Going Public: The Challenge of Lunch

Food is my love language.

The second we decided to put the kids in public school I started planning their lunches.

Seriously.

For me letting go of homeschooling begged the question, how well will they eat?  And I will tell you in all frankness, the hardest part of adjusting to public school was lunch time.  At home, lunch was our oasis.  We had finished the hard school work for the day. 7am to 12pm of meat. Scripture, literature, grammar, history, math, writing. To signal lunch I'd put on a beautiful audio book or tune them in to a video about science or art history and make something warm for them to eat.  They had at least an hour to relax and absorb information alongside nourishment.  For all the reasons reasonable and respectable, public school lunch is not relaxed.  Relaxed is the antonym for school lunch.

At each public school hundreds of children have to be corralled and fed as efficiently as possible, so they can 1--be not hungry and 2--get back to learning.  For my kids, that means 15 minutes to find a seat and eat.  They were not ready for that!  But they adjusted very quickly.  The stomach is the master of all things.

To give them the most time possible to eat, I attempt to pack their lunches everyday.  They buy when I don't have a stocked fridge, or we're just too tired, or they beg adorably enough for the pancakes being served for lunch.  But 90% of the time we pack.

90% of the time I'm racking my brain for ideas of food they'll willingly eat quickly and maybe a token to remind them they're loved.  This is how last year went:

I get our weekly groceries on Saturday or Sunday, early in the morning.  When I'm on top of things I'll chop and bag their fruits and veggies as soon as I've put everything away--five days' worth of snack and lunch. (Browning produce: dash of lemon juice in the bag.) Then Monday through Friday I simply throw the components into the bags and lunch packing ain't no thang.

Though this is the "best" way to do it, it is not always the most feasible.  My elementary kids get a snack in the morning and then lunch.  That's a lot of produce, y'all!  It takes precious hours I may not have to give on Saturday, but when I have to chop, bag, and pack the morning of, they often end up with less ideal options.

The main course is usually ham and cheese or PB&J. That gets old over 180 school days for both the creator and the consumer.  The creative solutions my kids will actually eat:

pasta salad w/ their favorite veggies,

 corndog muffins (cornbread recipe w/ chopped up franks mixed in),

 or leftover breakfast--their favorite.  Blueberry or poppyseed muffins are also great w/ a couple hard-boiled eggs.

Absolutely, by far, over and above, the greatest privilege we have in packing lunches: sending love notes.  This is how I show up for them in the middle of the day.  It's not everyday, every week, or every month.  It is as needed.  It may be a note of encouragement or it may be a joke to tell their lunch buddies.  Occasionally I'll write out my prayers for them on that day.  If a verse sticks out from our morning reading, I'll copy that onto their notes.  I pack whatever love message I think they'll be hungry for on that day.

Last year I often sent Li'l Bit reminders of her bravery and character strengths since she was facing the giants of fifth grade.  I encouraged her to lean into the Spirit when facing adversity.  For Gizmo I reminded him of his academic strengths, praised his kindness and generosity, or gave him a joke.  Ladybug is our easiest yet most sensitive, so I gave her a lot of simple, "I love you because you are you and you are more than enough" notes.  Lots of smiley faces and hearts for her. 

A White Girl's 9/11

9/11 was horrific. I knew not a single soul in New York. I lived in Arkansas, a sophomore in college.  I wasn't even a crier, and I wept for days. The despair.  The loss.

When the crying stopped I ended here:  What now? What the crap do we do now?

Strangest thing about the announcement I sent to 333 kids' families today: 9/11. On 9/11 we're going to do a PTO walk-and-talk. No "remembrance." No ceremony. Just gather, greet, smile, walk, and talk.
We're building community at our school. Or trying to. New England is chronically transitional. As much as I love the deep roots and loyalty of our town, there are precious families slipping through our fingers. Niños. Mothers. Papas. Aunts. Patriarchs and matriarchs unnoticed.
We white ones are comfortable. We can live here or there or anywhere and find acceptance somewhere. But our nextdoor neighbors who are beautifully all the shades of beige or brown or foreign-speaking, their every step is measured by the consequence of exposure to new faces. These new souls may not act so much like a soul but more like a wrecking ball because they are afraid. There is a protocol to follow when you are afraid. These protocols make us feel safe.
So tomorrow, we are tending to a silly, little PTO event. 
I don't know y'all. 
When I hear PTO I think white, middle class, and safe.  But tomorrow, 9/11, is not about that. Tomorrow is about community.  Tomorrow is about love heals, not time.  Time just numbs.
The face of our school community is not white. It is beige and brown and hazel-eyed and hungry and dappled and stunning.  It is a gorgeous, dappled face that exists in a peach crayon world.
I never liked the peach crayon. It was only good to mimic my skin tone, and at that it did a horrible job.
I want the dappling.
I want the diversity.
I want the hunger.
I want the sustenance of love and acceptance.
I want the pepper of five different languages in my ear.
I want the triumph of finally finding the one thing I can feed my kid's Islamic friend. I want my fellow mom who rises from the ashes of adversity daily to get her degree and work to put her babies through school all by herself. I want my daughter's friend who speaks fluent Italian. That is the life I want. These are the souls I want to love.
So tomorrow, on 9/11, we're going to do this simple, silly PTO event because I PRAY those souls and others like them know they are welcome to show up.

We want the dappling.

Body Image and Baby Girls

I know there are so many people who would say not to, but I do weigh myself from time to time. I avoid weighing myself when I'm feeling unhealthy or lethargic, so I hardly ever do it. ;) Believe it or not, I am not a glutton for punishment. I weigh myself when I'm making good choices and I'm curious where that puts me on My Own Health Scale. (Or when the nurse makes me do it, which is my current predicament.) *Keeping tabs on ones weight should only be an indicator of overall health and well-being. That is absolutely not true for many, and for those I would beg, take the scale analogy out of this post and insert what you are able to use as an objective measurement of health.*

If my girls walk by the bathroom and see my feet on the scale they inevitably want to weigh themselves. First things first: I don't say ANYTHING about my weight being high or low. (That is for my doctor to decide and I only have to see her once a year!) And I try not to let those thoughts pervade my brain. I tell them I'm curious to see what my healthy number is that day. Then when they hop on the scale, we read the number together and I say, “Wow! Look how strong you are!” I have to be careful with my girls. They are so slight a strong wind could blow them away. I have to watch what I say about that. In a skinny-obsessed culture, it is far too easy to be overly positive about being naturally thin--especially when they’re “just kids.” What they hear now, what they observe now forms the grid through which they will view their future world, their future selves. They don't need to hear, "Oh! You're so skinny!" or, "You'll never have a weight problem--look how tiny you are!" or, worse yet, "I wish I had your DNA." 

They need to know they are strong and healthy. They need to remember that when their bodies are well fed, well rested, and playing hard they are the lucky ones. Some bodies don't work the way they are meant to. Some mouths never get the food they need. Somebody every second is hurting because their body cannot thrive. Their lips long so much for the simple blessing of eating, nourishing, and flourishing that they cannot curve into a smile. My girls need to know what a gift their body is. To me and to them.

You'd think it would be the other way around, but the best thing that ever happened to my own body image was having kids. Through the inflation and deflation of my own body for the sake of theirs, I have learned to cherish this marked shell. I learned as the need arose to teach them. I realized that the self-battering I have dealt myself since I was a child is not what I want to pass on to my girls. I want to give them the very best chance to start this thing out on the right foot. But in order to teach them how to be thankful for their bodies I first have to be thankful for mine. Do what I say, not as I do? We all know that doesn't work. If I want them to live with the freedom of loving their bodies, I have to love my own. Possibly even more critical than the words I say to them are the words they hear me saying to myself. They do not need to hear me say things like, "I shouldn't eat that--I'm already so bloated." or, "I feel fat." or, "I'm gaining so much weight." Even if I'm saying those things to other adults and not directly to them, they hear me. They hear everything I say. (Homework and chore time not a good reference point. They're PRETENDING not to hear the words that are coming out of my mouth! Crazy making.)

My body is a gift. It is a gift to my kids because it grew and fed them, and now it nurtures them. It is a gift to my husband because well, frankly we all know why! It is a gift to my friends because it can do the work of loving them. It is a gift to myself because--holy crap, there are so many reasons! All of the above and then some! It lets me go to the gym for solitude; it lets me hike with my hooligans; it lets me bake and create; it lets me rest. Ah, sweet rest. My favorite part.

Yes, it's given me some rough seasons. It has been violated and scarred and remembers every detail. My brain is bent toward depression and migraines, which brings this Mama Train to a screeching halt. For whatever reason, it didn't carry our fourth baby past the first trimester. It completely refused to cooperate with life while Sweet Pea grew to her astounding 10 lbs. 9 oz. And yes, more to our starting point, it jumps at every opportunity to swell up in the places I always examined *past tense* with the greatest scrutiny because they didn't look at all like the girls in Seventeen. (Really? Seventeen every single month, but National Geographic Kids has to charge 50% more for only 10 issues? Our culture is so opposite of what I'd hoped.) What I'm getting at is, when I say my body is a gift, I'm not saying it is without troubles. But it works. It lets me do the work. It gets fed. It sleeps safely. It breathes. It is a gift.

So when my girls jump on the scale, excited to see their growing number I rejoice with them. And when I sheepishly step on the scale at my midwife's office, I remind myself to again rejoice. And next March when I have to face digits at my postpartum visit, I will set a reminder to read this post first. I will remember that my body is amazing. Even if it goes kaput on me...at this point? Look what it has already given me!

Stepping Out: The First Step is Always the Hardest

In most states and in most situations, homeschoolers enjoy a vast array of magnificent freedoms.  I will get to all my favorites in future posts, but today I'll talk about the Big One.
The Institution.
When homeschooling one rarely has to deal with the institution.  An institution as elaborate and important as the educational system simply has to have a billion safe-guards, procedures, and rules to follow.  And lots of paperwork.  This can be a huge headache, but one cannot expect a nation of children to be educated for free without a complicated, ever evolving beast of a structure.  Aside from each state's accountability requirements, homeschoolers don't have to deal with that.  They are a nation of one.  One family, one set of children, one ultimate vision of education--like really straight-laced outlaws.  One for all, and all for one!!
When we decided to put the kids in school, I had to face that beast for the first time and I was terrified!
If you're really lucky you may live in a town that runs like a well oiled machine.  Your town employees may be paid wonderful wages and given great benefits.  Or you may live in a town where some of your officials are strapped and burnt out and under-appreciated.  Let's go with scenario two.  Little, old, terrified you walks up to the great fortress of school admin offices to register your precious, perfect, delicate children for school.  Your face is screaming, I've never done this! What do I do? Please help me? Hug me, please!  But your face is met with the face of utter indifference and stone-cold boredom.  Not all the faces there are like that, just the one who is supposed to be helping you.  So you go back and forth trying to get all the paper work right.  You drive all over tarnation to get those blasted papers.  You finally have your ducks in a row and bring them to the office.  The office is closed.  It is early afternoon.  You keep calling, keep trying for days never quite getting the timing right.  You even talk directly to the superintendent when he accidentally answers the phone, and he can't answer your questions.  He tells you to call back tomorrow when his secretary is in. So you officially freak out.  You call your husband sobbing, your best friends sobbing, inviting them all to join your elaborate freak out party.  Then when the tears are dried and the mind stops racing, the blood starts boiling.  Oh yes, you get very angry.  You are now on the war path, which is a joke because the only time you are confrontational is when you're level-headed and calm and it is actually necessary.  In this case, it is not.  You're just freaking out because you are terrified and the process is laborious.  In the end your husband brings his charm and mystical, magical people skills to the office--it's open, she's there!!--and everything gets done with smiles and grace in less than ten minutes.  They give your kids their summer reading books and send you on your way with an upbeat 'good luck!'
That was honestly the hardest part of the entire process of starting public school.  Maybe it's because this was the first, real step into public school and the final step out of homeschool.  You could say I was a bit emotional about it.
From that point on, we were able to proceed in a much more objective manner.  I took the kids to see their school.  Amazingly, the teachers and staff don't LIVE at the school year round to answer your questions and tell you everything is going to be alright and your children are just perfect.  So by "see their school" I mean we looked at the building and the playground.  We totally peaked in the windows, and I played up all the fun set-ups in each classroom.  And I may or may not have read the elementary school handbook cover to cover....twice.  The kids were exceedingly excited.  This was a new adventure, and we only used positive, encouraging words to introduce and process the idea.  (I also stopped saying negative things about institutional schools years ago--for such a time as this.  Also it's not nice to harp on the negative in general.)
I did call the school the very first day they opened their doors.  It may or may not have been precisely one minute after they opened.  The woman who answered the phone was so warm, so inviting.  Blow me over!  Mrs. T.  She's like my new favorite person of all time.  She set up a time for us to meet with the principal.  When we walked in the doors she welcomed us with a greeting that could turn even Vladimir Putin's frown upside down.  We met the principal and he showed us everything in the school.  The kids got to see their classrooms, and we even ran into a couple of their teachers.  The first day of school would have been the first we'd meet them if not for this encounter.  We left the school that day feeling very good about our decision.
I guess you could say the lesson I learned from this first experience is one that applies to most life steps.  Some things will be exceedingly difficult.  Some days you'll totally lose it.  But then it all comes back around, and some things will be incredibly fun and interesting.  On those days, one must be sure to remember that what one thought would be horrible and impossible turned out to be anything but.

How Dare You

http://www.theblaze.com/contributions/heres-what-you-can-do-about-the-persecution-of-christians-stop-being-a-lazy-coward/

Several days ago there was this article, which I actually took the time to read.  I recognized the author's name from something I had appreciated in the past.  I ignore a lot of stuff online, because honestly there's just too much and little of it is worth the time.
But I kept reading, because I thought I knew the guy.  Or maybe I at least knew his angle.
As I kept reading I gradually, nostalgically felt the only thing on earth I could do to be a "true Christian" is go and die.
Literally.
Go somewhere other than here, immediately, and get beheaded.  THEN I'd be worthy of my God's love.

Thankfully, I have a safe space in which to think and I remember--I'm already dying. I am living and breathing and trying really hard to love the people in my immediate vicinity.  Love, people.  Love!  But I'm dying.  I am laboring and loving and working, but the days are numbered and the body grows weaker and the mind more befuddled.  We are all dying.  Sorry.  But we are.

I believe with my whole heart that there is a heck of a lot to life and love about which we know nothing.  I also believe that being an honest, healthy person in this world is excruciating.  Being married to another person in this world is sometimes impossible.  Parenting small human beings to be, as we all hope, more free and joyful and committed than we are is physically painful.  My heart aches and breaks every single moment of every single day for my people.  Chances are if you're actually reading this, you're one of them.

In no way do I want to discount the call and drive of those who go to the most dangerous parts of the world to live out their love.  That is nowhere near the subject I'm talking about.  Many of us have family members or friends in those dangerous places, and not only this week's news, but all of recorded history makes us stop in our tracks and pray.  We beg and plead for their safety.  Their lives do not make me think I'm not worthy of love, which is exactly what Matt Walsh is saying with his "lazy coward" bit.  My conversations with these beautifully-footed ones *scripture reference* lift me way, way up there into the heavenly realms.  Their lives encourage and spur me on to keep loving, keep breathing, keep giving it all up, keep working.  Keep trying, girl!  Keep trying!

The cancerous problem I'm furious about right now is legalism.  All I heard in Matt Walsh's words was legalism and condemnation.  (Are the two different in any way?)

What good is this condemnation?
What the heck does legalism do?
Yes, Human Beings are being killed in Libya and Ethiopia and all over the world for being christian, female, young, old, defenseless, or otherwise.   They always have been, and always will be.  Will we honor those lives or will we break one another down because it's just all too much to internalize?  Newsflash: this gorgeous world is broken in a bad way.  Why do you then have to tell me I'm a lazy coward?  Because I'm not being gunned down, raped, or beheaded?  Do your words in any way validate their painful sacrifice?  Are your words doing any good for those of us who actually have enough internet connection to read your article?  Outside of trying to single-handedly insight God's Great Wrath on all your readers, what are you after?  Restitution for your own feelings of disappointment and guilt?

The world is broken, but there are innumerable souls striving to become whole and free in the face of fear and fracture.  Persecution takes many forms.  It could be the barrel of a gun or a swinging sword.  It could also be cancer, lupus, depression, schizophrenia, or a really mean chic in 6th grade.  It could be friends who abandon another because the whole faith thing changes things too much.

Every day I live I feel like I'm dying the death of persecution.  I am hard-pressed.

"8We are pressed on every side by troubles, but we are not crushed. We are perplexed, but not driven to despair. 9We are hunted down, but never abandoned by God. We get knocked down, but we are not destroyed."  2 Corinthians 4:8-9 

Honestly, the day's end comes and I have nothing left. I hope the Husband can get the Children to bed without too much from me.  I give everything I possibly can to the five souls in this house.  If there is any small remnant left I give that to my friends.  (Oh, my poor starving friends!)  And in all the crevasses between I give to my neighbors and community.  Every tiny ounce of energy, food, money, beauty--any possible resource is given OUT.

But I'm a lazy coward?  Because I have a safe home and groceries, and my government or some rebel group isn't trying to kill me?

Guess what.  Someone or something is out there trying to kill all of us.  It is the dreadful, broken part of this world.  It is sneaky and sly and uses our own voices to fool us into dying.  I fight every day to not die that soul death or be a part of that sinister voice. I fight, and I know I'm not the only one.  My life has been about a lot of love and comfort as well as hardship, abuse, and disrespect.  I know there are millions of other comfortable Americans who have had lives similar to mine.  Life has been hard, but not "hard enough."  Some of us were even raised to stive for persecution from infancy.  So, really. What voice do we have?  We're alive, relatively comfortable, and nobody is literally trying to kill us.  We must be lazy cowards.

How dare you, legalistic finger-pointers.  How dare you tell me I am a lazy coward not worth my Father's time.

I am freaking brave.  It is only because of him and we both know it.  So I will continue to live out the rest of these fleeting days dying to the best of my ability.  And per usual, I will focus mainly on loving people up into the heavenly realms of faith, hope, and love.  But mostly love.

There is No Lack of Fear in This World

When Li'l Bit was two years old I realized, quite all of a sudden, that there was no earthly way I could send her away (AWAY!!) to kindergarten.  I envisioned the back of her tiny, two year old shoulders as she timidly entered a huge, windowless building which was (obviously) armed with prison guards, metal detectors, and razor wire.  Being the calm, nonreactive person I am, I woke her from her nap and went straight to the library to check out gads of heavy books on the various forms of early education.  Long story short: the more I read, the more I fell in love with homeschooling.  I didn't mean to.  It just happened.
So I started "officially" homeschooling her at the ripe old age of two.  It has served her very well.  She is deep, talented, naive, and brilliant; homeschooling has given her space to read and imagine millions of beautiful, poetic words each and every year.  I hope it has served the other two well, but they hit some critical years while I was simultaneously hitting the brick walls of pregnancy, miscarriage, grief, bed-ridden pregnancy, newborn care, post-partum depression, and as if that weren't all enough: healing from childhood sexual abuse.
Wow.  That got dark really fast.
Basically, 2014-2015 was meant to be our Finally Catch Up! year.  However, two weeks before the school year began we realized I was still very much in the thick of it.  So we enrolled our perfect, precious, blameless babies in public school.  We were so terrified!
There is no lack of fear in this world.
Do you know what I realize now, eight months later?  We were so brave.  This year has been all about bravery.
We were at one of the loneliest, weakest points we'd ever been both as individuals and as a couple, and we took this courageous, vulnerable step into the unknown.
We let go.

Homeschooling has more than enough attributes in and of itself without harping on the short-comings of public school education.   Nobody needs to be scared into homeschooling.  (Or anything for that matter.)  Also some truly beautiful people work in public schools and/or depend on them to educate their own perfect, precious, blameless babies.  Sadly much of the message fed to homeschoolers is that public school is not good enough, the worst of it being dangerous and pure evil; therefore we must, without choice and with conviction homeschool our kids until they go to college and maybe then there will be a way to home-college them!
I saw this negativity from the beginning and tried to block it out.  I tried to stick to my own resolve: classical, academic excellence in a warm, home environment.  Pure.  Simple.  But the message of fear is Loud and Clear whether it pertains to homeschooling, starting a business, sky-diving, or dancing in public.  This fearful message made it hard for me to even think straight.
Fear says no.
There is the type of fear that keeps us alive.  It says, "No!" to the bad people, bad intentions, and bad situations.  Then there is the type that keeps us from living.  This type says, "No...better not," to the unknown, unguarunteed, and less traveled way.  The latter confuses itself with the former, and in the end we're just counting the hours in the day until we can simply go to sleep and not be afraid for a few unconscious hours.
I know what it's like to be stuck in that fearful place, not just for a while but for a lifetime.  One feels powerless and defenseless as well as hopeless and hapless.  To this day I declare it a miracle I could find such a fearless man willing to marry me, sequentially procreating these fat, amazing babies we both adore and love fearlessly.  How did that happen?  I was so screwed up.
I guess that's the message.
Perfect love casts out all fear.  I know I love my man, and I KNOW I love my babies.  If my gut is telling me where my babies should be in order for me to become the mother they need?
Done.  This year has been about healing and bravery, and in order for that to happen my kids needed to be with Mrs. B., Mrs. M., and Mrs. D. for six hours each school day.

This is the first of a few "Going Public" posts.

First day of school. I was so afraid they'd mess their clothes, the younger two had to eat their protein-packed breakfast shirtless!!  Yes.  I actually made them do that.

Terrified to send our big, brave, naive girl off to "the wolves."

blurry. ;)

more blurry. ;)

well, i guess that's it.  our goof-balls are ready for the world.

but is the world ready for them?

Breathe It Out, Breathe It In

It is my pleasure and blessing to have this friend who is a beautiful, quiet artist.  She is enchanting and mysterious as so many great artists are.  She wrote this little bit about seeing something truly beautiful, and it got me to thinking.
How often do I see something so captivating it could take my breath away--except before that Great Inhale I frantically try to document it?  What if I forget this happened?  What if no one else knows this happened?  Does if even matter if I'm the only one to see it?
The beauty and wonder of this diametrical world threatens to implode my being at least twenty-five times a day.  At least.  But more often than not I press the pause button on my soul, so I can make sure I and everyone else knows this just happened.  I've always been very ashamed of this hardwiring.  I assumed either, 1) I'm so forgetful and thankless, I won't remember this moment unless I have a picture of it. 2) This moment won't mean anything if other people don't see it and marvel at it as well thus gratifying my own enjoyment. Or 3) I'm just like all the other goofs showing only the pristine moments via social media thus proving my dominance in domesticity.
Those are very damning thoughts.  Forget shame.  I'm going straight for damning because that is exactly what shame feels like.  Shame this thing about myself that I wish were different, but it is obviously all my fault, it will never change or go away, and I will deal with this failure for the rest of my live-long days.  Damned.  Damn, damn, damn shame!

But when I read my friend's words tonight and connected with her experience, I noticed something entirely different happening in my soul...

An entrancing, gorgeous moment takes place before me...Sweet Pea's chubby arms squishing out of her onsie; Gizmo's half-smile attempting to mask his unencumbered joy; the cleanest, coldest air piercing my nose, bringing tears to my eyes; the rare sight of six feet of scum-free snow...
...Surely this moment isn't meant just for me?  Something amazing and wonderful like this isn't meant for just right now in this moment when I'm the only one to enjoy it, right?  This moment is so much more than I am; it is so much more than just one person.  I must record it and remember it and broadcast it, because surely...surely, I'm not worthy enough to simply sit here and take it in.  Surely this moment is not just about me and my Father loving one another beginning with Him.

How can I just sit here?  Breathe?  Relax?  Take in all this glory?  No.  No way.  This kind of goodness is not for me.  I either need to record it so I can repeat my thankfulness ad nauseam; maybe one day it will be enough.  Or I need to show this to everyone I know because...surely...all this love isn't meant for me.

But guess what.  It is.  It is for me, and for you, and for all of us.

I have been made worthy at great cost.  AT GREAT COST I now have the fullest freedom to sit here and inhale this purest of air.  My eyes take in the splendor of Van Gogh's warm, wild France battling my pristine New England; my mind quivers with Frost and Rosetti in a frozen, dry landscape; my ears reverberate Copeland's jaunt and Chopin's lament; my body absorbs the weight of the purest love ever known to woman, wife, and mother.

I and my team have been healing from some pretty horrible stuff this year, which means a lot of exhaling.  Think, hurt, talk, vomit, exhale.  Repeat.  I have been so fortunate to have excellent exhalers in my corner.  All of the crap comes and comes and comes and then....we breathe out.  We've talked it out; I've cried it out, thrown it all up into the toilet.  And then we breathe it out again and again.
My gut has known all along the breathing out was leading to something else, but my mind couldn't imagine what.  What could possibly come next?

I think maybe it's time to start inhaling...really, truly, freely for the first time simply because I am loved and I love being loved.

His love is intoxicating.

It's time to breathe it all in.

love via chubby legs, braided rugs, and white daylight

Hidden Joy

I just finished vacuuming my entire house for the second day in a row.  There is something so very wrong with that.  Actually, B.daddy did it yesterday, because he is amazing.  Also, it may have had something to do with the smoke coming out of my ears every time I stated another chore I HAD TO DO ALL BY MYSELF BECAUSE NO ONE AROUND HERE DOES ANYTHING AT ALL AND I ALWAYS HAVE TO DO IT ALL!
ALL.    BY.     MYSELF!!!
*breathe...1...2...3...breathe...1...2...3....*
Of course I didn't say any of that out loud--there's no way I would get away with that.  Nor did I think those things literally in my mind.  But B.daddy could see the frigid glare that precedes the hours-long "discussion" we sometimes have about "helping out around the house."  On these glorious occasions, I sit stone cold, not saying a thing, while that little rant is on auto-repeat in my brain.  So I say nothing--which he loves--until the Devil Woman finally gets tired and lets me think for myself.  Then I'm perfectly agreeable and apologetic and compassionate.  Right, babe?

So he vacuumed yesterday.

My husband rarely thinks it is funny or called for when I cuss.  I almost always think it is both.   (Thankfully I have a friend who loves it when I cuss, so if I need to I just text her.)  However, when we were laying in bed last night and I acknowledged that I'd been super cranky and bitchy all day he couldn't agree fast enough.  He even repeated it out loud in his own voice, which I think helped him in his emotional processing of the day.  I was glad I could help him in that way.
But I digress.  This little morsel of literary gold is, amazingly enough, not about how bitchy I can be.  (On very, very, very rare occasions.)
The reason for the vacuuming was blue spruce needles.  Several years ago, after we had recently bought an artificial Christmas tree "to save money and time", I convinced my Money Maker that we should again start spending $50+ and an entire day, every year to get a natural--otherwise known as A REAL--Christmas tree.  Naturally, (see what I did there) this means we have slippery, two inch needles all over and in random parts of our house from late November to early September.  October is a glorious month.  During that month we have wet, dead leaves from the entire neighborhood tracked in my already suffering entryway and kitchen.  But I digress.  Again.
Since Sweet Pea loves to put everything in her mouth these days I try to keep the floors reasonably clean.  That's a lot for me to handle.  But I try.  So Day Two of Vacuuming was a must.

I tell ya' something about these evergreen needles, though.  I like them.  Yeah, it makes it look like I haven't vacuumed since December, but there's a whole lot more in my house to suggest that!  When I see them I don't think about housekeeping or my failures as such.  I remember our last Christmas.  I remember the tree, the ornaments, (the ones we broke this time), the gifts we got the kids, (the ones they only played with for a day), the pj's we were all wearing, (which I'm still wearing at this moment), the desperate dash to make the coffee before we start opening presents.  I remember the dark, tired evenings B.daddy and I tried with all our might to do our Advent reading, the kids' whoops and laughter when we actually did, because they could make another ornament for the Jesse Tree.  Most of all, because this is Me, I remember the smell of the tree.  I savored walking by the "Big Daddy" tree in the living room, the *Charlie Brown* Jesse tree in the prayer nook and smelling the fresh, clean green so many times throughout those exhausting days.  Smells are quite possibly the most important thing in my entire sensory universe.  The only reason I ever learned to bake was because I wanted the smell of freshly baked bread to warm my home on a regular basis.  The only reason I ever do laundry is because I love the smell of fabric softener on clean cotton.  So smelling an honest to goodness Christmas tree in my house fulfills every indescribable hope I've ever had about creating warm, whole traditions that will hopefully carry our children through this cold, broken world.
These needles remind me from January to September that we are trying.  Our muscles burn and our hearts ache, but we are trying.  We are doing the work.  We are making the sacrifices.  We are already reaping rewards.
I believe every generation's plea and pledge is this: That our children will know more joy and hope and freedom than we ever did.  Yes, we dealt with a lot of crap growing up.  But our parents dealt with it, too.  And their parents did as well.  The thing is, if we are present....if we are trying, each generation improves upon the last.  Despite the mistakes they and we have all made, we have all tried, we are all trying.  And we keep trying.  If we all just keep trying, our children--this precious, pudgy, brand new generation will know more.
They will know more Love.
Yes.  There is no way they will not know hurt, pain, despair, sorrow, betrayal.  But they can also know Love.  Which puts all that pain in it's proper place.
Love does not have an arrival point.  It does not have an ending.  There is no, "Okay, you're done being loved.  See ya' next year."
We never stop trying.
Nor does it have a beginning.  This Love did not begin with me or my husband.  It did not begin with our parents or theirs.  Love comes from something so far beyond our wildest imagination, it can drive us crazy.  Or it can drive us sad.  Or lonely.  Or ravenous.  There is some element of So Much More in every Love experience we have.  The longing goes from behind to before where we cannot even see.  Anything but Love drives us so far in the opposite direction.
Love simply Is.  It Is more than us.
And in our skin and bones, Love does.
If I can open up my terrified heart to allow Love to Be in me....even though I feel shamed or selfish or lazy or bitchy or busy or distracted....if I can just breathe.
Just be still.
Let Love Be here.
Yes, with you.  The whole reason you can let Love be with someone like you is because Love is Love.  It is kind and compassionate and does not discriminate against the messed up.  Because Love is what it is, it wants to engulf you within itself so you can really, truly breathe for the first time.  Feel freedom for the first time over and over again.  Breathe.  Be still.

Now, pour that Love out.

That's what these pesky little needles remind me of each time one emerges from a crack in a floorboard or a crevasse in a threshold.  On a sweltering, July afternoon or a fearful, first day of school, I remember that we are trying.  My husband and I are so often confused and tired and worried.  But let's just be still for a minute.  Let's just breathe.  How about we let the Love that wants to help, come in and help.

Christmas morning, just the six of us.

Sharing Is Caring

Very excited about all the unwrapping.

Day after Christmas Shermee and Nana were here.

This girl enjoys life more completely than anyone I know.

And she makes sure we enjoy it too.

He was so happy to have a 5th grader's binder.  So cute!

Sweet Nana!  Love her!

And this is just Sweet Pea being her cute, messy self.  :)