Though I have used this concept with my preschoolers, it is most relevant with my three teenagers. I find that I am often most upset by their attitudes, but my discipline frequently focuses on their behaviors.
My simple tip to help switch the focus to attitudes vs. behavior is this: Ask a question.
Ignore the behavior--the door-slamming, the stomping, the eye-rolling--and get to the heart of the matter by calmly asking: Was that respectful? Was that kind? Are you being patient? Could you rephrase that more respectfully? Are you ignoring me? (This is a good one when you've asked them to do something and they haven't done it.)
I won't say I consistently remember to do this--I too often get caught up in wrangling about the behavior--but when I do, I've had nearly astounding results. In some cases, my kids have immediately apologized for disrespect, they have stood up right away to do what I've asked, they have admitted to being impatient or unkind--and in one way or another, have at least changed their tone if not also their behavior.
The key is remembering to do it--and asking that question calmly and positively.
So the next time you're tempted to yell, "And if you roll your eyes at me one more time, missy, I'm gonna..."
...TRY IT!
For more Works for Me tips, visit Rocks in My Dryer.
Showing posts with label mothering. Show all posts
Showing posts with label mothering. Show all posts
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
Birthday Open Mic: Final Answers
Jen in Seattle asked these very thought-provoking questions:
How have you encouraged your children’s hearts toward the Lord? How have you responded when they've resisted spiritual things? How do you help them through questions of theodicy [defense of God's goodness and justice in the face of the existence of evil]?
I’m sure that the most important way we encourage our children's hearts toward the Lord is by our own example. They see us reading our Bibles and serving at church, of course--but even more importantly, our kids hear us pray, out loud, honestly and openly. They hear us confess, with tears, our failings and our need of God's forgiveness. They hear us seeking His wisdom when we have none. They hear us ask for His help with tasks that are too difficult for us. They hear us intercede for sick and hurting friends--and when they are sick or hurting, we lay hands on them and pray for them. They see us praising God for His blessings.
We encourage them to pray aloud in the same way—honestly asking for help with their needs and struggles. We expect them not just to pray for sick friends and their own material desires, but to ask God for the spiritual transformations they need—to pray for patience, or diligence, or love for a difficult person. We discuss Scripture with them and encourage them to respond to it in their prayers.
I believe that creating this environment of spiritual honesty has probably been one of the best things we have done with our kids. It’s encouraged a family culture of open communication which is paying off as our kids reach teenager status.
I think a key point too, is that our kids are with us all the time, since we homeschool. I have many opportunities every day to affirm right attitudes and correct wrong ones, to ask the questions that make them think about what comes out of their hearts through their mouths. And our kids are not spending large portions of their day in an environment which is Godless, but in a family, where He is the center. We noticed a big difference when our oldest son was in public school, especially during middle school—he was more apt to say things like he didn’t care what God thought, or to tell us that things like swearing didn’t matter. He was definitely affected by being away from our influence so much. He has seemed happier, more relaxed and pleasant since he’s not been going to school this year, and has even given big-brotherly advice to Bantam9, who’s currently doing a stint in public school, on traps to avoid (including swearing!).
As our kids have reached that age when they start to question it all--Does God really exist? Are the Bible stories really true? How can God let bad things happen to people?--we have continued to model a transparent honesty. We admit that we don't have all the answers. We know God uses suffering for good in our lives, if we choose to respond in the right way to trials--yet it is hard to watch others suffer, or to understand God's purpose in it. Our knowledge is limited, yet His is not. My favorite analogy to use with kids (and myself) is the jigsaw puzzle--so often all we are holding is a piece or two, but God sees how each one of the 1,000 pieces fit together.
As for God's existence, we believe He exists because we know Him. He speaks to us, acts in our lives, we can feel His presence--and they admit that they know Him too, in that way. I've told my older kids that in college I studied all the rational arguments "proving" the existence of God, but the bottom line for me has been--what kind of a life do I want to live? A life with God, as a Christian, or a life without Him? Not only do I prefer a life on this earth with God vs. one without Him, but on a purely pragmatic rational basis, I have a lot more to lose if I don't believe in God and am wrong, than if I do believe in God and am wrong. That was Pascal’s position, and for the child who was voicing these doubts, it was a convincing enough thought--though he was also sobered by the specter of a life without Him.
And that friends, wraps up the birthday questions for another year! Thanks so much to all who participated and asked such great questions. It was fun to think them through!
How have you encouraged your children’s hearts toward the Lord? How have you responded when they've resisted spiritual things? How do you help them through questions of theodicy [defense of God's goodness and justice in the face of the existence of evil]?
I’m sure that the most important way we encourage our children's hearts toward the Lord is by our own example. They see us reading our Bibles and serving at church, of course--but even more importantly, our kids hear us pray, out loud, honestly and openly. They hear us confess, with tears, our failings and our need of God's forgiveness. They hear us seeking His wisdom when we have none. They hear us ask for His help with tasks that are too difficult for us. They hear us intercede for sick and hurting friends--and when they are sick or hurting, we lay hands on them and pray for them. They see us praising God for His blessings.
We encourage them to pray aloud in the same way—honestly asking for help with their needs and struggles. We expect them not just to pray for sick friends and their own material desires, but to ask God for the spiritual transformations they need—to pray for patience, or diligence, or love for a difficult person. We discuss Scripture with them and encourage them to respond to it in their prayers.
I believe that creating this environment of spiritual honesty has probably been one of the best things we have done with our kids. It’s encouraged a family culture of open communication which is paying off as our kids reach teenager status.
I think a key point too, is that our kids are with us all the time, since we homeschool. I have many opportunities every day to affirm right attitudes and correct wrong ones, to ask the questions that make them think about what comes out of their hearts through their mouths. And our kids are not spending large portions of their day in an environment which is Godless, but in a family, where He is the center. We noticed a big difference when our oldest son was in public school, especially during middle school—he was more apt to say things like he didn’t care what God thought, or to tell us that things like swearing didn’t matter. He was definitely affected by being away from our influence so much. He has seemed happier, more relaxed and pleasant since he’s not been going to school this year, and has even given big-brotherly advice to Bantam9, who’s currently doing a stint in public school, on traps to avoid (including swearing!).
As our kids have reached that age when they start to question it all--Does God really exist? Are the Bible stories really true? How can God let bad things happen to people?--we have continued to model a transparent honesty. We admit that we don't have all the answers. We know God uses suffering for good in our lives, if we choose to respond in the right way to trials--yet it is hard to watch others suffer, or to understand God's purpose in it. Our knowledge is limited, yet His is not. My favorite analogy to use with kids (and myself) is the jigsaw puzzle--so often all we are holding is a piece or two, but God sees how each one of the 1,000 pieces fit together.
As for God's existence, we believe He exists because we know Him. He speaks to us, acts in our lives, we can feel His presence--and they admit that they know Him too, in that way. I've told my older kids that in college I studied all the rational arguments "proving" the existence of God, but the bottom line for me has been--what kind of a life do I want to live? A life with God, as a Christian, or a life without Him? Not only do I prefer a life on this earth with God vs. one without Him, but on a purely pragmatic rational basis, I have a lot more to lose if I don't believe in God and am wrong, than if I do believe in God and am wrong. That was Pascal’s position, and for the child who was voicing these doubts, it was a convincing enough thought--though he was also sobered by the specter of a life without Him.
And that friends, wraps up the birthday questions for another year! Thanks so much to all who participated and asked such great questions. It was fun to think them through!
Monday, February 18, 2008
Not in Control
It’s President’s Day, and we’re taking a much-needed day off. Papa Rooster is home with the kids, and on my way to get a pre-surgery bloodtest, I’m stopping off at Panera for coffee, a bagel and a little alone time.
On the way here I was praying about this surgery—a D & C—scheduled for Wednesday afternoon. I’ve been waiting, for over a month now, to miscarry our tiny baby who died about 6 weeks ago. I’ve been too busy with Godspell, stripping wallpaper and overseeing painting to schedule the surgery before this, and I haven’t been eager to anyway, still hoping that my body will take care of things naturally. I’d love not to miss the day of homeschooling, just when we need to regroup, and I wish my husband could keep his vacation day to use when we move. I’ve longed for the physical experience of closure, of completion, and for the chance to pray over our child’s tiny body, if it’s recognizable at all. The thought of it being suctioned out of me by a machine grieves my mother’s heart.
But it seems that my body has done what it could and it hasn’t quite finished the job. It must be confused, too, because I’m still experiencing first-trimester nausea--and when it’s for no happy purpose, that’s been difficult to bear. It’s definitely depressing my spirits as well as my physical sense of well-being. And with the risk of infection rising all the time, Papa Rooster and I felt it was time to go ahead and schedule surgery. God knows that deadline and He could still cause my body to do what it needs to before then. But I certainly cannot—though I’ve tried. The situation is completely out of my control.
That knowledge was sinking in as I drove here, praying. There are so many variables in my life that I can and do control, quite competently and independently, thank you very much. But I thought of the many, many months of my life that I’ve spent pregnant, with so many aspects of my body, my health, my hormones and emotions, and my energy levels completely out of my control—and how, as a result, I’ve grown in patience, in trust, in faith, and in waiting on the Lord. This last month and a half has been so hard…but it has deepened, once again, that place in me that trusts, that waits on the Lord to deliver me. It’s been good for me, once again, to have life taken out of my control.
A friend once told me that he was sort of lamenting the news that his wife was expecting again—an unexpected fifth child—and a woman who had just a year or two before lost a stillborn child at full-term said to him, “You know, only God controls birth and death.” I think of my friend who just lost her 17-year-old son in a car accident, who told me that she was experiencing the Lord’s presence as she had not since she was first saved. I think of John and Margie Fawcett, who I spoke to in church on Sunday; John is in so much pain from the cancerous lesions all over his bones. Margie told me, “I wouldn’t wish this experience on anyone, but it has completely transformed us.” (Her blog is an amazing testimony of God's grace through suffering.)
In my own small trial, I am grieving. But I am grieving with God, placing myself, my body, my baby, my hopes and fears (general anesthesia!), in His hands. I would love to control the outcome here, but it is far better to find myself—to know myself—not in control.
He is, and I am under His mercy. I am covered by His grace. I am uplifted by His love.
On the way here I was praying about this surgery—a D & C—scheduled for Wednesday afternoon. I’ve been waiting, for over a month now, to miscarry our tiny baby who died about 6 weeks ago. I’ve been too busy with Godspell, stripping wallpaper and overseeing painting to schedule the surgery before this, and I haven’t been eager to anyway, still hoping that my body will take care of things naturally. I’d love not to miss the day of homeschooling, just when we need to regroup, and I wish my husband could keep his vacation day to use when we move. I’ve longed for the physical experience of closure, of completion, and for the chance to pray over our child’s tiny body, if it’s recognizable at all. The thought of it being suctioned out of me by a machine grieves my mother’s heart.
But it seems that my body has done what it could and it hasn’t quite finished the job. It must be confused, too, because I’m still experiencing first-trimester nausea--and when it’s for no happy purpose, that’s been difficult to bear. It’s definitely depressing my spirits as well as my physical sense of well-being. And with the risk of infection rising all the time, Papa Rooster and I felt it was time to go ahead and schedule surgery. God knows that deadline and He could still cause my body to do what it needs to before then. But I certainly cannot—though I’ve tried. The situation is completely out of my control.
That knowledge was sinking in as I drove here, praying. There are so many variables in my life that I can and do control, quite competently and independently, thank you very much. But I thought of the many, many months of my life that I’ve spent pregnant, with so many aspects of my body, my health, my hormones and emotions, and my energy levels completely out of my control—and how, as a result, I’ve grown in patience, in trust, in faith, and in waiting on the Lord. This last month and a half has been so hard…but it has deepened, once again, that place in me that trusts, that waits on the Lord to deliver me. It’s been good for me, once again, to have life taken out of my control.
A friend once told me that he was sort of lamenting the news that his wife was expecting again—an unexpected fifth child—and a woman who had just a year or two before lost a stillborn child at full-term said to him, “You know, only God controls birth and death.” I think of my friend who just lost her 17-year-old son in a car accident, who told me that she was experiencing the Lord’s presence as she had not since she was first saved. I think of John and Margie Fawcett, who I spoke to in church on Sunday; John is in so much pain from the cancerous lesions all over his bones. Margie told me, “I wouldn’t wish this experience on anyone, but it has completely transformed us.” (Her blog is an amazing testimony of God's grace through suffering.)
In my own small trial, I am grieving. But I am grieving with God, placing myself, my body, my baby, my hopes and fears (general anesthesia!), in His hands. I would love to control the outcome here, but it is far better to find myself—to know myself—not in control.
He is, and I am under His mercy. I am covered by His grace. I am uplifted by His love.
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Peaks and Valleys
Well, there's something I've been trying to decide whether to share here, but I think I will, in the hopes that someone else will be comforted or encouraged. And I'd love your prayers.
On New Year's Eve, I found out some momentous news--I was pregnant.
I've never felt so ambivalent about a pregnancy before. If we weren't in the midst of selling our house and moving this spring (we hope, we hope, we hope!), I'd have been in delighted shock. As it was, I was just in shock.
Oh, Lord, how can I possibly handle one more thing? My husband is working two jobs, consuming all his energy and then some. Homeschooling with two in high school has increased my load and my stress so much. Now, looking at more painting and cleaning and de-cluttering and then keeping a house perfect for months on end... And this "one more thing" being something that will sap all my energy and strength... What are you doing, Lord? We know others--friends and family members--who are praying, begging, for another child, and we weren't even open to this gift. Yet here it is.
And slowly, the gift-ness of it began to sink in. Our kids paved the way, with their excitement and anticipation. We talked about how much more help I would need from them, and they were ready to step up and take on the responsibility. My 15-year-old daughter, who I thought might be the one most likely to be embarrassed or upset by the added demands on her, blessed me so much by being absolutely thrilled at the news.
We only shared the news with a few friends. It was a little embarrassing--we had talked like we were done. It would be painful for some to hear; they wanted children, or more children, so badly. Family would be worried and concerned. I was aware that, at my age, my chances of miscarrying were higher than they'd ever been. So we thought it best to wait to spread the news.
I started having nausea and fatigue--a good sign, though it added to my overall stress and feelings of being overwhelmed. I was keeping up with homeschooling, but having trouble fitting in anything extra, including getting our house ready to put back on the market. (You may have noticed I haven't posted as much this month.)
Though the morning sickness was reassuring, I began to sense that something wasn't quite right. I wasn't waking up at night having to go to the bathroom. And my jeans still fit. I'm always disappointed by how quickly my normal jeans just aren't comfortable anymore, due to bloating and other digestive discomforts. But this time, my normal jeans remained comfortable. Week after week. Too long, I thought.
When I started having a tiny bit of spotting--less than I've had in other pregnancies--I used that as an excuse to call my doctor and say that something wasn't quite right. And because he's the kind of doctor who listens to moms who've been through this a few times, he had me come straight in for bloodwork and an ultrasound. I was 8 weeks along.
But the baby only measured 6.5 weeks. And it had no heartbeat. And there was this other shadow: Twins?
Five days later, we repeated the ultrasound. With a clearer picture this time: No, not twins. Measuring more like 6 weeks. And...no heartbeat.
In between the two ultrasounds, I had asked friends about having a D & C or not. One close friend, who is also a nurse, surprised me with her answer. She thinks there is an emotional price to be paid for a D & C. Like an abortion, a D & C would "take care of it" medically. With a D & C, as in an abortion, my baby's tiny body would be sucked and sliced and cut up, and I would never see it.
In the natural way of things, she said (with the emotion of experience), a woman can see and even hold the tiny body where a soul, for a short time, resided within her. She can know this child, a little bit, this side of heaven and grieve its passing in a way that is difficult to do without a body, however small. (Granted, she said, that if weeks and weeks go by, a D & C may be necessary--but by then the body starts decomposing.)
My friend also said that her neighbor had been told the same thing as me: her baby was dead, and she needed the D & C. But she kept refusing...and that baby is 10 years old now!
Now, I have no hope that this baby is alive. I'm feeling less pregnant each day, and have had enough cramping over the past few days to believe I'm going to miscarry. As I said, I've been sensing something was wrong for the past few weeks.
So I am a train wreck of conflicting emotions. Very sad--but not depressed. A little bit relieved--and feeling guilty for feeling relieved. Glad that it wasn't twins. (Two seemed so much harder to lose than one.) Praying for the miscarriage to happen soon--but afraid of miscarrying. Worry that I'll lose it next week at a dress rehearsal or performance of Godspell! (What will my makeup co-chair do without me? There's just the two of us this time. What if I start hemorrhaging?.... --Someone will drive me to the hospital, and my co-chair will draft some more help. It'll be fine. God will work it all out.) Dealing with my kids' disappointment as well as my own. Surprise at the depth of my husband's grief. Feeling guilty for my own ambivalence early on.
"Oh, Jeanne," one friend said compassionately, "just what you needed--more waiting and uncertainty in your life these days!"
And a letter from my aunt, telling me that my departed grandmother used to say, "Well, Romans 8:28 is still in the Book."
And it is:
Romans 8:28 "For we know that all things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are called according to his purpose."
I think I shall be quoting Grandmother often.
On New Year's Eve, I found out some momentous news--I was pregnant.
I've never felt so ambivalent about a pregnancy before. If we weren't in the midst of selling our house and moving this spring (we hope, we hope, we hope!), I'd have been in delighted shock. As it was, I was just in shock.
Oh, Lord, how can I possibly handle one more thing? My husband is working two jobs, consuming all his energy and then some. Homeschooling with two in high school has increased my load and my stress so much. Now, looking at more painting and cleaning and de-cluttering and then keeping a house perfect for months on end... And this "one more thing" being something that will sap all my energy and strength... What are you doing, Lord? We know others--friends and family members--who are praying, begging, for another child, and we weren't even open to this gift. Yet here it is.
And slowly, the gift-ness of it began to sink in. Our kids paved the way, with their excitement and anticipation. We talked about how much more help I would need from them, and they were ready to step up and take on the responsibility. My 15-year-old daughter, who I thought might be the one most likely to be embarrassed or upset by the added demands on her, blessed me so much by being absolutely thrilled at the news.
We only shared the news with a few friends. It was a little embarrassing--we had talked like we were done. It would be painful for some to hear; they wanted children, or more children, so badly. Family would be worried and concerned. I was aware that, at my age, my chances of miscarrying were higher than they'd ever been. So we thought it best to wait to spread the news.
I started having nausea and fatigue--a good sign, though it added to my overall stress and feelings of being overwhelmed. I was keeping up with homeschooling, but having trouble fitting in anything extra, including getting our house ready to put back on the market. (You may have noticed I haven't posted as much this month.)
Though the morning sickness was reassuring, I began to sense that something wasn't quite right. I wasn't waking up at night having to go to the bathroom. And my jeans still fit. I'm always disappointed by how quickly my normal jeans just aren't comfortable anymore, due to bloating and other digestive discomforts. But this time, my normal jeans remained comfortable. Week after week. Too long, I thought.
When I started having a tiny bit of spotting--less than I've had in other pregnancies--I used that as an excuse to call my doctor and say that something wasn't quite right. And because he's the kind of doctor who listens to moms who've been through this a few times, he had me come straight in for bloodwork and an ultrasound. I was 8 weeks along.
But the baby only measured 6.5 weeks. And it had no heartbeat. And there was this other shadow: Twins?
Five days later, we repeated the ultrasound. With a clearer picture this time: No, not twins. Measuring more like 6 weeks. And...no heartbeat.
In between the two ultrasounds, I had asked friends about having a D & C or not. One close friend, who is also a nurse, surprised me with her answer. She thinks there is an emotional price to be paid for a D & C. Like an abortion, a D & C would "take care of it" medically. With a D & C, as in an abortion, my baby's tiny body would be sucked and sliced and cut up, and I would never see it.
In the natural way of things, she said (with the emotion of experience), a woman can see and even hold the tiny body where a soul, for a short time, resided within her. She can know this child, a little bit, this side of heaven and grieve its passing in a way that is difficult to do without a body, however small. (Granted, she said, that if weeks and weeks go by, a D & C may be necessary--but by then the body starts decomposing.)
My friend also said that her neighbor had been told the same thing as me: her baby was dead, and she needed the D & C. But she kept refusing...and that baby is 10 years old now!
Now, I have no hope that this baby is alive. I'm feeling less pregnant each day, and have had enough cramping over the past few days to believe I'm going to miscarry. As I said, I've been sensing something was wrong for the past few weeks.
So I am a train wreck of conflicting emotions. Very sad--but not depressed. A little bit relieved--and feeling guilty for feeling relieved. Glad that it wasn't twins. (Two seemed so much harder to lose than one.) Praying for the miscarriage to happen soon--but afraid of miscarrying. Worry that I'll lose it next week at a dress rehearsal or performance of Godspell! (What will my makeup co-chair do without me? There's just the two of us this time. What if I start hemorrhaging?.... --Someone will drive me to the hospital, and my co-chair will draft some more help. It'll be fine. God will work it all out.) Dealing with my kids' disappointment as well as my own. Surprise at the depth of my husband's grief. Feeling guilty for my own ambivalence early on.
"Oh, Jeanne," one friend said compassionately, "just what you needed--more waiting and uncertainty in your life these days!"
And a letter from my aunt, telling me that my departed grandmother used to say, "Well, Romans 8:28 is still in the Book."
And it is:
Romans 8:28 "For we know that all things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are called according to his purpose."
I think I shall be quoting Grandmother often.
Thursday, January 10, 2008
Say It With a Homemade Card
Tonight we had the "family birthday party" for me and my mother-in-law, whose birthday is 4 days before mine. My wonderful children blessed us both with homemade cards, a tradition on birthdays in our family.
As always, they were both touching and hilarious!
Dear Mother,
I love you. I hope you love your birthday and this card. Even though you yell at me I still think you're the best Mom ever!
~Bantam8
Dear MOM,
Thanks for being such a loving MOM. The reason why the word MOM is always capitalized is because you are awesome, MOM! Thanks for not putting me in school. I love you MOM. ~Bantam12
P.S. You are amazing and more.
Dear Mom,
Happy Birthday! Now you're 28 years older than me. Whoa. You're kinda old. :)
(When I pointed out that I will always be 28 years older than her, she blamed it on blondeness.)
I just want to say that whether you think otherwise or not, you are a wonderful mom. And a cool one...most of the time. :) I love sharing clothes, jewelry and makeup with you. It's so much fun to be able to share our stuff.
I'm so thankful that you listen to me when I ramble on about everything. It makes my life so much easier to know that I have a mom who'll listen and to know that I can trust you, and you can trust me.
I love that we're like best friends. We're closer than most mothers and daughters are. I know, we go through a lot of stupid fights but I know that you're only trying to take care of me. And I always realize in the end that, you're right.
Thanks for being here for me. I love you, Blondechick15
Dear Mom,
Happy Birthday!! It's great to have a mother who's always there to help. Sorry about the [handwritten] card. I didn't want to hop on the computer and get all artsy--I just wanted to keep it simple.
Here's the thing: It really IS great to have a mom such as you to be there to help me with my problems.... You are one of the greatest gifts God has given me as well as God giving His only begotten Son Jesus Christ to die on the cross for my every sin. Thank you for helping me with everything. Happy Birthday, Mom, and thanks for helping me understand what God wants me to do.
~Bantam16
As always, they were both touching and hilarious!
Dear Mother,
I love you. I hope you love your birthday and this card. Even though you yell at me I still think you're the best Mom ever!
~Bantam8
Dear MOM,
Thanks for being such a loving MOM. The reason why the word MOM is always capitalized is because you are awesome, MOM! Thanks for not putting me in school. I love you MOM. ~Bantam12
P.S. You are amazing and more.
Dear Mom,
Happy Birthday! Now you're 28 years older than me. Whoa. You're kinda old. :)
(When I pointed out that I will always be 28 years older than her, she blamed it on blondeness.)
I just want to say that whether you think otherwise or not, you are a wonderful mom. And a cool one...most of the time. :) I love sharing clothes, jewelry and makeup with you. It's so much fun to be able to share our stuff.
I'm so thankful that you listen to me when I ramble on about everything. It makes my life so much easier to know that I have a mom who'll listen and to know that I can trust you, and you can trust me.
I love that we're like best friends. We're closer than most mothers and daughters are. I know, we go through a lot of stupid fights but I know that you're only trying to take care of me. And I always realize in the end that, you're right.
Thanks for being here for me. I love you, Blondechick15
Dear Mom,
Happy Birthday!! It's great to have a mother who's always there to help. Sorry about the [handwritten] card. I didn't want to hop on the computer and get all artsy--I just wanted to keep it simple.
Here's the thing: It really IS great to have a mom such as you to be there to help me with my problems.... You are one of the greatest gifts God has given me as well as God giving His only begotten Son Jesus Christ to die on the cross for my every sin. Thank you for helping me with everything. Happy Birthday, Mom, and thanks for helping me understand what God wants me to do.
~Bantam16
Friday, December 14, 2007
A Broad Idea of Liturgy
My friend Ann Voskamp at Holy Experience of Listening has written a beautiful post on life as liturgy:
Don't miss the link to a related post showing how it all fleshes out called Relationship with God in the Midst of Crazy Family Life.
While perhaps not commonly coined in Protestant, evangelical faith communities, when I speak of liturgy, I guess I am speaking of the whole of my life as liturgy. An everyday liturgy.
With its roots in λειτουργία (leitourgia), liturgy means "public work" or "public servant." Thus all that we do, think, say before others... others in our homes, in our places of work, in our communities.... I humbly offer that this is our liturgy, our public service, before people, and before our all encompassing God. In no way is liturgy to mean rote, empty ritual, but rather...liturgy is a school where through sign and symbol, word and music, our minds and hearts are formed to be in union with the movement of God, with God Himself. ~Fr. M. Basil Pennington
Don't miss the link to a related post showing how it all fleshes out called Relationship with God in the Midst of Crazy Family Life.
Friday, November 16, 2007
Filling the Cup
I sat down to write; I ended up reading. Following my nose, following the Holy Spirit; searching, revisiting.
Asking questions:
How does one stop drill-sergeant parenting and direct with love and encouragement?
(I found a beautiful picture here. Scroll down to the article Ann Voskamp's article "Just Guide Gently: A Pucker-Free Pattern.")
As kids become preteens and teens, how does one exercise authority without being a control freak? How do you help them choose rightly vs. forcing them to do the right thing?
Recommended by Ann V., this lengthy but very insightful article is worth the time. It's not just for homeschooling parents--but all homeschoolers should read it. This pastor humbly addresses some of the pitfalls his family fell into along the way--not of homeschooling per se, but of the thinking that often accompanies it:
Asking questions:
How does one stop drill-sergeant parenting and direct with love and encouragement?
(I found a beautiful picture here. Scroll down to the article Ann Voskamp's article "Just Guide Gently: A Pucker-Free Pattern.")
As kids become preteens and teens, how does one exercise authority without being a control freak? How do you help them choose rightly vs. forcing them to do the right thing?
Recommended by Ann V., this lengthy but very insightful article is worth the time. It's not just for homeschooling parents--but all homeschoolers should read it. This pastor humbly addresses some of the pitfalls his family fell into along the way--not of homeschooling per se, but of the thinking that often accompanies it:
If we think we have total control over how our children respond to our training, we will relate to them not so much as people, but more as animals. Dogs are behavior-driven and can be trained to respond to a stimulus exactly the same way, time after time. Children however are people and as they mature they will eventually decide if they will continue to respond as trained. If we do not understand this we will fail to develop the relationship they deserve as our children, and as our younger brothers and sisters in Christ – which, incidentally, will give us greater influence over their adolescent hearts.
For years Bev and I studied the process of parenting. We read multitudes of books, watched hours of videos, and listened to many tapes. We wanted to do whatever it took to get results with our children. Nothing is wrong, of course, with growing in knowledge of biblical child training – in fact, it’s good. However, we majored on the “process,” and as we gleaned new techniques we would stir them into the parenting mix, subjecting our children to it. We did have great affection in our home, but we had the wrong idea of what it meant to have influential heart relationships. We loved our kids, but who they were as people was inconsequential to our process.
My own recipe called for great amounts of parental control, daily doses of Scripture indoctrination, plenty of edifying music, modest apparel, and safe entertainment, all combined in the oversized mixing bowl of sheltering, and cooked in the oven of homeschooling. The timer was set and I knew that when they reached their 18th birthday, "DING" the timer would go off I would have a perfect angel food kid. I was certain of it. I had yet to learn that fruitful parenting is more about people than process.
At homeschool conventions across the country I have seen in parents a tendency to treat children as non-persons. I cannot count the times I have stood at my booth in the exhibit hall and been approached by a mom or dad, accompanied by one of their older teenage children. The parents ask me about a problem they are having with one of their children, and as they talk, I realize that the child to whom they refer is the one standing there with them. It is as though these parents are oblivious that their young adult has feelings. As I look into the eyes of that embarrassed young person I often see a detached or despairing look that hints they can’t wait to get out of the home. Other parents who approach me may not have a teen present to embarrass, but they will ask me for a method to change their problem-teenager at home. In the last few years I have tried to explain to these parents that fruitful interaction is not about what they do to their young people, but who they are with them. It’s about having a real faith in God, and expressing it in a real relationship with a real person.
My cup is full. Much to think on this weekend.Thursday, November 08, 2007
Birth Story(s)
This Friday, MamaLady is hosting a Carnival of Birth Stories.
When I read about it at Elaine's, I thought, why, that might be fun--for a change of the hen's pace, so to speak. I might never have another excuse to tell these stories here! And so, with Elaine's encouragement, I give you the story of the births of my two oldest children: a study in contrasts.
My firstborn was 4 days late. On his due date--January 17, 1991, the Persian Gulf War had begun, and my husband and I, like so many Americans, had been glued to CNN ever since. We had stayed up watching till 1 a.m., and when I lay down in bed, I heard a soft, clicking pop that seemed to come from inside my body. An hour later, I awoke to the realization that my water had broken.
We timed contractions, called the doctor and headed for the hospital. Before the days of fancy suites and birthing centers, you labored in a labor room, and delivered in a delivery room. This labor room was tiny, cold and devoid of comforts except for a TV; Wolf and Bernie kept us company through all the early stages of labor, drowned out at times by hammering on a nearby wall, where new birthing rooms were under construction next door.
A nurse kept offering me "something for the pain." Now, we'd attended childbirth classes, but we had no particular plan for pain management other than breathing and playing it by ear. At that time, we had no friends who had children yet, so I had heard no opinions beyond the pros or cons on the childbirth instructor's little chart.
Finally, "something for the pain" sounded really, really good to me. I asked about the side effects to myself or the baby and was assured that the injection would just make me feel a little sleepy, dull the edge a bit. I forget, now, which narcotic it was, but it actually made me feel completely dopey and unable to think, and it slowed my labor to a standstill.
So our doctor ordered Pitocin. A resident started it and when nothing happened immediately, our doctor (who now, at 9 a.m., had other patients waiting for him at his solo practice office), tripled the drip level.
I immediately began feeling the urge to push, though I was nowhere near fully dilated, and I couldn't stop myself from pushing. My husband kept telling our nurse this, but she did nothing but say ineffectually to me, "Stop pushing." After 30 minutes, our doctor came in and checked the paper tape monitoring my contractions and his eyes widened. "You've been pushing!" he said. (Duh! Yes! we said.)
He immediately ordered an epidural, to stop my pushing. By then I was nearly fully dilated, so I was wheeled into a surgery room, since the other delivery rooms were full. There was no mirror in there, but they brought one in when I asked for it. Not sure why I remember that, but the whole experience had seemed so surreal, thanks to the narcotic, that I think I hoped that my first glimpse of my son's head in that mirror would snap me into reality.
Just then an alarm went off. The fetal monitor attached to the top of our son's head indicated that he wasn't getting enough oxygen. It was time to push, now, and with the doctor using forceps, it only took four pushes (they had to tell me when to push, as I couldn't feel a thing) and he was out.
It was a long time before they were done with me, as my doctor had to sew up my cervix, which had torn during all that pushing-before-fully-dilated. I was vaguely aware of that and of our son being washed, weighed, photographed and held by my husband. I was still feeling dazed, dopey and soooo out of it when I first got to hold my son. (I told that story here.)
Later, we found out that the strength of my cervix was possibly compromised for future pregnancies (I've been fine, praise God); and four years later, when we found out our son was autistic, we learned that lack of oxygen at birth and a forceps delivery is not uncommon with that diagnosis.
Intervention had led to intervention which led to further intervention, and I vowed never again to accept any kind of pain medication except an epidural! But God in his wisdom worked it out so that in my five subsequent births, I never even had that. (Although I've ended up having more than my share of Pitocin...sigh.)
I was all set to accept an epidural when I went into labor one day early with our second child, a daughter. We were at a gathering that we had hoped and prayed we'd be able to attend. An older woman, a mother figure in our church, had invited about 5 couples to her home for a meal and games. She thought that some of us who didn't know each other should get to, and I'll never forget one gal who had just met me that evening saying suddenly, after we'd been together for a couple hours, "Oh! You're pregnant!" (I was wearing my most flattering maternity outfit, which hid that bump nicely under an elegant A-line sweater.)
We informed everyone that I was having contractions, and they gathered around us in a circle, laid hands on us and prayed many beautiful prayers for the birth and for the child we were soon to hold. It was amazing. We were so blessed and hopeful that it was indeed really labor.
We drove home and walked around our block a few times, and when it seemed that the contractions were picking up, we went to the hospital around midnight. We had moved since our first was born, and this hospital had lovely, quiet labor/delivery suites. As soon as I lay down, the contractions became farther apart. We imagined that it was false labor and we'd soon be sent home. But after an hour, I had dilated another centimeter or more, so they said we should stay. "But sleep, now, while you can," the nurse advised. So I did, waking up every 8 minutes to breathe through a contraction, for several hours.
At about 5:15 a.m. I awoke with back labor. My husband woke up and helped me as much as he could, but it was excruciating, and I asked for an epidural. "We'll have the anesthesiologist here as soon as your doctor checks you." It took another 45 minutes for our doctor to arrive, but when he did, he checked me and began to laugh. "You're fully dilated! Let's push this baby out!" he said.
"Wait... What about my epidural?" I asked, trying to adjust to this unexpected new schedule. The last time the nurse had checked me, it looked like we still had hours to go.
"Too late!" he said. "C'mon now..."
"But, I've never pushed without...."
"You can do it! C'mon!"
And so I did. At the second push, I think, my water finally broke, and on the third, her shoulders were delivered. "Here," my doctor said, "you do it," and he guided my hands to grab her under the shoulders and pull her the rest of the way out.
This was the only child that we didn't have a definitive ultrasound on, and I've often tried to remember for certain who said, "It's a girl!" But I think it was me, as I lifted her out. She cried very briefly, blinked a bit, and then fell asleep on my chest almost immediately. Cushioned in her water bag for the entire delivery, I think the whole journey had been a very peaceful one for her. She certainly had the air of one who's been awakened from sleep, just as quickly returning to her nap.
Our nurse showed me the paper tapes from the monitor. She couldn't believe that my contractions had never been closer than 8 minutes till the last 30 minutes or so. Neither could I--I had basically slept through the whole thing, right up till transition. I think that having the cushion of the intact water bag made a huge difference--and all that prayer!
It was the most ideal and easy of all 6 of my births, and I never had another one like it, though I kept hoping. Labors #3, #4 and #6 were all Pitocin-induced and intense, but very short--1.25 hours, 1.5 hours, 1.5 hours. (I had to be induced with Numbers Three and Six, because of anti-E blood compatibility issues, and Number Four was at the strong urging of my doctor, when I kept having inefficient contractions.)
With Number Five, we had the anti-E issue, but I really, really wanted to go into labor on my own, so I switched to a homebirth practice which was willing to let me go till my due date. Four days early, I had an uneventful homebirth that began with my water breaking and ended nine hours later--as long as my first birth had taken. (Somewhere about halfway through, I remember thinking longingly of those hour-long labors and wondering what my objection to Pitocin had been again...?)
Then our daughter ended up having to be hospitalized anyway for jaundice due to the anti-E issues. So with the delivery of #6 we gave in to another induced, short labor, so we could get our son under the bili lights (the treatment for jaundice) right away.
There ya go--six birth stories for the price of two!
Every one seemed like an adventure into the unknown, with a gift waiting at the end. And what precious gifts they were and are, as babies, as toddlers, as little boys and girls, as big boys and girls, as near-adults. Every one worth the discomfort of pregnancy, the pain of labor, the work and sacrifices of parenting.
Thank you, Lord, for these good gifts, safely delivered.
When I read about it at Elaine's, I thought, why, that might be fun--for a change of the hen's pace, so to speak. I might never have another excuse to tell these stories here! And so, with Elaine's encouragement, I give you the story of the births of my two oldest children: a study in contrasts.
My firstborn was 4 days late. On his due date--January 17, 1991, the Persian Gulf War had begun, and my husband and I, like so many Americans, had been glued to CNN ever since. We had stayed up watching till 1 a.m., and when I lay down in bed, I heard a soft, clicking pop that seemed to come from inside my body. An hour later, I awoke to the realization that my water had broken.
We timed contractions, called the doctor and headed for the hospital. Before the days of fancy suites and birthing centers, you labored in a labor room, and delivered in a delivery room. This labor room was tiny, cold and devoid of comforts except for a TV; Wolf and Bernie kept us company through all the early stages of labor, drowned out at times by hammering on a nearby wall, where new birthing rooms were under construction next door.
A nurse kept offering me "something for the pain." Now, we'd attended childbirth classes, but we had no particular plan for pain management other than breathing and playing it by ear. At that time, we had no friends who had children yet, so I had heard no opinions beyond the pros or cons on the childbirth instructor's little chart.
Finally, "something for the pain" sounded really, really good to me. I asked about the side effects to myself or the baby and was assured that the injection would just make me feel a little sleepy, dull the edge a bit. I forget, now, which narcotic it was, but it actually made me feel completely dopey and unable to think, and it slowed my labor to a standstill.
So our doctor ordered Pitocin. A resident started it and when nothing happened immediately, our doctor (who now, at 9 a.m., had other patients waiting for him at his solo practice office), tripled the drip level.
I immediately began feeling the urge to push, though I was nowhere near fully dilated, and I couldn't stop myself from pushing. My husband kept telling our nurse this, but she did nothing but say ineffectually to me, "Stop pushing." After 30 minutes, our doctor came in and checked the paper tape monitoring my contractions and his eyes widened. "You've been pushing!" he said. (Duh! Yes! we said.)
He immediately ordered an epidural, to stop my pushing. By then I was nearly fully dilated, so I was wheeled into a surgery room, since the other delivery rooms were full. There was no mirror in there, but they brought one in when I asked for it. Not sure why I remember that, but the whole experience had seemed so surreal, thanks to the narcotic, that I think I hoped that my first glimpse of my son's head in that mirror would snap me into reality.
Just then an alarm went off. The fetal monitor attached to the top of our son's head indicated that he wasn't getting enough oxygen. It was time to push, now, and with the doctor using forceps, it only took four pushes (they had to tell me when to push, as I couldn't feel a thing) and he was out.
It was a long time before they were done with me, as my doctor had to sew up my cervix, which had torn during all that pushing-before-fully-dilated. I was vaguely aware of that and of our son being washed, weighed, photographed and held by my husband. I was still feeling dazed, dopey and soooo out of it when I first got to hold my son. (I told that story here.)
Later, we found out that the strength of my cervix was possibly compromised for future pregnancies (I've been fine, praise God); and four years later, when we found out our son was autistic, we learned that lack of oxygen at birth and a forceps delivery is not uncommon with that diagnosis.
Intervention had led to intervention which led to further intervention, and I vowed never again to accept any kind of pain medication except an epidural! But God in his wisdom worked it out so that in my five subsequent births, I never even had that. (Although I've ended up having more than my share of Pitocin...sigh.)
I was all set to accept an epidural when I went into labor one day early with our second child, a daughter. We were at a gathering that we had hoped and prayed we'd be able to attend. An older woman, a mother figure in our church, had invited about 5 couples to her home for a meal and games. She thought that some of us who didn't know each other should get to, and I'll never forget one gal who had just met me that evening saying suddenly, after we'd been together for a couple hours, "Oh! You're pregnant!" (I was wearing my most flattering maternity outfit, which hid that bump nicely under an elegant A-line sweater.)
We informed everyone that I was having contractions, and they gathered around us in a circle, laid hands on us and prayed many beautiful prayers for the birth and for the child we were soon to hold. It was amazing. We were so blessed and hopeful that it was indeed really labor.
We drove home and walked around our block a few times, and when it seemed that the contractions were picking up, we went to the hospital around midnight. We had moved since our first was born, and this hospital had lovely, quiet labor/delivery suites. As soon as I lay down, the contractions became farther apart. We imagined that it was false labor and we'd soon be sent home. But after an hour, I had dilated another centimeter or more, so they said we should stay. "But sleep, now, while you can," the nurse advised. So I did, waking up every 8 minutes to breathe through a contraction, for several hours.
At about 5:15 a.m. I awoke with back labor. My husband woke up and helped me as much as he could, but it was excruciating, and I asked for an epidural. "We'll have the anesthesiologist here as soon as your doctor checks you." It took another 45 minutes for our doctor to arrive, but when he did, he checked me and began to laugh. "You're fully dilated! Let's push this baby out!" he said.
"Wait... What about my epidural?" I asked, trying to adjust to this unexpected new schedule. The last time the nurse had checked me, it looked like we still had hours to go.
"Too late!" he said. "C'mon now..."
"But, I've never pushed without...."
"You can do it! C'mon!"
And so I did. At the second push, I think, my water finally broke, and on the third, her shoulders were delivered. "Here," my doctor said, "you do it," and he guided my hands to grab her under the shoulders and pull her the rest of the way out.
This was the only child that we didn't have a definitive ultrasound on, and I've often tried to remember for certain who said, "It's a girl!" But I think it was me, as I lifted her out. She cried very briefly, blinked a bit, and then fell asleep on my chest almost immediately. Cushioned in her water bag for the entire delivery, I think the whole journey had been a very peaceful one for her. She certainly had the air of one who's been awakened from sleep, just as quickly returning to her nap.
Our nurse showed me the paper tapes from the monitor. She couldn't believe that my contractions had never been closer than 8 minutes till the last 30 minutes or so. Neither could I--I had basically slept through the whole thing, right up till transition. I think that having the cushion of the intact water bag made a huge difference--and all that prayer!
It was the most ideal and easy of all 6 of my births, and I never had another one like it, though I kept hoping. Labors #3, #4 and #6 were all Pitocin-induced and intense, but very short--1.25 hours, 1.5 hours, 1.5 hours. (I had to be induced with Numbers Three and Six, because of anti-E blood compatibility issues, and Number Four was at the strong urging of my doctor, when I kept having inefficient contractions.)
With Number Five, we had the anti-E issue, but I really, really wanted to go into labor on my own, so I switched to a homebirth practice which was willing to let me go till my due date. Four days early, I had an uneventful homebirth that began with my water breaking and ended nine hours later--as long as my first birth had taken. (Somewhere about halfway through, I remember thinking longingly of those hour-long labors and wondering what my objection to Pitocin had been again...?)
Then our daughter ended up having to be hospitalized anyway for jaundice due to the anti-E issues. So with the delivery of #6 we gave in to another induced, short labor, so we could get our son under the bili lights (the treatment for jaundice) right away.
There ya go--six birth stories for the price of two!
Every one seemed like an adventure into the unknown, with a gift waiting at the end. And what precious gifts they were and are, as babies, as toddlers, as little boys and girls, as big boys and girls, as near-adults. Every one worth the discomfort of pregnancy, the pain of labor, the work and sacrifices of parenting.
Thank you, Lord, for these good gifts, safely delivered.
Friday, November 02, 2007
All the Saints in Heaven
Yesterday was All Saints' Day.
All Saints' always reminds me of a banner that our sending church displayed every year on the Sunday we celebrated that day in the church year. It was a joint effort of a gifted painter and an experienced banner maker, and it depicted Christ on the cross, painted in oil on canvas. Underneath his outspread arms, were painted many faces, half hidden in shadow, that disappeared into the folds of fabric that formed the rest of the unpainted parts of the banner.
Those faces peeking out from beneath Christ's arms and from the folds of fabric represent all those who have gone before us, that "great cloud of witnesses." We join them in the heavenlies during the Eucharistic liturgy when the priest invites, "And now, joining our voices with angels and archangels and all the company of heaven, who forever sing this song" and we sing, "Holy, holy, holy, Lord, God of heaven and earth; Hosanna in the highest."
That moment often reminds me of my friend Beth, who lost her 17-year-old son in a car accident. She told me once that she feels so close to him during those moments in the service. "It's as if the veil between heaven and earth is so thin during the Eucharist."
I often think of those who lived before modern medicine, who experienced death far more often than we do. As painful as it would have been, there was a grace for them in knowing death to be part of life, in expecting it, instead of being so far removed from it as we often are. Heaven would be a much more real place to those who imagined it peopled with relatives and friends, a place of joyful reunion as well as worship. As Beth said to me, "Heaven seems so much nearer to me now that I have someone so close to me there."
And that reminds me of one of my favorite books, Stepping Heavenward by E. Prentiss. In it, the young diarist remarks, "It seems now that I have a child in heaven and am bound to the invisible world by such a tie that I can never again be entirely absorbed by this."
One can even imagine why the practice of praying to saints was so popular in past centuries, with Heaven so real and so close. C.S. Lewis remarked:
Praying with them..."joining our voices with angels and archangels and all the company of heaven"...perhaps even for us moderns and post-moderns, the veil between Heaven and earth is thinner than we imagine.
Therefore, since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses, let us also lay aside every weight, and sin which clings so closely, and let us run with endurance the race that is set before us, looking to Jesus, the founder and perfecter of our faith... (from Hebrews 12)
All Saints' always reminds me of a banner that our sending church displayed every year on the Sunday we celebrated that day in the church year. It was a joint effort of a gifted painter and an experienced banner maker, and it depicted Christ on the cross, painted in oil on canvas. Underneath his outspread arms, were painted many faces, half hidden in shadow, that disappeared into the folds of fabric that formed the rest of the unpainted parts of the banner.
Those faces peeking out from beneath Christ's arms and from the folds of fabric represent all those who have gone before us, that "great cloud of witnesses." We join them in the heavenlies during the Eucharistic liturgy when the priest invites, "And now, joining our voices with angels and archangels and all the company of heaven, who forever sing this song" and we sing, "Holy, holy, holy, Lord, God of heaven and earth; Hosanna in the highest."
That moment often reminds me of my friend Beth, who lost her 17-year-old son in a car accident. She told me once that she feels so close to him during those moments in the service. "It's as if the veil between heaven and earth is so thin during the Eucharist."
I often think of those who lived before modern medicine, who experienced death far more often than we do. As painful as it would have been, there was a grace for them in knowing death to be part of life, in expecting it, instead of being so far removed from it as we often are. Heaven would be a much more real place to those who imagined it peopled with relatives and friends, a place of joyful reunion as well as worship. As Beth said to me, "Heaven seems so much nearer to me now that I have someone so close to me there."
And that reminds me of one of my favorite books, Stepping Heavenward by E. Prentiss. In it, the young diarist remarks, "It seems now that I have a child in heaven and am bound to the invisible world by such a tie that I can never again be entirely absorbed by this."
One can even imagine why the practice of praying to saints was so popular in past centuries, with Heaven so real and so close. C.S. Lewis remarked:
There is clearly a theological defense for [devotions to saints]; if you can ask for the prayers for the living, why should you not ask for the prayers for the dead? There is clearly also a great danger... The consoling thing is that while Christendom is divided about the rationality, and even the lawfulness, of praying to the saints, we are all agreed about praying with them. (from Letters to Malcolm)
Praying with them..."joining our voices with angels and archangels and all the company of heaven"...perhaps even for us moderns and post-moderns, the veil between Heaven and earth is thinner than we imagine.
Therefore, since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses, let us also lay aside every weight, and sin which clings so closely, and let us run with endurance the race that is set before us, looking to Jesus, the founder and perfecter of our faith... (from Hebrews 12)
Monday, October 15, 2007
What Mom Says
I don't post many of these, but all you moms have got to watch this one! I'm told this comedienne is a Christian, too.
(Thanks to both of you who emailed this to me yesterday!)
Wednesday, October 03, 2007
Just Itchin'
...to tell you about our family photo shoot yesterday!
First of all, just let me say it took me almost a year to finally accomplish this, more if you count how long "call Kim" was on my to-do list before I finally approached her last November. Kim is a friend from church, a mom of three who has been easing into the photography business. After we talked last year, I decided we'd wait for warmer weather and do a spring outdoor session, but as you know, our lives were derailed for most of the spring and summer with the prospect of selling our house.
So a few weeks ago, I finally got around to calling Kim again, and we set the date for yesterday. With my hat thrown over the fence, so to speak, I had to follow through on what seems to me one of the most daunting tasks facing the mother of a large family: getting everyone ready for a family picture.
I don't know why I find this so overwhelming; perhaps it's because currently, I'm the hairstylist for five of my six children. I don't even know how I got this job for my sons, but they prefer my shaggy, "don't quite know what I'm doing" cut to the too-neat, too-short look they're afraid of getting anywhere else. I have to say I'm starting to get the hang of it, but it still takes me forever. I usually spread their haircuts out so that there's always one son looking like he's desperately in need. (Sometimes that's their favorite stage....)
So it seemed like a tall order to get them all trimmed up--and Chicklet5 as well--within the same week or so, and in fact, I didn't quite accomplish it, I realized when we got there: The son who had formerly looked the neatest and shortest for his Charlotte's Web audition weeks ago, who I thought was all done, now looked awfully shaggy compared to his recently-trimmed brothers! I trimmed up his bangs a bit right there at the park, with some sewing scissors our photographer provided, and had to call it good enough.
The other stressful part of the deal, to me, is figuring out what 8 people should wear to look reasonably put-together for a picture--an autumn outdoor picture to boot. Shorts? Jeans? Short sleeves? Long sleeves? Fortunately, the weather was beautiful, and most of us had solid shorts and shirts in either blue or brown; I only had to run out and shop for two of us.
The day of, it was a scramble trying to get the last haircut done and everyone bathed or showered and their hair styled and their clothes ironed (oops, coulda done that the day before)
and makeup applied and shoes located and out the door by 3:45. (Just for the record, I never--and I mean never--iron under ordinary circumstances.)
It felt like the accomplishment of the year!
The shoot itself was so fun--we did family photos, then individuals and then groups, like all the boys and all the girls. (I'll post a link to the proofs when they appear on her website.) It was a beautiful setting, and our kids had such fun running around on the lush, pristine grass and climbing among the large rocks in one area.
AND, while they weren't having their pictures taken, Bantams 12 & 8 decided to go exploring in the nearby woods, taking the two youngest with them...
And today, they're all breaking out in poison oak rashes!
Good thing we got those pictures taken when we did.
Today, I've spent the whole day washing arms and legs and dotting them with Calamine lotion, not to mention washing clothes, shoes, sheets and sleeping bags and applying several more rounds of Calamine. (Yes, the middle two Bantams routinely sleep in their sleeping bags--in three sleeping bags, actually. No, I can't explain.)
I also took Bantam16 to the orthodontist for his final appointment before his braces come off in two weeks--yea!!! In the car, I glanced at his face and noticed that when shaving with his electric razor, which he doesn't often bother to do, he had missed a patch of long scraggly beard hair on the side of his neck. I was so glad he had thought of shaving before the picture, but felt absolutely appalled at the thought that for our NEXT family picture, I'll need to add "facial hair" to my list of hair-related worries!
I'm so glad we did it, but it's going to be awhile before I'm up for doing it again....
First of all, just let me say it took me almost a year to finally accomplish this, more if you count how long "call Kim" was on my to-do list before I finally approached her last November. Kim is a friend from church, a mom of three who has been easing into the photography business. After we talked last year, I decided we'd wait for warmer weather and do a spring outdoor session, but as you know, our lives were derailed for most of the spring and summer with the prospect of selling our house.
So a few weeks ago, I finally got around to calling Kim again, and we set the date for yesterday. With my hat thrown over the fence, so to speak, I had to follow through on what seems to me one of the most daunting tasks facing the mother of a large family: getting everyone ready for a family picture.
I don't know why I find this so overwhelming; perhaps it's because currently, I'm the hairstylist for five of my six children. I don't even know how I got this job for my sons, but they prefer my shaggy, "don't quite know what I'm doing" cut to the too-neat, too-short look they're afraid of getting anywhere else. I have to say I'm starting to get the hang of it, but it still takes me forever. I usually spread their haircuts out so that there's always one son looking like he's desperately in need. (Sometimes that's their favorite stage....)
So it seemed like a tall order to get them all trimmed up--and Chicklet5 as well--within the same week or so, and in fact, I didn't quite accomplish it, I realized when we got there: The son who had formerly looked the neatest and shortest for his Charlotte's Web audition weeks ago, who I thought was all done, now looked awfully shaggy compared to his recently-trimmed brothers! I trimmed up his bangs a bit right there at the park, with some sewing scissors our photographer provided, and had to call it good enough.
The other stressful part of the deal, to me, is figuring out what 8 people should wear to look reasonably put-together for a picture--an autumn outdoor picture to boot. Shorts? Jeans? Short sleeves? Long sleeves? Fortunately, the weather was beautiful, and most of us had solid shorts and shirts in either blue or brown; I only had to run out and shop for two of us.
The day of, it was a scramble trying to get the last haircut done and everyone bathed or showered and their hair styled and their clothes ironed (oops, coulda done that the day before)
and makeup applied and shoes located and out the door by 3:45. (Just for the record, I never--and I mean never--iron under ordinary circumstances.)
It felt like the accomplishment of the year!
The shoot itself was so fun--we did family photos, then individuals and then groups, like all the boys and all the girls. (I'll post a link to the proofs when they appear on her website.) It was a beautiful setting, and our kids had such fun running around on the lush, pristine grass and climbing among the large rocks in one area.
AND, while they weren't having their pictures taken, Bantams 12 & 8 decided to go exploring in the nearby woods, taking the two youngest with them...
And today, they're all breaking out in poison oak rashes!
Good thing we got those pictures taken when we did.
Today, I've spent the whole day washing arms and legs and dotting them with Calamine lotion, not to mention washing clothes, shoes, sheets and sleeping bags and applying several more rounds of Calamine. (Yes, the middle two Bantams routinely sleep in their sleeping bags--in three sleeping bags, actually. No, I can't explain.)
I also took Bantam16 to the orthodontist for his final appointment before his braces come off in two weeks--yea!!! In the car, I glanced at his face and noticed that when shaving with his electric razor, which he doesn't often bother to do, he had missed a patch of long scraggly beard hair on the side of his neck. I was so glad he had thought of shaving before the picture, but felt absolutely appalled at the thought that for our NEXT family picture, I'll need to add "facial hair" to my list of hair-related worries!
I'm so glad we did it, but it's going to be awhile before I'm up for doing it again....
Friday, September 28, 2007
Adding New Meaning to the Term "Hard-Nosed"
Well, this weekend is Homecoming Weekend at my alma mater, Wheaton College in Wheaton, Illinois--and it happens to be my 20th class reunion! Papa Rooster's too. Yes, we met there; I should tell you that story sometime.
It's been such a busy week, I haven't had time to breathe, let alone think about this weekend. (The posts you've seen this week were written during the kids' rehearsals last weekend.)
But today, I suddenly became very concerned about my appearance for this event--because Bantam2 nearly broke my nose.
He was in Bantam16's bedroom, and I had called to him that it was naptime when an undone chore caught my eye, so I stopped in the doorway to talk to Bantam12 about it. Receiving his answer, I began once again to step into the bedroom and was just turning my head toward the doorway when a solid wood door hit me hard in the face. Bantam2, not wanting to take a nap, had gotten behind the door to slam it shut.
I lowered myself to Bantam8's mattress which happened to be on the floor and moaned. And couldn't open my eyes. And instinctively started deep breathing like when I've been in labor. It hurt THAT. BAD.
With the pain beginning to come under control, I suddenly thought of the reunion. Had I broken my nose? Would it turn black and blue? Would I have two black eyes? I moaned again.
All four of my boys clustered 'round me, the older ones impressing upon the 2-year-old what a bad thing he had done and how much he had hurt Mommy. "Put him to bed," I said through gritted teeth, and Bantam16 whisked him off.
When the pain subsided I eased my way upstairs to find the frozen gel pack in the freezer, and laid down with it across the bridge of my nose for the next 15 minutes, then held it on awhile longer while I tried to function with no glasses and and an ice pack blocking my vision.
The good news is that it's not broken, my eyes are not black, and the swelling around the bridge of my nose is barely detectable. The bad news is that I feel like I've had a whiplash injury--I have a generalized headache, a back-of-the-neckache, a top-of-the head ache, and a jaw ache. But it could be so much worse! I am actually SOOOO thankful.
"Are you sorry for what you did to Mommy?" one of my sons asked Bantam2 when he woke up from his nap. He ran straight to me and put his arms around my neck. "Saw-wee, Momma," he said. "A hud," he said, hugging me tight.
They're worth it. Even if he'd broken my nose.
It's been such a busy week, I haven't had time to breathe, let alone think about this weekend. (The posts you've seen this week were written during the kids' rehearsals last weekend.)
But today, I suddenly became very concerned about my appearance for this event--because Bantam2 nearly broke my nose.
He was in Bantam16's bedroom, and I had called to him that it was naptime when an undone chore caught my eye, so I stopped in the doorway to talk to Bantam12 about it. Receiving his answer, I began once again to step into the bedroom and was just turning my head toward the doorway when a solid wood door hit me hard in the face. Bantam2, not wanting to take a nap, had gotten behind the door to slam it shut.
I lowered myself to Bantam8's mattress which happened to be on the floor and moaned. And couldn't open my eyes. And instinctively started deep breathing like when I've been in labor. It hurt THAT. BAD.
With the pain beginning to come under control, I suddenly thought of the reunion. Had I broken my nose? Would it turn black and blue? Would I have two black eyes? I moaned again.
All four of my boys clustered 'round me, the older ones impressing upon the 2-year-old what a bad thing he had done and how much he had hurt Mommy. "Put him to bed," I said through gritted teeth, and Bantam16 whisked him off.
When the pain subsided I eased my way upstairs to find the frozen gel pack in the freezer, and laid down with it across the bridge of my nose for the next 15 minutes, then held it on awhile longer while I tried to function with no glasses and and an ice pack blocking my vision.
The good news is that it's not broken, my eyes are not black, and the swelling around the bridge of my nose is barely detectable. The bad news is that I feel like I've had a whiplash injury--I have a generalized headache, a back-of-the-neckache, a top-of-the head ache, and a jaw ache. But it could be so much worse! I am actually SOOOO thankful.
"Are you sorry for what you did to Mommy?" one of my sons asked Bantam2 when he woke up from his nap. He ran straight to me and put his arms around my neck. "Saw-wee, Momma," he said. "A hud," he said, hugging me tight.
They're worth it. Even if he'd broken my nose.
Friday, August 24, 2007
Reading Together with Blondechick14
Earlier this summer, I signed up for Jennifer's Read Together Challenge. The idea is to read the same book as your child and post about what you both thought or learned from it. (My earlier entry, our thoughts on The Egypt Game, is here.) Sunday is the last day, so I just realized I'd better write a couple quick book reviews!I read Karen Kingsbury's Firstborn series--Fame, Forgiven, Found, Family, and Forever--because the main character, Katie Hart, is a director of a children's theater group just like the organization we're involved with, and the books had been recommended to me by several friends, and my mother, who recognized that it must be the same program. In fact, an "insider" told me that Karen Kingsbury's kids are part of the same theater organization, and one of its directors lived with their family for awhile. So when she writes about how Katy Hart runs a rehearsal, or describes the agonizing decisions directors must make in auditions, it was all VERY familiar and fun to read.
I knew right away that Blondechick14.75 would love them. They are essentially light Christian romances, a genre I'm personally not fond of, but she's of an age and a personality to enjoy them. (Just wait for tomorrow's review of a book of her choosing: Pants on Fire, by the author of The Princess Diaries!)
The Firstborn series impressed me with the author's willingness to let her characters deal with difficult issues. There were several backstories from another series, in which one character was raising an illegitimate child and another family had a child with brain damage and physical handicaps from a near-drowning. In this series, one of the marriages was realistically troubled and strained, a death occurs in one of the theater families, and the main character, Katy Hart, faces enormous temptations in her relationship to the other main character, a movie star named Dayne Matthews. (Predictably, he becomes a Christian midway through the series, but his conversion story is interesting and even quite surprising at one point, a twist she says is based on a true story.)
The other thing I liked about the series was the way the characters' relationships with God were fleshed out. When they were worried, confused, anxious--for themselves or for another character--they prayed. I thought it was great modeling for any Christian who might not have developed that kind of instinctive reaction--for example, my daughter. Also, she described how her characters sometimes heard God speaking to them. Often He would bring a Scripture verse to their minds--which is often how I sense God speaking to me--but sometimes He gave a sentence or two of direction or encouragement, and while I don't usually "hear" whole sentences from the Lord in actual words, I have definitely received from Him an overall sense about something that I could put into words just like that.
And it was this aspect that impacted Blondechick the most. We drove by an accident one day, and she told me how she had realized, from these books, that she could just pray all the time, for anything she saw or heard, and that she had been doing so. We also had a great conversation about how one hears God speaking.
Surprisingly, while she loved the romance element, the roller coaster/soap opera dynamics (always a reason why they just couldn't get together...it took 5 books!) exhausted her. After the third one, she needed a break. She also had a summer reading list from me hanging over her head--books from last year's school list we pushed off into the summer--and then the new Harry Potter came out...but she told me recently that she's eager to get back to the Firstborn series.
Overall, we'd highly recommend it for light, entertaining, inspirational reading.
Wednesday, August 01, 2007
Works for Me Wednesday #3
This week's Works-for-Me Wednesday is:
Since I have kids from age sixteen on down to two--three categories.
Kids don't need baths that often. Trust the voice of experience on this one. They don't melt or get infectious or sick or something if they're not bathed regularly. Bathe them when they start to smell.
Kids don't need to be changed into pajamas at bedtime. Let them sleep in their clothes until they prefer jammies. Change clothes when the clothes are dirty, like after meals--not for arbitrary agenda items like sleeping and waking.
Kids are tougher than you think. Don't freak when they fall off the couch/table/refrigerator/playground equipment. (Okay, maybe the refrigerator.) Nine times out of ten, they're fine. Some of them won't even cry if you don't.
Kids are smarter than you think. If you think they're beginning to understand "no," they do. Let them experience consequences whenever possible.
Kids have to be taught to like vegetables. Don't let any expert tell you otherwise. Serve them their veggies first, to be finished before they get anything else. (If they won't eat them, then they're not that hungry. Try again later.) Save fruit or dessert or their gummi-vites as a treat for last, a reward after they've finished everything else. Avoid sugar and they'll think of fruit as a dessert. Give them manageable portions and DO require that they clean up their plate! Don't tolerate pickiness until they're much older.
Enjoy them. Squeeze and kiss that chub while you can.
Spend time with them now, while they still think you're invincible.
Help them learn to do the things they want to do. Pay for guitar lesons, teach them to cook, help them start their own blog or lawnmowing business.
Don't do anything for them that they can do for themselves. Encourage maturity in practical situations. Discourage it in culture assimilation.
Address attitudes, not just behavior. Ask questions; "Was that respectful?" "Are you ignoring me?" and "Did you do your best?" are good ones.
When they share their problems, pray with them about them. Pray for their headache, their recital, the situation with their friend. Ask them to pray with you for your headache, test, or situation.
Smooch and tickle them as long as they'll still let you. Use the phrase "I love you" liberally--at bedtime, on the phone, when you're just running out to buy milk. It's a great habit to instill now, to carry into the teen years--and beyond.
Start preparing to let go. But don't. Very gradually give them more independence. When they turn 13, remember ya still got 6 or 7 years to go.
With privilege comes responsibility. As you increase one, increase the other. Don't give them too many privileges too early. Keep something for when they turn 18.
Don't let them spend too much time away from home. It's so easy for the voices of their peers to drown yours out. Make sure they know that time with friends is a privilege, to be balanced with responsibilities at home--not a right God hands down to everyone over the age of 12.
Listen when they talk. Work hard to get them to talk. Don't shut them down when they talk by making judgmental statements. When you disagree, save it. Listen when they talk.
Even if you have to prop your eyelids open with toothpicks because she mostly likes to talk at bedtime (your bedtime), even if you have to invent errands that he and only he can accompany you on in order to get that quiet son a captive in your car--do it. Work hard to get them to talk.
When you disagree or you want to instruct, share from the heart and from your own experience. You weren't always a fuddy-duddy. Remember what it was like when you were their age. Let them know you've been through it once. Be real--be honest--be discerning.
Enjoy them. Appreciate their uniqueness. See them as the fascinating people, so different from you, that they are becoming. Learn from them and let them know they've made you think. Treat them with the respect you'd give someone you're just becoming friends with.
Because that's where we're headed, I think. I'm not there yet, but I think these kids I'm raising might become my friends for life.
I hope so.
They're pretty neat people.
WFMW: The Great Parenting Advice Edition. What parenting lessons have you learned the hard way? What would you tell a first-time parent? Save us all some headaches and share!
Since I have kids from age sixteen on down to two--three categories.
Advice for parents of young children:
Kids don't need baths that often. Trust the voice of experience on this one. They don't melt or get infectious or sick or something if they're not bathed regularly. Bathe them when they start to smell.
Kids don't need to be changed into pajamas at bedtime. Let them sleep in their clothes until they prefer jammies. Change clothes when the clothes are dirty, like after meals--not for arbitrary agenda items like sleeping and waking.
Kids are tougher than you think. Don't freak when they fall off the couch/table/refrigerator/playground equipment. (Okay, maybe the refrigerator.) Nine times out of ten, they're fine. Some of them won't even cry if you don't.
Kids are smarter than you think. If you think they're beginning to understand "no," they do. Let them experience consequences whenever possible.
Kids have to be taught to like vegetables. Don't let any expert tell you otherwise. Serve them their veggies first, to be finished before they get anything else. (If they won't eat them, then they're not that hungry. Try again later.) Save fruit or dessert or their gummi-vites as a treat for last, a reward after they've finished everything else. Avoid sugar and they'll think of fruit as a dessert. Give them manageable portions and DO require that they clean up their plate! Don't tolerate pickiness until they're much older.
Enjoy them. Squeeze and kiss that chub while you can.
Advice for parents of tweens:
Spend time with them now, while they still think you're invincible.
Help them learn to do the things they want to do. Pay for guitar lesons, teach them to cook, help them start their own blog or lawnmowing business.
Don't do anything for them that they can do for themselves. Encourage maturity in practical situations. Discourage it in culture assimilation.
Address attitudes, not just behavior. Ask questions; "Was that respectful?" "Are you ignoring me?" and "Did you do your best?" are good ones.
When they share their problems, pray with them about them. Pray for their headache, their recital, the situation with their friend. Ask them to pray with you for your headache, test, or situation.
Smooch and tickle them as long as they'll still let you. Use the phrase "I love you" liberally--at bedtime, on the phone, when you're just running out to buy milk. It's a great habit to instill now, to carry into the teen years--and beyond.
Advice for parents of teens:
Start preparing to let go. But don't. Very gradually give them more independence. When they turn 13, remember ya still got 6 or 7 years to go.
With privilege comes responsibility. As you increase one, increase the other. Don't give them too many privileges too early. Keep something for when they turn 18.
Don't let them spend too much time away from home. It's so easy for the voices of their peers to drown yours out. Make sure they know that time with friends is a privilege, to be balanced with responsibilities at home--not a right God hands down to everyone over the age of 12.
Listen when they talk. Work hard to get them to talk. Don't shut them down when they talk by making judgmental statements. When you disagree, save it. Listen when they talk.
Even if you have to prop your eyelids open with toothpicks because she mostly likes to talk at bedtime (your bedtime), even if you have to invent errands that he and only he can accompany you on in order to get that quiet son a captive in your car--do it. Work hard to get them to talk.
When you disagree or you want to instruct, share from the heart and from your own experience. You weren't always a fuddy-duddy. Remember what it was like when you were their age. Let them know you've been through it once. Be real--be honest--be discerning.
Enjoy them. Appreciate their uniqueness. See them as the fascinating people, so different from you, that they are becoming. Learn from them and let them know they've made you think. Treat them with the respect you'd give someone you're just becoming friends with.
***
Because that's where we're headed, I think. I'm not there yet, but I think these kids I'm raising might become my friends for life.
I hope so.
They're pretty neat people.
Tuesday, July 03, 2007
Mom As Priest
Today, enjoy this article by Ann Voskamp. It begins:
The rest is all so good...but here's a part that jumped out at me:
Parents, do go read it all!
They say a mother wears an apron and a myriad of hats. I say she wears a collar too. A collar which can never be removed. A collar which cannot be observed by the material world: a clerical collar. For she is a priest in her home, before a congregation of children.
The rest is all so good...but here's a part that jumped out at me:
Modeling, in short, is a function of relationship and heart strings. The mothering priest focuses, above all, not on parenting skills or behaviors, but on relationship—first with God and then with her children. Without an intimate, emotionally-supportive relationship with mother, young people are less likely to take up the holy habits modeled in a home. Why purpose to be like someone from whom he or she is emotionally distant? Thus, in a mother’s daily service before God, relationships—horizontally and vertically—are the paramount priority.
Parents, do go read it all!
Friday, March 30, 2007
Growing Girls
I have long considered Jeanne Marie Laskas one of my own personal discoveries. We share the same first name, of course, so that's part of it. But ages ago, in the Reader's Digest (long before her advice-column days, for you closet RD readers who know her from that), I stumbled across a short little article she'd written that was just brilliant.
I've tried unsuccessfully to find it online, but it was about a painting party she and her husband hosted after their house was renovated. All their friends were eager to help, enthusiastically dividing themselves into teams to do different rooms in the house--except for one friend, a woman, who flatly stated, "Well, I don't paint. How about I'll do food or something?"
Pooh on her, everyone felt...but by the time their enthusiasm had run out and they were all tired and crabby, the hero of the party was the woman who'd provided them with a gourmet lunch, mid-afternoon treats, and two kinds of lasagna, salad, bread and dessert at the end of the long day. As an underappreciated mom of toddlers at the time, I was emotionally grabbed by a couple of quotes (yes, I still have my ripped-out copy of the article, titled "Different Strokes"):
I watch Beth standing at that sink and I think of my mother, my friend's mother, everybody's mother. The mother is the one who is always just there, right where you left her.
[And the closing line:] "We are so glad you don't paint," Vince says to Beth, who seems, like any mom, to have been expecting at least a small amount of thanks.
She gets it, I thought. She gets it. (Not just the wanting appreciation, but the "different strokes" some of us choose when we drop out of the workforce to be full-time mothers.)
So when at the library I noticed a book-on-tape, Fifty Acres and A Poodle, by the same author, I snapped it up immediately. The subtitle is A Story of Love, Livestock and Finding Myself on a Farm, and it was the "finding myself" that I most enjoyed. The book chronicles her evolution from career-minded single gal, to engaged, "getting-in-touch-with-my-inner-princess" fiancee, to married wife suddenly mothering farm animals. It was hilarious and poignant.
I somehow missed reading the book that came after that, The Exact Same Moon: Fifty Acres and a Family, which describes her discovery of her deep desire to become a mother and their subsequent trip to China to adopt their first daughter. But it was award-winning, and I'm looking forward to it!
Growing Girls: The Mother of All Adventures picks up after they've adopted a second Chinese daughter, and it's not quite as light-hearted as Fifty Acres and A Poodle. Laskas writes brilliantly of the worries, the self-doubts, the anxieties for her children that drift relentlessly though mothers' minds in the middle of a sleepless night--yet she wryly recognizes the ridiculous aspects of many of her fears. So there are plenty of laugh-out-loud funny passages that make this a delightful book for moms, especially.
Now, I just can't wait till her girls are teenagers! Though she probably won't be able to write much about them then.... (That's what I've found anyway; the best blogging material is strictly off-limits. As a humorist, I wonder how she'll be able to restrain herself?)
If you haven't read anything by this delightful author, you're in for a treat! Especially if you're a mom in need of a little validation (--and what mom isn't?). Jeanne Marie Laskas understands the feminine mind and the mother's heart.
Oh, and you can read her current and archived articles about her family and farm adventures (published by the Washington Post) here.
Tuesday, October 31, 2006
Mom Costumes
If I'd had more time lately for blogging, I would have mentioned this sooner, but my friend Amy has started a blog! It's called Experience Imagination, and it's now there in my sidebar under "Face to Face Friends."
Amy and her husband Adam go to our church, and Papa Rooster and I had the pleasure of knowing them before they started dating, watching their relationship blossom, and then seeing them joined in marriage, with Papa Rooster officiating! Now they have a beautiful little girl who is Bitty Bantam's age--about 21 months. Amy is a great writer and I've been enjoying her new blog immensely.
My favorite post so far is here. It's called "The Clothes Make the Mom," and here's a most timely excerpt:
Now, when I was Amy's age (ten years ago) and just had little kids, I was a jeans and sweatshirt mom for many years. But since I've become the mom of a teenage daughter, my "uniform" has changed.
As we have entered this new stage, I've been faced with the all-important question: Do I let my daughter dress me?
It all started a couple of years ago when a friend passed on some of her teenage daughter's clothes, thinking they would fit Blondechick (then 12)--but they fit me instead. Since I'd been wearing maternity clothes for around two of the previous four years, I hadn't updated my wardrobe in a while. Perhaps this well-made, stylish and modest collection of separates was a godsend.
But did I look like a 40-year-old woman trying to look like a teenager? My daughter assured me I did not. Then another friend did the same thing--gave us her teenage daughter's hand-alongs--and who did they fit? Me. Next, attracted by a boy's winter coat on top of a pile, I stopped to trash-pick outside of a house where the owners had had to move in a hurry, it appeared; and what did I find but a box of name-brand teenage girls' clothing--in my size.
I figured God was giving me the go-ahead. So I bought a few pairs of shoes and earrings to go with my new clothing, and I feel like I've been dressing in a "cool mom" uniform ever since. (With the blessing of my best friends, who affirmed my daughter's opinion that I look fine and who've been charged with the responsibility of letting me know if I ever start looking ridiculous.)
My daughter, almost my size, is now quick to borrow my shoes, jewelry, gauchos and jackets. When we go shopping, we're starting to justify some purchases by thinking that we'll both be able to wear it. Then we have to negotiate like sisters: "Fine. You can wear it on Saturday, but I get to wear it to church on Sunday!"
She's also quick to tell me when something is amiss in my combinations. I usually consider her opinion, but sometimes, like Bertie Wooster, I put my foot down and wear it anyway--just to make it clear that I'm not a slave to a junior high girl's ideas about fashion!
The other all-important question, of course, is: What does Papa Rooster think of my new uniform?
He seems to like it a lot.
So my husband is happy, my teens aren't too embarassed of me, and I've even been mistaken for Blondechick13.9's older sister (from the back, that is).
So why do I feel like I'm wearing a Cool Mom costume all the time?
I think it must be that my bell bottom jeans are fun, but I'm really just a straight-leg girl at heart.
Now go give Amy a big welcome to the blogosphere!!
Amy and her husband Adam go to our church, and Papa Rooster and I had the pleasure of knowing them before they started dating, watching their relationship blossom, and then seeing them joined in marriage, with Papa Rooster officiating! Now they have a beautiful little girl who is Bitty Bantam's age--about 21 months. Amy is a great writer and I've been enjoying her new blog immensely.
My favorite post so far is here. It's called "The Clothes Make the Mom," and here's a most timely excerpt:
And maybe this is why moms don't get so much respect in our society. We don't have a fabulous uniform. Little boys want to grow up to be firemen and astronauts, little girls want to be princesses and ballerinas (and yes, some little girls want to be firefighters and some little boys want to be ballet dancers). All of these have great uniforms. Every year about this time there are probably millions of kids dressing up as astronauts and princesses, going to parties or trick-or-treating from house to house.
Can't you just imagine a little girl appearing on your doorstep in sweatpants and a long-sleeved T-shirt (possibly stained here and there), with her hair up in a ponytail, holding out her orange plastic pumpkin? "And what are you this year?" you ask politely. She holds her head up proudly and announces, "I'm a stay-at-home mom."
Now, when I was Amy's age (ten years ago) and just had little kids, I was a jeans and sweatshirt mom for many years. But since I've become the mom of a teenage daughter, my "uniform" has changed.
As we have entered this new stage, I've been faced with the all-important question: Do I let my daughter dress me?
It all started a couple of years ago when a friend passed on some of her teenage daughter's clothes, thinking they would fit Blondechick (then 12)--but they fit me instead. Since I'd been wearing maternity clothes for around two of the previous four years, I hadn't updated my wardrobe in a while. Perhaps this well-made, stylish and modest collection of separates was a godsend.
But did I look like a 40-year-old woman trying to look like a teenager? My daughter assured me I did not. Then another friend did the same thing--gave us her teenage daughter's hand-alongs--and who did they fit? Me. Next, attracted by a boy's winter coat on top of a pile, I stopped to trash-pick outside of a house where the owners had had to move in a hurry, it appeared; and what did I find but a box of name-brand teenage girls' clothing--in my size.
I figured God was giving me the go-ahead. So I bought a few pairs of shoes and earrings to go with my new clothing, and I feel like I've been dressing in a "cool mom" uniform ever since. (With the blessing of my best friends, who affirmed my daughter's opinion that I look fine and who've been charged with the responsibility of letting me know if I ever start looking ridiculous.)
My daughter, almost my size, is now quick to borrow my shoes, jewelry, gauchos and jackets. When we go shopping, we're starting to justify some purchases by thinking that we'll both be able to wear it. Then we have to negotiate like sisters: "Fine. You can wear it on Saturday, but I get to wear it to church on Sunday!"
She's also quick to tell me when something is amiss in my combinations. I usually consider her opinion, but sometimes, like Bertie Wooster, I put my foot down and wear it anyway--just to make it clear that I'm not a slave to a junior high girl's ideas about fashion!
The other all-important question, of course, is: What does Papa Rooster think of my new uniform?
He seems to like it a lot.
So my husband is happy, my teens aren't too embarassed of me, and I've even been mistaken for Blondechick13.9's older sister (from the back, that is).
So why do I feel like I'm wearing a Cool Mom costume all the time?
I think it must be that my bell bottom jeans are fun, but I'm really just a straight-leg girl at heart.
Now go give Amy a big welcome to the blogosphere!!
Friday, October 27, 2006
ADD Days
"I didn't have ADD before kids, but I developed it."
That's what the older wiser mother told our mom's group last week. I laughed, but that quote has been ringing in my ears all week! It seems like my kids have been talking to me 24/7 lately. While I've said before that that's a good thing, it's hard for this introvert to never get a chance to think my own connected flow of thoughts. I know some of you are gasping at my claim of being an introvert, but I recharge by being alone--and that time doesn't come easily to a wife of one, mom of six.
Last week my husband was gone from Monday to Thursday. While he HATES being gone and I MISS him when he is, the one redeeming factor for me is that I look forward to time alone at night after the kids go to bed.
Las week, that never happened. Every night the older kids were still up till 10, 10:30. One night at 10:00 I asked myself what had happened to the quiet evening I had promised myself of catching up on paperwork and email? Instead, I had:
--helped Bantam15 with his homework
--gone over history questions with Blondechick13
--helped Bantam7 and Bantam11 add gestures and steps to the audition numbers they're preparing for Cinderella (have I mentioned that B7 is just a bit excited because he's finally old enough to be in a show?)
--pulled Bitty Bantam off the table, off the dishwasher door, off the stepstool, off the chair, off the back of the couch...
--watched Chicklet do her "audition," read her a picture book, admired her painting, her dress, her slip, the tea party she set up in the middle of the kitchen floor, and how nicely she was feeding BB water with a fork
--checked to see which chores were done and hollered for kids to come and do the ones weren't
--talked with my husband on the phone
--straightened up, picked up, wiped off and put away things because that's my brain's default setting when it can't remember what I was doing/was about to do/should be doing.
Motherhood is a sacrifice, she said. It's hard when not only your body and your energy but also your very thoughts are constantly being hijacked by other people, even innocently needy ones. Jesus knows what a mother goes through, she said. He rarely got any time alone either without sacrificing sleep.
When he got the terrible news that his cousin, John the Baptist, had been beheaded, he and his disciples tried to get away from the crowds for a little while--but when his boat got to the other shore they were there--expectant, needy, thronging about him. Jesus knows what it's like to be a mother. He's been there.
We have his example to guide us, and when we screw up, we also have confession and forgiveness to give us a clean start. And there's the Holy Spirit, who actually resides in us and empowers us to make the right choices, if we'll let him.
A couple nights ago, I woke suddenly with a conviction that I had been a terrible mother lately--nothing like what I want to be. I thought immediately of the fruits of the Spirit and knew that I had been unloving, unjoyful, impatient, unkind (mean!), ungentle and uncontrolled. The next morning in the shower, as my tears mixed with the water drops, I made sure that I fully confessed everything to God. Then I got dressed and called my older kids to come and sit down. I cried a bit more as I confessed to them that I had been grieving the Spirit by how I had been treating them and that what they had seen in my life lately was the opposite of the fruits of the Spirit.
My honest, sensitive Bantam11 immediately said, "Well, Mom, we haven't been very good."
"That may be true," I said. (We all knew it was.) "But it's no excuse. I'm still responsible for how I respond, even when you guys make it hard for me. This has been a trial for me, and I haven't responded well to it. I really need your forgiveness."
They gave it, of course. The air was cleared, love once again covered a multitude of sins, and I'm glad that they saw me struggling to do the right thing, just as they do.
I'm still struggling. The kids are still up too late at nights, they're still talking to me 24/7, and I'm finding no time to catch up on all the things that are frustratingly behind in my life. But I feel less alone, less angry, more in control, more peaceful, more patient, more gentle.
I've even been able to pull these thoughts together this morning. It took time, but you know what? It's been a good remedy for Mommy ADD.
Now...back to the chaos.
That's what the older wiser mother told our mom's group last week. I laughed, but that quote has been ringing in my ears all week! It seems like my kids have been talking to me 24/7 lately. While I've said before that that's a good thing, it's hard for this introvert to never get a chance to think my own connected flow of thoughts. I know some of you are gasping at my claim of being an introvert, but I recharge by being alone--and that time doesn't come easily to a wife of one, mom of six.
Last week my husband was gone from Monday to Thursday. While he HATES being gone and I MISS him when he is, the one redeeming factor for me is that I look forward to time alone at night after the kids go to bed.
Las week, that never happened. Every night the older kids were still up till 10, 10:30. One night at 10:00 I asked myself what had happened to the quiet evening I had promised myself of catching up on paperwork and email? Instead, I had:
--helped Bantam15 with his homework
--gone over history questions with Blondechick13
--helped Bantam7 and Bantam11 add gestures and steps to the audition numbers they're preparing for Cinderella (have I mentioned that B7 is just a bit excited because he's finally old enough to be in a show?)
--pulled Bitty Bantam off the table, off the dishwasher door, off the stepstool, off the chair, off the back of the couch...
--watched Chicklet do her "audition," read her a picture book, admired her painting, her dress, her slip, the tea party she set up in the middle of the kitchen floor, and how nicely she was feeding BB water with a fork
--checked to see which chores were done and hollered for kids to come and do the ones weren't
--talked with my husband on the phone
--straightened up, picked up, wiped off and put away things because that's my brain's default setting when it can't remember what I was doing/was about to do/should be doing.
Motherhood is a sacrifice, she said. It's hard when not only your body and your energy but also your very thoughts are constantly being hijacked by other people, even innocently needy ones. Jesus knows what a mother goes through, she said. He rarely got any time alone either without sacrificing sleep.
When he got the terrible news that his cousin, John the Baptist, had been beheaded, he and his disciples tried to get away from the crowds for a little while--but when his boat got to the other shore they were there--expectant, needy, thronging about him. Jesus knows what it's like to be a mother. He's been there.
We have his example to guide us, and when we screw up, we also have confession and forgiveness to give us a clean start. And there's the Holy Spirit, who actually resides in us and empowers us to make the right choices, if we'll let him.
A couple nights ago, I woke suddenly with a conviction that I had been a terrible mother lately--nothing like what I want to be. I thought immediately of the fruits of the Spirit and knew that I had been unloving, unjoyful, impatient, unkind (mean!), ungentle and uncontrolled. The next morning in the shower, as my tears mixed with the water drops, I made sure that I fully confessed everything to God. Then I got dressed and called my older kids to come and sit down. I cried a bit more as I confessed to them that I had been grieving the Spirit by how I had been treating them and that what they had seen in my life lately was the opposite of the fruits of the Spirit.
My honest, sensitive Bantam11 immediately said, "Well, Mom, we haven't been very good."
"That may be true," I said. (We all knew it was.) "But it's no excuse. I'm still responsible for how I respond, even when you guys make it hard for me. This has been a trial for me, and I haven't responded well to it. I really need your forgiveness."
They gave it, of course. The air was cleared, love once again covered a multitude of sins, and I'm glad that they saw me struggling to do the right thing, just as they do.
I'm still struggling. The kids are still up too late at nights, they're still talking to me 24/7, and I'm finding no time to catch up on all the things that are frustratingly behind in my life. But I feel less alone, less angry, more in control, more peaceful, more patient, more gentle.
I've even been able to pull these thoughts together this morning. It took time, but you know what? It's been a good remedy for Mommy ADD.
Now...back to the chaos.
Tuesday, October 10, 2006
In Other Words
"These children are the seeds my days plant, the blooms of the next generations."
~ Ann Voskamp ~
"Holy Experience"
~ Ann Voskamp ~
"Holy Experience"
Ann is my favorite writer in the blogosphere! Her metaphors are so strong and beautiful, and this quote is a great example. Though I'm still catching up from Crazy Week, I'm giving myself the speed-writing challenge this morning of meditating on Ann's words.
What comes to mind is a concept I first read about in college called "delayed gratification." If I remember rightly, it's a sign of psychological health if you can get your work done first and then reward yourself by doing something more pleasurable. (Immediate gratification, by contrast, is when you give yourself what you want right now--generally a less healthy approach to life.)
Motherhood--parenthood--is a long exercise in delayed gratification. In a literal way, we plant the seeds of our children, then wait nine months to see them as babies, and another 18 years or more for them to mature. Metaphorically, we plant the seeds of character, of virtue, of love for God and others, in their lives every day. We water those seeds. We pluck out the weeds. We stake up and fertilize the young plants. We shelter them from storms. We prune them when needed.
But often we don't even know, for many years, what kind of a plant we are cultivating! Will this child be a towering oak? That one a lovely, fruitful pear tree? A bold sunflower? A small but hardy wildflower? An ever-bearing strawberry? A vigorous grapevine?
We are rewarded, from time to time, with a growth spurt, with new limbs, buds, even the occasional blooms. These encourage us to continue watering, weeding, pruning and fertilizing in anticipation of the time when the plant will be mature and fulfill its purpose of bearing fruit. What that fruit will be, we don't know, but with the anticipation of a gardener, a farmer, a vinedresser, we lovingly, sacrificially tend the plants we are given, putting off our desires for self-gratification in the present in anticipation of a gratifying harvest in the future.
We hear, from the blooms of previous generations, that it will be worth it. We hear of the joys of grandchildren, of new sons and daughters gained by godly marriages, of seeing the fruit of your labors serving the Lord with all their might, of receiving their love and care in our old age. Surely those blooms we have anticipated will be all the more beautiful because of the years we have waited and worked and prayed to see them! And surely they will bloom the more brilliantly because of our faithful tending.
In the event of a disappointment at harvest time, may we still deserve and receive the gratification of God's words to us, "Well done, good and faithful servant." And may we find, at the harvest, that some of the blossoms, those of the deepest and richest beauty, are our own--the fruits that the Spirit has been nurturing in us as we have delayed gratifying our flesh, and submitted our desires to His own.
Sunday, September 17, 2006
Letters, Written on My Heart
Putting myself in Paul's shoes, I think of my own children. They are like letters, written on my heart--yes!--and yes, they are known and read by everybody. I feel this, especially, as my husband is a priest at our church, and we are conspicuously the largest family there. Lord, give us grace and wisdom to be a good example, an encouraging letter to others.1Are we beginning to commend ourselves again? Or do we need, like some people, letters of recommendation to you or from you? 2You yourselves are our letter, written on our hearts, known and read by everybody. 3You show that you are a letter from Christ, the result of our ministry, written not with ink but with the Spirit of the living God, not on tablets of stone but on tablets of human hearts.
4Such confidence as this is ours through Christ before God. 5Not that we are competent in ourselves to claim anything for ourselves, but our competence comes from God. 6He has made us competent as ministers of a new covenant—not of the letter but of the Spirit; for the letter kills, but the Spirit gives life. (2 Corinthians 3:1-6, NIV)
May my children be letters from Christ to a broken world as a result of my ministry. Raising these souls is my primary ministry! And no small calling it is. Writing may be part of my ministry, too, but how much more significant are those words written not with ink but with the Spirit of God, not on tablets--or computer screens--but on tablets of human hearts.
If we work upon marble, it will perish.
If we work upon brass, time will efface it.
If we rear temples, they will crumble to dust.
But if we work upon men's immortal minds,
if we imbue them with high principles,
with the just fear of God and love of their fellow men,
we engrave on those tablets something which no time can efface,
which will brighten and brighten to all eternity.
--Daniel Webster
Many people have said to me
'What a pity you had such a big family to raise.
Think of the novels and the short stories and the poems
you never had time to write because of that.'
And I looked at my children and I said,
'These are my poems. These are my
short stories.'
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