You Do Not Know

 "He who observes the wind 

will not sow,

And he who regards the clouds

will not reap.

As you do not know 

what is the way of the wind,

Or how the bones grow 

in the womb of her 

who is with child,

So you do not know 

the works of God 

who makes everything.

In the morning sow your seed,

And in the evening 

do not withhold your hand;

For you do not know 

which will prosper,

Either this or that,

Or whether both alike 

will be good."

(Ecclesiastes 11:4-6)

It's easy to look around at our circumstances 

and cease the labor that is ours. 

The conditions don't look good. 

The weather may not cooperate. 

Maybe my seed will go to waste. 

Maybe my harvest 

will be ruined by a storm. 

I may miscarry the child. 

I don't know how God works. 

But He does. 

And He has placed me 

in a specific place 

with specific tasks. 

My business is to do 

what He's given me to do. 

The conditions are His to govern. 

The rain or the lack of it 

is in His hands. 

The wind is His to direct. 

The growing of the seed 

is His handiwork, not mine. 

Mine is just to sow. 

And it may be that the early seed

is not the one that grows. 

But the seed thrown out 

at evening might. 

Perhaps the harvest 

will come from both. 

The one who plants 

and the one who waters 

aren't the ones to look to here --

but God who gives the increase. 

We are to not grow weary 

in well-doing. 

Whatever the sky looks like 

in your neighborhood, 

put your hand to the work 

He has for you. 

In due time, 

there will be a harvest. 

"It pleased the Lord 

to send us contrary winds." 

(From George Whitefield's journal)

Quiet Time

It's that magical time in the morning*
when the sleeping baby begins to grunt
and snort
and squawk
and scream.
When a mother tries to pray,
and all the children outside her bedroom door quote movie lines.
When she opens her Bible
and hears a loud crash, and someone cries out in agony.
When the sound of small feet running slams into her bedroom door,
knocking it open,
and a smiling toddler appears saying,
"Me watch Baby Beluga?!"
When, even though she is trying to read in Genesis,
her mind sticks on this:
There is a difference also between a wife and a virgin. 
(You think?)
The unmarried woman is anxious for the things of the Lord, 
that she may be holy, both in body and in spirit: 
but she that is married, is anxious for the things of the world...
Talk about serving the Lord with distraction. 
Foiled again.
I guess I'll take a shower.


*Morning, to most people, signifies the early part of the day. Here, please take it to mean any point within the twenty-four hour span of a day in which a moment of silence might tempt a woman to try again.

If You've Wondered

The toddler has been flipping out for days.
Arching her back.
Banging her head on the floor.
"What does your shirt say?" Talia asks her, in a pleasant voice,
in an attempt to distract her from yet another fit.
"IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII!!!!!!" she screams back at her.
She tries to hang on the open secretary desk.
"No, no," I say gently. "You can't hang on that. It will hurt you."
She melts down, slapping my leg and weeping,
and then attempts to climb me.

Her third tooth is in,
birthed through another sleepless night of thrashing and much Orajel.
She still has her charmingly sociable personality,
only it's been joined by an alter ego that is furious and mean.
She runs like a whirlwind through the house,
climbing things that scare me, and undoing all order.
She tries to climb the bookshelf.
She's taken down, and flings herself angrily at the ground.
When I try to read out loud, as our homeschooling lifestyle demands,
she yells through the whole experience.

She does not want her hair combed.
She does not want her diaper changed.
She does not want her nose wiped or her face washed.
She wants to eat, and rejects all offered food.
She spent several days in a war between her mouth,
which didn't want to put anything in it,
and her tummy, which cried for hunger.
She would only eat enough to take the edge off,
and then would be crying again shortly because it wasn't enough.

Nap times are respites.
Except we are reading through most of them lately,
since she interrupts so much of it earlier.
Why am I writing this?
Because maybe you wondered where I am.
Why I write so little lately.

I am tired.
We've had company,
and while I know they are people who love us, and aren't expecting the Hilton,
it seems reasonable to me that sheets be washed and basic cleaning be done.
And I can't keep up.
We are pressing on to finish school,
because that is one of our very top priorities in life.
And we are doing the dishes and feeding people.
And we are trying to keep from drowning in laundry.
And please don't even talk to me about my children's bedrooms.
Just shut the door.

As if drowning in dirty laundry wasn't bad enough,
WHY are the clean clothes being put back into the laundry again?
Please explain how the hampers in your bedrooms, 
the three hamper sorter in the hall outside your bedrooms, 
AND the large basket hamper in your bathroom just off the hall 
ARE NOT ENOUGH HAMPERS TO DEPOSIT YOUR DIRTY CLOTHES IN?

Life operates in seasons, and this is one of exhaustion.
When I have a few minutes, I mostly stare at a wall.
I miss writing more often.
I miss not stepping on toys and discarded food.
I miss time to think.
I miss reading books of my own choosing while not falling asleep.

To Be Their Mom

I scroll down through my Facebook feed, and I see so many mothers.
Sporty mothers cheering on young athletes.
Baking mothers who make my mouth water.
The ones who stay home
long after other mothers have taken up the soccer and ballet rounds
because they have one with special needs.
Moms with the beginning of a clan,
and some with just one little chick.
I see moms
who traveled to China and Guatemala and Ethiopia
to gather up their babies.
I know two who had children they weren't looking for handed to them.
I see my friends with empty arms, whose babies are not with them.
They had to lay them down to rest long before they wanted to.

There are busy ones, who race from one activity to the next.
Bookworm moms, who inhabit the couches with their kids and a good book.
Tatooed and pierced,
in overalls,
or dressed like tea party ladies,
we all have this in common:
We've opened our lives to our children.

Becoming a mother is to become vulnerable.
We don't know what we will end up with.
Whether it's carrying a burden for many long years,
as we work to lift children who can't carry themselves;
or bearing the grief of a loss too strong for words.
Will it be joy?
Yes, it will. Some joy.
Will it be struggle?
Yes, it will. And with the same child who brought the joy.
There will be years of chaos,
even if it's only Cheerios scattered over the entire house.
There will be messy faces and messy bodies.
There will be tears, and not just from the children.
Their pain is going to hurt you.

The kids are going to fail.
And you are going to fail your kids.
And if you do it right, there will be apologies and forgivenesses.
And they'll learn that love means hope for future good.
That love covers a multitude of sin,
and grace allows us to begin again.

And you don't have to be a cookie-cutter mom to be their Mom.
Each one of us is uniquely made,
and uniquely challenged with this sanctified relationship.
Our children don't match.
Our lives don't match.
But we are one in Christ,
and the goal is to hear, "Well, done, you good and faithful servant."
I can't help but think about Jesus's conversation with Peter
where Peter asked about John, "What about him?"
And Jesus replied to him, "What is it to you...? You follow Me."

Never mind the other mamas.
Each of us has our own race to run.
But follow Him where He leads you.
It's your own Master you have to answer to.
And He is able to make you stand.

I Needed You

I needed you.
I needed you to wreck my world.
To yell into my quiet life,
and smear your sticky fingers on my windows,
to highlight how dirty they are anyway.
It was easy to be the perfect mother when there was no one talking back to me.
When my theoretical children showed off my parenting theories.

I needed you.
I needed you to struggle through sounding out r-a-t,
so the impatience could rise up in my chest,
and I would know I need my Father to be patient with me, too.
Because sometimes, the simple things in His Word
are the ones I'm stuck on, too.
Love-one-another.

I needed you.
I  needed you to come late into my life,
later than we wanted you,
after we knew we were failures.
A little gift of grace we couldn't earn.
A gifted miracle.

I needed you.
I needed you to stare up at the sky and shriek that you saw an airplane,
because I was too old to look up
and wonder at the impressiveness of flight until you reminded me.

I needed you.
I needed you to hold me while you sucked your fingers
and laid your head against my chest,
and sighed and fell asleep and drooled on me:
to watch your belly rise and fall with your sweet baby breaths.

I needed you.
I needed to learn to give,
and to pray,
and to hope the best for you when your spelling was atrocious,
and your writing was behind.
I see you in your future -- perfected in the things you practice doing now,
and I never saw anyone like that before you.
Love believes all things.

I needed you.
I needed your trust to teach me about trust;
your fears to help me to lay mine down;
your bickering so I would value peace.
In correcting you, I correct myself.

I needed you.
I needed to hear you laugh until you couldn't breathe;
I was serious, and you were carefree.
You taught me to laugh at myself.
To see the person with the sparkly eyes
behind the milk mustache, and the dirty clothes.

I needed you.
I needed you to forgive me for blaming you for taking what I lost myself.
To throw your short arms around my neck and kiss me
even though I got it wrong and made you cry.
You've borne with me, and taught me grace;
how families have to choose over and over again to love and to forgive,
because in being family, we have much to forgive each other for,
and we aren't always so lovable.
But we always need it, don't we?
And sometimes the one with the loudest voice needs the most gentle handling.

Practice Makes Perfect

It's been one of those days.
They started in on each other early,
griping and ordering each other about.
Over and over again, I corrected wretched behavior,
and wretched words,
and ugly expressions.

While I cut up meat for the crock pot dinner this morning,
I heard a tumult arise in the living room.
One of them had unleashed frustration and smacked another.
The one who was smacked had been forcing a foot into the other one's face.
But it had been in retaliation for the smacker's foot rudely placed.

Part of training to be family, is being a family in training.
"This is not kind, and you will speak kindly to your sister."
"That is rude, and you will not do it."
"You speak nicely to him."
"No. Try again. That was the wrong way to do that."
"Be respectful. Speak politely."
Over and over and over again.

They are siblings already.
But they must practice brotherly love.
Years of practice and discipline
will (hopefully) one day be worked out in real love.
You see, my dear siblings and I
did not start out with our arms wrapped around each other's waists,
and longing to be together when we are apart.

We practice how we ought to behave,
and we mature to feel what we ought to feel.
We cry with joy over each other's babies,
and share our food willingly,
and stay up all night long waiting for good news,
or praying our fears into help,
and coming to the rescue when lives break down.

We stop responding to offered help with a punch in the eye,
and we grow to accept the massage,
or the steadying arm,
or the help dressing when we've become too weak to do it ourselves.
Because that is what brothers do.

It Will Change Your Life

"If you will change this one thing about how you operate,
it will change your life:
throw garbage in the garbage can."

That is what I said as I sorted and sifted more miniscule bits of tin foil,
broken plastic toys,
used-up glow sticks,
old band-aids,
ripped paper,
bent needles,
pencil sharpenings,
and other debris from the things he actually loves,
and the dirty clothes stuffed in containers.

"Do you see how much work it would have saved
to simply throw trash away once you knew it was trash?"
And it strikes me: this is a good plan for my life.

High and Low

I could be doing something important with my life,
instead of living out the normal --
feeding, sleeping,
working, playing,
going, staying,
fixing, and correcting.
But then I read:
"Do not set your mind on high things, 
but associate with the humble."
And who is more humble than a child?
Their self-importance does not stop them from dancing
when the music plays,
crying when they hurt,
eating when they are hungry,
even though they might get food in their teeth.
When I give them gifts, they wiggle in delight,
and let their faces share the joy with me.
They don't hide their drawings
to save themselves from criticism.
They leave their scraps of poetry littered through my house,
instead of shoved into a binder
in the back of a private shelf.

Perhaps it is for the important people to say,
"I could be wiping someone's nose right now,
or coaching them through using a toilet.
Why didn't I take that chance
to read a book to a five-year-old when I had it?
I could have had conversations about crayons and Play-doh
instead of these mundane philosophies
I have occupied my time with.
My life has been wasted in high places,
when I might have learned more
tying shoes,
and helping people out of their jackets,
and putting lotion on rashes,
and lying on my stomach watching ants,
and rubbing my hands on the bark of a tree,
and folding underwear."

Phenomenally Bright: Can Barely Write Three Words

Through the encouragement of a friend
who is a speech language pathologist,
we decided to have our son tested for a learning disability.
We are nearly done with the process.

The test results have been surprising in several ways.
His strengths are 'phenomenal', according to the psychologist.
In fact, in the reading vocabulary results from one test,
they put him down as being age equivalent to a 48 year old.
He had a greater than 99.9% score.
I wonder if that is a typo.
He is ten.
He has the writing abilities of a six year old.
In academic knowledge, they say he is twenty, and a college freshman.
But he processes slowly.

It has been nerve-wracking for me as a homeschooling mom
to allow them to measure his education.
I don't have a school I can blame for academic failure.
On the psychoeducational report, and the special services report,
under relevant background information,
it is noted that he is home schooled and always has been.
There is a federal checklist they have to go down
to determine if he is eligible for services.
Does the child have a demonstrated need? Yes.
Is the low output due to low intelligence? No.
Is the low output due to inadequate instruction?
I felt like I was holding my breath as they went over this question with me.
Has it been enough?
Am I failing him miserably?
I didn't realize I was going to have to sit there
with a school administrator, a psychologist,
and a special education provider
and hear the answer to this question.
They told me they saw no evidence that he had been inadequately instructed.
That he had a very broad knowledge base.
Their educations between them probably add up to more than my age.
And they said the need was not due to lack of instruction.

The psychologist told me, "He has the mind of an engineer".
I knew that.
He draws intricate drawings with gears and levers and closeups of the details.
He can look at an object, spin it mentally, and draw it from multiple angles.
When he was two and a half,
he drew his first recognizable drawing: a many-windowed Jeep.
My other children scribbled.
As a still very small child,
he was drawing three dimensional vehicles in 3/4 view.
But he still writes letters and numbers backward.
I taught him to crochet a chain when he was seven.
He woke up early and crocheted a mitten.
With a thumb.
No pattern.
No skill beyond that simple chain had been taught to him.
Was it beautiful? No.
But it was functional.

He told them that he usually thinks of things in colors.
His mind makes different connections than the average person.
I feel my job as his mom
is to make sure he has the basic skills he needs
to allow his gifts to operate.

Why the 'areas of weakness', as the psychologist refers to them?
Because he pulled himself to standing at six months old
and started cruising the furniture within the week
and slipped and twirled in slow motion
just out of reach and too fast to catch
and hit the side of his head on the corner of the coffee table
and screamed like we had never heard him scream 
and while I held him and rocked and didn't know what to do 
his dad said, "What's wrong with his head?"
and I yelled, "There's nothing wrong with his head! 
What do you mean 'what's wrong with his head?'!"
and I looked at his head, and his skull was dented in
and we called my mom to ask for prayer
and grabbed the diaper bag and ran to the car 
to make the half hour drive to the emergency room
while he cried beside me in the backseat
and I cried too
and I prayed
and fifteen minutes in he stopped crying
and the amateur doctor questioned us closely
wanting to know when he really hit his head
because the CT scan showed 'an old injury'
and he said it would be swollen if it was new
and it wasn't swollen
but it was red
and they said he was fine 
and we knew the Lord had given him to us
but the dent took over four years to grow out?

Or is it because 
every time he had immunizations he spiked a fever of over 105 
and got double ear infections 
and that one time had a seizure but I didn't know it was a seizure
and thought he was being a freak 
and if I had known I would have brought him to the hospital
and reported an adverse event
and probably chewed out his doctor
but I hadn't done any research at that point and didn't know any better
and why didn't I look into it more before he was injected?

Or maybe when he tripped and fell in the fire ring 
and hit his head on the rock 
and I dragged him up the stairs to the bathroom 
to wash the blood away
and his knees buckled and I caught him
and he was so dazed he couldn't answer straight questions
and I watched him with worry to see if he was brain damaged
he was really brain damaged?
But that doesn't even make any sense 
because he already had trouble writing years before that
and I think I was a slow processor and probably still am
and it's more likely it was the vaccines.
And the dented head.
And I was vaccinated, too.
So maybe the slow processing is both genetic and environmental.
Both my fault and not my fault.

But what if he was brilliant in every single area
and I couldn't teach him anything,
and he was an insufferable ass
to everyone he met his entire life?
Weaknesses can be mercies.
Paul said, "that I should not be exalted overmuch,
there was given to me a thorn in the flesh,
a messenger of Satan to buffet me,
that I should not be exalted overmuch."
God's strength is made perfect in weakness.
His grace is sufficient for us.
His power is made perfect in weakness.
It was when Jesus needed water that He impacted the Samaritans.
In getting help He gave it.
In asking He offered Himself.

We're in a new community,
and we've met several people through this we would not have met,
and I have been praying
and wondering how to be a part of the community.
Maybe this is our introduction.

Because I am a Woman

I am not supposed to love the smell
of orange cleaner on my floors
if I mopped them myself.
It is beneath me,
because I am a woman,
and domesticity enslaves me.
If my husband mops the floors,
or a legal alien in an apron mops my floors,
and I pay her/it/him for it,
I am allowed to enjoy it.

If I plan a meal and buy the food,
and prepare it,
and set it on the table
the ideal thing to do,
if I am a real woman,
is to resent the effort spent.
Because I am a woman,
and feeding people is beneath me.

I am not supposed to like sitting down to nurse a baby,
because the breasts that baby needs
and the womb it came out of
are the symbols of my servitude,
of my lesser pay.
Because I am a woman,
and nursing a baby is beneath me.
Paying someone to give it a bottle empowers me.
If the baby needs me,
it makes me smaller
than if no one needs me,
because I do a job that any man could do.

I was not supposed to like it
when a man wanted to make a home for me,
and asked me if he could keep me forever,
and buy me dresses,
and would I raise his children for him?
He wouldn't have asked if I was a man,
and that should anger me.
I should only like it if he offers to use me and throw me away,
because I am a woman,
and marriage fetters me.

I am not supposed to walk around barefoot,
because bare feet show my poverty.
I am supposed to wear high-heeled shoes,
so he can't sit down and take my feet in his hands
and rub the soreness out of them,
because I am a woman,
and my happiness is dependent on shoes and a power suit
and money.

I ought to feel guilty
when a butterfly in my stomach takes flight
as I pin clothes on a line
and a breeze blows on them.
Bad woman.

I should be embarrassed that I planned to cook for them,
instead of getting a job
and using my paycheck to buy them some frozen chemicals.
Or telling them to get a job and buy their own chemicals.
It's medieval for me to do it.

Another Stone Soup

My mother always calls mish-mash unplanned meals 'stone soup'.
This one elicited several spontaneous 'I love yous',
and even a 'you're beautiful, Mom!'
Even the two picky ones asked for thirds.
The one who proclaimed my beauty two bites in also told me,
"You need to put this one on the computer."

I need to go to the grocery store,
and have been putting it off all week.
So our supplies were limited.
Making note of a few things we did have, (also the many we didn't),
I turned to my basic corn chowder recipe and didn't follow it.

In a pot:
one cube of butter,
six-eight cubed potatoes,
the end of a bag of frozen broccoli,
one diced onion,
about a cup of garlicky hummus (made with balsamic vinegar in place of lemon juice, and no tahini),
four chicken bouillon cubes,
some shakes of pepper,
two cups of water.

Bring it to boiling, and simmer until the potatoes and broccoli are soft enough.
Smash it all a little.

In a large bowl whisk:
four cups of milk,
3-4 TBSP flour,
1 tsp tumeric powder (for its incredible golden color and anti-inflammatory properties)

When it is all cooked, ladle the hot soup into the milk bowl, stir, and return to pot.
Bring it up to a good temperature, simmer for a few minutes,
and serve it with a sprinkle of cheddar.
You can thank me later.

Book Review of Babywise: How 100,000 New Parents Trained Their Babies to Sleep Through the Night the Natural Way, by Gary Ezzo

I've heard this author referred to as a "milk-Nazi", and having read the book, I understand the reference.
"The natural way?"
Hardly.
I've had two tongue-tied boys (that makes for inefficient eaters, unhappy tummies, and frequent feedings).
The advice in this book is harsh and without compassion for children.
I think his response to baby's hunger is in effect answering the cry for food with, "Here: eat this stone, kid."

Jesus had compassion on hungry adults.
God the Father had compassion on the children of Israel.
He pities His children when they cry to Him for help.
Babies are people, and they are not identical.
Some of them are criers, and you have to learn which cries to respond quickly to.
Some of them are not criers, and when they do cry, you know they have a real need.
It's idiotic to make hard and fast rules about how long to let the baby cry.
And if your baby is hungry, feed him, Mom!
That's why God gave you to him and equipped you with breasts.

To Live With Us

"In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God,
and the Word was God...
And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us,
and we beheld His glory, the glory as the only begotten of the Father,
full of grace and truth."
(John 1)

He regarded our low estate. He condescended to live with us -- to dwell with us -- to abide with us. The Word became flesh and walked among us. When we humble ourselves (as God Himself did) to live with our children in the daily mundaneness of their lives, we follow His example. Women have sometimes said to me, "Oh, I just couldn't bear to be home with them all the time -- I'd go nuts!" But Jesus left His position of honor in heaven to eat and sleep and live among men. With us. And He said, "I have given you an example that you should do as I have done."

Good Boys and Girls

"Some talk to children about such things as being good boys and girls; that is to say, they preach the law to the children, though they would preach the Gospel to grown-up people. Is this honest? Is this wise? Children need the Gospel, the whole Gospel, the unadulterated Gospel. They ought to have it. If they are taught of the Spirit of God, they are as capable of receiving it as persons of ripe years. Teach the little ones that Jesus died, the just for the unjust, to bring us to God."

(C.H. Spurgeon, Spiritual Parenting)

Spurgeon For Moms

"O dear mothers, please understand that you have a very sacred trust reposed in you by God! He has in effect said to you, 'Take this child away, and nurse it for me, and I will give thee thy wages' (Exodus 2:9). You are called to equip the future man of God, that he may be 'thoroughly furnished unto all good works' (2 Timothy 3:17). If God spares you, you may live to hear that pretty boy speak to thousands, and you will have the sweet reflection in your heart that the quiet teachings of the nursery led the adult man to love his God and serve Him.

"Those who think that a woman detained at home by her little family is doing nothing, think the reverse of what is true. Scarcely can the godly mother quit her home for a place of worship. However, dream not that she is lost to the work of the church. Far from it, she is doing the best possible service for her Lord.

"Mothers, the godly training of your offspring is your first and most pressing duty. Christian women, by teaching children the Holy Scriptures, are as much fulfilling their part for the Lord as Moses did in judging Israel, or Solomon in building the temple."

(Charles Spurgeon, Spiritual Parenting)

A Thought

The average American's life revolves around production.
Mine revolves around reproduction.
God said, "Be fruitful and multiply." He didn't say, "Build a portfolio and accumulate."

Bedwetters in the House of God

We have a persistent bedwetter in our house. Having been a bedwetter myself, I sympathize with her. She tried and tried not to wet the bed, but usually failed. She was so excited about nights she made it through, and so disappointed on nights she didn't. Wanting to see our girl succeed at what she attempted, Jeff and I took on ourselves the responsibility of bringing her to the bathroom around midnight every night. She doesn't even know we get her up most nights. Sometimes she'll say in the morning, "Mom, I didn't go to the bathroom last night, and I didn't wet the bed!" I smile, because I know her dad brought her to the bathroom, and without his help, she fails every time.

Several months ago, after she'd had a dry night (with our help), I realized that God's heart towards His children is that they succeed. He offers us the help we need because we are too immature to do it on our own. He finds joy in our joy at reaching a milestone -- even though it was His work that got us there. I don't know why one child at the age of two or three stays dry all night, and another is still wetting the bed at twelve. But I know both are loved by their father. And they both seem to mature eventually.

"We are afraid to take God as our tender Father. We think of Him as a schoolmaster or an inspector, who knows nothing about us except through our lessons.

"Now open the ears of your heart, timid child of God! We aren't supposed to learn to be holy as a hard lesson at school so we can make God think well of us. We are to learn it at home with the Father to help us. God loves you not because you are clever or good, but because He is your Father. The Cross of Christ does not make God love us. It is the outcome of His love to us. He loves all His children: the clumsiest, the dullest, and the worst...

"Think about how He knows us personally, as individuals with all our peculiarities, our weaknesses, and our difficulties. The master judges by the result, but our Father judges by the effort. Failure doesn't always mean fault. He knows how much things cost and weighs them carefully where others wouldn't... His great love understands the poor beginnings of His little ones, clumsy and simple as they may seem to others."
(Andrew Murray, With Christ in the School of Prayer)


A prayer: You who ask us to help others with their burdens cannot leave us to toil under ours alone. My responsibilities are too great for me to bear. Help me.

Why Johnny Can't Read

I'd like to tell you about a difficult day in the pursuit of knowledge.

We began schooling after breakfast, as we usually do. Five minutes into our language arts (the first subject we tackled), I heard unusual crunching sounds and laughing in the kitchen. I looked suspiciously through the door and saw Silas sitting on the floor amidst the broken eggshells of our breakfast, gleefully smashing them and smearing them everywhere he could reach with a dirty rag. Talia watched, delighted. Lessons halted while I washed his hands and shooed Talia from the kitchen. One student was required to restrain the prisoner while I mopped up the Salmonella and took out the trash.

Ten minutes later, we returned to our schooling -- for five minutes. I was interrupted by Talia, who was sitting in an empty diaper box in the living room. Wide-eyed with guilt, she called out, "I peed!"

I ran to get her out, hoping to remove the box before it leaked onto the carpet. Snatching her out of the box, I set her in the laundry room. In the living room, I picked up the box and tried to transport it without spilling it. I wasn't successful. The box rained urine across the floor, directly over Silas (wetting his hair for him while he toddled obliviously after me). It drizzled through the dining room, through the kitchen --spattering the area I had just mopped the egg mess from), and through the mudroom out into the driveway. I grabbed my Clorox Ready Mop, put a new pad on it -- the eggy one had been thrown out-- and started with the laundry floor, moving through dining, kitchen, and mudroom. Stomping a towel on the living room carpet, I tried to soak up the urine. Several baby books had been sprinkled and had to be cleaned. I sent Talia upstairs to the bathroom, gave the older kids Cuisinaire rods and math pages, and scooped up Silas for a bath.
With the younger ones smelling sweet, and more time lost, I returned to my pupils.

The phone rang.

Silas toddled round and round the table saying, "Oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-OH!" I tripped on shoes the baby had scattered in his wake.

Talia yelled, "Silas smells stinky!"

As I read about people of the world to the kids, Talia made herself conspicuous by standing in the living room and pointing behind me with a smile.

"What?" I asked. She intensified her pointing and smiling, and then pointed into the living room, too.

"What?" I asked.

"Dirt," she said.

I didn't understand.

"Dirt. Dirt in there, and dirt in here!" Her smile never wavered.

I looked around me to see handfuls of dirt sown through the dining room and living room. Silas was busily adding more. I plugged in the vacuum and vacuumed up all the dirt. Silas toddled fearfully away, crying in dread of the vacuum. Elisa spoke encouragement to him, taking his hand to lead him out of the vacuum's path.

By now, our obstacles had become downright funny. (At least, to me. But I'm easily entertained.)

Thoughts on Motherhood

Motherhood to me is a fulfilling, frustrating, fruitful endeavor. I am engaged in a desperate attempt to bring order out of chaos. It is often forced servitude. It's exhausting. It's exhilarating. It's 'hello' and 'goodbye' every day. Every day a new accomplishment, a new skill learned, another personality trait revealed. And every day 'goodbye'. The endless 'goodbyes' caught me by surprise. I didn't realize how many there would be. It's most pronounced in baby and toddlerhood. Every new accomplishment is a glaring reminder that my baby will leave me soon. I see their lives going on and on until they are parents themselves and are gone from me. They begin their lives with everything before them, and one by one, they pass the markers of time. I am so aware of my own mortality even as I watch them, so full of life. I pray I can get it all in in the time that I have. That they are well-equipped for eternity before I have to leave them.