Losing Touch

Here's what I love: Watching my daughter grow up.

Here's what I hate: becoming totally and completely uncool.

I know it sounds superficial, but I'll admit it. One of the best things about having a baby girl was buying clothes, shoes and accessories for her. There. I said it. I was, and still am, a superficial mama.

I've always been somewhat of a clothes junky, but not in the traditional teenage girl sense. For me, the goal was to find THE coolest clothes off of THE cheapest clearance racks, at yard sales or at the local Goodwill. My favorite dress was a long, olive green rayon sleeveless jumper that I bought at a going-out-of-business sale for $3.00 which made me feel like Madonna in her early years. For my junior prom, I bought a wedding dress at the Salvation Army ($7.00), dyed it light pink with RIT (about .70), cut off the train (free) and had my neighbor hem it and sew on new beads, lace and sequins (free). Add a pair of vintage earrings and a vintage necklace from the local flea market ($3.00) and I was a victorian beauty. I even re-used that ensemble to compete for Miss Old Fashioned at our local small-town beauty contest.

And won.

So, while I never won "best dressed" at my school, I think it was because my fashion sense was too good for the hicks in my back-country high school. Actually, I think that I was just too good for them. :-P

When I became the young mother of a baby girl, I slipped right from culling the clearance racks at The Parisian and The Gap to riffling through the reduced-price ruffles at T.J. Maxx and Gap Kids. After all, shopping for me wasn't quite as fun as it had once been--I was no longer a size 1 (yes, I said "Size O-N-E." I know. I was the kind of girl I envy, too). Now, I found it much more rewarding to dress my drop-dead gorgeous baby than I did my ever-widening postpartum body.

Plus, I got the attention with her that I could never get (or ignored) for myself, even with a size 1 body. I could put tiny, adorable clothes on Baby Bard and everyone would "ooh" and "ahh!" and beg to hold her.

So, I began to pride myself in having a dapper doll-baby. I loved the styles in Victoria magazine, though I could never afford them, so I thrift-shopped and flea-marketed for the equivalent. I had a wonderful flea-market merchant friend, a black woman named Thelma, who would save vintage baby dresses for me at her booth every week. She would widen her eyes as we approached, saying, "Oooh, my my! Look at that baby! Girl, have I got something good for you!" And she always did.

The gals at Gap Kids knew me by name, and I knew them. I knew the day they restocked their clearance racks, the day they marked down that same clearance stuff, and that I could bring my receipt back within 30 days of purchase to get a refund for the difference between what I'd paid for a clearance item and what it was currently marked. And I'd use that refunded money to buy--what else--more clearance items.

The Gap always worked for me because I have a thing for earth tones. If you were to look in my closet at my shirts, my pants, my dresses, my jammies--even my underwear drawer--you would find that it's filled with olive, brown, grey and black, interspersed with a few whites and a couple of burgandies. I also have a jones for red plaid, which I've always filled by shopping at Land's End or Amerian Eagle. So these are the things I chose for my kids. And I have to say, I thought that they looked way-mobie cool.

Because Bard was born two hours after Valentine's Day, I naturally incorporated shopping into her birthday and made an early declaration. Her birthday ensemble must be red. This was fine, because she looked great in red, with her dark hair, bright eyes and rosie cheeks. It just seemed to fit her. Before long, I would see red and just associate it with my dear daughter. In a good way, of course.

Since Bard's second birthday, I have taken her out every year to go clothes shopping. We have traditionally gone on Valentine's Day and never seem to run into a shortage of red. I can still remember the cute little red-print empire-waist dress that she wore for her fifth birthday, with a darling straw hat. I remember the white shirt long-sleeved Gap Kids shirt with the big red heart in the center that she wore when she was eight, which she loved so much that we later tie-dyed it so that she could wear it even after it had been stained and spotted. I remember the velvety pants outfit that she chose when she was ten that had solid red bottoms and a top with stripes in shades of red. They were some of her favorite clothes. They were some of my favorite clothes. As a matter of fact, they still are, lovingly folded away for my grandbabies to wear.

As Bard became a teen, I included her friends in our annual shopping trip. Since we homeschool and don't go "back to school" shopping, this is the time when she gets the bulk of her new clothes for the year. For the past couple of years, I've given her a gift card to Target for Christmas to use on her birthday shopping excursion. There, I have let her and her friends choose her clothes--just about anything she wants within her budget, though I guide her a bit on price and style. After all, could you go very wrong at Target? I think not.

The one requirement: she must buy at least ONE red item. Not everything. Just ONE thing. This has always been fun. It can be a red sweater, a red dress, a shirt with big red hearts on it--whatever. But--It. Must. Be. RED.

This year, I rethought my Target strategy. I thought, hey, what if I give her a coupon for a certain dollar amount, and then we do what I used to do? What if we hit the malls and shop the clearance racks, go to Goodwill and Salvation Army, get the Maxx for the Minimum, if you know what I mean? I'll show her how you can stretch your ever-decreasingly almighty dollar, and be way mobie cool in the process.

Here's what I found out: I'm not able to show anyone how to be way mobie cool.

About two weeks before our shopping trip, Bard started wondering aloud, "What IS my STYLE? I need to find a STYLE." I don't know exactly where this idea weaseled its way into her head, but it's there. She is on a quest now to find a STYLE for herself. She wants a wardrobe that can be named. Preppy. Goth. Punk. Eclectic. Whatever. But she must have a STYLE.

On the ride to the mall yesterday for our annual birthday shopping trip, she was still wondering aloud about her STYLE, this time with her friends Kat and Ash consulting.

"What should my STYLE be?" she asked. I, of course, had to pipe up.

"I think you should go for linen shirts and khakis. So classy. Very cool." I'm thinking: The Great Gatsby.

She's thinking, Uh...no.

"Mom. I would look like oatmeal. I would be, like, Granola Girl." Being a granola girl myself, I was a bit taken aback.

"And what's wrong with that? You're a vegetarian, after all. And a country girl. Being a little bit granola wouldn't be that bad."

"Mom. No."

Once at the mall, I was amazed to find that my once coveted opinion was now all but worthless.

It started in GapKids. On the clearance rack, there was this adorable Aran knit cap which was supposed to be a size three but was obviously mis-sized. It fit me. It fit my daughter. It matched the very cool green sweater I bought her at the local thrift shop that, I might add, she was wearing for her shopping trip to the mall with her best friends on her most special shopping day of the year. The hat was $3.00. It was perfect on her. She looked like a model for the store, I'm so not kidding, with her cool green sweater and her red-streaked pigtails peaking out of the bottom of the hat.

"Mom. No. I will never wear it. I don't wear hats."

"What do you mean you don't wear hats? You always wear hats! You've worn hats since birth! You have that Rebecca Saint James 'Worship God' beanie that you wear all the time! Of course you wear hats!" She looked at me pitifully.

"I don't wear hats. I won't wear it." I grudgingly put the hat back on the rack, resisting the urge to buy it anyway and pull my motherly rank to make her wear it. Instead, I loaded up my arms with clearance-priced baby clothes for my neices and nephews to be. Therapy shopping, I guess you'd call it.

The girls headed to the "trendier" stores.

"Check this out!" I called, showing her a red hoodie with a big trendy monkey on the front. She loves monkies.

"Mom. No. I have too much red. I'm not buying anything red."

My...heart. What's happening to my heart?

"You have to buy red!" I declared. "You HAVE to! It's a tradition! You've worn red on your birthday since you were a baby! You even had little red ballet slipper clip-on earrings on your first birthday! Remember last year? When we went to the ballet on your birthday and you didn't have time to go shopping first? Remember how I bought you a red sweater ahead of time and gave it to you at the theater?? " She rolled her eyes. She was kind enough to not remind me that she didn't wear the red sweater to the ballet.

"I have too much red."

"But maybe red is your STYLE!" I turned desperately to her friends and tried to explain the intensity of the circumstances.

"Look. She was born two hours after Valentine's Day. I was in labor with her for FORTY EIGHT HOURS. I was in EXTREME, DEATH-DEFYING PAIN when I should have been giddily reading conversation hearts to my lovey-dovey over a ROMANTIC CANDLELIT DINNER! She shouldn't even be GETTING gifts for her birthday. I should be getting all of the gifts!"

The teenage girls all stood there in Aerpostale looking at me as if I were dressed in the most drab, earth-toned colors in the world, wore my hair in a bun and had a booger hanging out of my nose.

We didn't buy the monkey hoodie.

Or the red t-shirt with the cute little birdie on it. Or the red-toned striped sweater. Or the slightly almost red button-down shirt. And when we went into The Gap and I saw a whole clearance rack full of earth-tones in her size, she literally shuddered. "Too dark," she declared, wrinkling her nose. "There's nothing in here that's my style."

And she headed for the exit.

I know this sounds ridiculous, but as she walked away, I found myself feeling something akin to mourning. What happened here? Where was my dress-up doll-baby? My shopping partner? My kindred spirit? What happened to the little girl in the red empire-waist dress and the adorable straw hat, who was thrilled to open package after package of red-themed, valentine-y gifts? Where did my baby go?

I had a hard time disguising my bitterness and disappointment. I had always felt that I knew what my daughter loved, could choose the perfect gift for her as if I were choosing for myself, that I could practially read her thoughts. And now--well, I just didn't know. All of the things I saw that made me think of her had me second-guessing myself.

In a last-ditch effort to prove myself wrong, I pulled a very cool olive-green shirt from the rack of a very trendy store. It was the same color as a shirt she always wears, in a style she always likes, for a price that wasn't half-bad. She wrinkled her nose.

"I don't like that color. That's just not my color."

"I have totally lost touch," I said wearily as I let the shirt drop back into the rack. "I have no idea what you like anymore."

Everything I showed her was wrong. The earrings were wrong, the accessories were wrong, the shoes were wrong.

I have totally lost touch.

I don't know why this surprises me. When I was in high school, my sweatsuit-wearing parents literally ridiculed my taste in fashion. "You spent all morning trying to look LIKE THAT?" I guess I just always thought that I would be the best mom, the cool mom, the fashion-saavy mom. I would NOT lose touch. I mean, who in their right mind DOESN'T like earth-tones? Who DOESN'T want to buy their clothes from The Gap?

My eldest daughter. That's who.

So I guess it's time for me to let it go, to let her find and have her own style and to respect that. It's time for me to release her to be her own person, choose her own fashion, display her own preferences.

It's time for me to focus on my two younger daughters.

Gap Kids, here I come.

Indoor Cat

Feral, like all of the rest.
Hissing, angry, frightened, tiny.
"No way. No cats in the house."
"But look at her! She's special!"
Children beg.
Husband shakes his head.
He's allergic, you know.
"It will make a nice barn cat."

"But it's special! Look at her face!"

Painted, lovely, like God himself drew a line right down the center,
Over her forehead,
Between her eyes,
Dividing her nose and lips.
"Call her Janus!"
I lift her to my face. She spits and hisses.
This is no house cat.
And besides...
I count the costs.
Sneezing husband.
Stinky litterbox.
Hair-covered furniture.
"Put her outside," I say.

Then, one by one, her littermates
Become dog treats
Who seem to like kitty heads--very tasty.

One night, I hear them, barking
Howling
Growling
And I go out to find her, the little two-faced kitty
Trying to hide out in the open, surrounded by dogs
Soaking wet
Frightened.
I shoo the dogs away and reach
For the frightened kitten who hisses and then collapses
Into my hands, somehow knowing
Very relieved,
Embraced by little hands who loved her into tameness.

Now, an indoor cat who loves life,
Loves being carried around by her tail, her feet, her head
By these children who begged for her
Who sleep with her
Who feed her.

It's so good to be saved.

Do You Know What a Meme Is?

I didn't. I looked it up and I found a bunch of definitions on Wikipedia. I'm amazed that there is a whole philosophy surrounding this one word whose meaning I didn't even know.

Boy, I just feel dumber every day.

For what it's worth, I still don't get the concept of a blogging meme. I feel so left out. Can someone explain?

Pretty please?

Getting Better without even knowing it

About a month ago, my 14-year old daughter Bard decided to stop eating meat. I've been proud of her because she has been making healthy meal choices, like big salads, bran muffins and bean burritos.

A few days ago, she told me that she thought she would give up because she wasn't feeling any better. She didn't think it was doing any good. I told her that I thought she was probably feeling better, but she just didn't realize it.

"Remember last week, when we had pizza, pop, chips and cake for the birthday party?" I asked her. There was a time when that kind of diet was pretty normal. We've drastically changed our ways of eating, so moments of order-in pizza and pop and especially chips are noteworthy now.

"Yeah," she answered. I think she knew where I was going.

"I felt rotten after I ate that stuff," I told her. And I really had. Swollen, bloated and thirsty, not to mention that my stomach was about to show its remorse by rejecting the contents of my tummy.

"Yeah," she said quietly. "I did, too."

That's what's funny about changing one's lifestyle for the better. It feels like nothing's happening. It feels like it's really not doing any good.

I don't always realize the benefits of the change until I go back to the "old" way of doing things. And then I feel the effects of my backsliding manyfold.

I think that's very telling.

Grok

I just learned a new word, thanks to Billie-Jean over at My Bountiful Life.

Billie-Jean posted "grok" on one of her comments and I kept wondering what it was, so I looked it up. Here's what I found:

**********************************************************************
grok ( P ) Pronunciation Key (grk)
tr.v. Slang grok·ked, grok·king, groks
To understand profoundly through intuition or empathy.

[Coined by Robert A. Heinlein in his Stranger in a Strange Land.]

grok was Word of the Day on July 15, 1999.
Source: Dictionary.com Word of the Day

grok
/grok/, /grohk/ (From the novel "Stranger in a Strange Land",
by Robert A. Heinlein, where it is a Martian word meaning
literally "to drink" and metaphorically "to be one with")

1. To understand, usually in a global sense. Connotes
intimate and exhaustive knowledge.

Contrast zen, which is similar supernal understanding
experienced as a single brief flash. See also glark.

2. Used of programs, may connote merely sufficient
understanding. "Almost all C compilers grok the "void" type
these days."
Source: The Free On-line Dictionary of Computing, © 1993-2004 Denis Howe

grok
/grok/, var. /grohk/ vt. [from the novel "Stranger in a
Strange Land", by Robert A. Heinlein, where it is a Martian word
meaning literally `to drink' and metaphorically `to be one with']
The emphatic form is `grok in fullness'. 1. To understand, usually
in a global sense. Connotes intimate and exhaustive knowledge.
Contrast zen, which is similar supernal understanding experienced
as a single brief flash. See also glark. 2. Used of programs,
may connote merely sufficient understanding. "Almost all C
compilers grok the `void' type these days."

Copyright © 2005, Lexico Publishing Group, LLC. All rights reserved.

**********************************************************************

So, thanks, Billie Jean, for expanding my vocabulary today!

Now, here's the question. If I use this word, do I just say "grok?" Or do I say, "I grok" or "I grok you?" Hmmm...

Books, books, books

The most important thing we've learned,
So far as children are concerned,
Is never, NEVER, NEVER let
Them near your television set!
Or better still, just don't install
The idiotic thing at all.
In almost every house we've been,
We've watched them gaping at the screen.
They loll and slop and lounge about,
And stare until their eyes pop out.(Last week in someone's place we saw
A dozen eyeballs on the floor.)
They sit and stare and stare and sit
Until they're hypnotised by it,
Until they're absolutely drunk
With all the shocking ghastly junk.
Oh yes, we know it keeps them still,
They don't climb out the window sill,
They never fight or kick or punch,
They leave you free to cook the lunch
And wash the dishes in the sink!
But did you ever stop to think,
To wonder just exactly what
This does to your beloved tot?
IT ROTS THE SENSES IN THE HEAD!
IT KILLS IMAGINATION DEAD!
IT CLOGS AND CLUTTERS UP THE MIND!
IT MAKES A CHILD SO DULL AND BLIND
HE CAN NO LONGER UNDERSTAND
A FANTASY, A FAIRYLAND!
HIS BRAIN BECOMES AS SOFT AS CHEESE!
HIS POWERS OF THINKING RUST AND FREEZE!
HE CANNOT THINK! HE ONLY SEES!
'All right!' you'll cry. 'All right!' you'll say,
'But if we take the set away,
What shall we do to entertain
Our darling children? Please explain!'
We'll answer this by asking you,
'What used the darling ones to do?
'How used they keep themselves contented
Before this monster was invented?'
Have you forgotten? Don't you know?
We'll say it very loud and slow:
THEY...USED...TO...READ! They'd READ and READ,
AND READ and READ, and then proceed
To READ some more. Great Scott! Gadzooks!
One half their lives was reading books!
The nursery shelves held books galore!
Books cluttered up the nursery floor!
And in the bedroom, by the bed,
More books were waiting to be read!
Such wondrous, fine, fantastic takes
Of dragons, gypsies, queens, and whales
And treasure isles, and distant shores
Where smugglers rowed with muffled oars,
And pirates wearing purple pants,
And sailing ships and elephants,
And cannibals crouching 'round the pot,

Stirring away at something hot.
(It smells so good, what can it be?
Good gracious, it's Penelope.)
The younger ones had Beatrix Potter
With Mr. Tod, the dirty rotter,
And Squirrel Nutkin, Pigling Bland,
And Mrs. TiggyWinkle and
Just How The Camel Got His Hump,
And How The Monkey Lost His Rump,
And Mr. Toad, and bless my soul,
There's Mr. Rat and Mr. Mole
Oh, books, what books they used to know,
Those children living long ago!
So please, oh please, we beg, we pray,
Go throw your TV set away,
And in its place you can install
A lovely bookshelf on the wall.
Then fill the shelves with lots of books,
Ignoring all the dirty looks,
The screams and yells, the bites and kicks,
And children hitting you with sticks
Fear not, because we promise you
That, in about a week or two
Of having nothing else to do,
They'll now begin to feel the need
Of having something good to read.
And once they start oh boy, oh boy!
You watch the slowly growing joy
That fills their ears. They'll grow so keen
They'll wonder what they'd ever seen
In that ridiculous machine,
That nauseating, foul, unclean,
Repulsive television screen!
And later, each and every kid
Will love you more for what you did.
P.S. Regarding Mike Teavee,
We very much regret that we
Shall simply have to wait and see
If we can get him back his height.
But if we can't, it serves him right."

~From Charlie and the Chocolate Factory by Roald Dahl

Thanks to Tenn for the inspiration to photograph just SOME of the books that are lying around our house.

Creating a Masterpiece

Yesterday was fun.

My two eldest children, Bard (who is FOURTEEN and will not be FIFTEEN until next Tuesday--there, Bard. Are you happy now?), and Houdin (Who is not Houdini, by the way. Houdin was BEFORE Houdini. Houdini actually stole Houdin's name) went with our friend, neighbor, dreamer on a field trip to the main post office in a nearby city. (Note to children: Reports today about post office trip. I mean it. That's it for parenthetical statements). While they were gone, the three youngest children and I stayed home and got creative, making valentines and creating a family masterpiece.

I have commissioned my youngest son to create a painting for me. I was inspired by Amy over at Amy Loves Books who had a painting made for her by her favorite artist, Cooper Sanchez. My nine-year-old son Monet, which is not his real name but his blog name, given to him because he really is an artist, draws very imaginative, creative pictures. I love his style and the subjects he chooses. So, we went to Jo Anne Etc. to buy a whole heck of a lot of art supplies, and I asked him to recreate for me a charming picture that he drew, a picture of sweet little church.

The picture that he created originally was also very inspiring to me. The cross above the church eminated energy. Beside the church stood a tall tree whose underground roots were clearly visible, running and tangling and twisting within the soil. From one of the windows of the church spilled out a curving musical scale filled with notes. It's my favorite picture. I love the imagery and the symbolism.


So, I decided to make yesterday an art day. While Monet was sketching his ideas and color codes on paper, Sweetheart and I started making valentines. Since my children were little, I've loved making simple paper valentines using the shape of the child's hand and a heart in the center, kind of neo-victorian. Is that possible? Anyway, I think its such a sweet image, and I try to do it every year, but I don't always get to it.




After Monet sketched his ideas, he decided to make a few valentines, too. Then we took a break and read Saint Valentine by Robert Sabuda. We might spin off into a little bit about Rome. Anyone have suggestions on kid-friendly Rome study materials? Preferably from the library.

We also read a couple of books about the heart and circulatory system. I picked up a few more from the library last night and hope to read a couple today. If I ever get off this blog.

I tried to help Monet not be intimidated by the blank canvas. Almost immediately, he made a mistake, sketching too low to leave room for the roots. I showed him how we could just use the white paint to cover it up and explained that we won't see the pencil marks at all when we're done, anyway.

Monet and I both worked on the painting. He was having a bit of trouble applying the paint, which is understandable since this is the first time he's painted on a big canvas. I helped him create the sky and told him that it was okay to paint over the lines, because they were just guides. "Like a secret code," he said. Yep, like a secret code.

Last night, as he was putting the finishing strokes on the first layer of paint for the church, he said, "I don't think I like my imagination." He was very serious, and at first I replied with the standard, "Oh, you have a GREAT imagination!" but then I realized that he wasn't looking for compliments. He was stating a concern. "Sometimes, my imagination comes up with scary things. I don't like that."

To be honest, I don't like it sometimes, either. Sometimes I think there's a battle going on for his soul and he just doesn't realize it. Sometimes he'll draw scary monsters and intense battles. Sometimes he'll draw singing angels and bucolic churches.

I've been thinking about Monet and his gift for a long time. And, recently, I've been thinking about the words I posted the other day...

"Train up a child in the way he should go and in keeping with his individual gift
or bent, and when he is old he will not depart from it." (The Amplified
Bible)

I think God is really working in Monet's life.

A couple of years ago, I read an article about a local Christian man who is a homeschooling father and absolutely amazing artist. When I read the article, I just KNEW that he should be a mentor to Monet. At the time, we were living in the cabin (read: "tiny") and working towards building the house. I wanted so badly to have this man come to our home, to give art lessons, but the price was so unrealistic for my budget and the cabin was so, so small. I screwed up the courage and called him anyway. We had a great talk, and have been pining for his instruction ever since.

The Painting So far
Well, I just got a copy of our homeschool support group's newsletter. The artist and his family will be the guest speakers for the next support group meeting, which is this coming Friday. Since I read the newsletter, I've been thinking even more about the impact that an artist like Del Guidice could have as a teacher and mentor in Monet's life. Now, we have plenty of room, plenty of interest...just not plenty of money. I pray that somehow I can work out an arrangment with Mr. Del Guidice and bring him into my home to teach.

I think this week will tell a few interesting tales.

For now, I'm off to work on a masterpiece.

He may need a bit of help with his painting.

Must Be the Dew

I can't sleep. It's 3:30 in the morning, and I'm wide awake.

So, I guess I'll write in a stream of consciousness about my day.

Nursed baby
Awoke on time
Showered
Nursed baby
Woke up family
Bo heated up spaghetti
Made garlic bread
Yes, this was breakfast
Got out muffin batter
Made bran muffins
Bathed Sweetheart
Curled Sweetheart's hair
Fixed Bard's hair. Says she doesn't know how to use curling iron or straightener. Child will NOT be driving a car anytime in the next ten years.
Listened to Sweetheart ask if her hair was still curled
Nursed baby
Filled water bottles
Gathered all my shtuff
Got in van
Called MIL. Nice chat.
We all went to town
Dropped Bo off at work
Went to magic shop
Watched cool magic tricks
Bought cool magic tricks
Told Houdin he has to make some of his own tricks
Went to chocolate factory
Got some goodies
Picked up FreeCycle stuff--shoes.
Put brown shoes on
Went to Chick Fil A
Kids played
Went to PetSmart
Looked at fish
Bought guinea pig hut
Bought guinea pig chewies
Houdin found cool palm tree for fish tank
Told Houdin to save money for cool palm tree for fish tank
Visited with adoptable pets.
Told kids, "No, we can't have another dog/cat/whatever."
Went to Jo Ann ETC
Wandered helplessly through aisles
Bought paper to make valentines
Paper is expensive
Asked Monet if he would paint me a picture
Bought huge canvas and paints for Monet to paint me a picture
Let Monet pick out paintbrushes (on sale)
Went to Sam's Club
Kids all got along well
Shopped WITH a list
Lady at checkout asked if kids were "all mine."
Lady's jaw dropped.
Lady at checkout asked Bard where she goes to school.
Bard told lady she was homeschooled.
Discussion about expense of public school
Picked up Bo from work
Took kids to choir
Bo and I drive to shopping district
Went to Dollar Tree. Bought some gifts
Went to Sam's Club again. More gifts.
Bo is hungry. Off to Baja Fresh
Awesome guacamole
Drank Mountain Dew, against my better judgement
Picked up kids
Drove home. Had discussion about Houdin's magic. Kid at choir grabbed one of his tricks and tore it. Doggone kids.
Discussed Las Angeles vs Las Vegas.
Discussed largest city, according to population
Discussed world's tallest buildings
Discussed largest man-made thing
Monet says, "The world is the largest man-made thing."
Everyone disagrees.
Monet asks about God. "Is God a man?"
Discussed language of Bible.
Monet asks if God is everything.
Bard says, "God isn't everything, but God made everything and is in everything."
Bard talks about God. "He's like those labels that say, 'Contains 100% juice.' Doesn't mean it *is* 100% juice. Just that it *contains* 100% juice. Everything contains God."
Got home
Cleaned out van
Put away groceries
Peed
Nursed Baby
Blogged
Read blogs
Argued with Bard about monetary system. Made her mad.
Nursed Baby
Got hug from Bard
Listened to Bard complain about lost library card
Blogged
Read blogs
Went to talk to Bard about lost library card.
Blogged
Read blogs
Busted my dad for eating valentine's gift.
Played way too much Zork or something or other thanks to Grouchy Old Yorkie Lady.
Still up. Should be sleeping.
Check clock. 3:52.
This is nuts.
Going to bed.
Against my better judgement, publishing this post.

My Big Fat Teased Hair

According to Cattiva over at Does This Mean I'm a Grown-Up, big hair is, well...big.

Or at least it's heading in that direction.

I'm marching my little hair right back over to No-Internal-Organs-Girl to demand a set and great big fat tease.

Time to bust out the Aqua Net Industrial Strength Hold. Unscented, please.

More Questions, More Answers...

You can read here to see the original post and find out why I'm answering these questions.

From lovedesign:

1. What's your favorite animal?

Probably a dog. Not very original, I know, but dogs are so cool. Of course, I've never met a monkey, but if I had, that would probably be my favorite. I've always wanted a monkey.

2. What's your favorite season and why?

I think it's a toss-up between Spring and Fall. I love Spring because I can start growing stuff. I love Fall because the colors are so warm and gorgeous. Then again, I love Winter because I'm a Christmas freak. And I love Summer because it's a great time to learn stuff with the kids. Wow. That was so extremely helpful, wasn't it?

3. If you had one entire day and had to spend it alone... what would you do?

Uh...HAD to spend it alone??? Don't you mean GOT to spend it alone? ;-)

I think I would hit just about every yummy yarn store I could find, and then a few pottery and antique shops, and then the bookstore. I'd probably hit T.J. Maxx, Marshalls and Steinmart, too. I would go and visit one of my favorite friends (but then I wouldn't be alone anymore...hmmm), eat at Panera Bread, see a movie, and then go home to do some whimming. "Whimming" is when you just do anything you feel like doing, whether it's eBaying, baking, blogging, messing with pictures in Elements, cooking a gourment meal, knitting, reading or soaking in the tub. :-)

******************************************************************************************

From Reverend Mommy:

1. What moment in your life would you like to live over and change?

Each child's birth. I would take more photos, journal about it, and pay closer attention.

2. How is your faith different than other people's?

I saw a sign today that said, "Thank God for what hasn't happened to you!" I guess my faith differs in that I don't really think that God punishes us, but that things happen for a reason. I think that there are consequences to our actions and that there are certain bad things that happen in our lives because of those consequences, whether the actions were our own or someone else's. I also don't feel that we have to go around converting people all day. I believe that we are to preach the gospel daily, with our lives, and do it as we go into all of the world. Finally, I think that tithing to a church is off the mark. Scripture says that we are to give to the widows and the orphans. I think that's probably the exception in most churches rather than the rule.

3. If you were part of dinner, would you be salad, main course or dessert?

I'd probably be the salad, kind of a bunch of stuff mixed together and tossed around. It's the thing that's best for you, but you probably wouldn't just choose it. It's fresh, light, and green. :-) How's that? HA!

Those were the days...

Remember the Marathon Bar?

Man, there was nothing in the world like walking into Lawson's with a whopping fifteen cents in my pocket. No question about what I'd get. It was a no-brainer.

The marathon bar had all of my favorite stuff. Gooey caramel. Lots of chocolate. And it would take days to eat it because it was, like, three feet long. A real kid's candy bar.

For fifteen cents, it was the best deal going. No, it wasn't just a deal. It was a STEAL!

Okay, so it was only eight inches long. And there's some talk that it wasn't any better of a deal than any other candy bar. They SAY that because it was all braided (which is the other thing that made it way mobie cool), it was mostly air and didn't weigh any more than any of the other candy bars. That's why they SAY they stopped making it. They SAY it's because parents all around the world refused to believe what an awesome deal The Marathon Bar was, and sales just didn't cut it, so Mars stopped making the best candy bar in the world. I think it's because they realized what a steal it was and couldn't handle losing any more money to all of the wisest shoppers.

I was twelve. That's when my childhood ended.

I never understood the appeal of Mallow Cups or Chunky Bars or Three Musketeers. And Toffee Fay. Ugh. That's another story completely. "Too good for kids." Harumph. Don't even get me started on that crock.

Oh, but to go home with a three-foot-long Marathon Bar...sigh. Those were the days.

The Questions and The Answers

Three Questions from ImpromptuMom over at Confessions of a Happy Housewife

What vegetable do you think you look most like?

A red onion, because onions have layers.

What is the best gift someone has ever given you?

There were two, both from my husband. The first was for my birthday, when he got down on one knee and sang me Elton John's Your Song, which I have always felt was my song. While he sang, he gave me gifts that were appropriate to the verses--pottery (for "sculptor"), bath oils and soaps in cool bottles for "potions," etc. He ended it with "how wonderful life is since you're in my world." Very, very memorable.

The other was when we were living at the cabin and he took me out to the tub on the porch on Christmas Eve. Above the tub were six star candleholders, suspended from the porch roof, all lit with tealights. It was absolutely magical.

Where would you most like to visit if you were not constrained by money, time, or era?

I think I would like to go to Hollywood in the forties and attend all of the gala events. It seems like such a grand time, and I think I would get addicted to that lifestyle very quickly, whereas I'm not very interested in Hollywood parties in the current era.

**********************************************************************************

From Mamageph over at Still Odd:

1. If you had to live in another country for 4 years before returning, where would you choose? Why? (BTW, the kids and husband are coming, too.)

England. I'd love to catch that awesome accent and become tons smarter. The British are smarter, right?

2. It's the end of a stressful day. Do you pet the cat backwards, or chase down the kids and put your cold hands in their pits?

Ummm...take a hot bath with a good book?

3. You've got a big refrigerator box. Inside are ten posessions you can not live without. What are they?

My Bible. My computer. My checkbook. My recipes and cookbooks. My camera. My photos. My journal. A pencil. My library card. A magical genie to get the rest of my stuff and give me whatever I want.

The Snow Fort

A couple of weeks ago, I wrote about my boys and their snowfort. Now, for your viewing pleasure, a rare moment of my two sons actually getting along.














The builders

The building

Remember Summer? 

If you read this...

From Reverend Mommy's Random Thoughts: Reverend Mommy got this from Michael at Bloggin' Idiot who passed it to Fish and Liesa and who got it from Unspace who got from Therapy Failed who got it from Dell who stole it from Stacey who lifted it from Big Orange Michael who borrowed it from All Things Jen(nifer) who picked it up at Master Foley's Blog:

First, recommend to me:
1. A movie:
2. A book:
3. A musical artist, song, or album:

Next, I want everyone who reads this to ask me three questions, no more, no less. Ask me anything you want. (I will respond in subsequent posts. I reserve the right to not answer questions that might hurt someone else or that might be grossly inappropriate for my blog.)

Then, I want you to go to your blog, copy and paste this allowing your friends to ask you anything they want!

Cheese in Your Crown

Setting: Our house. Having friends over for a pizza party and games. Our family is standing back to allow guests to serve themselves first. All except Monet. He jumps in line.

Me: Whoa, young man. You have to stand back and let guests serve themselves first. You can go when they're done.

Monet: Aw, man! Then all the cheese pizza will be gone!

Me: (Pulling Monet aside and whispering in his ear) Let me tell you a little secret. The Bible says that the first shall be last and the last shall be first.

Monet: What does that mean?

Me: Well, I think it means that if you rush in and try to be first, then what you get right then is your reward.

Monet: Yeah...?

Me: But if you wait patiently, then you may not get what the others get, but your reward will be much, much greater.

Monet: Yeahhhh...?

Me: So, you'll get, like, extra jewels in your crown in heaven.

Monet: Ooo-kay. That's great, Mom. But I all I wanted was a piece of cheese pizza.

Battling the Demons

Being a mother is THE hardest thing I've ever done or will ever do in my whole life.

When I was a child, my parental examples were rather limited. My mother was often incapacitated by health issues or caught up in her neat-freak habits or in the funky depths of depression. My father hid himself away in his work, his bedroom, or his sarcasm, not attending my birthday parties, track meets or softball games. From a young age, I determined that, should I have kids, I would do better.

Still, my mom was a tough act to follow. Even with her foul mouth and cargo-hold full of childhood baggage, she was an awesome mother. She sewed, crocheted, gardened and canned. She cooked, volunteered, told stories and wrote books. She was the Brownie leader, the room mother, the softball coach and the D.C. trip chaperone. She organized the yearly beggar's night, took me to dance classes, watched my play rehearsals and made Christmas cookies every year.

She also called me terrible names and beat me when I made her angry. Or when my dad made her angry. Or when a neighbor, friend or television show made her angry.

I have to admit this: I was a very high-spirited, strong-willed kid, coming up with ideas or ideals to which I would hold defiantly. I can remember many times, my mother standing over me, her angry face just inches from mine, my hands and arms wrapped around my head to protect myself from another blow, and I can still hear her saying, "I'm going to make you mind if it kills me! I will win this battle! I don't care if you grow up hating me! "

And I did.

I hated how she looked, how she acted, how she talked, how she smelled. Everything about my mother filled me with contempt. Even her good deeds, to me, were like filthy rags. I couldn't stand to see her walk into a room. I knew that, depending on her mood, I would be either the best kid that ever lived, or the little brat who was driving her crazy. She was, in my eyes, self-seeking, pitiful, manipulative and dishonest.

It became my goal in life to prove her wrong and to expose her for the liar and lunatic that she was. When we were in public, I hoped, even tried, to pick out things that she would say that were blatantly wrong. I would look for opportunities to correct her and often triumphantly found them, only to incur her raging wrath once we were alone.

But it was worth it to me, because it proved me right, if even in my own mind. When we were in public, she was bubbly and good-humored. She liked to put on a show for her friends. But when we were alone, she exposed herself to me for who she really was. And I, in her words, was an antagonistic brat whose room was always a pig sty, who was lying and sneaky, and who, she hoped, would have ten kids just like me.

So maybe you can see why I was very strongly motivated to become exactly the opposite of what my mother prophesied over me.

When I say "prophesied," I don't mean to imply that there was any religious guidance in my childhood home. The only mention of God was followed shortly thereafter by the words "damn it." My primary religious influence came from the Holy Rolling mother of my best friend, who lived about a mile down the road. She was the other major influence on me, and her parenting to strategies were to pray...and yell.

Because my parents were very, incredibly overprotective of me, my household and the Holy Rolling household were the only ones I really ever knew. Our house was neat as a pin, always. The Holy Roller house was ever messy. Our house was organized and orderly. The Holy Roller house was virtual chaos with Ernest Angley for background noise.

So, I guess my life just kind of morphed out of both households. I'm chased by my own neat-freak demons, but my house is always virtual chaos (no Ernest Angley, though. Usually Train, or Jars of Clay or Barry Manilow as background noise), I waffle back and forth between being organized and orderly. And I'm a yeller.

And when I was sixteen, I became a Christian because some guy with no shirt and no shoes jumped onto the stage where I, as the local beauty queen, was judge for the small-town talent show. He stood there on stage with his guitar and sang beautiful spiritual songs to me and made me feel like there was hope, that I could be a better person.

I became a better person. Not a perfect person, of course. But a better one.

And I didn't even do it to prove my mom wrong.

Now, with my faith as a guide, I battle with the temptation to draw from my childhood experiences to motivate me as a wife and mother. I fight against my mother's prophesies (or curses?) that were placed over me, against preconceived notions and prejudices of mothers, women, households with many children, homeschoolers, christians.

I try not to compare myself with my parents, but I just can't help it. I spent so many years saying, "I'll be different. I'll do it right. I won't be like them," that I can't easily let go of the desire to rebel against them, even in my parenting. I'm running from the demons of my childhood. I realize, now, that my mother was, too. She was out to prove someone wrong, just like I'm out to prove her wrong. "You are a good mother," I want her to say. But what I hear in my mind instead is, "I hope you have ten brats just like you!"

None of my kids are brats. And I don't have ten just like me.

But I do have one.

I have a child who looks to prove me wrong at every turn, who is filled with anger, rebellion, and spite. I have a child who delights in correcting me and seems to live to humiliate me. This child is stubborn, strong-willed and fearless. When I deal with this child I see, sadly, my mother coming out in me. But I also so see me--the childhood me--staring out through that child's eyes.

And it drives me absolutely wild.

I have actually heard this child say the things that I used to say to my mom, or I can see those scathing, castigating thoughts running through that mind. I have actually heard myself say, "I will win this battle! I don't care if you grow up hating me!" I know, in the deepest place in my heart, that this is just not true. Actually, the thought brings me to my knees with tears.

As I mentioned in a prior post, I have read all of the parenting books that seem worth the paper on which they're printed. I have tried to implement the different strategies there. I read the parenting message boards, people who know with certainty that their method works. Their method is the One Right and True Way. I read with a mix of bemusement and discouragement, shaking my head and thinking, "But they don't have MY kid."

With this child, I've tried the James Dobson approach, the Gentle Parenting approach, the Pearl's approach and the Parenting in Jesus' footsteps approach. I'm a little bit of an attachment parent, a little bit of a Dobson parent, and a little bit of a Talk So Your Kids Will Listen parent. I am, with nods to Donna, a parenting mutt.

With this child, this one who is just like me, I have either broken ties that cannot be mended, I'm not doing it right, or I just haven't found the answers yet.

Maybe it's a bit of each.

A few days ago, while I was struggling with feeling overwhelmed and defeated, I found some of the best parenting and family advice I've ever read. It's advice not just for the parent, but also for the child, which, as my regular readers know, is something I've been seeking (Notes are mine) :

(For all) God didn't set us up for an angry rejection, but for salvation by our
Master, Jesus Christ. He died for us, a death that triggered life. Whether we're
awake with the living or asleep with the dead, we're alive with him! So
speak encouraging words to one another. Build up hope so you'll all be together
in this, no one left out, no one left behind. I know you're already doing this;
just keep doing it.

(For the children) And now, friends, we ask you to honor those leaders who work so hard for you, who have been giving the responsibility of urging and guiding you along in your obedience. Overwhelm them with appreciation and love!

(For all) Get along among yourselves, each of you doing your part. Our counsel is
that you warn the stragglers, and reach out for the exhausted, pulling them to
their feet. Be patient with each person, attentive to their individual needs.

And be careful that when you get on each other's nerves you don't snap at
each other. Look for the best in each other, and always do your best to bring it
out.

~1 Thessalonians 5:12-15

In case you didn't catch that last line, like if you read like me and skip from paragraph to paragraph to find the good stuff, I'll say it again:

Look for the best in each other, and always do your best to bring it
out.

I've spent too long looking for the worst in my children, in myself, and trying to exorcise those demons. What was I thinking??? After all, the Word says:

"Train up a child in the way he should go and in keeping with his
individual gift or bent, and when he is old he will not depart from it." (The Amplified Bible)

Do you see that? In keeping with his INDIVIDUAL GIFT OR BENT! It doesn't say

"Train all of your children to be the same, and train them to be just like every
other good child,"

or even,

"Train up your children so that you constantly tell them which way they shouldn't go."

If you read that same verse as written in The Message, it says,

"Point your kids in the right direction--when they're old, they won't be
lost."

Point them in the RIGHT direction. Tell them what they SHOULD be doing. Seek out the GOOD in them with that child's INDIVIDUAL GIFT in mind!

I've written these words in a place where I can see them, where we all can see them, and I hope to read and re-read them until they're in a place where they will be with me always...

Hidden in my heart.

I LOVE Rhapsody!

We don't go on long vacations. We don't go to the theatre very often. We don't go see sports events. But we do have a couple of things in which we indulge.

One of them is Rhapsody.

Rhapsody is a 100% legal digital jukebox that can be totally customized to your musical interests. I've totally loved it. I use it to play my favorite stuff, to find the stuff I used to listen to as a child, and to listen to our daily classical music. I have increasingly become attached to my Rhapsody account.

I love it even more today.

I found one of my VERY FAVORITE artists on Rhapsody. I searched for him just on a whim, and there he was. So cool!

If you've never heard Jake Armerding, you should really very definitely listen to him right now. He's so totally awesome.

What I'm Hearing:

"Rome" - jake armerding
"Ithaca" - jake armerding
"Company Town" - jake armerding
"Place I Know" - jake armerding *Probably my favorite, or a close tie with Rome.
"Nevermind" - jake armerding
"Color You In" - jake armerding
"Jessica" - jake armerding
"Belong to Me" - jake armerding
"(don't Be My) Anything Today" - jake armerding
"Caged Bird" - jake armerding
"Loner" - jake armerding
"Lullaby in E Minor" - jake armerding

To listen, just click this link and Rhapsody will start playing the playlist automatically. If you don't have Rhapsody, you will be directed to a website where you can download it.

To hear the playlist in its full-length glory, you will need to be a subscriber. If you aren't a subscriber, they have a free trial.

...because all of the beds are taken. 

I feel very badly...

My dear daughter, Bard, was very excited about reading poetry to the residents at a local care center. You can read about her disappointment and give her some encouragement here.

I'm so sorry, Bard. I only wish I could understand why it happened that way.

What Moms and Dads Wish Their Children Knew about Parents

Parenting books? Yeah, I've read 'em.

How to Talk So Kids Will Listen and Listen So Kids Will Talk, Your Strong Willed Child, Raising a Son, Simplify Your Life with Kids, Train Up a Child, Making Children Mind without Losing Yours, You're a Better Parent Than You Think, 401 Ways to Get Your Kids to Work at Home, Home Built Discipline...and these are just the ones on one shelf. On one of the bookcases. In this room.

I've read a ton about parenting. People always say that children should come with instruction books. I disagree. I think they should come with dismanteling schematics. There are enough instruction books out there to make a person crazy, and I've read my share (which could explain a few things), but they just don't seem to get me anywhere.

My kids still pee in inconvenient locations, strategically place legos so that they embed themselves in my left foot, make disparaging comments about the all-bran muffins I lovingly baked for them (okay, so they DID taste exactly like goat feed, but, darn it, they're healthy!), and whine uncontrollably about how unfair it is that they have to learn to count to 100 and spell their names correctly by the time they're fourteen. I mean, I've read an awful lot of books about how to be a better parent, and I have tried just about every strategy known to woman, but it's just. not. working.

And then it hits me.

It's my KIDS who have the problems. MY KIDS! Not me! Sheesh! What was I thinking?

THEY'RE they ones who need to read the How-To books!

So, I'm in the market for a good "how to be a better child" book.

But I'm kinda thinkin' they don't exist.

Any suggestions?

Anyone???

Buehler? Buehler?

(run: crickets chirping)

Somehow I didn't think so.

Haiku of a Homeschooler

Haiku of a Homeschooler: "One may need patience
To homeschool, but above all -
Flexibility"

I just discovered this wonderful site. I thought you'd enjoy it, too.

Shh! Don't tell anyone!

I've just discovered a secret.

This is very valuable information, and I'm only entrusting my most loyal, trustworthy readers with this knowledge. You may read further, but you musn't tell ANYONE what I'm about to share with you.

If you want to get your children to co-operate--and I mean, if you need them to be very, very good and very, very helpful, here's what you must do.

Just. Put. Them. To. Bed.

A magical thing happens after children have been sent to bed. Suddenly, under these circumstances, they can develop manners, gratitude and a keen sense of awareness about household tasks that need to be accomplished.

I know. I've just witnessed the phenomenon first-hand myself.

The Secret Log:

9:02--Finished a chapter of Mandy and told the kids it was time to get pajamas on and brush teeth.

9:12--Checked to see that each child had indeed brushed teeth and put pajamas on and not just pretended to do so. Yes, sometimes they pretend. I have one child who will wear the same clothes for a week, day and night, if I don't insist that he change. Please don't ask me how I know this. It would be very embarrassing to have to answer.

9:15--Sent children to their beds and began preparations for Morning Glory Muffins.

9:23--Bard comes in, asking if she can blog before she goes to bed. I allow it.

9:41--Bard finishes her blogging and arrives in the kitchen to give me a hug. She tells me that she's sorry she was angry with me. I was not even remotely aware that she HAD been angry with me. I tell her, jokingly, that I'll forgive her if she does a load of dishes. She willingly obliges.

10:03--Houdin comes down from bed and asks if there's anything he can do to help. Bard tells him that he can finish loading the dishes. He does not even argue. He's actually amicable. He willingly obliges.

10:17--Monet comes down and plays with the baby, gives me a big hug, dances with the baby, gives me a big hug and asks if there's anything he can do to help. He offers to do the dishes and willingly takes over loading the dishwasher.

10:32--Sweetheart comes downstairs. Now, all of my children are in the kitchen. None of them are arguing. They are all being kind to each other. They are all being kind to me. A miracle has indeed occured.

10:35--Sweetheart asks Monet if she can help him with the dishes. Monet agrees. Sweetheart willingly finishes loading the dishwasher.

10:41--I get hugs from everyone. I tell them all that it's time for bed.

Now, here's the part of the secret you may not want to hear. The magical spell breaks the minute these wonderful, cooperative children are sent back to their beds. You may choose to avoid this part, but, eventually, that time must come.

10:50--Bard: "May I switch computers with Houdin now? I can't get my CD to read in my drive, and all he ever does is plays JetPack on his" Me: "No, not tonight. You won't be using your CD drive while you're sleeping anyway. You must go to bed now." Bard grunts but grudgingly obliges.

10:57--Loud thump is heard from upstairs. Me: "Whatever that was, it's not part of going to bed! Now GO TO BED!"

11:04--I hear footsteps on the stairs. Me: "Who is out of bed???" Sweetheart: "I just wanted to ask you..." Me: (losing patience) NO! There is NO MORE ASKING! It is TIME for BED!"

11:33--Several loud thumps are heard from upstairs. Now I am yelling at the ceiling, "STOP THUMPING AND GO TO BED!"

There's something I've discovered. It's not really that big of a secret. Many moms become slightly insane and rather grumpy when their children are sent to bed. It can only be cured by going to them and praying for them before they fall asleep.

Use this information at your own risk. I will not be held responsible for anything that might happen as a result of your use of this knowledge.

When angry, do not sin; do not ever let your wrath, your exasperation, your fury or indignation last until the sun goes down.

~Ephesians 4:26. Amplified Bible

No Matter What

Okay, folks. Pop quiz:

After about three hours of sleep, you wake up late and tired, preparing to begin your busy day. During the course of said day:

1. You discover that you made a nasty financial mistake that was totally preventable but you failed to prevent it. It cost you $100, and infuriated your husband, who just took over the finances and who hardly ever loses his temper;
2. In spite of your frequent warnings, lectures and attempts at protection, you find one of your children writing inappropriate things on your computer while the child is supposed to be writing an essay about their favorite president;

3. You leave with just enough time to pick up an Amish neighbor to take her to an appointment she has in ten minutes and your U-joint falls out of the bottom of your Jeep in the middle of the driveway;

4. You find three library books that are so overdue that they're now considered lost.

What do you do? What DO you DO???

Did you answer with any of the following?

1. Hide in the back of your fruit cellar with the lights off and bawl uncontrollably, determined to never come out of the dark, damp, cold corner again;

2. Get angry, hurt and frustrated beyond description, feel like a failure as a mother and homeschooler, and consider going to work full-time at McDonald's in order to put all of your children in boarding school;

3. Hang your head, call your husband out from the house, who, upon seeing the defunct U-joint lying on the ground, immediately spouts an obsenity, even though he rarely swears;

4. Apologize profusely to the librarian and worry that they'll never let you take books from them again because you're such a careless loser with no concern for the library's well-being.

If you did respond like this, then you and I are so very much alike.

When days like today happen, my first tendency is to get very angry, very hurt, very defeated, and very bitter.

"Great, God! Thanks a lot! I mean, look at all I do around here, and this is what you give me? This is the thanks I get? Thanks. Thanks a whole heck of a lot."

When I do that, I have the right idea.

I just have the wrong attitude.

It's like I tell my kids, don't EVER use "Thank You" as an insult. It's not meant to be a sarcastic, derogatory thing. It's meant to be GRATITUDE. It's meant to be APPRECIATION. It's designed to be received as PRAISE. If you're angry, tell the other person you're angry. Don't use mock gratitude as a weapon.

God tells us to be cheerful no matter what; pray all the time; thank God no matter what happens. This is the way God wants you who belong to Christ Jesus to live.

Thirty-three times in the NIV Bible, we are instructed to give thanks.

I realized as my nightmare day went on that I was guilty of using mock gratitude with God. What he really deserved was my sincere, gratitude, my deepest thanks, my heartfelt praise.

No matter what.

After all, let's think about this:

1. I've been asking my husband for FIFTEEN YEARS to take over the finances. Why? Because I SUCK at money issues! I'm too emotionally driven to make good decisions and I have a tendency to, ahem, push the envelope, shall we say? Making this big financial mistake just after my husband committed to taking over the money was a big wake-up call for both of us. It scared us straight, I guess you could say. I was devastated to disappoint him. Now he sees how stressful it is to make money mistakes and why it's so important for him to take over, and I see how much he wants to get it right and find myself completely accountable to him.

2. I was there, at home, when my child decided to investigate inappropriate content on what I thought was a harmless kids' internet game (Warning to readers: if your child plays Runescape, put a stop to it NOW!). Some children have no parent available to intercede when these things happen. I was there. I'm still here. I'm able to have a conversation with my child and discuss these issues with my child...even though I'm still trying to figure out just how to do that....

3. What if I'd been on the road with my passenger and her children when my Jeep's U-joint when clanking to the ground? What if my husband had been on the expressway with all of our children in the Jeep, like he was last night, just minutes before he pulled the Jeep into our driveway it promptly lost a very imporant component that is now hanging off the vehicle?

4. I actually FOUND the library books. I returned them, had a fee of $3.00 each, and didn't have to pay for each book in full, which would have been another financial disaster of over $50. The librarian was kind to me and didn't ban me from using the library again.

And these are just the positive aspects that I KNOW about. I am instructed to give thanks NO MATTER WHAT. Even if I can't SEE the silver lining around that foreboding thundercloud.

Tonight, as our family sat around the table preparing to eat a meal together, my daughter, Sweetheart, asked if she could pray. In her biggest, most faithful five-year-old voice, she offered her words to God:

"Dear God, thank you for everything that happened today..."

No matter what...

She didn't say, "Thanks a lot, God," or, "thanks for giving me the stuff I wanted," or, "thank you for all of the good things that happened."

She said, "Thank You, God. Thank You for EVERYTHING."

I could learn a lot from that girl.

"Thank God in everything no matter what the circumstances may be, be thankful and give thanks, for this is the will of God for you who are in Christ Jesus the Revealer and Mediator of that will."

~1 Thes. 5:18, Amplified Bible

Speaking of Sliding...

It's really icy here.

You should see me walking around on my driveway, in my yard, in the parking lots of the local buy-a-lot-of-junk stores. I walk with such care and trepidation, you would think there was a huge chasm under my feet.

I guess I'm just afraid to fall.

One day last week, Bard and I were walking to our van, which we've parked at the very end of our long lane for lack of a vehicle that can handle the inclemency that is our country driveway. She and I were both wearing snowboots, treading cautiously with each little step and moving along quite slowly. I always imagine that there's some vicious snow-dusted ice beneath my very next step that will take me down, and fast. I've fallen enough to know that it's just when you get your confidence up, just when you say, "This is SILLY! I'll never get there if I keep on like this!" It's just when you think, "To heck with it," and you take your next step with abandon that the aforementioned lurking ice-enemy knocks you on your can. But it can't just do you the favor of letting you fall. Instead, it has to make you look like an idiot first, jerking, lurching, trying desperately to stay upright before you plummet to the hard, cold, icy ground.

As we were inching our way along, a figure came streaking past us, a blur against the snow-covered valley.

It was my 13-year-old son, Houdin.

I'm always amazed at Houdin's deftness on ice. He seems to have no fear of falling at all. While I can take every step with the utmost care and still land on my butt, Houdin runs and jumps and does cartwheels, yet still lands on his feet.

The thing I noticed as Bard and I inched along was how Houdin approached each icy spot. He didn't stop and proceed with caution. Nay, he didn't even slow down. He kept his pace. And when a sheet of ice took his footing, he just...slid. And slid. And slid. Not like I would slide as a precursor to sudden descent, with my arms flailing desperately in the air and ridiculous words spouting from my mouth. Houdin took more of a ride than a slide, arms out steady at his sides, feet separated, knees bent, almost as if he were skiing. Almost as if her were...enjoying it! And when the riding-sliding ended, he broke into a full-run again in preparation for the next patch of ice.

I wish that I could approach the problems in my life the way my son approaches a slippery slope. When life takes my footing, when I suddenly feel myself sliding and spinning out of control, I want to think of Houdin. Maybe then, I can just spread my arms, bend my knees, and gracefully ride the whole thing out.

Okay, Kids, Time for Bedlam

Debbie Harbeson has written a light-hearted PDF book about her seemingly insane decision to choose homeschooling. For a refreshing change from the ever-increasing commercialization of homeschooling, you can read this book for free!

As an introduction to the book, Debbie writes: "This is what happens to you, when you purposely allow your children to skip school to learn at home... and it's a riot!"

Celebrity Homeschooling...

From this site:

Hollywood couple WILL and JADA PINKETT SMITH have decided to homeschool their children, because they're unimpressed with America's educational system.

The ALI co-stars have six-year-old son JADEN, daughter WILLOW, four, TREY, 12, Will's son from his first marriage and Will's nephew KYLE, 15, in their care. And all children but Trey are currently homeschooled.

Jada tells ESSENCE magazine, "(They are homeschooled) for flexibility, so they can stay with us when we travel, and also because the school system in this country - public and private is designed for the industrial age.

"We're in a technological age. We don't want our kids to memorise. We want them to learn."

The Drama King

"I don't want to act. I'll be embarrassed."

We were on our way to the drama club/birthday party of a fellow homeschooler when Monet, my nine-year-old son told me how he felt. While this didn't surprise me, I figured he'd get over it pretty quickly.

He didn't.

While his five-year-old sister, Sweetheart was changing clothes seven or eight times in an effort to find the "fanciest" outfit she could find, Monet was trying to figure out how to get through to me that he just didn't want to go.

I understand how he feels. He hates being the center of attention and is very easily embarrassed. He's the person in the family who always thinks he's being ridiculed, even when no one's talking about him.

The reason we call him Monet, after all, is because he's an artist. He's happiest sitting in a corner with a pencil and a sketchbook, inventing and creating beings, machines and stories that very few people could even begin to imagine. I suppose we really should have dubbed him Leonardo. Most of his drawings involve elaborate labratories or spy centers with detailed environments and Rube Goldberg type contraptions. At nine, he still sucks his thumb and can often be found curled up with his dog, his thumb in his mouth, inventing some new idea or storyline.

I was braiding Sweetheart's hair when Monet came in and made his announcement.

"I don't want to act. I don't want to be in the play. Everyone will laugh at me." My first reaction was, "Oh, don't be silly," but then I realized that he was serious. "Just watch, then," I told him. I could tell from his reaction that he was torn. I could see that he wasn't even sure he wanted to go.

When we arrived at the location of the birthday party/drama club meeting, Sweetheart was lamenting the fact that her braids were undone and her hair was a mess. She was practically a basket case. Monet was dragging along behind. Houdin was all over it, a natural performer. As we stood at the door of the library, Monet hung behind.

"I really don't want to act," he said. "I don't want to be in the play at all." I could tell, then, that he didn't just have cold feet. This was really worrying him.

I'm sad to say that I hadn't had a very good day. We were already about an hour late to the party and I was feeling disorganized and frustrated. I wasn't in the patient homeschooler mode that I should have been.

Or maybe I did just the right thing.

"Let's just go in. I can't stand out here in the cold, and we're already late. Just go."

I was surprised to see how many kids were there. And I was pleased by the set-up of the activity. A stage on one end of the room, chairs set up for all of the parents to watch the performance when we would return after about two hours of their rehearsing--they were even videotaping the whole thing. The guest-of-honor's mother, Jen, greeted us warmly.

"I'm so glad you could come! I was worried that you couldn't make it!" I grunted some response, bad day, frustrated, couldn't get moving. The standard.

"I understand," she said, and motioned the kids toward the stage.

"We just finished our first warm-up game. You really didn't miss too much. Come on up on stage, kids!"

The birthday girl came running, hugged sweetheart zealously, and pulled her onto the stage, shouting over her shoulder, "Come on, Monet!"

Monet stood still.

He looked at me pleadingly, "Please, Mom. I don't want to do it. I'll be embarrassed. People will laugh at me."

"Well," I reasoned, "that's fine, but everyone else is on stage. Do you think you'd be more embarrassed being on stage with everyone else, or being the only one sitting here, not participating?" It sounded like the perfect motivation.

(I could insert here how my child gave me some lesson on nonconformity, and how proud I was to be corrected, but that's not what happened. Maybe another blog.)

"I'll just sit and watch," he said.

So I wished Jen luck, kissed Monet on the head, and said goodbye.

When I climbed back into the van, I told Bo, "Monet won't participate. He's embarrassed." While we spent our two hour lag time at Sam's Club, I wondered how Monet was doing.

Since we operate on Parent Standard Time, we returned to the performance a couple of minutes late. Monet was on the stage, next to the birthday girl.

He was acting!

And I don't mean that he was just grumbling through his lines. I mean, he was ACTING!

I whipped out the camera. I took several photos. I beamed. I wished that all of the homeschool skeptics could see my son, my precious boy, standing up there acting his heart out, reading his lines as if he'd been rehearsing for a week.

When the play was over, Monet came running to me.

"Did you see me? Did you see me acting? Did you like it? How did I do? Did you notice that part where I said, 'God has been here, like, forever?' Well, the 'like' wasn't in the script! I added that myself! Jen said we should be creative, so I just threw that in! What did you think? Did I do good? That was fun! Can we do it again? Will she have another drama group? I can't wait to be in it! Wow, that was fun!"

I stood there, smiling, amazed. When Monet had run off to have a piece of birthday cake, I asked Jen what happened.

"Well, I basically stuck a script in his hand and told him he had to do it. I didn't give him a choice. At first, he seemed to struggle a little, and I offered to trade him parts, give him something easier, you know? But he said, 'No. I like this guy. This is who I want to be.' So, he sat in a corner and read those lines over and over again until he had them down."

Wow. I was so impressed.

It reminded me of the time that my husband Bo and I were traveling to visit his parents in another state when Bo made a sudden turn off of our regular course.

"What are you doing? Where are we going?" The sun was getting low in the sky, and we had already been running late, running on parent standard time with a toddler (Bard) and a baby (Houdin).

"I want to show you something," he said. What could he possibly want to show me? Did he even know where he was going? We were going to get lost in nowhere land and we were going to be even later to his parents house. I was a bit miffed.

"Just trust me," he said. "I think we can make it on time if we hurry."

After a few wrong turns, and a few desperate pleadings from me to turn back, we stopped in the parking lot of a national park. It looked like your average national park, except for the huge mountain of sand towering in front of us. Bo jumped out of the car, grabbed Bard from her carseat and called behind him, "Hurry up! Let's go!"

"Bo, did you read that sign? The park closes at dusk! It's about that now! What if our car gets locked in?"

He didn't even stop to answer my question. He just started running up the hill of sand.

I grudgingly pulled Baby Houdin from his seat and started walking, then jogging, and then running to catch up with my husband. I was not happy. I don't think I'd run more than four steps since either of my babies were born. But there he went, bounding up this big mountain of sand, and, if I wanted to keep from getting lost, I had to bound up after him.

I was becoming increasingly angry and impatient. I literally felt like I was taking three steps forward and two steps back as my feet slid down the sandy hill with each forward step I made. I was sweating. My legs were aching.

"Where are we GOING???" I yelled.

"Just COME ON!" He yelled back. "I think we can still make it in time!"

"IN TIME FOR WHAT???"

Halfway up the hill, I was about to give up. I saw Bo crest the mountain of sand and stand there for a second, not moving. He set Toddler Bard down and came sliding down towards me, grabbed Baby Houdin from my arms and said,"Run! Come on! Hurry up!"

What in the WORLD was this NUTCASE doing? What could be SO all-fired important?

When I got to the top of hill, panting and out of breath, about to slug my husband in the gut, I could see. I could see just what he wanted me to see.

It was one of the most beautiful sights I'd ever beheld. From the top of this huge sand dune, I could see the perfect sunset, the big ball of glowing orange reflected in the cotton-candy clouds and the blueness that was Lake Michigan. I was breathless, but not from the run up the sand dune. It was simply a breathtaking scene.

I guess sometimes we just have to do the things we don't want to do in order to realize that there is more out there than what we understand, more beauty than what we can imagine.

Sometimes, when we're forced to do something we don't want to do, we get the greatest rewards.

Friday Five: Food Memories

Quiet Life: "From Donna over at Quiet Life, the Friday Five:food memories. List five foods that remind you of home or your childhood."

In no particular order, I reveal my strangeness through my childhood food preferences:

Homemade french fries. These things got me into trouble because, while my mother's back was turned, I would grab the metal spatula and chop the heck out of the deep-frying potatoes. I loved them all crushed and smooshed into tiny pieces with bubbles of fat blobbing out everwhere. My mother never understood why her fries always turned out that way.

Cream cheese. When I was a child, I would come home from school to plop myself in front of the television to indulge in an ABC After School Special or The Little Rascals. I would grab a block of cream cheese, pinch off bits of it and roll them into little balls. These, I would eat with relish. Not real relish...I just mean that I would really enjoy them.

Margarine. As a toddler, probably barely old enough to open the fridge, I would eat whole sticks of margarine. Doesn't that put hair on your tongue??? Now we only have real butter in our house. I don't eat it by the stick, but just about.

Meatloaf. My mother made THE BEST meat loaf. I have tried and tried to duplicate it, but to no avail. I even remember mixing the cold meat, green peppers, onions, eggs and bread crumbs with my own little hands and squirting the ketchup on the top of the formed loaf. How hard could it be? But, alas, meatloaf eludes me.

Fresh fruits and veggies. We always had these in the house, because my mother grew a large garden and we made frequent summer trips to the muck farms where they sold the best, ripest, drippiest plums you'd ever want to eat. I could have lived on fruits and veggies, and for a while I even did. Ah, to have those simple, albeit odd, tastes again.

Thanks for the memories, Donna.

The Final Hour: Driving the Amish

Well, here it is. The final hour of my little blogging stunt.

For the last twenty-four hours, I've been attempting to blog whatever happened to come my way. It's been a lot of fun, and I'm still not finished because I have pictures to upload and a few more stories to tell.

But I'll fill you in on my morning so far.

After waking to remember The Baby's moment of birth, I very reluctantly dragged my butt out of bed. Last night (or early this morning, actually), after I signed off her, the kids played blackjack and I waited impatiently for them to finish so we could read Mandy and get to bed. I didn't realize how tired I was until I crawled into bed. Suddenly, the pillow felt so good under my head, and I really hated to set the alarm clock for so early in the morning.

Aside from waking to remember The Baby's birth moments, I also had an appointment to drive an Amish girl to her aunt's house.

The Amish don't own cars, for the most part, but they do hire people to drive them from place to place. I've took on the job of driving the Amish about two months ago in an effort to help raise money for Bard's choir trip to China, and to get to know more about my Amish neighbors.

This morning, I had to pick up Lisa, a seventeen-year-old Old Order Amish girl who was going to be a mother's helper for Mae who just had her fifth child, a baby girl. I drove through the winding roads of this beautiful farm country and made my way to Lisa's house. She was ready for me when I pulled into the driveway.

The funny thing about young Amish people, I've found, is that they'll likely not talk to you unless you talk to them, and then they have a LOT to say. This was the same with Lisa.

"Do you have plans for the weekend?" I ask her.
"Oh, yes. My weekend is full. I have a birthday party tonight with the youth from my church, and then I'll be helping Mae again in the morning. Tomorrow, I'll be babysitting twins, and then on Sunday, it's church."
"That is busy," I say.
"I like it that way," she says. "I don't like to just sit around the house and do nothing."

It's not unusual on a day like today, winter's chilly temperatures about ten degrees or less, to see an Amish woman out early with the sunrise, hanging her washing on the line. I think of my own laundry at home, two washing machines and two driers, and still a stack that I can't seem to overcome.

Lisa talks about her grandfather, who passed away a few years ago, and how he's so much like one of the little cousins she'll be caring for today. "He just wouldn't get scared. You couldn't do a thing to make him jump. But he was silly and ornery and would just say the silliest things."

Before long, we've arrived in front of Mae's new but simple home, very neat and attractive with every thing in place. It's such a bucolic scene.

"Will it suit to pick me up at 5:00? I have plans for tonight." I tell her that it will suit. The terminology of the Amish in our area is funny, quirky, and I can't help picking up some of it. "I've done that once't already." Or "That really freaks me out," in a strong Penn-Dutch accent.

I think about what Lisa will be doing today, and what Mae won't be doing. Mae has had a mother's helper since the day her little one was born over a week ago. Her neighbors and relatives have cooked meals for her. Her sisters and neices have taken turns getting the kids on the bus and cleaning her house.

I think of my own house, a mess right now. While I intended to blog everything I do in a 24-hour period, the one thing I didn't do as much as I usually do is clean. The Before picture that I took of my kitchen yesterday still has no After picture to go along with it. While I don't understand everything about Amish culture, and I'm fairly certain I'd not like to be Amish, I do envy the sense of community. I wouldn't mind at all having a sister to call to help me come clean my house or take my kids.

I suppose that's one of the reasons I have longed for a larger family, and it's one of the reasons that I get so frustrated when my children fight. I want to build a community for my children. I want them to have someone on whom they can call when they need a hand.

It's peaceful in my house. This is fairly normal for this time of day, since I'm married to a Bohemian who gave his Bohemian genes to at least one of our children. The Baby's awake and has nursed, nursed, nursed and nursed. As I type, she's playing with her grandpa, my equivalent of a mother's helper, and he's singing happy birthday to her. He will likely sing it again, and again, and again, even after her birthday is over.

I've had fun blogging for you this past twenty-four hours. When I have the time and energy to think clearly, I'll post about what I've learned and the details of Sweetheart's date, including the Wal*Mart Shopping Card Fiasco.

But for now, I'm going to go recover from my 24-hour blogging stunt. :-)

Thanks for reading. Now, back to our regularly scheduled ONCE A DAY blogging.

Joy Cometh in the Morning

I think it was after the alarm went off for the fifth time that Bo rolled over and asked, "What's up with that thing?"

"It's not the clock's fault," I told him. "It's me." I reached out for the alarm clock, turned it off, and attempted to put it on top of the headboard. Instead, it fell behind, making a racket on the way down.

"Well, I guess it won't be going off again."

It's time for me to get out of bed.

I've already been awake several times this morning. The first was at the moment of The Baby's birth. It's a moment that's very important to me, and I want to remember it here with you.

When I found out that I was pregnant, I really hadn't wanted to have another child. This is an area with which I've struggled for a long time. I so desperately want to be open to God's plan for my life, and I believe very strongly that every child has a purpose and great worth. Many times I've wondered what children I've missed raising because I wasn't willing to conceive them. I know this is futile thinking, but it's on my mind nonetheless.

But being pregnant with The Baby was a shock to me, in spite of my value of human life. Being pregnant was, I have to admit, the last thing I wanted. Already having four children, living in a small cabin, in a huge transitionary time, and struggling with my own body image as well as questioning my parenting skills and choices, I didn't feel that I was in a position at all to be have another child. I'm ashamed to say that when I saw my pregnancy test come up "yes," I prayed to God that it wouldn't be true, or that I could even just miscarry and not have another child. I am very, very ashamed to say that. But I wanted desperately to NOT be pregnant.

Do you know that, for whatever reason, that pregnancy was the absolutely worst one I've ever had? I had kidney stones, a bladder infection, and at one point, I had the flu so badly that I thought--almost HOPED--I was going to die. The snow and ice were thick on the ground so that I could barely walk the footpath to the cabin, let alone make my way back and forth to the outhouse the five hundred times a day I needed to go.

My live-in dad was undergoing biopsies for possible prostate cancer, and because he's unmarried, his care and keeping, scheduling and finances fall square upon me anyway. After his biopsy, he developed a severe bacterial infection AND had major back pain which rendered him incapable of leaving his bed, leaving me to empty his potty, which many times involved cleaning it up off of the floor, my nine-month pregnant belly hindering my every move.

I was SO done being pregnant. Boy, was I ready to have this baby.

This baby wasn't ready to be had.

About two weeks past my original due date, I was pleading with God. I know it's ridiculous. I know God has His own timing, and that pregnant women are like apple trees. Each tree is different, and while they're all apple trees, every tree's fruit ripens at different times, and each fruit on the tree ripens when it's ready. There is no "right time" for a baby to be born. But I was so very ready, and my branches were heavy with the fruit of this impending labor.

At long last, around 10:00 on the 27th of January, I knew the time was coming. I had no idea how long this labor would be, of course. Each of my labors were so very different. 36 hours, 24 hours, 16 hours, 1.5 hours...I couldn't tell if this labor would be a long one or a short one.

I labored all through the night while everyone slept. My sister-in-law, who was also my midwife, stayed by my side and listened to me complain and fuss. Something just didn't feel right to me. I was very worried over the health of this baby. What had happened? Somewhere along the line, between becoming pregnant and beginning labor, my heart had changed. Now, I wanted to fight for the health of this child. I wanted with all of my heart to hold this baby in my arms.

I did want another child. I wanted THIS child.

Though the heart rate of the baby was fine, I worried. Though my labor was progressing just as it should have been, I worried. Through the night, into the morning, all through my labor, I worried.

I feared. I cried. I prayed.

Finally, as morning crept in and the sun began to think about rising above the hilltops, those final bearing down pains overtook me like the rush of a strong river current. And then, at just the right time, The Baby was born, welcomed into the world by her sleepy-eyed brothers and sisters who had come down from their beds to see her take her first breath.

"I knew it was a girl! I told you it was a girl!" Sweetheart cried. And she had. She'd told us all along that this baby would be her sister. No matter how we presented other possibilities, her mind was made up. This would be, she insisted, a baby girl. And she'd been right.

I called my mother-in-law to tell her that she had another granddaughter. She read this verse to me:

Psalm 30:5 For his anger endureth but a moment; in his favour is life: weeping
may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning.

Tears ran down my face. Joy cometh in the morning.

And so, the baby's middle name would be Joy.

As I look out over these sun-kissed hills, I think about life with my sweet Baby. She is a blessing, a treasure, and her worth is far above rubies. She brings me so much joy. So. Much Joy.

The Baby and Sweetheart

I've made the announcement

Here's the truth.

I don't usually let my kids stay up this late. It's not that it's that big of a deal, because they can sleep late in the morning, but usually they're in bed by midnight. Tonight has been a special night, so I've let them play while I sit here doing this wacky twenty-four-hour blogging thing.

But I've just made the announcement that it's totally and completely time for bed, so we're going to read a chapter of Mandy and then it's time for prayers, and then it's time for bed. The younger kids will lie quietly and listen while Bard knits one last gift for The Baby. It goes with my one last gift for Baby, which I will photograph and post tomorrow.

Here's the other truth. I'm going to go to bed and sleep for a few hours and finish blogging in the morning. I have an Amish-hauling job at 7:00, and something about driving the Amish makes me very on time. For some reason, being on time for people who are in no hurry lightens the pressure and I can actually be punctual.

So, goodnight for now. Thanks so much for taking this wild ride with me. I'll see you for the last three hours in the morning. :-)

Did you think you lost me?

Not a chance.

I'm still here, awake, and blogging. As a matter of fact, Bard and I have spent the past hour and a half uploading images to the first few hours of the blog. So, if you want to see photos of the day, you can go back and read the blog again. Or just look at the pictures. Your choice. Though I think the words are kinda nice, too.

As I type, the boys are still playing with The Baby's toys from her birthday. One of the things she received was a Brio-type railroad set that Bo picked up for $11.00. The Baby wasn't too thrilled with it at first, but Monet and Houdin are all over it. Good for them.

To whomever it was who wondered how I was able to sleep until 9:30, now you know.

You Take the Cake!

Here's a Piece for YOU! Thank you so much for coming to The Baby's birthday party!

It was two years ago right about now that I was trudging down the path to our little cabin in the woods, the tell-tale signs of labor intensifying with every step down that long, icy lane. Bo was at my side, and my sister-in-law, the midwife, awaited me in the warm, cozy cabin.

She had candles lit all over the room and my bed made up with my very favorite sheets. The kids were in bed and herbs were simmering on the stove.

I had purchased a special candle holder at Target as my birthing candle, my inspiration. It was a spiral holder with five tea candles in it, to signify the five children I would have.

I think I'll go light that candle holder right now, in celebration of The Baby.

Happy Birthday to The Baby

The kids just couldn't stand it. Bard was so incredibly ready to watch The Baby open her gifts, she just about yanked her off my lap. At first, The Baby seemed really confused. What's going on? Why are you waking me up? Why can't I just nurse and go back to sleep?

Then she saw the stack of presents.

Then she saw the cake.

And she was hooked.

Bard was so sweet, helping her open each gift by showing her the right place to start ripping it open.

Here's the part that I like--now all of my kids, regardless of age, are playing with The Baby with all of her toys. They're serving her the play food and making cookies with her play mixer. I can hear Bard saying, "Here's your five course meal. Here's the meat course with the tomato and french fries..." I hear Houdin saying, "Would you like a piece of corn, Baby? Here's a whole cucumber in the salad." The Baby is the center of attention. She's the princess. She's the star of the day.

It may only be a few minutes, but it will last in my mind forever.