::: stream of consciousness whilst I wait for the day to end :::

Here's what's on this fickle mind of mine:

My son in Africa: He's dealing with an illness that required hospitalization. We can't really communicate, so I'm quite worried about him. Could be over and done with in no time, could be a long haul. Could be very mild. Could be quite serious. I can't help thinking he wouldn't be there if I hadn't planted the idea.

My faith: I'm turning so much over in my head about groupthink and jingoism and the heartlessness of some people who claim to follow Christ.

My passions: I used to think of myself as a writer. Now, the more I think of writing, the more I think I must have some audacity to believe that I fit into that scene. Or any scene, for that matter. At this point in my life, I feel that anything I write is either adding to the noise. Am I just a clanging cymbal? Do I have anything to contribute in this information age, in this sea of words?

Sexiness: It's sexy to adopt a child from an exotic foreign country. It's not so sexy to adopt a child from 50 miles away who has a learning disability. Do I want to make a difference, or do I want to be sexy?

Education: I'd always chosen to homeschool because I wanted my children to be exposed to a broad variety of subjects and I wanted them to have the freedom to learn at their own pace and according to their interests. Home education, I have always felt, is a superior education. I'd never felt that I wanted to educate for religious reasons, or for social reasons, but now that my children are growing and changing and I'm growing and changing, I see that my reasons always have been mainly social. My daughters are both starting to show interest in attending a local private school, and I'm not so sure how I feel about that. After this year of dealing with the ups and downs of our 14-year-old, Monet, attending this school, I can see how the girls would thrive academically. But socially? It's not that they aren't social girls. They are very, very social girls. But I've been around some of the kids from this school and heard the things my son and other kids have dealt with to have some serious reservations about sending my daughters to school. They're both very smart, outgoing and sweet. I'm worried that even a year in the environment where what you look like and what sports you play are more important qualities than how you treat people and what your passions are will break them into tiny little quivering pieces of self-doubt. I don't, don't, don't want to go there. And yet I fear that my economic abilities limit them from pursuing the kind of education they really desire.

Relationships: There are a couple of people who have really blown my mind this past year with their hubris and selfishness. On one hand, I feel like I am so over these people. On the other hand, it burns me to no end that they don't see how terribly self-centered and hurtful they are. And, if I had another hand, what would be on it is that I want so badly to be at peace with everyone I know that the fact that rifts remain drives me wild. Is it worth it to try to invest time in these relationships, or should I take joy in the peace that is my life with these people removed from it?

My own selfishness. That's all I'll say about that.

And that's all I'll say.

::: teach your children well :::

"Mama? You know, when I see a little girl my age who has soft, beautiful skin, I pray that she is thankful to God that she has nice skin."

The Baby is six years old. She loves High School Musical, The Beatles, The Monkees, kittens, ballet, working in the garden with mom, reading books, singing opera, wrapping Christmas presents and cuddling. She has beautiful curly golden-brown hair, a graceful, active body, a fabulous laugh, and gorgeous brown eyes.

She also has ichthyosis.

Icthyosis is an inherited skin condition that causes a build-up of dry skin all over the body. The build-up is worse on the hands, feet, elbows and knees, but the dryness is everywhere. Legs. Back. Scalp. Face. And sometimes it can be itchy. In the winter, if lotions isn't applied liberally after every hand-washing, painful, bleeding cracks appear. Because the skin doesn't slough off like it should, it can cause large scales on the legs, very thick elephant-like skin around the wrists and legs, and large flakes of dandruff. When the skin does slough off, it comes off in huge flakes or large quantities (some ichthyosis causes a rapid increase in skin growth) so that linens are always covered in a dust of flaky skin, clothes are coated, shoulders have to be constantly brushed off, and flakes get stuck in the hair, even when you use the best dandruff shampoos.

Because the hands and feet are most affected, people notice the dry skin right away. Think of how many times a day you use your hands around other people. Shaking hands, holding hands, writing, clapping, waving, touching, drawing, raising. Think of how good it feels to wear sandals on a warm day, or to go barefoot. Think of what it's like to wear shorts in the summer, or for a boy to run around shirtless. When a person has ichthyosis, none of these things are easy to do. Even when they don't draw comments and criticisms from others, children and adults alike, sometimes you just want to keep your hands in your pockets, or wear your shoes, or stay in long pants all summer.

The Baby isn't the only one in our family with ichthyosis. Out of our family of seven, six of us have some form of it. My husband Bo and four of the children, Houdin, Monet, Sweetheart and The Baby, all have noticeable ichthyosis. Bard, the oldest, has very mild symptoms, like dandruff, dry fingers in the wintertime, and Keratosis pilaris, which are tiny bumps on the backs of her arms.

But for The Baby and Sweetheart, the only girls in the family with serious presentations of ichthyosis, there are more issues than just the physical discomfort of the defect. They long for smooth, soft skin. They often tell me that they wish they could have skin like mine. The build-up of skin on their feet and hands looks rough, yes, but also dirty. The skin gives the appearance of a child whose hygiene is being neglected. Children on the playground will say, "EW! I'm not touching you!" or "You're gross!" or "What's wrong with your skin?" Many times, in front of the the children, people of all ages, including adults, will make comments about their skin, saying things like, "You need to wash your hands!" or "Your fingers are filthy!" or "Shouldn't you put some lotion on?" The assumption that the child doesn't know how to wash their hands or doesn't know how to apply lotion is demeaning and chips away even more at their self-esteem, negating all of their talents and abilities, and it certainly doesn't help me feel so good about myself as a mom. After all, one of the most important goals in my life is to be a good mother, and when comments are directed toward me about my children's care, as if I'd never thought to buy a bottle of lotion, it chips away at my self-esteem, too.

A few months ago, The Baby showed me a place on her toes where some warts had cropped up. Warts are viruses, and these viruses had probably cropped up because of a crack in her toes sometime during the winter. Shortly after, Sweetheart showed me some warts on her toes, too. As if the Ichthyosis isn't enough, these terrible things had to enter the scene, too. After one very expensive trip to the dermatologist, who said that my children's was one of the worst cases of Ichthyosis she had seen, we were laden with an array of lotions, some over-the-counter and some prescription. It would take a serious effort, but they could have somewhat "normal" skin, she said, if they faithfully followed a certain skincare routine.

For two weeks, we did follow the routine faithfully. A bath, then an application of this kind of cream to the face, and this kind to the elbows and knees, and then this kind over that, and then the discomfort of sleeping in plastic gloves covered in cotton ones.

But little by little, the warts disappeared and the children saw some major improvement in their skin. Little by little, patches of clean, soft skin showed through. And lot by lot, we ran out of the array of very expensive creams. When it was time to order more, I found that the one cream that helped the most had been discontinued. None of the creams can be purchased in any local store--they all must be ordered. And so, because of unavailability, money and inconvenience, the routine was broken, and the hope for "normal" skin slipped away again.

The discomfort of the skin itself is frustrating enough, but now, with Monet in a private school setting for the first time after years of being home educated, the social discomfort of having Ichthyosis is almost overwhelming. Even in a small Christian school, ridicule runs rampant and alienates and breaks young, fragile, insecure hearts. And this, in turn, infuriates the protective mother-bear mama who has to suppress her rage and advise wisely and gently.  She isn't always successful. Sometimes, she just wants to go scratch someone's eyes out.

We take things for granted, don't we? Not just big things, like seeing eyes and hearing ears and working limbs and beating hearts, but little things, too, like soft, beautiful skin.

Please take the time today to talk to your children about people they know who might have something about them that seems strange and different--their eyes or their hair or their clothes or their skin--and how hard it is to live with those differences every day. Teach them good manners in dealing with people with differences. Help them to understand that those people have interests and loves and hopes and talents, just like they do, and that they can be a bright light in someone's day if they notice those interests and loves and hopes and talents, take that person by the hand, and be their friend.

::: stream of consciousness whilst listening to beatles rock band :::

Nine batches of white trash down, who knows how many more to go.
Almost all of my Christmas shopping is done.
I'm broke.
We put the tree up today.
It was the first year my family cut it down without me.
I was having a pouting party.
People were being mean to each other, and then they turned on me.
They chose and cut the tree.
I cried in the car alone.
Sometimes Christmas traditions suck
and leave everyone grumpy and depressed.
Houdin called from Africa today.
I miss him.
I woke up the other night worried about him
and the gigantic poisonous snakes in the village
and the inadequate shoes he packed.
I want to send him steel hip waders.
He wouldn't wear them.
I hope he's taking his malaria pills.
He only had four minutes to talk
and we got cut off.
His girlfriend was here. She got to talk to him.
I feel badly that I didn't let everyone say a word or two.
We tried speakerphone, but it was to echoey and no one could hear anything.
He was telling me about how he's learning all about African cuisine,
and how you can make just about anything there into food.
Made this mother-heart kinda worried,
made me think of Christopher McCandless.
I hate to sound selfish, God, but would You mind keeping an eye
on that boy of mine?
And, while you're at it, God, can you work on the heart
of that other boy of mine?
You know the one. Full of hormones and anger and independence,
but still goofy and hyper,
with his mother's talent for losing track of time.
This, his first year of school after having homeschooled all of his life,
has been a rough one.
He gets picked on.
Mostly by girls.
So, naturally, when he comes home, it's time to reverse the roles.
He picks on his little sisters.
Their patience is wearing thin.
Bard is home from college for a few weeks.
She had her nose pierced.
It looks cute, yes, but I can't help remembering
her tiny, perfect, unblemished nose,
that little baby I held to my breast.
Now she walks around the world without me,
making decisions about her life, her future, her body.
I'm peripheral.
That's a little hard to take.
But there are still young ones in the house,
and they still think I'm the center of the universe.
That can be such an ego trip.
It can also be exhausting.
So I need some patience
and some kindness
and an extra helping of forgiveness,
both to hand out
and to cash in on.
The Christmas trees are up.
It's feeling quite festive around here.
I'll post pictures soon.
For now, I think my consciousness has been streamed out.
May God bless this Christmas
and may you be reminded of how very much
you are loved.

::: it's been a hard day's night :::

This week, I have all of my kids at home. It hasn't been like this for a while, with Houdin being gone at discipleship training for the past couple of months and Bard off at college. It won't be like this again for a while. On Monday, Bard will head back to college and on Tuesday, 18-year-old Houdin will leave for an eight-month outreach placement to Africa. But while they're all here, I'm reminded of the dynamics of this family, both good and not-so-good. The changes we're experiencing are positive; we're all learning things as we move through this transition towards more permanent change. I'm taking notes, my friends. I'm taking lots of notes.

With all of the Thicket Dweller kids under one roof again, plus a couple of friends along for the ride, it's impossible to avoid a jam session. Most of the family used real instruments to belt out The Beatles, Coldplay, Muse, Leonard Cohen and Kimya Dawson, but a couple who are not as musically adept and a couple who are just plain goofy joined in on the Beatles Rock Band instruments. Can you believe that these silly people played for hours? HOURS? After serving a second dinner and a third dinner and a couple of snacks and a few desserts, this roadie headed for bed. I'm told they knocked off for the night around 3:00 A.M.

This house will be so different when they're gone.

::: say cheese...cake! part 2 :::

Fifteen cheesecakes! An incredible band! A wonderful audience! In other words, a great success.

Yes, it was a lot of work, but there were amazing people who came to my rescue, running to the store, washing dishes, giving me hints and tips, offering encouraging words, and, of course, making beautiful and delicious cheesecakes.

Here are a few photos from the cheesecake auction and Honeytown concert. It was so much fun that we're talking about making it an annual event to benefit whatever the need is at the time of the auction.

Thanks, everyone, for all of your hard work, prayers, generosity and thoughtfulness. I'm so blessed!

::: sometimes the system goes on the blink and the whole thing turns out wrong :::

Man, I'm pretty doggone frustrated right now.

I mean, I'd like to spend a few paragraphs telling you about our great trip to see Houdin at the discipleship center, but I can't. I just can't.

Instead, I'm thinking about my rotten luck.

We were given a van to test drive, a kind gesture from a friend. A nice van. A 2002 Town and Country. And while it has a lot of miles and a few little issues, it's a better vehicle than anything we currently have.

After a couple of weeks of test driving it, we told our friend that, yes, we would buy the van. He gave us the title and the extra keys. On Friday, I paid $150 for the title transfer and plates and had new tires put on to the tune of $450.

In less than 24 hours, the thing was dead on the side of the road. Apparent transmission failure. It was 7 A.M., we were three hours from home, halfway there to see Houdin's presentation, with three sleeping kids in the car. One minute, we're cruising along, admiring the scenery, making good time. The next minute, bam. Car no worky.

I could say that I'm so glad we were at a place where we could pull over. I could say that I'm glad I packed extra gloves and coats and that I had enough money in the checking account to get a tow truck.

But I don't want to say those things. I want to say:

Dang.

I didn't renew my AAA.
I spent $250 on a tow truck.
I spent $80 on a rental car.
We missed Houdin's presentation.
The car dealership that the tow company recommended for repair was closed.
We have to drive back with the rental (because the only rental place available didn't do one-ways) in five hours, just seven hours after returning home from the trip.
Nothing seemed to go well.
Everything seemed to be stinky.
I'm in a bad mood, and I don't know what to do about it.
I think God's out to get me.

Where I had just made some financial progress and was in the position to pay some of my debts, I am now in the hole by $500. More if we have to fix this vehicle. Like $2,000 more. And we haven't even paid for the vehicle yet.

Man.

So I'll try to settle down, and then I'll write about the rest of the weekend which, unfortunately, seemed to be true to the theme of "stinky."

But we got to see Houdin and Grace. And the hugs from them were sweet.

Goodnight. I'll try not to go much further into debt while I sleep. If I can help it.

::: oh no, i see a spider web and it's me in the middle :::

Since the girls are home again, and Monet is at school, we're back to our regular (what's that?) schedule with small chores, breakfast and Ambleside in the morning. We also began using Teaching Textbooks CDs on the computer for Sweetheart (age 10) and I've ordered Math U See for The Baby (who desperately needs a new pseudonym--any suggestions?) and am looking forward to getting started with that. The girls are also working on Explode the Code and Getty-Dubay handwriting. Sweetheart is continuing her work with Wordly Wise and some map reading workbooks.

On the brick-and-mortar school front regarding Monet...::sigh::. Another day, another argument. I received an e-mail from his history teacher saying that Monet is "doing well" on his tests but he's not turning in his homework. I have a simple explanation for that; he's not doing it. We have a major discussion about this every.single.night. Do any of you have any suggestions for motivating a teen to do his homework, or should we just back off and let him deal with whatever consequences that come with his actions (or lack of)? I do not want to sacrifice my relationship with my son over homework, yet I want him to gain discipline and get the most of this amazing education he's been given the opportunity to receive.

This week is going to be quite a busy one. Cleaning for a houseconcert on Friday night, soccer game tomorrow night, going to a play on Wednesday evening, making applesauce with Jill on Thursday, parent/teacher conferences on Thursday evening (and another soccer game), Shakespeare play on Friday morning, houseconcert Friday night, and then travel to PA for an open house for Houdin's training at the discipleship center on Saturday morning, before the rooster crows. I'm feeling more and more that I'm beginning to stretch myself too thin again with things like picking up the soccer sandwiches and houseconcerts and parent/teacher conferences. My doggone tomatoes are rotting on the vines, dangit, because I've been too flippin' busy to get them picked and processed.

For tomorrow: look for a review of the soon-to-be-released newest book by Donald Miller, including the chance to win a copy.

::: la la la la pennsylvania :::

Tomorrow.
5:00 AM.
A six and a half hour drive.
A day of orientation and commissioning.
And at the end of the day?
After we've been oriented
and he's been commissioned?
We leave.
And he stays.
Thanksgiving
will bring him home again,
but only for a week.
Long enough to pack for Africa.
Long enough to get a few more vaccines
shot into his body.
And then we stay.
And he leaves.
To another country.
To another continent.
To a year away.
He'll leave 18,
and come back 19.
So much,
so very much
can happen
in a year.
It will creep by
in the blink of an eye,
and July will be
here before we
even realize that September has left us.
He'll go away from this cold,
into that heat,
and come back to this heat.
A whole year of summer.
Six and a half hours.
Such a long
long,
long
drive.

::: people, get ready :::

It's been a busy few days for the Thicket Dweller household, and it's only going to get busier.

We're preparing for Houdin to leave for training for his eight-month trip to western Africa. This past week has been spent gathering last-minute stuff and organizing fundraisers. This Saturday, we'll be running a lunch stand at a local real estate auction and all of the proceeds will go to Houdin's trip, which is a good thing because it's costing more than I had thought it would. While many people have been very generous, there are so many expenses that I hadn't anticipated; his oral vaccinations aren't covered by our insurance; the health department charges $35 for a "travel consultation" before they can give him his Yellow Fever vaccine; he needs a winter coat before his training begins; we didn't have a camera suitable for him to travel with; he desperately needed a haircut; and, and, and....

It's hard to believe that he'll be leaving in just two days, and that we won't see him until Thanksgiving. A short visit, then he'll be off to Africa for eight. whole. months.

Am I ready for this?

Sometimes the best thing to do when you're feeling anxious is to focus on someone else, so here's a prayer for all of you who have children who are starting their first year of school, or their last, or their first year of college, or their last, or they're going away on service projects, or missions trips, or into the military. May you be filled with total peace. May all of the fear and anxiety and pressure and stress just melt away, and may you be left with a sense of wonder, gratitude, joy and strength.

And you can do the same for me.

::: at midnight :::

Dogs are barking.
Drums are beating.
Piano is pounding.
Fan is blowing.
Laundry is waiting.
I am stressing.
I am stressing.
I am stressing.

School is frustrating.
Homework is baffling.
Sunday's approaching;
Houdin will be leaving.
Laundry is waiting.
I am stressing.
I am stressing.
I am stressing.

Book is inspiring.
God is amazing.
Life is so challenging.
Morning is coming.
Bus will be waiting.
I am stretching.
I am stretching.
I am stretching.

::: son, can you play me a memory? :::

As June approached, swinging her green skirts over these hills and valleys, my heart was confused. My eldest son, Houdin, would be turning eighteen. As such, he would no longer be subject to any formal teaching from his parents. How to commemorate? How to mark this occasion? What I wanted was to cut apron strings, yet allow love to remain intact. This boy, who has been the source of so much frustration, self-doubt, with whom interaction has caused me so much regret for my lack of patience and angry nature, has also impressed me with his strength, creative thinking and varied interests.

Remember those games we used to play as children? They're the ones my daughters still play now, like cutie catchers, and M.A.S.H., where a group of giggling girls determine your lifelong fate. On a ripped-out sheet of notebook paper, they ask you to list different boys' names, and types of dwellings (mansion, apartment, shack or house, which is where the game gets its name), and numbers, and states, and then you choose a number, which is written very blackly in the center of the page. And then, the counting begins. One by one, your choices are narrowed, until your lies future scrawled out on the wide-ruled looseleaf before you--you will marry Victor and live in an apartment in Tahiti, tooling around in an AMC Gremlin. And you will have kids, unless you chose a "zero" for one of the numbers. You'll have six kids, or fourteen kids, or two kids. If make the mistake of thinking the number means how much money you're going to make per year, you may end up with 120,000 kids.

I don't remember a lot about my preferences for children when I was a child. I thought more about where I would live, what I would grow, what animals I would have and what kinds of clothes I would wear than if or how many children I would love.

But along came Bo, and I loved him, and, more importantly at the time and to the plot of this essay, I was attracted to him, and children were part of that equation. And I knew just a few things about these arriving beings. Here's what I knew:

• They would love and follow God and emulate Christ;
• They would be stunningly beautiful;
• They would be dressed in trendy clothes from The Gap and Banana Republic and, more importantly, they would love vintage thrift clothes;
• They would want for nothing;
• They would love nature, hiking, swimming, canoeing, and gardening;
  
• They would love the folk music;
• They would be incredible musicians, maybe even virtuosos;
• They would be brilliant, obedient and respectful;
• My daughters would be my closest confidantes;
• My sons would be my fiercest defenders.

I'm not attesting to the rightness or wrongness of any of these things, I'm just reporting the facts that were rattling around in that little curly-topped two-decade-old head. Some of these thoughts were acknowledged plans, with roads to the outcome mapped out neatly in journals and file folders, some were pursued with vigor and they either succeeded or were reluctantly abandoned. Some of these things just happened naturally, with little or no input from me. And, of course, it varied from child to child, from day to day.

One child, however, decided pretty much from day one that he wasn't all that thrilled with my plan. He arrived later than the doctor had estimated, took longer to be born, had a true knot in his umbilical cord, weighed more and measured longer than anyone had imagined.

As he grew, his first words were "shub up!" and "I can doooo it!" and "yeave me a-yone!" He wanted to be fiercely independent, yet didn't quite have the tools to achieve that independence. Lessons at home proved frustrating for everyone involved. Anything that could be taken apart was. Anything that could be broken was. Including, many times, my mother heart.

And while I tried to push my plans on him, he pushed right back. My plan was for a son who was naturally kind and respectful, good-natured and loving, well-dressed and tidy. He wore wrinkled t-shirts and stained jeans to church, was mouthy to me and other family members, wasn't affectionate or kindhearted. And he certainly wasn't my fiercest defender. To engage him in learning, we tried placing him in private school for a year, pulling him back out, moving to the country, giving him animal projects, encouraging his interests, increasing the household structure, loosening the household structure, abandoning the household structure. I spent evenings pouring over parenting books, on my knees in prayer, and beside his bed trying to reason him into doing his lessons or clean his room or help around the house or stick with his current interest, even if it wasn't my current interest.

Because what I wanted? I wanted him to play an instrument. And what I really wanted was for him to play piano. So as soon as we could find a piano teacher we could afford, I signed all the kids up, and we would make a weekly trek, every Monday, to spend two hours at the piano teacher's house. And every week, he would show great promise. And every week, as soon as we would leave the piano teacher's house, the lesson would be forgotten and little or no practice would ensue, regardless of the reminders, motivators or bribes I handed out.

I don't want to play piano, he would say. That's something you want me to do. It's not something I'm interested in. And we'd have a discussion about how many adults wish they could play, how you never meet an adult who plays piano and says, "Man, I've always regretted sticking with my lessons." But that didn't help. He wanted to play computer games or set up his army men or strap CO2 cartridges to the girls' dolls and set them on fire, delighting in the ensuing explosion.

I don't understand this creature.

But somehow, he still has my heart firmly in his grasp.

This boy, who has been the source of so much frustration, self-doubt, with whom interaction has caused me so much regret for my lack of patience and angry nature, has also impressed me with his strength, creative thinking and varied interests.

Finally, we decided on a graduation party, and he expressed his strong preference for having it here, at our home. He did a lot of work to get ready for it, including building a stone stairway up our front hill.

We had a small ceremony on the hillside that is our little apple orchard, blankets and quilts laid out for people to sit upon. Bo said a few words and opened us with a song, the Doxology, and then our pastor gave a short teaching to Zach--to all of us--about the lack of wisdom in most commencement speeches. Bo shared his thoughts, his memories of Houdin as a newborn baby, long and red, and the weight that came with realizing that he was the father of a son. Before he had finished his first sentence, I knew that there was nothing I could say; I was too emotional to speak. And then, Houdin spoke. He hadn't shared with me what he was going to say, hadn't written it down.

What he shared was an answer to my many years of prayer. He gave a short history of his life, how he arrived at the point where he is today. He talked about our other house, our tiny cape cod on a busy street with a little postage-stamp-sized yard, and how, there, he was given the freedom to learn, how he could choose any subject, and we would delve fully into it, exhausting all possibilities for further information before moving on to the next subject.

And he talked about the move to where we are now, this house in the country. He talked about the learning opportunities he was given, how he was allowed to be a part of the building process of this new home, climbing on the roof, pulling wiring, installing hurricane clips in the attic, nailing down shingles, carrying cement blocks. He talked about the things we let him do, and the things we made him do, and he said that he was grateful for us. He was grateful, he said, that his mother gave him the freedom to learn, and his father gave him the discipline.

I wish I could convey the feelings I had at that moment, and how glad I was that we'd decided to have that ceremony, even though there were times when I was so overwhelmed and discouraged that we came close to calling it all off.

We closed by singing a family favorite, Rich Mullins' Step by Step, a song I taught the older kids when they were just toddlers, when they would stand on step stools beside me in our old house, washing and drying dishes, and singing and singing and singing. Now here we were, surrounded by wonderful friends and family, cutting the apron strings that were tied to this boy who has done a fairly good job of driving me mad.

A few days ago, when I had some errands to run, Houdin asked me if he could stay at the church while I did my running around. See, there's a piano there, and over the past few months, he has taken to looking up the chords to his favorite songs and banging them out daily.

And there I was, watching it all, smitten by this young man who has so many times frustrated my spirit.

In just two weeks, we will load up a car full of stuff and kids, and we will attend another ceremony, this one a commissioning to send Houdin to Africa for a ten-month venture into voluntary service.

Day by day, as the time to send him comes closer, I become more aware of what this means, of how far away he'll be and how much can happen over the course of ten months. My mother heart needs prayer, comfort and healing before I can offer the same to my boy. While I know that this trip is a good thing, that it's has been orchestrated by God and that much good will come of it, my nature is to hold on, to change my mind, so panic, to worry about all of the terrible things that could possibly happen. Ten months away. Ten months. On the other side of the world.

A short time ago, we welcomed a young man named Rejoice into our lives. Six months before, his mother had stood in Africa and said goodbye to him as he ventured to the other side of the world for a year. We did our best to give him a home here, to welcome him as one of us, to make him a part of our family. I pray that Houdin, too, will find a family on African soil who will look after him while he's away from us.

And I pray that there's a piano there for him to play.

::: the incredible sweet corn massacre :::

Yes, there were some tears. Yes, my back and feet are aching. But now we have twenty-two quarts of corn and five quarts of basil in the freezer. There's still a ton (Okay, maybe not a ton. Maybe a few gallons.) more basil to harvest, but some will be pesto and some will go into sauce and bruschetta. Most of it, though, will be put into more freezer bags and pulled out in the middle of winter when heating up the oven to make pizza is more fun than it is during this hot, humid August.

::: if i leave here tomorrow, will you still remember me? :::

Around this time last year, I was waking with a terrible realization and a pain in my gut like that of someone who has experienced loss. I was weepy, unmotivated and grief-stricken. My husband was understanding. My daughters were empathetic to the point of their own grief and tears. I wasn't sure I would survive. People around me seemed puzzled.

In Bard's Wonder Book, an interactive paper journal I started for her when she was seven, I wrote the following:

Under any other circumstance, a woman whose daughter has gone after eighteen years of living at home would likely be heaped with support. If you had died, say, or gotten married, or run away, or been abducted. Actually, had I lost anyone after eighteen years, or even eighteen months--a break up or divorce or other loss--people would call me, I'd be in some kind of a support group, women from church would bring me casseroles and jello salads. But in this circumstance--"Well, gee. She's just at college!" Never mind that the house is void of her music, her laughter, her guitar, her conversation. "What's the big deal? Get over it!"

I hadn't started out grief-stricken. As a matter of fact, I was kind of blasé about the whole thing, having indulged myself in the process of getting Bard into college by making transcripts, visiting colleges, sending paperwork, talking to financial advisors, and then celebrating not only her acceptance letters, but the steady stream of scholarship awards, which was sweet vindication for this mom who had been told that home learning would ruin my child's education.

While I was gloating, I hadn't really thought about the fact that the end result of this process would be that my daughter would be leaving home.

And even had I thought that she would be leaving, once she chose a school that was only an hour away, I hadn't thought about the fact that she wouldn't be living in our house. She'd be taking her loyalty, dependability, devious sense of humor, midnight music making, and, most of all, her delightful companionship along with her.

It wasn't until a church friend asked me, just the week before we would be moving Bard to school, how I was doing.

"I'm fine!" I answered chipperly. "It's great! I think we're ready!"

To which she offhandedly replied, "When we took Jonathan to Goshen the first day of his freshman year, that was the last time he lived at home. He went on service trips for Christmas and summers, and then he got married and moved to Virginia."

Wait...what?

You mean, I thought, next week could be the last time my child lives at home? EVER?!?

And that's when the waterworks started.

At one point, it got so bad that when she simply walked into my room, I was reduced to a blubbery mass of tears.

"Mom," she chided playfully, "I feel like I'm dead! I feel like you're planning my funeral!"

Houdin, who had just ventured down the hall, strolled in, passed Bard without acknowledging her presence, embraced me with mock seriousness and hushed, "When are the calling hours?"

After taking her to her dorm that first day, going through the orientation process, and saying my goodbyes, I climbed into the car with my two younger daughters. Since Bard had packed so much stuff, and all of the family wanted to see her off, we'd driven two vehicles. But my vision was so obscured by tears, I had to pull over in the closest parking lot and let myself bawl. The girls draped their little bodies around me and joined my mourning, and we all wailed together, albeit quietly since we were in a public place not two thousand feet from Bard's dorm.

Now, before you come down too hard on me, you have to realize a couple of things:

• I never put my child on the kindergarten bus;
• I never watched her drive away after getting her license (she still isn't a driver, at 19);
• I never saw her whisked away on her first date by some strange boy.

It's not that she was sheltered or prohibited from leaving home, unsocialized or awkward. It's just that the choices we made together, the choices she made alone, never necessitated those little bits of leaving. Sure, she boarded a plane to Italy, China, and Germany, in addition to her domestic travels. But this thing? This leaving-for-college thing? That was different.

Because unlike women I've overheard sighing disdainfully in the early August school-supplies line while their children finger every impulse item on the shelf, I have never uttered the words, "I can't wait until they're back in school."

And this is because you have to realize something else, too.

I like my kids. I like my daughter. She's my friend. And I miss her when she's gone.

I'm glad she's at school, having fun, making new friends and keeping the old. It's cool that she's a course assistant this year and that she'll be starting into some of the classes for her majors. It's nifty that she used her summer-job-at-the-greenhouse money to buy a new cherry sunburst Fender Strat and a Line 6 amp and hopes to play in a band with a group of friends.

It's great that moving day went extremely well, that Houdin and the girls helped extra much and Bard's friend Grape tagged along to lend a hand, since Monet was at school and husband Bo was at work (though we did stop by for a brief hug).

It's fabulous that we got to spend moving day shopping for a new pair of Chuck Taylors (can you believe she's been wearing the same pair since her freshman year in high school?!?), eating at ChicFila, and arranging her new dorm room, a suite she'll share with five other girls.

And it's cool that I'll put the finishing touches on cleaning her room today, and it will stay clean in between visits.

But it'll be awfully quiet around here without her midnight music, her insane sense of humor, and her great companionship.

When you like your own child enough to miss them when they're gone, I do believe that's a good thing.

::: it's a school night :::

A load of laundry is tumbling in the dryer. The alarm clocks are set for 5:45 a.m. A shower will be taken, bedtime snack consumed, lunch packed. Then, there will be teeth brushed, tucking in and prayers, and maybe, if we're lucky, some sleep.

Life is about to change.

This hot mid-August brings with it new experiences for the Thicket Dweller household, and I'm not all that sure that I'm ready for them.

But ready or not, here they come.

Tomorrow morning, fourteen-year-old Monet will, for the first time, board a school bus and bump along into a brand new chapter of his life--high school. After fourteen years of learning at home and all around, he will be adding a new set of teachers, a new schedule, new bedtime and morning routines. He's excited. I'm excited.

And a little bit scared.

Will he be ready? Will he pay attention? Will he be organized and responsible? Will other students be kind to him? Will the lunches be okay?

His first experience with this new school has been two weeks of practice with the junior varsity soccer team which, for Monet, has done it's share of socking him. His body, a little soft from too much computer time and not enough running around, has had a really hard time adjusting to the new rigors that a team sport requires, and he has come home from two-a-day practices dog-tired and more than a little discouraged.

But he has stuck with it, in spite of threats to the contrary, and his coaches have been patient and encouraging as he lopes slowly around the track during laps, sometimes even loping along with him.

And the day after he spends his first day in school, nineteen-year-old Bard will return to college to begin her sophomore year as a course assistant for the college experience class, helping the incoming students get acclimated to college life. She's excited, and I'm excited for her, but I'm not all that thrilled that the summer has flown by so fast. There was so much more I wanted to do with her during break! Tonight, she and Bo are out shopping for a new electric guitar for her year at school, purchased with the money she made working at the greenhouse this summer. This in lieu of a car. Wise move, in my opinion. Guitars get better mileage, the insurance is cheaper, and there's very little maintenance.

As if that's not enough, in September, eighteen-year-old Houdin will begin training for a ten-month term of voluntary service in northwestern Africa. It was too painful for me to write about my grief when Bard started college. The period between July and September 2008 is conspicuously empty. And she was only going to be an hour away! Though I know that this leaving is a good thing, that he will grow and learn so much, that, if he stayed, we would be at each other daily, I'll miss him terribly and will undoubtedly bawl upon his departure.

And while I'll have two delightful young girls at home, going through Ambleside's years one and five with me, and my husband will be by my side, and our home will be full of laughter and learning, I'm wary knowing that bits of my heart will be scattered all over the world.

So, while, as a homelearner, I never thought I'd hear myself say this, I have to enforce some bedtime rules, because tonight's a school night. It makes me a little sad that this bohemian household will be tamed a bit by outside forces.

But maybe it's just what we need.

::: scenes from a graduation party :::

A Birthday Apart

When I awoke this morning, I just wanted to go and give you a big hug, wrap my arms around you and tell you how much I love you, how much I appreciate your carefree spirit, your adventurous nature, your individuality. We butt heads, you and I, like two big-horned rams, each coming at the other with our own ideals. Why can't they mesh, I wonder? Can they? Will they?

And if you had been here, I'd definitely have charged into your room and said, "Happy Birthday!" to you. Maybe even breakfast in bed. Maybe not.

But instead, I went on with my busy morning, rushing around, hoping not to be late or forget something. And when I had a moment, I called you, but there was no answer.

When you called me back, I was so happy to hear your voice. And when you wondered if we had plans for tonight, I wanted to tell you that we had plans for you, to entice you back home for the weekend so that I could relieve my mother-guilt of not being with her eldest son on his eighteenth birthday. And yes, we did have plans, but they weren't birthday plans. And now I feel terrible. I should have had birthday plans for you.

So what can I do, my son who is officially an adult but still so much my boy, to commemorate this day, the first day of a new phase of your life? What could I possibly do to mark this occasion well, give it the attention it deserves?

There isn't anything, really, I'm afraid. My attempts would be inadequate.

Tonight, as we sat in Leslie's garden, I missed you so much I could have cried, but, out of fear of embarrassment, I told the tears to mind their own business, to leave me alone. I don't think I've ever been away from any of the other kids on their birthdays. Why does that bother me so much? I was so convinced that I should be with you today that when I saw that tall teenaged boy wander into Leslie's yard, and when I heard someone shout out to him--he shared your name, I was sure it was you, against all logic. And when I realized that it wasn't you, that it couldn't possibly be, I felt something akin to homesickness. All I wanted was to hear your laugh, to see you swing the younger kids by their arms or play hide-and-seek with the big kids. I wanted to hear you play Ben Folds and The Beatles and Muse on Martin and Leslie's new Baldwin, hear you sing along with Tosca's eclectic playlist. And only part of it was that I was worried that you were spending your birthday alone at camp, the rest of the staff gone for the weekend, home with their families or hanging out with their friends. The other part was me.

I really missed you.

I really miss you.

There's so much I wish I could change about our story, you know? I think I could have been a much better mom if I'd just have known that you would be alright. You have no idea how much advice you get as a mother, and most of it is a bunch of bull. People who have their heads full of their own ideals seem to think they have the best answers for you, for your parenting and your child. Why didn't I just listen to us? Wouldn't it have been so much better to shut off those voices and trust you and me?

Maybe it's not too late. Can we start again? Can you believe me when I say I'm proud of who you are, of who you've been, who you're becoming? How about if we set aside the blame and set free the love? I mean, what's the worst that could happen?

Tomorrow morning, you'll run a 5K, and I'll be there to see you. And you won't believe the hug I'm preparing.

Happy eighteenth, Houdin. Let's move forward.

Love,

Mom

::: dance, boy :::

It didn't seem all that long ago that I was stuffing the squirming toddler Houdin, a Hot Wheels car tightly gripped in his fist, into a miniature black suit so that he could saunter down the aisle at my sister-in-law's wedding and wiggle his little-boy dances at the reception. That's been about fourteen years ago, and now that little boy, who had to have his diaper changed right before the ceremony, has grown into some guy I barely recognize, a guy who bangs out Ben Folds and The Beatles on the piano, sings songs I sang when I was his age, and dances whenever the mood strikes, and today, he is wearing a glossy size 13 dress shoe and snazzy black tuxedo. In a few minutes, Bo and I will climb into the car and journey with our soon-t0-be eighteen-year-old spiffed-up, showered, shaved and shined son to his girlfriend's house, almost two hours away, and he'll go to his first prom.

We've had a rough time of it, Houdin and I. He's so much like I was at that age, and probably still am today--stubborn, opinionated, indignant and mouthy. But I can't even begin to tell you how much love fills to overflowing in this heart of mine when I see what a young man he has become. In the end, it doesn't really matter if he keeps his room clean, or if he passes algebra, or if he wears white dress shirts and khaki pants. What matters is that we have a relationship, that he knows I love him so deeply that I would give my very life for him.

I'm not proud of all of the mistakes I've made in raising a son. I wish I would have been less critical, less impatient, less demanding. I wish I would have known more, read more, prayed more, loved more. I'm so grateful for a God who can heal brokenness, can turn our mourning into dancing.

But, Houdin, I'm proud of who you are. I'm proud of who you're going to be. I'm proud of who you've been.

Now, get out there and dance.

::: music from the masses :::

Last night there was a lot of musical goings-on in the Today's Lessons household. It carries on today with Bard teaching Monet some chords on his new electric guitar, Sweetheart playing piano and The Baby singing silly-voiced opera amidst the scent of the eight cheesecakes Houdin is baking for a wedding shower on Sunday. While the busyness is going on downstairs, I thought I'd sneak away for a quick blog post to show you what makes this mama's heart sing. When I'm done here, it's down for a quick rest while listening to Fahrenheit 451 read by Ray Bradbury. Can you believe I've never read it? Quite thought provoking.

Anyway, enjoy the show, folks.

::: come on, baby, light my tree :::

It's not really something I want to do, but I've begun anyway. If it were up to me, I'd probably have twinkling lights dotting my home all-year-round. But I'm not sure I like the connotations that come to mind when I think about Christmas lights on my house in July, so I've begun the process of de-holidazing my home.

After a trip to the local Stuff*Mart for a heap of plastic boxes (how much money do they make selling these things, doyathink?), it was time to start disassembling the decorations I'd assembled just a couple of weeks ago. Well, okay, maybe it was a couple of months ago. But it sure doesn't seem like it's been long since Monet was bugging me about going out to cut down our tree, which was finally put up and decorated on Christmas eve. I actually think we got the last tree they sold, as we were on the lot as the place was shutting down the day before Christmas eve.

And today, while Monet was disposing of said tree, now brittle and prickly with lack of life, he stuffed it into the burn barrel, lit it aflame, and then watched in panic as it tumbled out of the barrel and rolled, constantly combusting, toward the big red barn just west, and downhill, from the burn barrel. Flames, he says, were as high as the first floor of the treehouse, which is twenty feet off the ground, and he panicked as he envisioned the barn erupting into flames. He made haste toward the house, not quite knowing what to say, and stammered, "Can someone help me with this?" gesturing toward the flaming tree in the barnyard. Bo, not knowing what Monet could possibly need help with, looked at him with mild confusion/frustration/condescension, and then noticed the twenty-foot flaming mass of snapping, popping holiday spirit through the kitchen window. General panic ensued.

It's a very good thing that Christmas trees are quickly consumed by fire. It was all over in a matter of minutes and the barn was largely unharmed, thanks partly to Houdin, who grabbed flaming, smoldering pine branches with his bare hands. He says he has blisters to prove it. I wasn't here when the whole thing took place; I was out buying large plastic boxes to stash away our Christmas joy, so I have to take his word for it.

After all of the fun and fire had died down, Monet came up with this little piece of wisdom. "You know, when these things happen, no one thinks to stop and take a picture of it, because if they're taking a picture, they're not putting out the fire."

Yeah.

Kinda makes a girl appreciate her vintage-seventies fake, white tree with its retro-rotating base. Less chance of it catching the barn on fire.

Hope your post-holiday happenings are flame-free.

Happy Birthday, Houdin!

Houdin is away at camp as a counselor for the week, and today, on his birthday, I'm thinking of him. When he gets home, we'll have a birthday celebration for him and a Father's Day celebration for Bo and my dad.

It's pretty strange not having Houdin here. Dare I say it's quite a bit quieter? But at the same time, when I need someone to lift this or carry that or run here or hurry there, I remember how helpful he is. I'm sure he's enjoying his week of training at camp and will be a big hit with the camp kids; that environment is right up his alley.

So send birthday wishes his way, and we'll be sure he gets them when he gets home.