LOST A SOCK

Typical Party Attire

Happy Halloween! 

Stuff of Life

Yesterday was my ninth wedding anniversary. 

It didn't make my blog, but I didn't forget.  In fact, I spent most of the afternoon making Kevin one of those fabulously sappy videos I am notorious for, only to have it disappear into thin air juuust before I saved the finished product. 

Thankfully, he was able to console himself with the twelve string guitar I bought for him. 

(Wife of the year?  Check.)

*

My friend Breain has inspired me to start running.  So far, I love it. 

*

Earlier this month, lost in the thick of homeschool, laundry and long fall walks, I met with a new doctor concerning the state of my reproductive organs; to tumor or not to tumor.

Not to tumor, my kind new doctor tells me, and probably not even the ovarian cancer before long, as had been predicted last year by my previous physician.  Not really the need for tests every couple months now that we are past one year, and not really the need to worry about what monsters, in the form of really bad news, could be lurking around the corner anymore.  Many people have something like this, and then never again, she says.

Having buried my aunt just a few months ago, after her tough battle with breast cancer, knowing what she went through and how it ended, my second opinion sort of sounds like a new lease on life-- Raise your family, write your book, adopt your African babies.  You're okay now.

Beautiful relief.

*

I recently finished another quilt.  It is perfect, just like sweet little boy I made it for.

*

My husband works in a tall building in downtown Chicago, and on his walk to and from there every day, he encounters many homeless people. 

He often gives them dollars from his wallet, and sometimes we buy a handful of gift cards to cover a couple meals each, and he hands them out.  He stops all the time to ask people how they are and if they need anything that he can help with.  He has a friend that we pack the occasional bag for, with clothing and toiletries, and he sometimes brings him dinner late at night, on his way back to the train.  Recently he bought another man dinner, and stayed to sit across the table from him as he ate, listening to the man tell his story of how he ended up on the streets.

I won the husband lottery.

*

My oldest child, who I brought home for first grade because he is a brilliant little boy, who I committed myself to educating in the most hands-on ways by running with his best curiosities, who has finished his first grade math book in the first eight weeks of school and nearly all of spelling, who I love with my whole heart and soul, is showing strong signs of Attention Deficit Disorder.  My instincts tell me so, as does everything I know from being a licensed special education teacher, but I will wait on the official word from a child psychologist down the road.

Add to the list of ten thousand reasons why we homeschool, because I am the teacher who will stop at nothing to ensure his success.

*

My children somehow each ended up with two or three Halloween costumes apiece this year.  I can hardly figure how there grew so many, but we've had great fun with it so far.  Turns out everyone loves Batman in Target, and a baby pumpkin at the library.

*

On my way home late this evening, with my three children asleep in their car seats, I witnessed a high speed police chase.  The vehicle being pursued was driving at least seventy miles per hour on a four-lane street through town, headed East.  I was headed West, and while nearing a red light I realized in great horror that the car approaching the red light on the other side, with the flashing red and blue on its tail, was going to blow through the intersection. 

He did.  He smashed into a truck, sending it skidding to the other side the road, and then he veered across the median into oncoming traffic for a moment, where mine was the first vehicle approaching the red light.  Had I been a second or two earlier, actually stopped there, he would have hit my car head on. 

He skidded back into his own lane again and hit the gas.  A minute later the hood of his car flew up to cover his windshield, and the chase came to an end.  The light turned green and I continued towards home with my intestines quivering and every hair on the back of my neck standing up, thankful for only a close call.

*

All is well.

Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful. Beautiful boy.

Back in the long, drawn-out fall of 2005, when I was at my heaviest weight ever and pregnant with my second son, I spent months of worrisome time on bed rest, trying to keep my blood pressure down and my contractions quiet, attempting to keep my growing baby inside until it was time.  Or at least, closer to time. 

I was due to have Jack in February, and knew there would be trouble when by October my blood pressure began to rise with each doctor visit.  I began having contractions on and off in November, still three months too early, and by December I was admitted to the hospital, undergoing repeated ultrasounds and preemie lung steroids, laying perfectly still so as to require my body to put all of its efforts into growing and sustaining my baby for as long as possible.  And week by week we celebrated further development, better hopes for breathing and ounces of weight gain for the baby. 

Spending a good part of that Christmas season in the hospital, I had a good deal of quiet time to read and think, which is imaginably less than the norm, being mom to an active three year old at home. During one of my stays I brought with me Raising Boys (choosing the book because, yes, the obvious title, but also because back then I was feeling quite romantic about the whole idea of raising two adorable little boys just like those on the cover of the book, who stood perfectly still and quiet for pictures.)  (Act of God.)  One of the nurses I'd gotten to know, who had raised three boys of her own, gave me a knowing laugh, and even called over another nurse to point out my book when she noticed what I was reading.  And together they gave me the "just wait and see" speech from atop their collective male-raising soap box. 

I, of course, at the time with just one three year old child, understood the penchant for climbing and noise, and pummeling his father on the living room floor at every opportunity, but I'd not yet raised boys.  Boys who had been influenced by the world outside and had each other to try it out on; who would enjoy tackling each other almost as much as they do their father, and who care nothing for clothing or washing but everything about guitar solos, and constructing the absolute tallest towers and subsequently crashing them to the ground.  In the noisiest ways possible, of course, followed by the most ear drum-splitting cheers. 

So I was still a fairly new mom, all things considered, and still believed all things child-raising to be mostly within my control (clearly only three pages into the book.) I told myself that MY boys would not grow up all crazy and loud like what the nurses had described.  It was all in the upbringing, I told myself. 

Jackson was born on January 1st, the New Years Baby at our hospital, weighing a tiny four pounds but with all the fight in the world.  He breathed on his own even as premature as he was, and he ended up needing only a little special care. 

I was unable to finish reading my book.

Fast forward four years to where I am a mother of three, now, and cannot seem to find those original parenting ideas anywhere, as they're probably buried beneath a stack of Autobot drawings, junk mail and homeschool workbooks, stuck to the bottom of a painted page that was thrown in the pile before the largest glops of paint had completely dried. 

Earlier this week I was sharing an afternoon at the park with a mom-friend of mine, who is raising five and two year old boys, and we casually shared our chaos-containing stories like they were completely normal, because by now they are, and we both love them dearly.  Our boys darted around, climbing up the slides and hopping down from too-tall platforms, blasting each other with pretend weapons, yelling at the tops of their lungs and yielding sticks.  I was once a little nervous to raise all of this, infinitely less familiar than my husband with the need for motion, guns and bad guys, as I grew up a girl.  Not a girly-girl, but a bit more subdued, nonetheless.  (Verified by another friend of mine as we discussed it just this morning over coffee and children playing everywhere, that no, not so much with the little girls and the blasting each other.  You?  Same experience?)  (I digress.)

From the park we then herded our five young children, their parade of scooters and our two large strollers into the back corner booth (because we might be nuts, but we're not crazy) of the close-by Dairy Queen where we showered our crowd with a fun evening of cheeseburgers and chocolate-dipped ice cream cones. 

The floor around our table was a disaster by the end, and our children were covered in ketchup and chocolate- a few of them all the way to the ankles of their already grass-stained jeans.  And they'd managed to paint chocolate goatees on themselves before we noticed, laughing their fool heads off, loudly, of course.

In passing my friend had heard the teenage girls behind the counter discussing our brood-- the moms with the seven little kids (clearly unable to keep count with all of the the excited leaping, hopping and jumping in the back corner...ish) like it was quite the scene.  And when she shared that conversation with me, we both laughed, and I pointed out that ten years ago?  We too would have thought this quite the scene.  And yet now how we adore the scene.

Before I had two little boys, and three children, I had so much to learn.  When it comes to anything with motherhood I am always grateful that God grows us into our roles, and into their ages.  This certainly comes with good reason. 

It wasn't too many years ago that I seriously worried about all of the tackling, noise level and mess with my two guys, and whether it was even normal, or good.  Their relationships with me, our love for each other, so unique and fantastic, and yet no matter what rules I imposed or rewards I offered, only rarely could I acheive the calm I assumed I could bring to my guys with a mom's influence. 

In my earliest days of motherhood I held tightly to the belief that with enough discipline, children would simply behave, and that all of the glares in public could be avoided.  I had yet to grow into my understanding that judgments and nasty looks are, for the most part, adult problems.  Kids are the most free, teaching beings around, happy to be exactly who they are and do whatever comes most natural to them.  It is the grown-ups, who will be the first to tell you they know it all, who impose so many social rules- sometimes for good reason and other times straight from the pit of our own neuroses and insecurities. 

In perfect timing with our chocolate ice cream escapade of two nights ago, I had just finished reading Broken Open by Elizabeth Lesser, another mom of boys.  And in one part of her book she talks about what she calls the Vroom Vroom Gene, where no matter what fair play she had exposed her boys to, in a room of little guys and little girls one will almost always witness a particular group with their dump trucks, going vroom vroom across the floor.  I find it so endearing. (As I do the friend-making, dolly-lovin' witnessed with little girls, though that's for another post.)

I have become so seasoned to the Vroom Vroom Gene over the years, and yet it is all so fresh and new as we venture from babyhood through toddlerhood and preschool-ville, now into the real deal of boyhood in year seven with my oldest.  And I feel myself growing again, with a child ready to pull away from me in ways I didn't expect, who knows more than I imagined and believes he knows even more than that.  Wonderful and terrifying all in the same, as always. 

*

As an aside I need to mention, perfectly fitting as I stopped typing here to eat dinner with my little family, that I spent a good portion of our rainy, chilly afternoon peeling, chopping and seasoning my home-made vegetable soup for tonight's dinner.  I prepared two seperate pots- one with meat for those so inclined, and one with lentils.  All afternoon I boiled and simmered, tasted, added and checked on to ensure a nice dinner for tonight.

Kevin arrived home from work at seven, and as I typed away here, he filled soup bowls and set out spoons.  We finished dinner and just before leaving the dinner table, my three year old announced, "You made the best vegetable soup ever, dad!" 

(And now that I've hit on the boy loyalty, I think we've covered everything.  Heh.)

Mmmmmm

I have a confession to make... 

There is something I've been doing a whole lot of lately.

Like it's my job.

I've invited it to live in my house,

and I've been bathing my children in it.

Sunday drives, Saturday walks, Tuesday afternoon playground beneath the trees.  No matter.

Ohhh the colors.  The Oaks, Maples, Sassafras, Tree of Heaven, you name it. 

The sunlight and the shadows are just different in the fall.  The sky is another shade of blue that is more lovely than usual, and the breeze has this sound and it carries those smells.

Even the water is prettier at this time of year, if that be possible.

These are not the leaves of last year, or the year before.  Each one lived its whole life this past summer and we will not see these particular ones ever again after the yellow, orange and red, and after they fall.  They did not worry if it was too short or long or hot or cool of a summer, or if for sure they would know the way to their new hues when the time arrived.  Or how they would let go of the branches.  And they've turned out absolutely gorgeous, and perfect.  

There are lessons in fall.

Last year we attempted a fall outing or two, being it my favorite time of year, and it was rough.  We had a brand new baby who was neither fond of the car nor bunting nor the cool air.

And just one year later she's joining the rest of the crew, climbing playground equipment as much as I'll allow. 

How did that happen so fast?

I've photographed all of this so many times over the last several years, but I still can't get enough.  If the sun is shining, we are back out, somewhere.

...Sometimes in southern Michigan, evading local law enforcement for photographing a house that neither belongs to myself and my husband, nor, say, anyone else on the planet we know.

(It isn't my fault they've created the perfect autumn porch, right?)

(No, ma'am, I wasn't trying to photograph you.  Just your mums...)

Okay fine, and this secluded beauty too.  But only because I could imagine myself someday living in it.  After buying it, in the most legal ways possible.

(No one was home.  Geez, look at the empty driveway!)

I love you, pumpkin.

Intoxicating, isn't it?

If you need me, you know where to find me.

Only as far from your property line as my zoom lens will reach, if you've got nice foliage.

Or, in the slammer. 

If I'm unlucky.

Of Fall

 

 

 

 

 

 

Win-fail, fail-win, win, win, fail, win.

I keep thinking that there is going to be a spectacular event where I sit down at the computer for a period of eight plus minutes in order to, you know, actually string thoughts together, but that time has just not presented itself as of recent.  Which means that tonight I blow my new Taking Back Bedtime streak because I miss my blog.  (Note: In recent weeks I have decided it against my better judgment to blow the reasonable bedtime hour streak for cleaning bathrooms, dusting my family room, folding laundry and trimming my up-late-anyway son's hair, all of which are neglected something awful as well.  But you're worth my precious hours of sleep, Internet.) (At least that's how I am calling it tonight.) 

After we came home from our trip I had grand visions of discussing homeschool on the road, and now we've been home for three weeks and I believe that ship has sailed.  I think I've cooked up seven more homeschool posts since then, because hey, this is really cool! and I'd like to document it!  And yet the very process of which I am so hoping to capture is what keeps me from writing anything at all. 

What I am saying is that we've picked apples at the orchard, fed goats from our hands, attended gobs of free library programs, blazed through three quarters of the first grade math book in the first month of school and can sing multiple cheesy songs about the vowels, but my downstairs bathroom's not been swept in three weeks and I can't seem to find time to blaawwwwg.  I (think) I've got my priorities straight, but I must admit that had no idea what I was signing up for when I took on this new little jobbie. 

Also since I was last around, my sister Sant & Leslie set a commitment ceremony date (which we supporters of human rights, gay and otherwise, like to call a wedding date,) we walked the Chicago Breast Cancer 5K for my Aunt Kathy, both Jackson and myself survived the swine flu and succeeded at not gifting it to anyone else in the house (win!) and Kevin and I got to meet Wayne Dyer for the second time this year.  Also, I painted our downstairs office the colors of the seashore.  These days and weeks are most definitely busy ones.

My seven-year-old's rendition of Mount Rushmore, in one of our biggest homeschool projects yet. 

In the initial phases of this book project, I feared that it might go on until next year's vacation, with my older child's disdain for writing and the massive quantity of experiences to be documented, but I learned over the course of two weeks that some things simply take more time than others (gold!) and in the end I hold two precious thirty-page books authored and illustrated by fun-loving little boys who had a fine trip.

And now my three-year-old has not only memorized the vowels, but he also recognizes Presidents Washington, Jefferson, Roosevelt and Obrahand Lincoln, for the love of Pete.  And here I thought this first year of homeschool was going to benefit his older brother the most.

Youngest offspring desperately waves for attention from down below in Baby Bjorn, or attempts to twist and pull, twist and pull her own red delicious from the branch above.

Homeschool is everything I had hoped and many things I hadn't thought of all at once.  Now that we've settled into some sort of rhythm and have found our pace by subject, I've finally been released from worries about time wasting and who's learning what and if it's on time or too fast or slow.  There are two students in this class (and one small monkey who steals fallen crayons and scraps of paper) and our days move as they will, quickly as we read about squirrel nests and beaver dams, and slowly when it comes to practicing penmanship.  I am shocked at how well Jack has taken to learning letters and sounds when just six months ago-- three months ago, he had almost no interest whatsoever.  To be honest, I hadn't planned to formally do much at all with him this year, though through his insistence I find myself running in circles to stay on top of his interests just as I do his brother's.  ...Which means I am quickly learning how parents can spend heaps upon tons of money on home education with only my handful of teacher's store trips in six little weeks of classes. 

Watin' on the old school bus apple picking tractor. 

The one thing about the last six weeks that has not failed to blow me away time and time again is my freedom to mother on a whole new level.  So silly to think that many of the art projects and song singing, extra reading times throughout the day and board games were put off in so many instances before now, and I don't even have a solid reason why it was that way.  I was too busy with too many household chores, I thought, or it would make a big mess or require too much time or energy, or whatever was my reasoning in sometimes moments past.  Which of course does not at all infer that I commonly ignored my children's requests for attention or play, but now aware that I am mom and school and teacher alike, I have a million new reasons to read extra books and bring out the paints, scissors and hole punchers just because that's what we are home to do.  It has been fun, a whole lot of fun, to shower my kids with hours upon hours of extra activities (see dirty bathroom scenario above) and be exactly the type of parent that I really want to be.

We've done fall leaf rubbings and played with math dice for Hershey Kiss prizes.  We've written lots of stories with capital letters and punctuation and illustrations, and taken turns reading books to each other.  Our enjoyable day-trips have taken on new meaning as now more than ever I find myself keeping eyes open for teachable moments about the world and God and whatever else I might not have been able to explain while they were away at school.  And they're young enough to be so open to all of it (okay, most of it, if not the damn penmanship) as long as I can peacefully hook their attention each morning.

 
Child breaks it down pencil-microphone style in the kitchen

Because I am forever the short and long-term planning type, I can't help but wonder, often, how long we can do this for.  I mean, in the world of best case scenarios I could see myself homeschooling all three, four, six or seven of our children all the way through middle school.  It works now, very well with a first grader and a preschooler around baby naps while I appear fairly fun in their eyes, still.  But I shudder to think how I might present seventh grade history lessons at the same time as shapes, letters and punctuation (again!) to smaller children.  (Thankfully, I taught middle school Algebra and Science my first year out of college, so those don't scare me.)  I wonder how messy I will have to allow my house to get in order to be fully present for all of those lessons with all of those children (and what if I can't even find some of the children some days to educate, lost beneath piles of clean and dirty laundry, and dust?) and when exactly I will steal time to do things for myself, like blog if those still exist, and eventually earn my Master's degree. 

I suppose I didn't worry about how I would teach KJ his colors while he was learning to crawl (okay, FINE, I DID) so I should probably let this go too, and let life have it's own way with whatever should happen down the road.

Now is good.

Self-sufficient babies are the best kind

So I am laying on my living room couch the other day, dying -- dying of the swine flu.  I allowed my older children to roam free as they willed for the whole day and beyond, and gated my baby daughter into the safety of the living room with me. 

I was dying, friends, and I thought I should have a last meal.  So I dragged myself into the destroyed kitchen and I whipped up some peaches-n-cream oatmeal because it was the only thing that sounded mildly palatable to a dying person.

I brought it back to the living room where I could keep my baby daughter and Oprah company, took two bites and knew I should have to die without oatmeal because even the smell of it was nauseating.   I then pulled my four massive blankets back up to my chin and replaced my sweatshirt hood upon my head and possibly drifted off to sleep for a minute or two. 

Which sort of left Marin to bat clean-up on the oatmeal. 

 
It was so cute, finding her this way, that I stood patiently shivering until she was finished.