There is a little something I try to do, that I have been neglecting lately. I've been bogged down, full of lists and plans and schedules that really do taste like so much paper and are about as satisfying. But today I am feeling inspired to get back to it-- a little something delicious everyday. Something out of the ordinary, out of the humdrum, something tasted or worn, experienced or created or listened to, that is not strictly necessary. Not a "have-to," but a "want-to." A little indulgent even. Because of my inability to drive, my Daily Delicious is by its nature frugal, since it has to be here at home, and simple, or it would be work!
If you've been needing a little more Delicious in your day, please allow me to share my recipe for a few days worth of inspiration.
--The tooth-rocking sweetness of homemade caramel apples, a once a year harvest treat, and more fun to make with little ones to unwrap the caramels. Drizzle with dark chocolate for more grown-up taste buds.
--Old rhinestones, cleaned gently to a sparkle, to be worn to a fancy work event tomorrow night, are even more fun tried on at midday. With a sweatshirt.
--A nap. Is there anything more delicious to a tired mommy than a few moments sleep, shades drawn, quiet house? An elusive pleasure worth seeking.
--The soundtrack to Chocolat, borrowed from the library, evocative and spirited by turns, takes me back to the essence of a delightful movie, picturing the cherry red of Vianne's cloak against the slates and putties of the village. (Oh, Netflix?)
Something I often reflect on after one of these little treats is that I don't really need much to feel refreshed, just a little inspiration in my head and heart. What are your favorite little luxuries?
The bricks on the patio are wet and leaf-strewn. It is not all that chilly, but damp and dim-- the lamps are on now, at noon. I'm moving slowly today.
My sweet husband has a theory that most of the discontent in life comes from unmet expectations. We decide how something is going to go, it doesn't go that way, and we are mad/sad/disappointed. Our feelings about the happening may not have anything to do with its actual outcome, but only that our chalk mark for "good" wasn't met.
I think goals are great. I make lists-- things to do, things to read, things to buy, gift ideas, craft projects. I start the day with a general idea of how I want things to go, what I want to get accomplished, and I put a fair amount of energy into thinking through the best ordering of my time. All virtues. And as such, all can become idols. And like anything we worship other than our Creator, those good and worthy intentions can end up only echoing their, and our, emptiness.
There are days when my lists and plans are full of smart ideas that have nothing to do with what God is whispering to me about my family's needs, about my own needs. The kitchen floor getting washed before company comes is all well and good, unless that half hour is better spent snuggling Sam on the sofa, or reading aloud, or writing a letter to a friend.
This is one of those days. To dial back the expectations and go slowly. Or even be still. Breathe thankful prayers for the rain and prayers of hope and healing for the families driven from their homes by wildfires in California. To rest. To extend and receive the grace to just be.
Looking at the calendar back in July, the school schedule and fall events and special meetings at work and church, we saw a window of grace: a four-day weekend empty of command performances, ripe with possibility, in the middle of October. John put in for vacation and we were happy for that little island of peace coming, lapped on either side by waves of busyness.
Thinking back over it on this morning of odd, pink, fretful storm skies, I feel full and satisfied. The boys had their cousin over for a first "real" sleepover, we did some needed errands at an unhurried pace, we had lunch with my mom. We went to a fall festival in a park and ate fun food and heard music and played. Joshua kayaked for the first time and I bought handmade soap from a local artist. We saw people from work, from church, from school, and felt ourselves slowly but surely wrapped in the community we have been longing for since our move to this part of the county. We camped for a night and fished, roasted marshmallows and got rained on, a little, and bought apples at an orchard.
Not everything went perfectly. The autumn color I had hoped so much to capture was mostly the dusty yellow and brown of the drought that has gripped the Southeast, rather than the fire-kissed hues of frosty nights. It was quite a walk to the campsite for the kind of comfort camping we do. We had hoped to pick the apples, not just purchase them, but the rain and three busloads of schoolchildren altered our plans. The boys slept much better than we did, so were full of songs and silliness on the way home, with bleary parents still waiting at midday for a good cup of coffee. And, good heavens, the laundry!
It was a great weekend, funny in its imperfections, appalling in terms of nutrition, one which will require a few days to return our normal rhythms to us. And such a time out of time means that the first day back feels a bit thrown in the deep end, the plans and dates, joys and obligations of the next few weeks all come begging at once, and must be sorted out, dealt with, or sent to wait their turn.
But there is also the refreshment deep down to come back to this life and do it, and resolve to find odd moments in the day to let in cracks of light and air, to hear the banjo and feel the mist over the autumn fields, a thousand shades of brown and gold.
This is the dress I wore home from the hospital. I believe my sister chose it. It hangs on my bedroom mirror, and there were once little shoes that matched it, pale yellow and covered with lace.
Looking at it, there is a lump in my throat. It is so dainty and delicate, as was the pink baby who was dressed in it and carried home. And she was loved, I know that. But she was also delivered into a heritage of estrangement, resentment, simmering unspoken anger and pain and verbalized rage and disappointment. She learned that normal was a mental list of topics and people of which you never spoke, that emotional violence ran in families like eye color and wavy hair, that there were unwritten rules to dodge direct suffering, but no way to escape collateral damage. To escape being the collateral damage.
Many of us survive these childhoods, and arrive on the cusp of the world, fired with a deep-running vein of promise: everything will be different. It is actually a touch of grace when we realize that we have survived, but there is only One who knows all our broken places, Who speaks the language of our faulty "how life works" rule book, because He was there as it was written. Only He can rewrite it, trade a thousand lies for truths, truths that always begin, "My beloved. . . "
His loving course correction has even been with me, giving me a sister who can say, "You're not crazy, I was there too." Giving me my husband, who helps me to sing a new song, who tells me I AM different, not a recording of my parents' litany. Giving me friends who have their own war stories and continued peace talks. Books and art and music that remind me that becoming a new creation is not the work of a day, but a divine dance to the day of Christ Jesus.
Every day as I grapple with my short temper and impatience, my tendency to melancholy, as I fall and ask forgiveness and get back up, when I do, by grace, speak to my kids in gentleness and relate to them with integrity and peace, that little girl is being healed by her Father. As I raise my children, He is bringing me up. He is teaching me to forgive and be forgiven, to give grace as I drink deeply of it, to know that the hurt of my home of origin was born out of a deep need for Him.
That little dress is a reminder to me that I was always surrounded by loving hands, though sometimes they were invisible.
I am back in this space, counting on my day to day sensitivity to our family's needs to monitor my computer time and energy. Blessings to you as you read these words.
Hello everyone. I will be taking a little blog break as I evaluate my time on the Internet and how it impacts my day. I wish you all a lovely week.
Today I want to celebrate my dear friend Rachel, on her birthday. I am confident that her husband a little boys are giving her a wonderful day, and I want to join with their love and good wishes.
If you read Rachel's blog, you get a pretty good glimpse of this woman I am so blessed to know. She loves God and wants to understand where and how He is working in her life. She seeks an ever-deeper and more true relationship with her husband, and she is crazy about her boys and about all this she asks the good but hard questions of herself, over and over. It has been a great privilege of my life to know her as a single woman, to be in her and Doug's wedding, to now share mommyhood and wifehood with her.
But mostly what I want you to know about this precious woman is that she loves me well. She is really good at rejoicing with me and mourning with me. She listens. She asks good questions. She laughs and makes me laugh. She danced with my tiny firstborn to U2 in the kitchen. She is a gift of God in my life that I get to keep discovering in different ways. We don't get to see each other often, we usually have to plan our phone dates with strategy and hope for napping kids, but she is there.
Bless you Rachel. You are a gift. Celebrate today.
Well, the muscles are tired and I'll be ready for my pillow tonight, but the insides of the kitchen cabinets are looking spiffy. I am so happy that Sam had no way to record my moaning and groaning, and there is no video record of my paint stained gray-legging-ed self stuck out of a base cabinet. You'll just have to imagine. . .
Once I had scrubbed the paint from beneath fingernails and from forearms, I treated myself to a little more fall fluffing of the house. Our family room fireplace was on the home improvement list to be tended by a professional this summer, but we ran out of time and budget. In South Carolina, our fireside dreams will keep for another year, so I decorated the hearth. Then, later in the afternoon, I glanced over and saw the whole scene bathed in the golden light of autumn.
One of the things I love about this season is how it comes on inexorably; it will not be denied once it has begun. It was over 80 degrees today, but the quality of the light has changed, the brassy brightness of summer has mellowed. The sky is the deep, grand blue of October, not the soft wash of spring or the haze of summer.
One thing about painting cabinet insides or watching the measured pace of a turning season: these days are engendering a peace in me that has been long absent. The progress of brush or roller over wood, the nighttime chill a little sharper each week, the honey-flood of light across an afternoon floor, dusk a little sooner each evening. The last few days, I feel I've been drinking from a deep, cool well, refreshed when I did not know how parched I was. God is good.
Restlessness is a thief of this peace, and restlessness seems the disease of our modern times. Even if we are not always jumping, cricket-like, to the next new thing, we may feel as though we should be.
So it is good to work, to work hard and to want only rest, to be tired and in a posture to receive, to be still and know Who God is. And Whose child I am.
With my usual zeal, I have tackled the inside of the kitchen cabinet painting project. (wooo hoooo) Very faint cheer. There will be a real post tomorrow or Wednesday, when I get all the paint off of me.
Whew!
I still miss Joshua every day when he is at school. I suppose I have gotten used to it, to wondering what he is doing and who he is playing with, what books he is reading and hearing. Sometimes he shares a lot of vivid information from his day, which helps my imaginings.
But though I miss my big guy, though I sent him back to school reluctantly, I embrace the one on one time with Sam, which is flying by now that there is less than a year of it left. Time for him to be the main squeeze, time for his words to bubble out uninterrupted, corrected or echoed. He LOVES to help me, to dump flour into the mixer bowl, to touch the elastic and smooth bread dough with a finger, to toss clothes into the washer and hand up clothespins to hang them to dry.
The efficient side of me sometimes loses patience, sometimes forgets that I am a few fluttering calendar pages away from doing my day alone. My little helper will be about his own business, navigating the academic and social waters of kindergarten. He can't wait.
But I can. I can wait. I can answer a few more thousand questions. I can pause to get out the step stool and explain again what the yeast does, I can smile over the haphazardly set table and slow my steps to his. I can mark the passage of the day by snacktime, lunchtime, naptime. This Mommy will keep her little boy helper as long as she can.
Today it is the real deal. No sun-drenched room makeovers, no recipe from scratch, and no deep spiritual insights.
I've been painting the inside of our kitchen cabinets.
Some of you know that our kitchen makeover, in two parts, was fourteen months ago. We painted the really dark wood cabinets a soft cream, and ripped out mud-brown carpet. My sweetie put down a charcoal and cream checkerboard ceramic tile floor, and we painted the walls a soft, barely there pale green. Barn red accessories, red floral window treatments my precious sister made for our last house, and a breakfast room light fixture purchased 90% off at Lowe's. Other lighting changes, a new countertop and a new stovetop are years down the road budget-wise, so we called our frugal, DIY kitchen makeover finished.
And I closed the cabinet doors on their dark and sad interiors.
Until lately. When it started to nag at me. I mean, I cleaned them well when we moved in, and I clean them now, but there is a level of UGH in old wood cabinets in an old house that even Mrs. Meyers cannot banish. And the paint is here-- we had lots left of the custom mixed paint from the outside of the cabinets. So, a free project, without the usual money guilt. No reason to not dive in.
Except for the Total Kitchen Upheaval emptying the cabinets means. Except for the ancient Contac paper clinging to some of the shelves. (A pox on Contac paper, except of course for the very handy for kids' crafts clear Contac paper.) Except that this is a most unglamorous project, not decorative in the least and utilitarian to the extreme.
But I am going ahead with it. I suspect in my housewifely soul that once it is done, once it is a memory and all the Contac goo is gone from beneath my fingernails, I will enjoy those clean, bright, smooth cabinet insides nearly as much as I love my newly redone living room.
And such a mindless project gives me lots of time to listen to music and talk to Sam, or if he is otherwise occupied, think. So perhaps the next post WILL be more philosophical, as in how sin is like old Contac paper, coming away in maddeningly small shreds, or decorative, like artfully arranged boxes of mac and cheese. . . on the laundry room floor. . .
Perhaps you might find yourself with a free hour or so this weekend, and the desire to make something yummy for you and yours. On an overcast and unusually cool day in South Carolina, we are yearning toward fall, but it doesn't feel quite right yet to break out autumnal staples like apple and pumpkin pie. I am here to help.
Firstly, do you have a cookie scoop? I did not own one up until about three weeks ago, and now I am all about this handy little item. Mine is by Oneida and came from Wal Mart, for about $6. I have learned by unfortunate experience to spend the couple of extra dollars and choose the heavier kitchen tool when possible, so I bypassed the plastic, and brought this little guy home.
And so, Sam and I made Oatmeal Toffee Cookies from the recipe on the bag of Heath Baking Bits that had been lurking on my counter, tempting my husband for a few days. WOW! There nowhere I need to go that half a pound of butter can't take me! These cookies were delightful. Thanks to my new tool, there was no messing around with two teaspoons or a spoon and knife. All the cookies were the same size, so they baked evenly. And I scooped half the dough onto parchment and flash froze them and popped them into a freezer bag for later use.
The cookies themselves were great. The cinnamon was the perfect foil to offset the sweetness of the toffee and brown sugar. They are wonderful with a cup of coffee, and they won kid praise as after-school snack that day.
So for the weekend, I wish you warm baking smells in the kitchen and a crisp edge to the air in the morning, long evenings with those you love.
John painted again this weekend, dipping once more into the five gallon bucket of "Heavy Cream." The family room was settled back into order, so it was time to tear the living room apart. :) We emptied the books from the seven foot bookcase you cannot see in this picture so it could migrate across the room, we pulled out all the china from the dark red cabinet in the corner, because when we started, it was in the breakfast room. It traded places with my desk. We spun the sofa around, moved mirrors and the candle chandelier. Because, why JUST paint when you can redecorate?
I feel a little silly about how happy I am with the room now. I go in there just to look at it. As we put things back in place, or rather in their new places, we deep cleaned and polished and washed and dusted. I am much more of a fall cleaning person than spring. I may be sharing more pictures of this serene and shiny space. (Rather, than say, the top of my craft desk, which has not been seen in months. :)
Moving my desk to the breakfast room and putting the dark red china cupboard in our living/dining room was equal parts form and function. The desk I am talking about is not the computer desk, which is in the family room, but my writing one, where I pen cards and the occasional letter, and where I plan menus and manage coupons. So it made sense that it would be closer to the kitchen, where the food and cookbooks live. But I also wanted that symbol of busyness and planning out of the living and dining space, with its piles of paper and scribbled on calendar and clippings. Now this room is all about reading and listening to music and family dinners and board games and the moment we are in.
The breakfast room is about eat your cereal, don't be late, what do you have for homework, are granola bars on sale, do we have more toothpaste, and how much chicken broth do I need for that recipe?
Cross from tile to hardwood, and I wanted even the furnishings to say, take your time, have another helping, whose turn is it, okay, one more chapter. Or, because I don't live in a dreamworld people, one more light saber fight, one more round of hide and seek, one more game of tag. You're it!
We've always been in the position of furnishing our spaces mainly in hand me downs and thrift store finds and kind gifts, and have have long made peace with making peace with what we have, rather than envisioning the wonder of choosing every fabric and silhouette and detail. I don't mind a slipcover, or painting a piece or two. And with this comes a freedom I have come to appreciate. Without the pressure of having spent a lot on choosing things for a specific room or use, there is no guilt or worry in making our chairs and desks and tables migrate to serve the family. No sacred cows, no untouchable surfaces, and only things that are beloved because of the life that is being lived on and around them. I love to decorate, but if it doesn't work for busy boys and a husband a foot taller than I am and our modest budget, it doesn't work. And in this way, we are making a home I am falling more in love with all the time, mostly because I am crazy about these people with whom I share it.
Sweet indeed.
I really used to dislike baking. I am a self-taught cook, and baking, at first, was just not fun. Fun was slinging palmfuls of basil into pasta sauce, or serving up a satisfying bowl of chili at the end of the day, topped with golden shredded cheese.
But baking is chemistry. Teaspoons matter. Pinches and dashes matter. Precision and focus and attentiveness matter. And thankfully, as patience has come (somewhat and hard-won) with a bit of age, I have learned to bake. Now, I did not say anything about artfully iced cookies or cakes decked with sugar sculpted roses. But for a wholesome, simple loaf of whole wheat bread or a batch of lemon muffins, cinnamon rolls scenting the morning or a homey pound cake, I'm your girl.
I remember learning how to measure flour for baking. I was taught that if you dip the scoop into the flour, it is packed into the measure and you end up with too much flour in proportion to the fat and leavening and liquid in the recipe. But if you scoop the flour into your cup with a spoon, allowing air to remain incorporated in the flour, and gently scrape the measure level with the backside of a knife, you have the right amount. Your bread will rise. Your cake will be moist and not dry.
Our days are the same. Filled with too much, tight and dry as we can pack them, they become hard as doorstops, or closed hearts, or stumbling stones. There is no room to breathe, to expand, to rise, to show hospitality, to allow our agenda to be derailed by a child, by a need, by a Father. And it backfires. I really believe this. That the things we make of such days are not nourishing; they are as heavy as our over scheduled hearts.
So I am trying to fill these days with a light hand, scoop gently into them, and smooth the top. The unused flour, the undone task, the unexplored idea, the unread book, is not lost. It goes back into the bin. There are more days, more hours to come. There are pizza crusts and biscuits and breadsticks to be made for another meal. It is all good, it just doesn't all belong in the same batch.
A pause today to remember all who perished on September 11, 2001, both those who were attacked as they traveled or worked, and those who ran into the horror to assist them.
A moment to honor those who serve us still in our Armed Forces, law enforcement, and fire departments, who forgo safety and comfort to insure our own.
A prayer for those families who must share such a rending personal loss with the world, for whom this day is forever dark.
The quiet blue of a September sky will never be the same.
John and I celebrated twelve years of marriage this weekend in true Kemp fashion-- a little home improvement, a lot of time with the boys, some tasty food at home and out, and just being us. It was good. (I love you sweetie-- I am excited to begin another year with you!)
But all this rescuing and freshening started last week. I brilliantly wore my most comfortable white T shirt on spaghetti night. Just call me grace-- with my first (hearty) forkful little orange dots sprinkled my shirt, and despite Early Stain Intervention, they remained. Now at this time of year I could buy any number of white T's on clearance, but somehow I wanted to rescue this one, not have the answer found in the bottom of a two-handled plastic bag. So, now I am in LOVE with this swirly, feathery leaf from Jenny Hart , and I want to put it on everything.
And then this weekend, thanks to a generous anniversary gift, off we went to Lowe's and came home with paint for the family room and living room-- a five-gallon bucket of an Olympic color called Heavy Cream. Now on the family room walls, it is the color of really good vanilla ice cream. Next weekend we will paint the living room and we have color plans for the hall and bathrooms for later. The family room is so pretty-- I would not have thought that a little color change and the sheen of satin finish could make such a difference. We are going much more subtle with all colors in this house than ever before, and loving the result-- restful and multi-seasonal.
In the course of painting the family room, it got a top-to bottom fall cleaning-- so nice-- rug beaten, surfaces deeply cleaned, and today, inspired by Meredith, the sofa and chair cushion covers are being washed and the cushions themselves aired in the hot sunshine. (See Meredith's post to view the color my cushion washing water was. ) And the same will happen with the living room next weekend. And it is deeply satisfying to me.
Can you tell-- the air was crisp this morning-- I am steaming ahead toward Fall!
Good morning! Where does this day find you? Where are you as you read these words? Obviously it is late October in this Carolina heart-- I continue to share images from last Autumn-- a quiet defiance to a predicted 93 degrees today.
I am feeling grateful. Just that, really. A glance back over my shoulder to say that good things are happening, that some worries and anxieties have been smoothed and soothed by grace and provision.
--Joshua is loving first grade. Bounds out the door to school, leaps off the bus daily full of news and excitement. "Mommy, Mrs. R is the coolest teacher EVER!" He is at ease and confident, and his teacher uses a project-based learning approach to weave the disciplines they are studying together, an atmosphere in which he is thriving. We are working with him an a "Who am I?" project, making a time line of his life and sharing pictures and stories. I was so anxious about this year, and every new day God is assuring me that He knows Joshua and cares for his heart, even more than this mommy.
--Sam did not have the adjustment period I feared, with brother away at school all day. As we get into fall, he and I are going to do a little more structured learning, but for now we are just enjoying reading and playing and reuniting with his brother at the bus stop.
--I'm feeling thankful for our church's Wednesday night time-- with fellowship, learning and Scripture memory for the kids, and an adult Bible study for us on the Gospel of Matthew. Last night, as Pastor Mark thanked God that He "redeemed us by His Providence," that one phrase fed my spirit so much. God does redeem by His Providence-- us, our plans, our worries-- He holds and transforms-- not always into what we desire or imagine, but always something better, more whole, more true.
--I am always cared for so tenderly by my sweet husband. John reminds me everyday that this mom gig is challenging, and that he respects both that I do it, and how I do it. He is my very tall cheering section.
--I have lots of creative goodies here to play with when I have bits of time to do so. After letting pictures to order pile up for an embarrassing amount of time, (do as I say, not as I do: order pictures regularly), I got a box full of prints from MPIX last week. Pages and pages for scrapbooks are filling my imagination. And I have a couple of other projects in mind as well. I want to try my hand at these . And I have the materials to make two of these, from my father's old pocket watches.
--Carrie Newcomer's music, rediscovered this summer, has become an almost daily soundtrack.
--I'm happy about the meals I put away in the freezer, that give me the gift of time during these busy, start up days. It is good to learn again that organization can actually create flexibility and graciousness later, by anticipating future needs and schedules.
-- All the really wonderful people who write for children, both the ones who write "literature" and those who pen the fun, laugh-out-loud books, give a gift to us parents. A balanced reading diet of both is producing in Joshua, and planting in Sam, both an appreciation for and delight in books. Seeing this in action has given me the grace to intersperse my own more serious, focused reading with lighter fare. Takes me right back to childhood days, legs flung over the arm of an old green chair, chapters and hours flying.
What's on your list?
It really did change on Saturday, people. On Saturday morning there was the smallest note of coolness in the breeze. And this morning, I did not break a sweat as I hung out the laundry. Of course, it is supposed to get to 94 today. But the shift is happening. I love that this year, I didn't miss it.
We had a little anniversary fun over the weekend-- a wonderful dinner with my sister and brother-in-law and the treat of a night away while the boys were with Grandma and Pop pop. I can't believe we are celebrating twelve years-- inside I still feel like that twenty-three year old bride!
Perhaps it seems inside out, but I love that we began our life together at the start of my favorite season. Though nature wanes in autumn, fall has never lost the back to school feeling for me, the quickening of creative and physical energy, even as we draw the home circle in a little tighter, as we tuck in loose ends, trade the grill for long-roasted oven meals. Perhaps I feel my energies are concentrated, my focus is tighter and clearer.
Or maybe I just really REALLY like the little lights I bought this weekend, that look like candy corn.
Adding to this sense of well-being is the quiet delight of reading a wonderful book. I checked out Hannah Coulter, sent on a quest for Wendell Berry fiction by the wonderful Molly. It has proven to be a soul-feeding book, more deeply true, somehow, than non-fiction. Ending each chapter feels like the end of a good meal, when you use the last crust of bread to soak up the last bit of sauce, not wanting to miss one drop.
I know these times of peace are a blessing to any family, these weeks when Joshua can't wait to get to his wonderful first grade class, these golden afternoons of snacks and schoolwork, long evenings when we are all here. The quiet mornings home with Sam, nights of deep sleep for all of us. Wishing you all this and more, swinging as we are between summer and fall, everywhere a bountiful harvest.
Not so much sleeping happening last night, so I am greeting Monday a little gritty-eyed and not really feeling like living my best life today. Maybe tomorrow. :-) But let's give it the old College try. . .
I must being by saying thank you to sweet Susanne , who honored me with a Creative Blogger Award. Blogging has given me such a gift, by making a space for me, both in cyberspace and in my day, to unite my loves of writing, photography, cooking, homekeeping, and parenting into one form of expression. I receive so much inspiration from other women who dig deep every day for words, images and projects and put them out here for us, to enrich our lives.
I am also feeling grateful on a very practical level today: after rummaging around in freezer and fridge and cupboards, I have found raw materials enough for several meals to make over the next couple of days and store in the freezer. Today I put a chicken pot pie and a huge dish of homemade macaroni and cheese on ice, tomorrow I'll add meatballs, pizza Stromboli and whitefish cakes. (These are made like crab cakes, but with the whitefish I never seem to cook correctly.) I feel "paid double" by these dishes, in that they are being made with small, odd amounts of ingredients, and that they are my insurance policy, on weary evenings, against an unplanned meal out.
Finally the picture with this post is not just to torment all of us who are counting the days until autumn arrives, it ties into my latest favorite children's book: Pumpkins. Not a Halloween story, Pumpkins by Mary Lyn Ray is a delightful story of love for the land, hard work, self-sacrifice and conservation, told with wonderful language and humor. We had checked it out once before in the spring, and I enjoyed it even more the second time around as Joshua read it to us last night. I have requested her other books. And also in our stack: When I Was Young in the Mountains. Cynthia Rylant has become a perennial choice of mine, and this Caldecott Honor book has the Appalachian soul that appeals to this Blue Ridge girl.
Happy Monday, everyone!
There is something about ironing that takes me back to the days when we had first moved into this house. Really beyond memory, more an inhabiting of those first weeks here, every time I unfold my screechy board and set to work with spray and starch and steam.
The kitchen around me looked very different then. Dull and dark wood cabinets, brown carpet on the floor, and primed walls, it looked kind of like a whitewashed cave. But nothing made me feel so much at peace in our new home as being there, looking out the window, smoothing wrinkles and crisped creases.
There were more questions than answers, then as now. Then, I contemplated some relationships and wondered if they would survive our transitions of career path and geography. Some didn't. I dreamed over our new home and imagined the loving changes I wanted for it. As always with a family with small children, the pace of those changes has been slow, as we have resolved to be careful about laying aside too much living for the sake of improving. I reflected as I pressed business shirts for my husband on his love for his new job, and felt a profound gratitude that long-deserved professional success and satisfaction was finally his.
The kitchen looks different now. The room of the house where we have laid the heaviest hand has pale green walls, creamy cabinets, and the door and drawer pulls I set my heart on. I walk a cream and charcoal ceramic checkerboard floor laid by my husband. I wonder about different things, like our new church home, Joshua's school friends, Sam's last year full-time with me and what books I should use to tempt their vibrant minds.
But deeper than any conscious thought is this settled feeling of peace, that has been with me since the first morning I stumbled into this kitchen to make coffee. Like a quiet whisper-- here we are, we live here. These walls contain our truest selves, we make a good place for each other, a soft place to land at the end of the day.
This is one of those posts that maybe should be more like five posts. But the clock has been ticking on it, swirling around in my head with all the emotions and thoughts and anticipations and prayers of the new school year beginning.
Tonight we are headed to Meet the Teacher night at Joshua's school, and I am getting excited, almost in spite of myself, to be back in that pint-sized world, to meet the personality I'll loan my precious to for six and a half hours a day, for the next nine months. I think, despite my kicking and screaming, that we are all ready for the adventure to begin.
I have mommy friends who send their littles to public school, to private school, and who teach their children at home. (One dear mom I know, because of the different needs of her kids, does all three.) The blogs I read represent every sort of home education flavor I can imagine. And I would be so much poorer without my homeschool blogging buddies, in the richness of their pursuit of children's literature, nature study, and out-of-the-box learning, and their devoted hearts and spirits.
But I am a public school mom. Joshua will continue at our neighborhood school this year, and my expectation is that Sam will follow him there next year. It is not a lesser choice, an inferior choice, a sub-par choice. We believe it is our calling for our family. It is our choice.
It has been our experience with Joshua, and was his father's and my experience in our day, that the halls and classrooms are staffed with compassionate, skilled, and devoted professionals. They are overworked and underpaid, which only makes their performance more laudable.
We know. We know those places full of laughter and art also harbor too many days of standardized testing, bullies, lunches of questionable nutrition, worksheets and other busy work. . . on and on.
The kicker is, the kids themselves. The kids my boys would not meet on our street or on Sunday morning. Kids who give them a bigger sense of the world. Kids to love, kids to worry over, kids to stretch our hearts a little bigger. Redefining our notion perhaps, of who our kids are.
Of course, last year this led to some eye-opening dinner table conversations-- Joshua testing the limits of vocabulary on occasion, questioning entertainment guidelines, and sometimes giving us a peephole into a classmate's life that broke our hearts. Sometimes uncomfortable, always challenging. And some of the richest moments of parenting I've experienced. When I have come to the end of my "wisdom." And really need wisdom from Another.
So that is who we are on the educational landscape.
And here is where it gets messy. There are hard decisions we make, raising our kids. It isn't picking paint colors. It is growing little people. And we all make the decisions we make because of what we think is right. That only makes sense.
And we sometimes fall into a couple of pitfalls along the way. One is thinking there is only one right decision. (I remember weeping, post-mastitis and in the midst of post-partum depression, knowing deep down I could not face continuing nursing and sure I had already failed my little boy. )
The other is believing we must be in conflict over our differing choices. (A big thanks to the authors of any articles called "Mommy Wars" or using the term "versus" to apply to parenting.)
The problem is that it is easy to give lip service to the idea that we are all doing the best we can figure out, we are all aiming to raise great kids, that there are many paths to that goal. It is harder to keep our internal dialogue and how we view other, different parents compassionate and tolerant. It is easy to understand how we can fall victim to judging other parents, sometimes over the smallest issues. We are unpaid and largely un-praised. We don't get promotions or incentive-based raises. No one sits down with us for a performance review, and many of us are constantly evaluating our approach, because the stakes are so high, or seem to be. It is hard at times to maintain our perspective and our sense of humor, and all too easy to say to ourselves, "Well, I am not doing that great in this area, but at least I don't ____________ like ____________ does."
I'm not innocent of this, and neither are most of the parents I've met. The cocktail of self-doubt, conviction, sleeplessness, and pressure that parenting can be wears us down, in a sense, to this sort of one-upmanship. The problem is, left to grow, these attitudes isolate us from parents unlike ourselves, who have made different choices, and these may be the ones from whom we stand to learn the most.
I am all for passionate parenting, conviction, strong feelings and opinions. My husband would tell you I am composed almost entirely of those! So I am trying to learn the art of owning where I am in this journey, signing my name, not apologizing, and at the same time, retaining the humility and humor of just one mommy, knee-deep in the process. There is only one perfect Parent, and I am still growing in Him after all, still a Child myself.
Blessings to anyone who loves a child, educates a child, kisses a child as she gets on the bus, holds a baby to breast or bottle, potty trains and sings to sleep, reads aloud from Milne or Calvin and Hobbes. Company for the journey. . .
