know this ain’t what you wanna hear
But it’s what I’m gonna say
Sounds like life to me it ain’t no fantasy
It’s just a common case of everyday reality
Man I know it’s tough but you gotta suck it up
To hear you talk you’re caught up in some tragedy
It sounds like life to me..." ~Darryl Worley
It was almost frightening how much it did sound like life to me, my life! The broken washing machine (for us it is the dishwasher this week), the teething baby, the bills to pay and the worries about how we're going to pay them, it sounded like it was straight out of my own life! The song made it sound almost humorous how we can let life's little nuisances get us down but it really spoke to me. I, too, find myself frustrated, even depressed at moments, about all the little things that can go wrong in life. I, too, can let all the challenges in life drag me down and wear me out. I lose perspective, I forget about my blessings, I feel like no one really understands how hard it can be at times. Thankfully, you won't ever find me drowning my sorrows in alcohol but I do, do an awful lot of wallowing some days.
I guess this song is proof that I am not the only one who struggles with discouragement and despair over life and all its trials, both big and small. So, if your life seems to be as full of broken appliances, fussy, whiny kids, mounting utility bills, and self-pity as mine is these days, maybe you, like me, are focusing a little too much on the ordeals of life. Maybe, it is time we start counting our blessings and offering our suffering up for those with even bigger problems than ours.
(post script-- for those who are familiar with the whole song, the reference to an unexpected pregnancy in the second verse does not happen to apply to my life right now but I have experienced that, too. To read all about my surprise pregnancy click here).
Friday, February 26, 2010
Put to the test...
Every year right around the end of February, the kids and I start to get a little nervous. We work a little harder at our school work, we watch the calendar very closely, there is a palpable tension in the air at our house. It is not the coming of Spring that stresses us out. It is not the Lenten season either. No, our fears and worries are caused by the coming of our annual home school testing. Testing is one of the requirements to home school, at least in the state of Florida. It can be done at any time of the year but must be administered by a certified teacher or other educational professional. The results are then sent in to be a part of the children's file. The first year we home schooled we got the name of a tester and when we called she was able to fit us in the last week of February. It was the only opening she had. So every year, the last week of February, she has come with her heavy bag of test booklets, flip charts, and grading materials to see what progress we have made. And every year, the kids and I hold our breath, cross our fingers and say some fervent prayers hoping the results will be positive.
This year, on February 25th I awoke early with a now familiar fluttering of nerves in my stomach. Testing day was finally here! We had done our best to study our math facts and spelling words. We had cleaned and shined our classroom and set up a table and chair for our wonderful tester, a retired principal who is very supportive of home schooling. We were as ready as we could be. The kids were unusually quiet as they had their breakfast and I found myself anxiously tidying up rooms the tester would never even be in. When she drove up to the house a little after 9:30 am, my son announced, "She's here!" and we all answered the door together.
She took the children into the extra bedroom we turned into our classroom and shut the door for quiet, as she always does. I tried to sit on the floor and play with the baby while I awaited the results but found myself staring at the clock every few minutes. The kids did the first part of their test together, then took turns alone with the tester for the rest of it. In total it took about two hours but finally I was allowed in to see the numbers......and thankfully, they passed for another year! Despite the daily distractions of family life, the challenge of juggling our new baby and our lessons all at once in the midst of my utter exhaustion after many sleepless nights, the struggle to be motivated on those mornings we all feel burnt out, the never-ending ordeal of lost pencils, missing books, and sloppy desks, somehow, my children are learning.
I have heard that home schooling works. I have read countless articles and books on the subject. I have seen studies that show the amazing results of home education. I believe in the success of one-on-one family based instruction. And, without a doubt, I know home schooling is a wonderful blessing. But most days I can't see it. Day to day, I cannot gauge the results of our efforts. Day to day, I cannot tell if we are succeeding or failing. Day to day, I cannot measure our achievements accurately. It is so much easier, most of the time, to see the areas we struggle in than to see the progress we are making. Every year at test time I brace myself, prepared for the worst and every year my children's tests results surprise and impress me. Somehow, despite my imperfections, they are learning! Somehow, all the books I've read and studies I've seen are right. Home schooling does work. And so, though I doubt it will get any easier and I doubt I will ever feel completely confident with myself and my teaching abilities, we will continue to trust that this is what God wants for our family. And for now, we will continue to home school, at least until next February when again we will undergo our annual testing...
This year, on February 25th I awoke early with a now familiar fluttering of nerves in my stomach. Testing day was finally here! We had done our best to study our math facts and spelling words. We had cleaned and shined our classroom and set up a table and chair for our wonderful tester, a retired principal who is very supportive of home schooling. We were as ready as we could be. The kids were unusually quiet as they had their breakfast and I found myself anxiously tidying up rooms the tester would never even be in. When she drove up to the house a little after 9:30 am, my son announced, "She's here!" and we all answered the door together.
She took the children into the extra bedroom we turned into our classroom and shut the door for quiet, as she always does. I tried to sit on the floor and play with the baby while I awaited the results but found myself staring at the clock every few minutes. The kids did the first part of their test together, then took turns alone with the tester for the rest of it. In total it took about two hours but finally I was allowed in to see the numbers......and thankfully, they passed for another year! Despite the daily distractions of family life, the challenge of juggling our new baby and our lessons all at once in the midst of my utter exhaustion after many sleepless nights, the struggle to be motivated on those mornings we all feel burnt out, the never-ending ordeal of lost pencils, missing books, and sloppy desks, somehow, my children are learning.
I have heard that home schooling works. I have read countless articles and books on the subject. I have seen studies that show the amazing results of home education. I believe in the success of one-on-one family based instruction. And, without a doubt, I know home schooling is a wonderful blessing. But most days I can't see it. Day to day, I cannot gauge the results of our efforts. Day to day, I cannot tell if we are succeeding or failing. Day to day, I cannot measure our achievements accurately. It is so much easier, most of the time, to see the areas we struggle in than to see the progress we are making. Every year at test time I brace myself, prepared for the worst and every year my children's tests results surprise and impress me. Somehow, despite my imperfections, they are learning! Somehow, all the books I've read and studies I've seen are right. Home schooling does work. And so, though I doubt it will get any easier and I doubt I will ever feel completely confident with myself and my teaching abilities, we will continue to trust that this is what God wants for our family. And for now, we will continue to home school, at least until next February when again we will undergo our annual testing...
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Party time!
Just yesterday I found an invitation on my bed to a costume party for all "stuffed things". The last party required a birthday gift for the stuffed animal of honor, this one requires a costume for all invited guests. I fully participated in the birthday party. I came with gift in hand (wrapped and everything), I played the games, nibbled on the plastic food, sang "happy birthday" to an inanimate stuffed lizard. I am only slightly embarrassed to say, it was the highlight of my week. Though I am a little uncertain about how I might dress the little "friend" I am borrowing from my daughter for the party, I am actually looking forward to the upcoming soiree as well. I can only imagine what the other guests will be wearing, what games we might play, and, most importantly, how nice it will be to spend the time with my children undistracted by the demands of my way-too-grown-up life.
What a joy it is to see them all getting along, to share in their fun, to be a kid again myself, if only for a half an hour. It is these moments that I pray I will look back on after they have all grown up and left home. I pray I will remember the rewards of being home with them all, even more so than the challenges and my inevitable mothering mistakes. I pray my children will remember these moments as well, and that recollections of our rough days and difficult times will be completely overshadowed by our many happy memories.
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