Before:



After:

(Well...sort-of after. Later, we filled those areas in w/ transplanted monkey grass. Hey, it was free.)

Maybe It's Not about Me

You know how it is. We worry about something. It seems to be a theme of motherhood. This time, I’ve been worried that my children aren’t getting enough attention. The baby’s starting to pull up, starting to play with the bigger kids instead of following me around the house crying any time I’m not holding him. The toddler is talking more and more, saying words like, “loveyou” and “mydadum.” She’s curious, teachable, spongey—both to touch and in her mind!

My five-year-old kindergartener just turned six. She’s lanky and trying her best to outdo my eight-year-old in everything. I can tell sometimes that she disapproves of things, but she holds her tongue and makes my heart ache to be the perfect Mama for her. And my eight-year-old. In my ten-year plans, I see it—he’ll be gone in no time. I almost need teacher guides to check his answers. I almost need a dictionary to understand him. Almost.

But life has been tough lately. My husband has been piecing together odd jobs to sustain us while looking for something else. Which means from time to time, I’m sick with fear. I worry. I plan, and I lament that I can’t plan because the future is so unclear. When I worry, I’m mean and distracted. And then I feel guiltier. It’s a vicious cycle.

For the last week and a half or so, school has been light. I’ve been helping my husband with his job search, searching for a job myself, and leaving the kids to play. Now, some of this was planned. We’ve started studying the American Revolution, and I’ve borrowed the Liberty’s Kids dvds from the library, and since we’ve only got them for a week, we have to watch them if we’re going to watch them. I’d planned to slow everything down so we could focus on this time period. At the beginning of the year, I’d planned to slow the whole school year down because I knew that with two little ones, it would be hard to get much done.

But in the actual trenches, some days all I see is all I’m not doing. I see the spelling books and handwriting that haven’t been opened this week, but I overlook the math and the Latin that we have done. I see the laundry to be folded and forget that the kitchen is clean. I see all the child development methods I learned about in school when I look into my baby’s eager face, and I forget that sometimes just having the freedom to BE is the greatest gift a child can have.

I worry that I can’t offer (don’t offer) the kinds of programs a preschool offers. My bookshelves are not neat, tidy, and inviting for little hands to touch. My days are not predictable, comforting routines of story time, bath time, and snacks twice a day. But sometimes I catch a glimpse of what we are doing. When the toddler insists that it’s her turn to feed the baby. When the baby crawls through forts and chases the bigger ones as eagerly as he chases me. When the big ones reenact the Revolutionary War with their stuffed animals and head out on expeditions through the kitchen that end with one tricking the other into moving to “Green” land.

Maybe it’s not about me. Maybe it’s not just about what I can do to control and direct their education. Maybe part of my job as teacher, mama, facilitator, cook, changer of diapers, finder of that which is lost, and keeper of the peace…


is to get out of the way.

Today was the agricultural revolution in history. My 8yo & 5yo sat listening with rapt attention as we talked about the life of a farmer in the 18th century. They like to hear about plants and chores and animals--concrete things to which they can relate.

This, of course, led naturally to a discussion of the upcoming industrial revolution & its effects on cities, farms, & families. We talked about the $2 shirts at Walmart & the factory conditions in other countries today.

In the end, my 5yo commented, "It's cheaper to make your clothes than buy them."

My 8yo piped up, having done the math, "No, if the material costs $7, plus thread, buttons, & mama's time, the $2 shirt at Walmart is *much* cheaper."

His sister was thinking from the other end of things, though, & said, "But how much did the person who made the shirt get paid? It wasn't worth it to *her.*"

I just started sewing for my children last summer while I was expecting baby #4. I guess it was the nesting instinct. I hadn't sewn for them before because a) I'm slow & inexperienced, & b) I'd noticed the same thing my son had: it's cheaper to go to Walmart.

Sewing for them, though, held secret treasure. In the same way that finally becoming a stay-at-home mom held secret treasure--unexpected moments of closeness & intimate conversations beyond the feeding, changing, cleaning that I'd expected, sewing those first dresses was so much more than clothes for my daughters' bodies. The older one sat with me, watching, playing with scraps, talking, the whole time I sewed. Her face shone with femininity & joy, pride in a mama who could sew.

It mystified me. I'd never seen hero-worship in a face pointed my direction. It's a frightening weight, humbling & convicting & awesome all at once. But then she tried her dress on & twirled, & her whipping, twirling, pink-run-into-green dizzying girliness lifted everything. Hair & giggles & arms filled the living room, & when the smaller dress was finished for my 1yo, her big sister taught her to spin.


She's right, you know. The clothes at Walmart *are* more expensive. They cost the hidden joy of these moments.

The kids were supposed to dress up as Elizabethan characters for Awanas tonight. An hour before we were supposed to leave, J said he wanted to be Shakespeare, & E said she wanted to be Queen Elizabeth. Ta-da!